A long a busy stretch of U.S. 1 in Juno Beach—wedged between condos, hotels, traffic lights, and seemingly relentless development—sits the kind of place that’s increasingly rare in Palm Beach County: a reminder of a time when oranges (not oceanfront condos) defined the local economy. TerMarsch Groves is the county’s last citrus stand; the final survivor of a once-ubiquitous roadside tradition that helped shape Florida tourism.
Long before visitors arrived to tee off at golf resorts, stroll the beaches, or dine at waterfront restaurants, travelers came south chasing sunshine. There was no I-95 here—the highway connecting Miami to Palm Beach Gardens wasn’t complete until 1976, and the so-called “missing link” from Martin County to Fort Pierce didn’t open until 1987. U.S. 1 was the way to travel north and south back then, and residents and tourists alike used it to buy fruit straight from Florida’s famed citrus groves. Dozens of grove stands dotted local highways, selling citrus harvested just miles away. Tour buses made routine stops, and roadside commerce flourished alongside Florida’s booming citrus industry.
But by the late twentieth century, things began to shift. Freezes, citrus canker, and a greening disease known as HLB devastated crops. The advent of I-95 diverted travelers away from local roads. Rising land values pushed grove owners to sell; in 2011, Palm Beach County’s final commercial citrus farm—Callery-Judge Groves in Loxahatchee—sold its land to a developer to avoid foreclosure proceedings.
Yet TerMarsch Groves endured.
Today, co-owner and manager Jenny D’Ambrosio (granddaughter of founders Wilton and Helen TerMarsch) says the reason her stand is the last one standing is simple: “We try to treat people like family,” she explains. “I probably know half the people who walk through the door by name. What makes us stand out is that you come here and it’s an experience.”
That experience begins the moment you step inside: samples of fruit are neatly labeled by citrus type so you can taste it before you buy it, complimentary cups of chilled orange juice are abundant, and longtime staffers greet both locals and snowbirds like old friends.
Here, things feel intentionally nostalgic. Wooden bins overflow with Indian River citrus. Shelves hold marmalades, local honey, and coconut candies. Coolers brim with locally made fish dip, freshly squeezed juices, plus pies from The Upper Crust in Lake Worth and ice cream from Okeechobee’s Sutton Milk. Displays of shells, corals, and souvenirs that speak to classic Florida kitsch recall roadside stops of decades past.
“When people call us a ‘throwback,’ we think that’s a good thing,” D’Ambrosio says. “We try to keep that Old Florida charm. There’s really no place else like us.”
It’s a place that has origins far from Florida’s citrus belt. In the early 1950s, Wilton and Helen TerMarsch left Pontiac, Michigan seeking opportunity in Palm Beach County—a place that was defined by fishing, farmland, and agriculture. Family lore (as recounted by D’Ambrosio) has it that the headaches Wilton suffered with for most of his life began to dissipate in the salty air and sunny skies. Soon, the couple canceled their return travel plans and put down roots.
After opening a small roadside motel called Casa Juno, in 1959 they added to their holdings by purchasing a fruit stand along U.S. 1 (just north of its intersection with PGA Boulevard), selling fresh Florida citrus beneath hand-painted signs promising “Freshest citrus!” and “Juiciest oranges!”
It was a humble beginning, but it was perfectly timed: citrus was king and tourism boomed. When Wilton and Helen’s sons Wilton Jr. (aka Willy) and Danny took over operations in 1982, they decided to purchase a strip mall in Juno Beach and relocate the grove stand. At the time, competing stands existed in relative abundance throughout Palm Beach County. But one by one, they folded. Today, TerMarsch stands alone.
Danny passed away and Willy has since retired. But D’Ambrosio and her sisters Jenny and Wendy keep the business alive. Three generations of the TerMarsch family work side by side—siblings, spouses, cousins, and in-laws—running the seasonal operation six days a week. Citrus is still the shop’s main draw, particularly seedless Orri mandarins, which D’Ambrosio says are the top sellers behind Honeybell oranges. On some days, demand can be staggering. “On a busy weekend like President’s Day, we can sell 100 or more gallons of orange juice,” D’Ambrosio says with a laugh.
Still, there are challenges—including a huge helping of development pressure. “We get calls all the time asking if we want to sell,” D’Ambrosio says of the aging strip mall that sits in the kind of location that makes developers dream of condos, hotels, and profits galore. But D’Ambrosio says those developers can keep their dreams to themselves for the foreseeable future. “This place is our legacy. This is our lifestyle,” she says. “This business supports multiple families, and we’ve decided that we have no intention of selling.”
That decision is an understandably emotional one for D’Ambrosio and her family. “Being the last one standing comes with both pressure and pride,” she admits. “We’re grateful—to our grandparents who started this, and to our customers who kept coming back even when citrus struggled.”
Season after season, those customers faithfully arrive on TerMarsch’s doorstep. Families stop in to buy fruit the way their grandparents once did. Snowbirds return to stock their fridges with local goods for sustenance during their stay. When the season ends in May and the TerMarsch family gets ready to shutter the store after months of hard work, orange juice aficionados reserve gallons of the stuff at a time to place in their freezers, ensuring they have enough juice to tide them over until the store reopens in October. “We always sell out at the end of our season,” D’Ambrosio says, laughing. “People need their juice!”
Perched in a place racing toward an unfamiliar future, TerMarsch Groves preserves something harder to replace than citrus farmland: a sense of continuity and community. “If my grandparents could see the business today,” D’Ambrosio reflects, “they would be so proud that we’ve kept our backbone while still growing.” So for now—amid cranes, condos, and constant change—the last citrus stand in Palm Beach County stands strong.
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