Sharing some local intelligence

I flew home the other evening from the East Coast.

Seated next to me was a middle-aged Canadian gentleman who was born in China. He’s lived in Toronto for the last 15 years, and this was his first trip to Orange County.

For the initial two hours of the flight we were mute. Then, I accidentally bumped him as I reached toward the flight attendant to accept my allotted mini cup of Coke and a tiny package of teensy salted pretzels.

A “sorry” from me unleashed a torrent of conversation that didn’t abate until we deplaned.

When we landed at John Wayne Airport, I had a new BFF.

He asked me many questions.

He could tell from the bags beneath my eyes, and my jowly visage, that I was older than a California redwood — and a font of deep understanding.

“Why do they call it Orange County?” he inquired.

Say again? Was this a trick question?

“Well,” I drawled, seeking precious moments to gather my thoughts. “We used to be one of the prime orange-growing regions in the U.S. There were sprawling orange groves everywhere. With dramatic population growth, however, and advancing technology, the orange tree — like the American buffalo — began fading from our sylvan plain.”

I saw my new friend’s eyes light up in sudden realization.

“Do you suppose some of the oranges might have been Sunkist Oranges?”

“Oh, I’m certain they were,” I said, contemplating a corporate entity I hadn’t considered in decades.

I recall many times as a youngster, in the late 1940s and early ‘50s, driving with my parents past a Sunkist packing plant on Newport Boulevard in Tustin. It was a local landmark.

“I remember Sunkist oranges,” my new friend enthused.

His memory triggered an obvious release of endorphins.

“They were soooo juicy!”

Yes, they were.

“Don’t you miss not having oranges all around you anymore?” he further probed.

“Well, Vons is just down the street when I’m desperate. And, of course, there’s always the random Orange Julius.”

My seatmate owns a business in Toronto. He told me that his friend runs a firm in Orange County.

“He wanted me to move my business to Orange County 10 years ago, but I was hesitant and didn’t do so,” he confided. “I should have listened to him. It would have been a success.”

My just-acquired mate was visiting Orange County to see if he might still have a shot at the brass ring. He was on a fact-finding mission, and I was his first interview.

“So, do you like living in Orange County?” he queried. “Would you ever consider moving … and, if so, where?”

Does this guy work for Quinnipiac? I thought, referencing the Connecticut college known for its national polling.

Do I like living in O.C.?

“Sure, I do,” I responded. “I was born here. I’ve lived here 70 years. I’ve traveled all over the world. If I didn’t like Orange County, I’d have left for more appealing pastures long ago.”

“What do you like most about Sunkist County?” he asked.

I didn’t bother correcting his gaffe.

“The weather,” was my near-automatic reply. “Also, the beach and the Angels.”

“What do you like least?”

“The traffic … and the Angels, when they’re losing. In 1945, when I was born, we barely had 100,000 people living here. Today we have 3 million.”

“Where would you move to today if you left Orange County?” he persisted.

“Seattle. San Diego. Glacier National Park.”

“What about earthquakes?” he queried. “You have them in Orange County, don’t you?”

“Yes, we have earthquakes.”

“How many have you survived?”

“All of them.”

“No, I mean how many have you actually experienced?”

“Hundreds. Most were insignificant. But it only takes one.”

“So, you’re not afraid of earthquakes?”

“More like respectful of.”

“What does frighten you?”

“Tornadoes … we don’t get them here. I’ve been through one and I never want to go through another.”

Finally, we walked up the gangway, bid one another adieu, and went our separate ways.

I now stand dutifully by my postbox, patiently awaiting my survey remuneration check.

JIM CARNETT, who lives in Costa Mesa, worked for Orange Coast College for 37 years.