Peach thieves

This past Spring, I stood before my blooming, dwarf Red Haven peach tree in earnest: “Please, bear abundantly this summer.”

One last bag of frozen peaches from several summers ago remained in my freezer, so I hungered for another bountiful harvest of Red Havens, my father’s favorite. I recalled the pleasure of picking and peeling the furry skin from my home-grown peaches, and preserving them for my favorite desserts.

That bountiful season, my little tree yielded more than enough to share a peck with a neighbor, and another with my youngest daughter. She took them to work where they vanished before her eyes.

“Save some peaches for us,” my late husband said as I carried a peck out the door.

So I did. For peaches remain my favorite fruit from childhood.

My granny placed steamy, peach cobblers on her table to cool, the crust bumpy from thick slices beneath. She filled our bowls with sweet goodness, and poured cold milk over the mouthwatering dessert. My mother also baked peach cobblers, and crisps, and served them with vanilla ice cream.

Appalachians transplanted to Metro Detroit, I grew to prefer Mom’s crisps. Her yummy, crunchy topping made with flour, oatmeal, brown sugar, nuts, butter, and cinnamon won me over.

I love walnuts and pecans. Particularly pecans.

Summer after summer, I partook in the love for peaches and pecans with my McCoy family. We gathered in the bottom where my mother grew up, and where I lived the first four years of my life. On special occasions, such as Granny’s birthday, Uncle Jim, a Marine, would join our family picnic. He’d hand Mom a large bag of pecans from South Carolina. Consequently, my mother became a pro at cracking and shelling pecans.

During peach season, I expected to see Mom pull a piping hot, delicious cobbler, pie, or crisp from her oven. Likewise, when she brought Uncle Jim’s pecans home from Kentucky and shelled the nuts, she could have a pecan pie in mind.

With this history, I observed my peach tree this summer with great expectation of sharing and freezing peaches. I’d make a peach cobbler in Granny’s honor, and a crisp to remember my mother.

Many of the tree’s blossoms transformed into tiny, green fruit, clustered on branches as I’d never seen in years past. Week after week the fruit grew. I wondered whether to thin the peaches, or leave them be, worried the weight might break the branches.

I left them be.

Some weeks later, I found little, gnawed, green fruits on the ground under the tree and in the grass.

“Squirrels!”

Dear Reader, preoccupied with the demands of home-ownership, I overlooked the easy remedy to save my peach harvest from thieves.

After I witnessed a squirrel climb a maple tree in the back yard, a perfectly ripe peach in its jaw, I at last bought netting to cover the Red Haven next Spring.

By the way, en route to Tractor Supply, I stopped in Fogler’s Greenhouse for a peck of gorgeous and delicious replacements.

Contact Iris at irisfarmletters@gmail.com