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.

Harrison Ford has inspired me after all. I must exercise so that people can say, “Hey, she’s pretty spry for an old lady.” Not that anyone needs to say it – I just want to be able to think it truthfully. So along with my facial exercises, I am trying to regain a waistline.

What’s hard for me is that I have always had youthful-looking skin and now wrinkles and creases are developing exponentially. It is a little scary when I wonder what is going on inside with my organs, but I’m not thinking about that now. Now I’m still on skin.

I’ve used Estee Lauder since I was 25 and a lot of people – salesladies at the counter actually – believe that is why my skin has looked good. Personally, I think it is because of my paternal grandmother’s genes. Her name was Nellie; my maternal grandmother Jessie had skin that looked like tissue paper which had been crumpled up and then smoothed out. Put I’m not going to rock any boats and so I am still using the Lauder stuff. The little moisturizer jars last forever and I could be more liberal, I guess, because I find that after five or six months, the stuff separates like old mayonnaise. Of course, with my new wrinkle outbreak, I suppose I will be slathering the stuff on.

I’m skipping any talk of hair on my upper lip and chin – just can’t bear it right now. (Afraid someone will throw me off the train.)

I also have had vitiligo – white spots – since I can remember. They were on my ankles and knees first and stayed there for several decades. Now they are on my hands and torso and I can see the hint of them coming around my mouth. That’s not good, but it shouldn’t kill me. However, it should be fairly obvious since I have – and let me refer to the consensus at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse – a big mouth figuratively and literally.

The tomatoes have nothing to do with my age and looks; it’s just that we are going to plant them today. It’s late, but we have had threats of frost unseasonably far into the month this year . . . so here we are at the 29th. I love tomatoes so much I slice them and lay them right on my tongue. I also love the smell of the vines on my hands. That I got from my Grandmother Jessie.

Okay, so Harrison Ford is a few years older than I and he’s playing Indiana Jones again. So I think, oh, that’s going to be sad and they should have left it alone. Then I think well, he’s doing stunts and practicing with the whip and this might be inspiring.

I liked the movie; I enjoyed the movie. I’m not going to talk plot or anything . . . except to say that he didn’t appear as young as I thought he was going to. One other thing, all the way through the movie I couldn’t rid myself of the idea of “old man pants” – as in the way they fitted. I don’t know, maybe I’m wrong, but, yeah, I personally can’t get away from it – old man pants.

It’s usually when the barometer is up, the sky clear and the sun out . . . the temperature not hot. It seems to trigger emotions of things lost. I think and remember and no one is there to see my face or come up to me with the motor roaring. Trees and bushes growing and it comes to you that once you had to be careful not to mow them over; now the branches are whacking your legs . . . arms . . . and then face.

I think when the weather is uplifting and you have the surge of activity chemicals, you feel what you miss the most. It is not that the tears are unwelcome; they help. They are a love that will never be forgotten.

Not that this is bad; it is good, actually – but I don’t think I can explain it.

I fell asleep somewhere in the second hour.

I have this question: if the Andromeda parts can communicate with each other and change en masse, why were people still having the blood to powder experience after the virus had already mutated to resin-eating? Oh, I know – the writers said, “Hey, let’s have the virus do this . . . ”  Maybe they should have stayed on strike.

I didn’t mind that I fell asleep.

Oh, is that title post a tad unrefined? Well, I should apologize because I had ample time to think of a better one during the countless commercial interruptions. I think, however, the truth of the matter is that without the commercials, the unrelenting effect of the movie’s badness would prove toxic to viewers.

And to think . . . I have to sit through part two tonight.

Yes, it was advertised. Yes, I knew it was a remake of the long ago Andromeda Strain. I didn’t think I’d watch it; I figured it just wouldn’t be that good the second time around. But, then, I relented and looked it up on the TV Guide and guess what? It is a two-parter. They drive me crazy. Make me write in short sentences . . . which, I know, is not such a bad thing, since Der Bingle once referred to 200 words as a good start for an AmeliaJake type sentence. Hey, wait, I may be cured. Or not.

It is on at nine. Goes to eleven. It does not end . . . It is going to be continued. Oh, may rats eat my rabbit ears. If I had them.

I am going to console myself with a soduku – a fiendish one from a fiendish book. Or I could hold my breath until I get my way and they show the entire thing. That would show them . . . oh, yeah.

William A. Vance   1926-2006