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When I was growing up in California there
were two things that everyone assumed were good
for you. There were, of course,
others — spinach and oatmeal, for
instance — but right now I’m thinking
of sunshine and orange juice.
When we lived at Ocean Park, I was sent
out every morning to the beach where I spent
the day building rolly-coasters in the sand,
complicated downhill tracks with tunnels
and inclines upon which I rolled a small
hard rubber ball. Every day toward
noon I fainted because the sun was
too much for me. When I fainted
I didn’t fall down, but I couldn’t
see; there were flocks of black
spots wherever I looked. I soon
learned to find my way in that blindness to
a hamburger stand where I’d ask for
something to eat. Sitting in the
shade, I’d come to. It
took me much longer, about thirty-five
years in fact, to learn that
orange juice was not good for me either.
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