Pottermom picked a hundred pounds of peaches; if I remember correctly, her daughter helped. They took a picture of some of them and she’s planning on doing canning. I’m not one for canning – or cooking really – but I like the way those peaches look in the boxes against the color of the wall behind.

So I stared at it for awhile. I started thinking about how I like peaches, but it was a flavor I had to come at in stages. First I liked the cold, slick peaches that were presented to me in sryup. I shied away from the fresh ones – they had recently had fuzz on them, dontcha know. My father loved them – by themselves, with cottage cheese (yuck), in pies . . . Peaches and the scent of them make me think of him, but for more reasons than just his taste for them.

We have a family story about peaches; I grew up with it. And I grew up sleeping when I was in Kingman either beneath the picture of my great-grandfather in his Civil War uniform . . . or under the picture of my grandfather’s brother Roy who died as a young boy – 12, actually. And in the lore of the story, he died after eating too many peaches, fuzz and all, from one of the trees. My grandfather was under five at the time and he remembered Roy couldn’t lie down and was in the chair in the living room when he went to bed. When he woke up, he found out Roy had died.

Roy might have been a passing family story, but what gave it super status was my cousin Robert Allen’s reaction to his picture. You see, Robert Allen is about five or six years older than I and when he was little he spent a great deal of time with my paternal grandparents who were, yes, his maternal grandparents. He was at their house a lot as a boy, actually living with them for periods of time and during summers.

Thing was, Robert Allen was terrified by Roy’s picture and they had to turn it so Roy was looking at the wall. My father kept this “Roy thing with the picture” going for some time – well, like forever . . . and apparently I am keeping it alive as well.

Heck, I added my own chapter to it:

When my grandfather died, I was a freshman in college and my cousin Lana, who is Robert Allen’s sister, was a high school senior. She was also afraid of Roy’s picture. Well, the night before the funeral, Lana and I slept together in the double bed in the room where Roy was on the wall. While she was off brushing her teeth, I got this great idea to take Roy’s picture and put it under the covers on her side of the bed. I envisioned her coming in and pulling back the blanket and sheet and – gasp – seeing Roy.

It started to work out that way; she was headed toward the bed . . . her hand was on the sheet. My father appeared in the doorway to say goodnight; Lana turned to look at him and sat down on the bed. She sat on Roy before I could do anything to stop her . . . and she cracked the glass on Roy’s picture. She shrieked; my grandmother called up; my father told her everything was okay. I felt stupid.

I don’t know where Roy’s picture is now; I think I might be a little afraid of it myself now. I don’t think about it as a rule.

Yankee Candle made for a time a candle scent called Macintosh & Peach; I loved it. It gave the kitchen a true feel of comfort and home and freshness. It made me think of my dad. They have discontinued the scent, but I still have a few left and I have taken to lighting a macintosh candle and a peach candle . . . or melting two of the tarts together.

Ah, this story is winding down and I don’t know where to go with it: peaches, Roy, my dad, peaches, candles. I guess I don’t have to go anywhere; it doesn’t end, it just wafts in the air and waits for me to remember it from the beginning again.