To Every Thing There is a Season

Georgia Peaches--Photo courtesy of cousin Kevin Delaigle.

          I've enjoyed some delicious tree-ripened peaches this week.  Fresh peaches always remind me of my growing up years.  Picking peaches at Boll Weevil Plantation was a summertime event.  Bringing them home by the bushel.  The most fun thing to do was make homemade peach ice cream.  We needed lots of ice, rock salt, and elbow grease for that.  Our group effort produced the most delicious ice cream in the world.  

          The pace of my life in those days was not measured by the nine to five's, but by the seed time and harvests.  Oh yes, and by Sunday afternoon drives in the country--a common past time for many back then.  Sunday afternoon drives when no one pushed the speed to the limit and the cruise was controlled by a softer pedal.  The biggest concern of the afternoon for us children was who got to sit by the window in the backseat of the sprawling Ford Galaxie.  With Daddy at the wheel, we drove up and down the dusty dirt roads to see the corn and the cotton fields, and look at the cows and the pond.  From time to time we'd check on the progress of the blackberries ripening in a large patch beside the pasture.

           In those days, we took pleasure in the process.  Life was more peaceful. No stores were open.  No businesses operated on Sundays.  Society cooperated to let us have our day of rest.  So we spent time with family and enjoyed the simple pleasures of the season.  Those memories are as sweet as juicy peaches.

    

Fresh peach cobbler. I used the recipe from Tea Time at the Masters Cookbook.

"To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven," Ecclesiastes 3:1.

Note to readers:  See Deep South Magazine's southern summer reading list.  They're having a book giveaway.