As you read these words, Vidalia onions are being shipped across the nation—from sea to shining sea. If you aren’t from around these parts, let me tell you what we natives already know: There is nothing like a Vidalia onion.
They are so sweet you can eat them like an apple, and in this whole wide world, they are grown in just 20 South Georgia counties, including Toombs County—home to the largest city, of course, Vidalia.
Folks over in Glennville, in Tattnall County, will remind you that about half the annual crop comes from there. At one time, the produce was even called the Glennville sweet onion. But everybody came together and agreed to call it “Vidalia” instead.
That’s the way we do things in this great state.
We may be divided in our politics, but not in our onions.
Where does the Vidalia get its sweetness? It’s the soil. In these particular counties, it’s sandy and low in sulfur. Onions grown in sulfur-rich soil tend to be hot and bitter—that’s why slicing a typical onion brings tears to your eyes. With a sweet Vidalia, you’re more likely to weep tears of joy.
During the Great Depression of the 1930s, a farmer named Mose Coleman discovered that the onions he planted weren’t hot, as expected. They were sweet. It took a while to catch on, but before long, Mose was selling his onions like—well, hotcakes. Only better.
Other farmers, still recovering from the hardships of the Depression, followed suit and began producing their own sweet, mild onions.
Today, Vidalia onion sales total around $90 million annually. Some five million 40-pound boxes are shipped each season to 49 states and Canada.
That’s sweet.
By the way, you can’t call an onion a “Vidalia” unless it was grown in the designated areas of Georgia. Don’t even think about it. Try passing off a substitute, and you might get a visit from the Georgia Department of Agriculture—no matter where you are. Federal Marketing Order No. 955, established in 1989, reinforces Georgia law, and in 1992, the Vidalia onion was officially trademarked by the state.
We don’t mess around when it comes to our onions.
If you’re in the area, check out the Vidalia Onion Festival, April 23–26. Plenty is going on—concerts, a rodeo, and even “Mimosas and Onions Art,” where you can create a one-of-a-kind masterpiece while sipping mimosas. Give me enough mimosas, and I’ll create onion art that would make Rembrandt jealous.
The weekend wraps up with a performance by the U.S. Navy’s Blue Angels flight demonstration team. I get goosebumps just thinking about them—seeing them in person is something else entirely.
Not to be outdone, Glennville hosts its own celebration on Saturday, May 9—the 50th annual Glennville Sweet Onion Festival. Notably, they don’t call it the Glennville-Vidalia Sweet Onion Festival, even though they agreed years ago to the Vidalia name. I’m sure there’s a reason, but I’ll stay out of that one.
Glennville may not have the Blue Angels, but it has its own charm: a Sweet Onion Run, a parade, a street dance, and even a turtle race. The Chamber of Commerce expects around 6,000 attendees—not bad for a town of 3,800.
Isn’t it something that in the 3.8 million square miles that make up the United States—including Alaska, Hawaii, and the District of Columbia—there are just about 6,000 square miles of sandy, low-sulfur soil in these South Georgia counties that can produce a true Vidalia onion?
There’s no question we’re blessed.
We’ve got the greatest state song ever written, “Georgia on My Mind,” sung by Albany’s own Ray Charles. We’ve got the oldest state-chartered university in the nation, with four national football championships and 27 Rhodes Scholars. We’ve got the Masters, the Blue Ridge Mountains, the silver sands of the Georgia coast—and, of course, the sweet Vidalia onion.
Can I get an amen?
You can reach Dick Yarbrough at dick@dickyarbrough.com or at P.O. Box 725373, Atlanta, GA 31139.