Growing up my paternal Grandmother lived quite literally down the road from our house so appropriately she was referred to as ‘Mam down the road. Reflecting back on my childhood I remember spending so much time at her house, down the road, while my father was busy being absent. In her basement were two magical things: a ringer washing machine that made her curse like a sailor when it chomped at her fingers and a shelf filled with freshly canned peaches. Sunny, sweet, fleshy globes of tasty amazing goodness. Despite what you may have heard, these peaches didn’t come from a can; they weren’t put there by a man, in a factory downtown. Well, at least I don’t believe they were, but truth be told I don’t remember ever seeing her can them herself either. What I do remember for sure is pulling the light cord at the top of the steps to the basement, pray that the monster under the steps wouldn’t get me while I went running like hell to the shelf to get a jar of peaches. Luckily the monster never did catch me but if he had it would have still been well worth it as long as I had a bowl full of peaches in my belly when he did.
Fast forward a few decades and it has become an annual tradition for Wesley and me to visit Strites’ Orchard for picking our very own peaches for canning. I’m not sure if it’s the reflection of childhood memories or the yummy goodness that I cherish most. This year however was a little different — I found myself daydreaming that perhaps someday our child would be standing at the doorstep of the boogie monsters lair, screaming the entire time as he runs to retrieve his very own jar of peachy goodness.