The Challenge Summer’s here. (Food)

“SUMMER’S HERE” were the words on the sign that caused me to stop the car in the first place. And so it went without saying that the small brown paper sack placed safely atop the kitchen table had certainly not been overlooked. Quite the contrary. It teased and taunted me as I hurried to put the groceries away and clean off the counter-tops. I looked around the room to make sure that everything was tidy and in its place. Everything had to be right. At long last, I carried the precious bundle over to the sink and removed the contents. I let the steady stream of crystal clear water flow over and around it for a second or two, then being careful not to damage it, wrapped it loosely into a linen napkin and headed for the den.  

It occurred to me as I climbed into my awkwardly over-sized and well worn couch that sometimes, along with age comes a new understanding of what’s really important and what’s not. And as I curled up in the all too familiar plump cushions of my old and tattered friend, I looked at the freshly washed treasure held ever so gently in my hand and smiled. “This is what’s important.” I told myself.

I’d happened upon it quite by chance while on the way to the supermarket early that same morning. There, on the side of the road, a primitive wooden table watched over carefully by a wizened old lady sitting in a white plastic lawn chair. A large handmade sign leaned against the table, crudely crafted with fluorescent paint on a large piece of cardboard. “SUMMER’S HERE. GET YOUR FRESHLY PICKED PEACHES, 6 FOR $5.00.” I bought one, because that’s all I needed, and I gave her the $5.00.   

Some might call it simply a ‘peach’, but I called it a portal to the days of my youth, when something as simple as this fruit would turn an ordinary day into a whimsical wonderland of castles in the sky. The rays of the afternoon sun pierced their way through the window behind me and likened the tiny moist hairs that encircled the fruit to a sparkling halo. I bit slowly into the plump ripe ball of succulent flesh, and closed my eyes. A flood of memories, both happy and sad, washed over me like an incoming tide, and suddenly I was transported back in time to the memories of my youth, back to my birthplace and my memories of Nan.

Amidst the wondrous sweep of the English countryside is where I’d spend my summers with my Grandmother or Nan as I lovingly called her. She lived comfortably in a small village, dotted here and there with old and weathered country cottages, softened under roofs of layer upon layer of thatched straw. She’d wait anxiously for my arrival, pacing back and forth on the roadway until she saw the first sign of my bus. I’d see her waiting for me, a genteel lady with a soft voice and eyes of faded blue. She smelled sweetly of ‘Lily of the Valley,’ not the perfume, but the flower itself, and she was deaf. Her hair had been silver for as long as I could remember and she swept it back from her face into a small soft bun. Jumping from the bus, she’d catch me and pull me to her as though she never wanted to let me go.

“Summer’s here Mandy.” She’d say. “And you know what that means.”

“Bluebells.” I’d shout out.

And off we’d go the next day on our bicycles, pedaling slowly so that Nan could keep up in her pinafore dress and clunky lace up shoes. We’d ride together along side of winding, narrow lanes intertwining throughout the villages. Where fences of dark green shrubs and vines grew like picture frames around fields of velvet grass. Where languid streams flowed quietly, winding their way through the villages, and disappearing into the distance, never knowing where they would end.

We’d laugh and play and fill our baskets with flowers, and all the while I’d watch her, wishing I could stay with her for ever and ever. Then when we were done, she’d magically produce two of the biggest peaches I’d ever seen from the bottom of her bicycle basket.

“These are the first peaches of the summer and I picked them out carefully just for you and me.”

We lay on our backs in the field of flowers.

“You take the first bite.” She giggled. “And I’ll take the last.”

We teased ourselves with the sweet juicy nectar of the fruit, laughing as it trickled down our arms and faces and caring nothing about wiping it away. We made shapes out of clouds, and dozed awhile, enjoying the afterglow of the fruit and the joy of sharing time together again.

Time eventually took its toll and Nan grew weary and more forgetful with each passing year. And when her days were getting much too short, I sat by her bedside and talked of happier times, sadly aware that her memories were stored in a place no longer known to her. But when they told me that she wouldn’t last the day, I purchased the biggest, fattest peach that I could find and placed it loosely in her hand. I kissed her goodbye and lay my head on her bed.  

“Summer’s here.” I heard her say, and as I looked up, a soft, gentle smile crossed her lips and she opened her eyes. She reached out her hand and gave me the peach.

“You take the first bite and I’ll take the last.”

Nan had been gone for many years now, and as I curled up tighter into the cushions, I looked at the last bite left on the peach.

“I’ll take it for you Nan.” I said, surrounded with the memory of her still, and I bit the final piece of fruit. Nan might be gone, but she left me something that would last forever. A memory to be treasured and the peach to make it come alive again.

Joan Huggins