Carolina Peaches

Standing in the yard I wait.

As old man Dill pulls through the rusty gate.

Up the long dirt road to my house he comes.

I see his rusty pick-up truck kicking up dust by the tons.

A covey of quail scampers off the road into a nearby field.

I suck in the morning air; exhale and think about the days yield.

I climb aboard amidst empty bushel baskets and burlap sacks.

I settle in for the six mile ride across washboard roads of gutted tracks.

Soon I see the acres and acres of fruit laden peach trees.

And I am thankful to have this summer job to help meet our needs.

I jump down from the back of the trucks rusty old bed.

Old man Dill spills out and pops another chaw of “Big Red”

He smiles a sly smile with his crooked little grin.

He reaches for his straw hat and simply says “boy, you ready to begin”?

From seven till twelve beneath a now blistering Carolina sun.

I picked them peaches and picked those peaches and never got done.

Seven bushels; five hours and three dollars and fifty cents later I was elated.

Those orchards are long gone now and so is he.

But the memories of that time so long ago still remain with me.

J. Allen Wilson © 6/2008