Rolling Down Memory Lane

Recently I was able to go back to my parents’ home and spend a little time just enjoying family. My Dad is an auto body mechanic and would to carry me to school an hour away each day so I learned all about the makes and models of cars from him, as well as an appreciation for a more laid back morning radio show. After all, where else could you hear the morning birthdays of both young and old as well as the finer points of red eye gravy and squirrel?  Ugh! I took the DJ at his word for the breakfast advice then and now. Some things are just meant for those with a stronger constitution than mine.  Anyway, back to the cars. Cars were a way for my Dad and me to bond in my younger years. I am not a mechanic but my love of automobiles will always be tied to my relationship with my Dad.  During this trip we were able to go to a car show, something I have not done in years. Other than slightly cooler than preferred weather, we had an enjoyable time looking at all that was on display. One such model was a Ford Pinto wagon. Minus the woodgrain panels it was exactly like the one that I spent many an afternoon ride home from school in. Memories came flooding in of hot summer days with the windows down and those leatherish seats that stuck to my legs. My mom changing a flat tire on the way home from school.  One family trip to the beach in particular because my Dad decided he wanted to try limburger cheese. It was a stinky ride back to the hotel for my brother and me in the back seat. With so many cars to see, my Mom and Dad both reminisced about vehicles from their younger years, sharing stories from a time that I was not a part of. My daughter had the opportunity to go with me and was able to hear all these stories as well. Looking back on the day later I realized that for her, all the stories were from a time she was not part of. I just hope that one day my children will see a classic vehicle that had seen it’s prime in their younger years and share their stories with their children about a time that is now and those children are not yet a part of.

The Family Trees

I have 2 peach trees just off the raised bed garden. They have never produced any viable fruit. Honestly, I think this breed is not meant for this far north but even if they never give me a single, juicy peach, they will always remind me of my childhood and my grandparents.

See, I have lost all of my grandparents at this point in my life. I even had the honor of knowing 4 of my great grandparents, one into my adult life. I don’t know how often that happens but I cherish the time I had with each of them. My father’s side of the family were strong farmers. The property my parents still live on was once part of 1000 acres given as dowry to my great, great, great grandmother. It has been farmed since that time in one way or another, over time being split up among the children of each generation.

My grandparents still had 475 acres, if memory serves, when I was growing up. It was dotted with fields, gardens, orchards and ponds. Many days were spent as a child with one or both of my grandparents walking or riding over that property. The older I became, the more I helped at harvest time, picking produce, shelling peas, helping as my grandmother canned or froze different things, or throwing her kitchen scraps around her blueberry bushes. But the best thing ever was fleeting and only available for a few weeks in the summer.

One of the orchards was full of various breeds of peaches. The best one was an Elberta tree. It produced what my memories store as a huge, bowl filling peach. Juicy and flavorful. Best chilled in the fridge but just as delicious fresh off the tree. Thanks to this tree, I will never have a peach that even comes close to good from a store. In fact, I hate buying fresh peaches. I do love peaches though, so when I am able to get some fresh from a farm I enjoy them, but nothing will ever be as good as those memories.

At some point after I married and moved away my grandfather had to do away with the orchard due to a blight of some sort. I was heartbroken, but such is the life of a farmer. You grow what you can, but if the land and the plants can’t produce, you have to change the equation somehow. I was sentimental so I didn’t want to see it go. Time moved on and after they both passed, my brother had the opportunity to obtain the family home.  

Remember those kitchen scraps I would help throw out? Well, often they contained peach pits. While my grandparents were alive they would keep any sprouts under control so it didn’t overtake the blueberry bushes. My brother, knowing how sentimental I was about that orchard, saw a couple small seedlings that he could transfer to a pot and give me for mother’s day several years ago. No store bought gift could ever compare to that. I know they cannot be from the same trees I picks peaches from in long sleeves in the hot, humid mornings of July so long ago, but they came from those kitchen scraps of my grandmothers.

I brought those seedlings home and proudly planted a piece of my childhood home on the property of my adult home. Each year they have gotten bigger and fuller. I have learned about pruning and how difficult it is to organically care for peach trees. I have been excited as the blooms appear in the spring and small green fruit a few weeks later. I have been disappointed as all of it withers or falls off, poisoned by the eggs of some wasp that reaches it in the bloom stage. But regardless, I love those trees, even if I never get a peach because every time I see them I see my heritage and where I came from. I see what I am capable of and where that strength comes from. I see my family tree… all of it. Every branch making me who I am today.