A fresh, ripe peach is one of my longed-for summer traditions when the days are wintery and grey. Even the colors of it – cranberry, peachy orange, lemon yellow – evoke the warm colors of summer. The fragrance – so sweet I’m fighting the bumblebees for it – is heavy, languid, indolent. Peaches will forever be summer to me.
I have my father to blame for much of that. Every morning of our summer world, a red plastic mixing bowl sat in our Frigidaire, securely covered with Saran Wrap. Every evening, Daddy cut up and sugared his peaches, adding more to the bowl. They graced his cereal in the morning, making bearable those horrid bran flakes he loved so much.
I clamored for peaches, too. In those days, I was a skinny little thing, but with an appetite like a stevedore. Daddy knew if he let me loose in his peaches, only one of us would be enjoying them! He cautioned me to stay out of them each morning. I could have a few, but only a few. He told me that eating the whole bowl would make me very sick, and I would wish I hadn’t done it.
One morning, the temptation was just too great. I snuck into the kitchen after Daddy left for work. A quick swipe and a handy spoon, and that red mixing bowl and I kept happy company until it was completely empty. I even drank the sugar water Daddy soaked them in! I was quite pleased with myself, and went off for a happy morning of Barbies at my friend’s house.
Mid morning, the first queasy feeling started. About an hour later, I was hot-footing it home to spend a very long day hugging the porcelain bowl. I had never been so sick in my life! Mama ratted me out to Daddy when he got home, and he let a simple “told you so” be the end of it.
And that ended my peach obsession for awhile. Except for peach ice cream. Peach preserves. Peach syrup. Nope, as I dug out those frozen little peachy bits from the ice cream carton, I decided that peaches were in my life to stay.
And so they have.
When I was moving, I found a forgotten childhood birthday gift tucked way back in a dresser drawer. The Avon peach soap, still in its box. I gently unwrapped the fragile paper surrounding the peach, now nearly six decades old. Just as I remembered, the two halves fell open, revealing the perfectly carved soap peach pit inside. The fragrance was long departed, but so many memories remained. I’d thought that peach to be just about the cutest thing I’d ever seen as a little girl. From time to time, I’d take it out and smell it, then carefully rewrap it and put it back in the drawer, just as carefully as I placed it in that moving box. We’d come so far together – I wasn’t parting with it now.
Peaches from the Amish farmers market now top my oatmeal each Arkansas morning, taking me full circle to those Arkansas summers long ago. The red mixing bowl is long gone, and I now cut up only a few at a time, and make them last for days. There’s no longer a need to rush to the bottom of the bowl. I now have the wisdom – and the memory! – saving me from that bit of excess.
And I think of Daddy with a smile each summer morning when I open that refrigerator door…at 62 – and beyond.
At 62 