Country Pleasures: Patience and Peaches
Three horse-drawn buggies. Two pickup trucks. Three cars. I eyed the gathering in the gravel lot in front of the big white weathered barn at the Amish orchard on Back Mountain Road, and parked carefully.
In the cool morning, we all quietly looked each other over, wondering how long we may have to wait for fresh-picked peaches — or if we would get any at all.
At just after 7, I’d hardly expected to be first. When they say “early” in Big Valley that means around 4 a.m., maybe sooner. By then, our farm town is wide awake. Traffic zips along the main road, slicing through the cornfields that blanket the valley bottom and stretch to the base of the mountain ridges.
Yesterday, the woman at the butcher shop had directed me to another orchard and said she’d heard from a woman who’d arrived before 5 (5 a.m.!) and was sixth in line.
People are crazy for peaches here in the valley this time of year.
Rightly so. Summer’s sweet essence lives in the juicy, delicate flesh of a ripe peach.
So eighth wasn’t so bad.
There were no paper slips with printed numbers and not many words spoken at first. Yet we all knew who among us was already there when we arrived and who had come later.
A chestnut horse pulling an open black wagon emerged from the trees and trotted into view, stopping in front of the barn. At the reins, standing on the buckboard, were two Amish boys, not quite teenagers, one wearing a bachelor’s button blue shirt and the other a pale blue one, and both in black trousers, with straw hats.
Reddish-orange peaches filled 18, wheat-colored half-bushel baskets in the wagon bed.
Hallelujah! A beautiful abundance.
I’d be back by 7:30, and on with the rest of the morning — or so I thought.
Then the next person in line asked for five bushels, 10 baskets. Six more people ahead of me.
Oh. OK. It’s going to be awhile.
The boys unloaded baskets, gently placing them on the gravel drive near the buyer’s buggy or truck, then moved on to the next person — often asking to determine who was next, as we’d parked in a formation more like a sprinkle than a line.
When they’d finished, and the horse had rested a bit and they’d briefly ducked into the house for whatnot, one boy stood before the horse, pushing on his chest to nudge him to step backward and turn back toward the trees. Each boy placed a foot in a broken-in, familiar spot and climbed back to driving position.
The horse’s metal shoes and the steel wheel clattered on the pounded dirt lane as the wagon climbed slightly and disappeared again into the orchard.
As they picked the next wagon-load, a few of us helped the woman with five bushels transfer her treasures from the baskets to boxes.
Peaches cannot be dumped. Each one must be gently moved by hand to avoid bruising.
We waited and chatted about our peachy plans. One woman intended to can them in the next few days and make a first cobbler today.
Dreaming of peaches
I fantasized about opening a glistening crystal-clear jar full of packed, sweet peach slices on a February evening.
Back in real life, I shuddered at what I remembered of canning peaches: a huge, hot mess when the peach pits clung to the flesh and had to be cut away. Their juice ended up washed off my arms and counters and floors, and down the drain.
Ever since, I’ve been careful to come home with a freestone variety, so that the pit releases with just a bit of pressure, and wait for them to ripen, set out in a warm spot of the house.
Mine will be grilled at our annual summer party on Saturday. Our local family and friends, plus a few carloads of out-of-town guests gather at a state park pavilion to celebrate the best of summertime: roasted corn, fresh tomatoes, grilled peaches, a swim in the lake, catching up with each other.
The peach ladies and I chatted about our vegetable gardens and the dry weather as the sun rose higher and the morning warmed.
We chatted with the mother of the Amish family who owns the orchard. She explained that the drought had cut the peach harvest in half, and made them sweeter. The apples would be down, too, she said, but they were thankful for the harvest, whatever the amount. 
The wagon came and went two more times. Five more, then 10 more cars snaked down the lane. People milled and watched. Some napped in their cars.
We waited. So did the dirty breakfast dishes in my sink, the e-mails, the preparations for the party and the guests arriving tomorrow.
No matter. By then I was invested and enjoying the community, cool air and gorgeous scenery. I learned canning and gardening tips and met some of my Amish neighbors.
This year, our party peaches would be from the valley. And extra-sweet.
Peach nectar on the tongue belongs to all that is wonderful about summertime
Finally, I gently emptied two half-bushel baskets — one of Redhaven and another of John Boy — into cardboard boxes and into the car. The are ripening, spread out on brown paper in a warm room. The nicked and bruised handful are set aside for a cobbler — or maybe a pie.
That first bite was a delicious rush of nectar on my tongue. It belongs to all that is wonderful about summertime. A splash of cold water on a hot, humid afternoon. Floating on a river. Mountain pies over the campfire. Fireflies dancing above the cornfield. Cool, soft sheets on tired feet at the end of the day. The crack of a homerun off a wooden bat.
This is August, and we must make time to savor these summertime pleasures — for they are both fleeting and the salve to all of our worries, aches and ordeals, the swift passage of time, the kids growing up too fast. All of it at bay for now. In the fall, my youngest stepson turns 18. November will bring a watershed election, one way or another, and bitter wind will scour the valley.
But for now, we have sweet, fresh peaches from Big Valley to enjoy.