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| Red Haven peach harvest at Yule Love It Farm |
In August 1970, in the peak of peach season, my father-in-law helped my husband and I move our few belongings from Bay City to my mother’s basement in Warren. My childhood storehouse of memories.
The second of Mom’s five daughters, at nine-years old I
ran to the furthest corner in the basement and cried when our dog Ginger died.
Years later, overlooking the washtub, washing machine and dryer, I observed Mom’s
meticulous methods with her Sunbeam iron and Brother sewing machine.
Another unforgettable marker of my generation, I first
heard the Beatles sing “I Want to Hold Your Hand” while my eighth-grade
cheerleading squad practiced our cheers on the basement’s unfinished floor. Before
my Sweet Sixteen birthday party, Dad installed tile. A home improvement Mom, my
sisters, and I appreciated.
My temporary return to my childhood home at six months
pregnant, however, did not meet my expectations of independence and marital
bliss.
Typical of the times, many young men eligible for the
draft found themselves unemployed, college degree or not. Therefore, Mel’s
father suggested his son pursue work in the Detroit area and offered to help us
move. Mom offered the sofa-bed in her basement.
Unbeknownst to me, the day prior, my older sister and her
husband transfered their furniture from Mom’s basement into their first home,
weeks before my sister’s due date with Mom’s first grandchild.
When my father-in-law, husband, and I arrived at my
mother’s home, she served her delicious spaghetti dinner with peach shortcake
for dessert. My first taste of ripe peaches, cake, and whipping cream instantly
created a craving for the flavor.
Her daughter who ate to live, Mom said, “Why Iris, you
must be eating for the baby.”
By the end of peach season and a month’s imposition
upon Mom’s hospitality, she declared, “I won’t be a bit surprised if your baby
is born with a peach on its nose.”
Today, eight household relocations and fifty-one years
of marriage behind, I climbed my ladder and harvested four baskets heavy with blushing
fruit—more than enough for fresh peach shortcake, a shelf-full of peach
preserves, and frozen peaches for winter crisps and cobblers served with ice
cream.
Oh, and enough to share a basket with our youngest
daughter, our one and only child close by to pass on our bounty.
For as my father said when he delivered the Red Haven
peach tree we left in the backyard of our home in Detroit, “This is the
sweetest and hardiest variety. Water it good and it will bear more than you can
eat.”
Dear Reader, yesterday I craved peach shortcake, so I baked
scones, peeled ripe peaches and whipped heavy cream blended with cream cheese,
confectioner’s sugar, and vanilla. After Mel and I finished the last bite of
our first peach dessert of the season, we peeled and sliced eight quarts of
fruit for the freezer and a bowlful for preserves.
Then I carried God’s abundant blessing to the basement.
My maternal storehouse of memories.
