They came here for the sunshine.
“For a warmer climate in the winter time,” said Steve Crump of his ancestors’ move from LaSalle, Illinois to Volusia County, Florida.
Crump, owner of VoLaSalle Farms in De Leon Springs, said he and his family have been growing citrus in the area since the 1880s. Some of his current groves were established as far back as the 1920s, with generation upon generation of orange trees taking root in the rich, dark soil.
But with the farm's citrus production down over 75% from what it was 20 years ago, he isn't so sure about its future. A disease called citrus greening is threatening the orange's famous name in the southernmost contintental U.S. state.
Even though the weather was hot and the land swampy, promoters advertised Florida as a paradise on Earth.
The sun was always shining, a cure-all for human ailments; the soil was almost magical, able to grow any seed as if blessed by God. Young entrepreneurs caught “orange fever” and sought out the Sunshine State as the place to make their millions.
The growing wasn’t easy, despite the advertisements — occasional cold snaps plagued growers further north, with the Great Freeze of 1894 decimating Florida’s orange groves and pushing any remaining farmers further south in search of a new home for their crop.
The orange stayed strong, however, and the 1920s ushered in a new citrus boom. The gleaming smiles of pinup girls on billboards holding pitchers of orange juice shined into the cars of the tourists driving along the state's highways.
Crump remembers growing up in the groves, climbing the trees and throwing green, unripe oranges back and forth with his siblings.
Green often symbolizes life. It is not an uncommon association for the tart, vibrant color to signify new beginnings.
Green is the color of nature, little bits of life that burst up from the soil or leaves that collect the sun and reach up towards the sky.
But for Florida's oranges, green can mean disaster.
“Citrus greening is everywhere in Florida,” said Tripti Vashisth, associate professor of horticultural sciences and citrus extension specialist at the University of Florida Institute of Food and Agricultural Sciences.
Citrus greening is caused by a bacterium known as Huanglongbing, otherwise known as HLB, and translated in English to yellow dragon sickness. The disease is spread by a disease-carrying insect, the Asian citrus psyllid.
HLB prevents the sweet, sunshine-loving fruit from getting the sugar it needs to ripen.
HLB isn’t the final killer of citrus trees, but it weakens the plant, making it more susceptible to other ailments such as blight and parasites.
The cheerful, fragrant harvest warps into a mass of green, bitter oranges falling off the branch. Whatever fruit does ripen is of much lesser quality. Too weak to fight, the tree dies.
The Washington Post reported that in the decade preceding 2016, over 5,000 growers abandoned their citrus groves, two-thirds of juice processing facilities shut down and 35,000 people working in the industry lost their jobs.
Heartier hybrids like Sugarbell oranges and structures like greenhouses and screen bags help curb the spread of the disease but aren't perfect.
Screen bags blow off easily in storms, and greenhouse structures cost about $1 per square foot, making even a single acre (about 43,000 square feet) an expensive undertaking.
Many of Crump's once-thriving groves have become “ghost groves." Decades-old trees dripped heavily with Spanish moss, a sign of a tree’s failing health. Crump walked through the ailing groves, pinching a yellowing leaf between his fingers. He stared vacantly down as the leaf crumbled in his hands.
"They look horrible," he said.
"They're dying."
I sat in the back seat of the four-door red Ford pickup truck when I was 12 years old, still sweating despite the car's open windows.
I put my bare feet up onto the headrest of the passenger seat in front of me, faded pink flip-flops shoved under the seat, sitting curled up in the back, reading a book. My mom, dad, and younger brother were outside. We’d pulled over at the request of my mom, who could never resist a roadside produce stand.
“Look! They've got oranges, watermelons,” she said. “It’s always fresher here than the grocery store.”
The bright red letters shouted out from the dusty wood awning, advertising better prices than any big-box store and the best quality Valencia oranges available in the entire state of Florida. I didn’t particularly care if there were better Valencia oranges to be found — I had just gotten to a good part in my book.
“Elise, get out here!” My dad called from outside. “We went on vacation to spend time with you guys. Participate, please.”
Grumbling, I opened the back door and slid my shoes on as I stepped my way down onto the packed red dirt. The heat outside was slightly better than inside the car, but the breeze wasn’t much more than a gust of hot air. My hair, pulled back in a low blonde ponytail, stuck to the sweaty back of my neck.
My dad wore cheap sunglasses and a shirt from his college days, Go Tigers! scrawled in orange and blue across the front. He smiled at me as I walked up.
“Hey there sweetie,” he said. “Come help us pick out some oranges to take home to Granny.”
Boxes upon boxes of oranges, watermelons, and strawberries extended out in rows. My dad handed me a white plastic bin labeled 1 pound ($2.50) and I made my way into the rows, metal fans at the ends of the aisles whirring against the heat.
The oranges were nearly as big as my head. I collected the prettiest ones I could find in my basket (and one lumpy one I felt bad for) and brought it to the register with my dad. The old man behind the elevated wooden counter sat amongst homemade marmalade and pickled egg jars, clad in denim overalls and a green plaid shirt rolled up at the elbows.
“Is this it for ya?” he asked. His white mustache wiggled when he spoke.
“This and whatever she has,” said my dad, gesturing to my mom’s overflowing basket of strawberries and the watermelon my brother rolled on the ground behind her.
While my dad paid, I grabbed an orange from the basket and ran outside to sit by the car. I pressed my thumbnail into the rind, peeling back the layer of pith to get to the meat. Little jets of moisture misted out of the rind’s pores; my nose was hit with a sharp, sweet smell.
I peeled the fruit, carved the rind off in one spiraled piece, and tore off a segment to eat. I bit down and felt the juice flood my tongue, looking off into the distance as my family walked back with their bags of fruit. My brother struggled to hold his enormous watermelon.
I’m glad, for a brief second, that I put my book down. I think my mom might be right. The oranges here taste fresher than the ones from the store.
Not all hope is lost for Florida citrus.
Scientists and industry professionals studying the progression of citrus greening across the state are working to create treatments for infected trees. Lisa Jensen, the director of the Fruit and Vegetables Division for the Florida Department of Agriculture and Consumer Services, described the recent studies treating infected trees with oxy-tetracycline injections.
“We're probably in our second cycle of that application, and we are seeing that the trees are responding really well,” she said.
While the studies are still in their beginning stages, she says the treatments offer “more than just a ray of hope” for the future of citrus in Florida. As a fifth-generation Floridian, third-generation citrus grower and the first woman ever enrolled in the Florida Southern College citrus program, the relationship between Florida and its iconic fruit means more to her than just economics.
“People that are in agriculture, whether it's citrus or something else, are tied more closely to the land than other residents and other industries,” she said. “And as a result of that, you're a caretaker and a steward of [the land].”
No longer able to fully support his farm off of citrus sales alone, Crump has taken on part-time work away from his groves and turned to vegetable growing as a way to stay afloat.
“I could turn them into cow pastures,” he said about his groves as he discussed ways to diversify his income. “But cows give me no joy."
"Citrus gives me joy.”
This story was produced by Elise Plunk, a student environmental communicator with the UF Thompson Earth Systems Institute (TESI). TESI's mission is to advance communication and education about Earth systems science in a way that inspires Floridians to be effective stewards of our planet.
This story is part of TESI's student-produced Earth to Florida newsletter that curates the state’s environmental news and explains what’s going on, why it matters, and what we can do about it.