Voices

A Peach of a Story
Written by Sister Mary Grace Blum (May 2008)

There is nothing quite like the first bite into a fresh ripe peach of the season.  It must be ‘the’ perfect peach!  Rosy tinted, peachy pink, firm, but still yielding to the gentle touch of peak moment readiness.
 
I wait for that moment each summer.  I have discovered over the years that, the anticipation of that special peach is half the pleasure.  The first bite tells me ‘this is it’.    The juice begins to ooze from beneath the punctured skin. Rivulets of sweet, sugary syrup trickles over the fingers, running down the wrist on to the arm.’ Careful, do not allow it to drip on to the clothing. Ah! This is messy, but good!’  However, something more than this enjoyment is happening.  Another experience flows along with the juice.
  
And there I am again, transported in delightful memory to the feel of ‘home’ at 222 Penn Avenue.  It is August something, the day for the annual canning of the peaches.

The bushel of cling-free peaches will be purchased from ‘Mr. Silverman’. To us kids he was the ancient huckster who toured the streets of Mt. Oliver during the summer season and late into the fall selling fruits and vegetables.  Even today, if I sit in quiet reverie for a moment, I hear with the ears of memory his shouts of what the specials are for the day: ‘apples, peaches, potatoes, parsnips, parsley and onions.’  And some days he would call out ‘schemer case’.  To this day, how Benny ever kept the cottage cheese refrigerated remains a mystery. Giant Eagle will never duplicate the fineness, astuteness and bargaining power that Benny Silverman wielded as he made his way down Penn Avenue.  The mothers of the neighborhood waited for him with shrewdness matching his.  He would climb up on the truck, perch himself between the stacks of potatoes and hampers of produce.   He was king of his domain.  However, Benny would not out-wit the financial wizardry of my mother’s value of pennies, nickels or dimes. ‘Mrs. Blum, I save for you this bushel of peaches, today for just $3.00’, he would say.  Three dollars went a long way in those days. So, then and there she would start her part of this weekly ritual. ‘Too much, Benny!   Seven kids and stretching a dollar.  How do you expect me to pay $3.00?’  And on and on they argued for an agreeable price. With thoughts of a long winter and seven kids, Mother finally bargained for $2.75!  Mother knew Benny’s business tricks and the knack of stretching her luck.

Benny’s helper carries the prize bushel to the front steps. I watch as the neighbor ladies carry their neat, clean, brown bags of produce to their houses.  As Benny moves on down the street, today, I can still hear him resume the chant of fruits and vegetables over the noise of the motor and shifting of gears as he turns on to Ottilla Street.

Meanwhile, these peaches are destined for the winter months, via the laundry room of the basement. This downstairs room has become the canning factory during the late days of August, on any day except Monday. Tomatoes have already been jarred, bottles of ketchup are lined up on the shelf as shoulders, dressed in red coats the green beans section on the shelves compliment the red of the tomato products. Now the work begins in earnest.  Preparations have already begun.  The old clothes boiler has been turned into the old fashioned sterilizer, with jars already boiling away any possibility of contamination.  My younger sister Vera, and I, reach into the laundry stationary tub and begin to wash, and sort out the too soft peaches.  These are the sweetest, and will make the best peach preserves, far excelling ‘Smuckers’. (Memory does such wonderful exaggerations!).
The next steps take more careful handling of the fruit. Step 1. One by one, the peaches are extracted from the very hot water, and the skins slip away easily.  Step 2.  Each peach is cut in half, the stone removed, and so as to not be bruised, it is carefully set aside in the white, chipped, porcelain pan.   What a pleasure it becomes to feel the heat of the room and smell the aroma of peaches, sugar syrup and the taste of those pieces that may be rejects. Step3. Mother extracts from the boiling water on jar at a time, one for Vera, then one for me.  Ever so gently, each half is packed into the quart jars, in perfect order.  Mother is the chief inspector!  Many adjustments are made before she pours on the hot syrup.  Step4.  Back into an hour of the water bath, securing the suction of air tightness for the perfect, beautiful jar of peaches.  The steps are repeated until all the peaches have been placed in the jars and processed.

In days to come, from time to time, the family will stand in admiration at the harvest so proudly displayed on the shelves of the cellar.  During the lean months of winter, all of us will feel lucky to have a mother who provided for our needs.  Fresh peaches bring the warmth of a delightful, carefree time in my life.