The Packing House

“Fahrenheit 451” was a movie about a futuristic and dystopian society where all the buildings are fireproof, and the only responsibility of the fire department is to find and burn all the books.  The protagonist of the film was a fireman with a conscience who wanted to preserve the classics instead of sending them up in flame and smoke, and the title of the film refers to the fact that 451 degrees is the temperature at which paper will spontaneously combust.  The movie sent a chill down my spine because it reminded me of the day when I was a spectator at a four-alarm fire that was intentionally set by the local fire department. 

The local government wanted to pave the way for a downtown redevelopment project but standing directly in the way was this enormous and abandoned eyesore that sat right beside the railroad siding, covering an entire city block.  It was the packing house, which had fallen into disuse when we Americans stopped squeezing the fruit ourselves, finding it cheaper and more convenient to get our morning orange juice by adding three cans of cold water and stirring.  By decree, the city fathers instructed the fire chief to torch the old relic.

o o o

I was about four years old when my father took me for the first time to the packing house where he was the manager.  Citrus by the tons whisked by on conveyor belts.  Every day in the life of a packing house the fruit came in from the local growers.  There was some grapefruit and some lemons, but it was mainly oranges that were graded and sorted and packed in slatted crates and rolled directly into the waiting boxcars.   

The place was big, dark, and noisy, and I held onto my dad’s hand as we walked around.  This one big guy stopped what he was doing and spoke with my dad in words I did not understand.  This friend of his gave me a big smile, reached out, plucked an orange, gave it to me, and tousled my hair.  It was a beautiful thing and a beautiful moment with my father.  Whenever I returned to the packing house, the “man with the brown face and the big mustache” always found the most perfect orange for me.

Yet my strongest memory was the aroma of the millions of just-picked fresh oranges, mixed with the odor of the ones that dropped in hidden places or fell under foot.  Just like the farmer who loves every smell in the barn, I loved the pungent assault on my senses.  It was a wonder.  My nose remembers that big noisy place where a little kid half-hid behind his father’s pantleg and clutched a big old orange to his chest.

o o o

The occasion of the planned arson was newsworthy, and hundreds of curiosity seekers came to gawk.  The local dignitaries were quoted in the local press, saying that it would be a “controlled burn.”  They had no idea. 

The packing house was four stories high and bigger than a soccer pitch, with millions of board feet of aging lumber.  Plus, for years she absorbed the citric acid that seeped into the floorboards, only adding fuel to the fire.

Within minutes the spectators were fleeing two blocks away, then three blocks away, then four.  The fire was so big, and the heat so intense, that windows blew out of the surrounding buildings.  Car interiors burst spontaneously into flames, and the paint peeled off the fire engines.  Rather than monitoring the conflagration, the firefighters fought valiantly to protect the surrounding properties.

As the flames engulfed the building, the last thing on my mind was the oncoming progress in the community.  On the contrary, sadness overwhelmed me.  The packing house was a last remnant of an industry and a way of life that drove the local economy for decades; and as she went up in smoke, so did a treasured memory.  That old “house” was like a friend, and it was comforting that she did not go down without a fight.                       

o o o

Some years later I revisited the site and looked over the expanse of concrete where my father and his amigos had kept the oranges moving.  My four-year old daughter held onto my leg with one hand and clutched her toy “heckalopper” with the other hand.  As a big Huey lifted off the tarmac, we were both awash in the downdraft of the rotor.  It reminded me of the rumble of the conveyor belt and the scent of a big orange.  My daughter will remember the whup-whup-whup of the chopper blades and the smell of diesel fuel in the air.