It’s peach season! Not only are they tasty fruits, they remind me of an incident when I was a tyke.
It was the early part of World War II. We were living in Estes Park, Colo., where Dad was working on the Colorado-Big Thompson Project tunnel — a hole that was drilled through the mountain to bring water from the west side of the Rockies over to the east side to use for irrigation on the Colorado plains.
One weekend we had been visiting my grandmother in Loveland, about 30 miles from Estes Park, down Big Thompson Canyon. It had been a lovely summer day, and we kids had spent most of it outside playing, as kids are wont to do. Part of that playing had been climbing the apple and peach trees in Grandma’s backyard. The peaches were just about ripe, but we had been warned to leave them alone and not to pick any. We had been very good about that and hadn’t picked a one, the whole day.
Until it was time to go home, that is. Then I sneaked back up the tree and picked one, which I hid in my right pants pocket.
Now, at that time there were four of us kids: Bill was about 6, I was about 4 going on 5, sis was 3 1/2 and Stan was 2. Our mode of transportation was a two-door Model A Ford. Dad drove the car and Mom sat in the front passenger seat, holding Stan, while the rest of us sat in the back with all the accoutrements it took for our trip, plus everything that Grandma had given us to take back home. Model A Fords didn’t have trunks.
So it was a bit crowded, but not too bad, as we were still pretty small kids. No such things as seat belts in those days, so you could scrunch up as needed. That was a good thing when we started back for home because we could get everything and everyone in the car. But shortly it was to be not such a good thing, because more could still be crowded in.
Before we got far on the way back to Estes Park, we came upon a hitchhiking soldier. Transportation was scarce, and it was your patriotic duty to help others, especially those in the military. So Dad stopped and picked him up.
We kids had to scrunch up some more to let him join us back there. As I had “dibsed” the passenger side window seat when we left Grandma’s, that soldier slid in on my right and I slid over, giving him the window seat — but also giving him the seat next to that peach in my pants pocket. With four of us squished together in the back seat of a Model A, that peach didn’t have a chance.
I was afraid that Mom and Dad would find out that I’d stolen one of Grandma’s peaches, so I couldn’t say anything about having that one in my pocket. I was mortified as that peach became peach pulp as we rode back up that twisty canyon road. By the time we got to Estes Park and that poor soldier got out, he had an obvious wet stain on his dress uniform that matched the one on my pants. At that point I was caught.
I didn’t catch too much hell, and the soldier said he was just glad for the ride up the canyon. I guess my embarrassment was punishment enough. And a lesson well learned. Pockets aren’t for peaches!
Everybody Has a Story welcomes nonfiction contributions, 1,000 words maximum, and relevant photographs. Send to: neighbors@columbian.com or P.O. Box 180, Vancouver WA, 98666. Call “Everybody Has an Editor” Scott Hewitt, 360-735-4525, with questions.
