When the peaches can claim to be ready, as ready as can be, when their skin is moving, just a little, when the frost has left them alone, for the most part, when there are men to pick them, from day to day, when ladders are repaired and stand up against the sun and the limbs, then peaches, should be brought, down to the level of people, to be seen, be washed, be peeled and be eaten.
Each and every one comes to ripen in its own time, in its own way, the splay the fruit across the branches, and make the pecks, the bushels, the pint size jars of peach jam, the run of peach jelly, the different flavors and sizes and colors of peach ice cream, peach bread, peach pie, and of the bits and pieces, peach cobbler that must be made in Heaven.
Fischer Orchard, the warmth of this place, the hood from the sun, the wide spot in the road, this outlet of heaven on earth, can never be replaced, only memories that last a lifetime, can replace this grass that grows six feet, that would keep us from feeling the feelings of those who have made it right.
Ralph E Peck
Photograph by Ralph Peck
a Mile and a half east of Porter, Ok
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