My maternal grandfather had a small, but beautiful peach orchard when I was a kid growing up in southwest Missouri. The line after line of trees were part of a larger farm that also grew apples and was home to a medium sized herd of healthy, fat cattle. I vividly remember the day my grandfather planted the orchard, surrounded by friends and family, one particular old friend of the family named CHICK worked the auger on a small tractor, digging the holes for grandpa to carefully lower each bendy seedling into the black, rich earth. CHICK was a grisly, sun tanned old man, even though he was probably only in his mid forties, that cussed a lot and always seemed to have a half smoked Marlboro hanging from his snarled lips. “Goddammit, Jim” he’d yell over the tractor engine. “Am I going deep enough?”
“Yeah, yeah,” grandpa yelled back between spits of Red Man tobacco. “Just watch my hands!” Back then it seemed that most old men smoked or chewed tobacco.
A few years later CHICK lost control of his station wagon on a gravel road with my younger sister and me in the back while en route to another farm on the north side of our hometown that our grandpa also owned; and the old, creaky wood paneled tank spun twice before rocking to a stop in a cloud of heavy, gray pebbles and dust. It scared my sister because this was before kids wore seat belts so it tossed her from one side to the other. She cried hysterically, but I thought it was fun, exhilarating - and watched in amazement as CHICK regained control of his old horse while a cigarette hung effortlessly between his pursed, tight lips. I liked CHICK, he seemed like a character from a black and white western.
The peach trees grew up hearty and healthy and it wasn’t long before the orchard was yielding large, pink, luscious fruit. My grandparents also owned, managed a small fishing lure factory and bait shop in town, because during this period my grandpa Jim was also a professional fisherman. It was an interesting juxtaposition from our very proletariat existence in a small Missouri town, because there was always a shiny new ranger boat set amidst a pack of old dusty cars and trucks.
Grandpa was a celebrity of sorts in town, regularly on fishing shows since he had won several big bass tournaments around the country; he was a large, bigger than life John Wayne type man, and although often grouchy, I loved him dearly, albeit from afar. He routinely smelled of Red Man tobacco and fresh cut wood; and I adored the stories that floated around about him…especially one recurring anecdote of how he could grab a large snake by the tail and shake it like a whip until it’s head popped off. My uncles and dad shared this one often, usually just moments after it had happened, yet somehow I always conveniently seemed to just miss the spectacle.
Every summer the family was asked to help pick peaches that were subsequently brought back to town and sold to the locals outside the white cinder block lure “shop.” The trees were round, bush like and extended nearly 15 feet high in places, so ladders were placed throughout the orchard during harvest. Usually the kids were exempt, so we chased cows, rode dirt bikes, and explored the wilderness strip pits that cut a rocky band through the middle of the farm. I loved riding in the back of my grandpas truck on the four mile drive to the property, wind blowing my hair long brown hair back, more times than not sharing the bed with one of the many family hound dogs. Although countless memories were good, even the not so good memories have virtue….like the time I first touched an electric fence with my bare hands, rocking my 7 year old body back into an old dirt road while my friend Sam laughed hysterically; or perhaps the hazy late spring dusk when I was about the same age sitting atop a gravel pile with my Uncle Bob who gave me my first drag on a cigarette, forcing me to cough so hard I rolled to the bottom while trying to catch my breath.
Bob was my mother’s youngest brother; a sweet kid with a hidden mean streak that shocked me throughout my life. I spent a lot of time with my uncle Bob when I was in elementary school, usually fishing, going to the park, kicking around town during hot summer days, and hanging out at the peach orchard; Bobby always lighting a cigarette with a sly smile and ordering me “…you better not tell grandma…” which I never did because I just liked being around him. In fact, even though I was often picked on by uncles on both sides of the family, I loved just being around them, and I loved that my relationship was exponentially different in nature because I was the youngest grandson, which meant that many of of my uncles and aunts were teenagers when I was born.
Bob was always getting into trouble; mostly by my overbearing grandfather, but also by the town cops, other kids, and even the high school administration. I remember one morning walking into the principal’s office with my grandmother when I was probably four years old; Bobby had done something in gym class, and everyone was crying, sans the principal as we filed single line out of the small, tiny office. Bob was a big kid, nearly six feet five inches tall, husky with a round face, teardrop eyes, and one hell of a big smile…that smile was infectious, and I couldn’t help but smile and laugh even when he was being scolded by grandpa, the high school principal, or local police.
During one particularly hot summer at the orchard, I heard a rumor that uncle Bobby had killed the local sherrif’s prize dobermans…and in a manner that was particularly cruel and sadistic. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the concept of such violence coming from him, and when I tearfully questioned my father about it, he simply shook his head and said “I wouldn’t be surprised.” I was devastated by the allegation, but it didn’t change the affection I had for my uncle…I held him in high regard until his death, which occurred under mysterious circumstances just 10 years ago.
Picking peaches became a rite of passage for anyone in the Rogers family; and as I got older I was asked to help more and more. Hot and sweaty, we picked then packed the delicate fruit into wooden bushel baskets, the fuzz spreading from fingers, to forearms, elbows, and eventually neck and face if you weren’t careful. It itched…but I didn’t seem to mind as much as the adults. The farm was a living, active thing to me; roaming cattle, peaches and apples, wildlife, and even the sound of chainsaws in the Autumn and Winter months that meant wood was being cut for the fireplace. That smell of fresh cut oak, cedar, and hickory haunts me to this day and any opportunity to experience, breathe it in is quickly devoured.
The orchard continued to survive despite droughts, infestation, and one summer when Bobby and Uncle Russ nearly burned the entire 60 acres while trying to attach two plastic irrigation pipes with a blow torch. The wind caught hold as it often does in the Missouri plains, and if not for the help of a neighboring farmer calling the fire department, it would have been devastating.
Even after my family moved, I loved visiting the farm on trips back home…and looking for the orchard on the east side of the highway when we were just a few miles from returning home. When visiting during Christmas break in high school, I would take one local girl I adored named Alison out to the farm late at night to park; once even getting stuck in the snow, then having to walk to a nearby farmhouse to ask for help getting out. Of course, the family helped us, but not before my grandparents were contacted via rotary phone before we even back into town.
I suspect the peach orchard ultimately brought more anxiety than joy to my grandparents, though I never heard either say so. These days when I drive home to see my father, I still look to the east of the highway, spying remnants of the peach orchard, which has long been sold, cleared, and turned into open meadow. Despite the absence of the long, straight lines of trees my heart still skips a beat, the land itself evokes any number of important, sublime memories from my youth. So many of the people that defined that farm have died, yet passing by the cropped meadow I can’t help but feel the itch of peach fuzz, smell the allure of Red Man tobacco, and hear the undeniable snap of a long black snake.