The Answer

I ordered a peach tree from Stark Brothers a few years ago. I found a nice place for for it to grow down in the garden next to the June apple tree. I nurtured it through the drought last year by hand carrying water in a five-gallon bucket to keep they young whipper-snapper alive. It lived and I was grateful.
This spring, the tree was full of peach blossoms. Calling it a tree is a bit of a stretch because the trunk is about as thick as a kindergarten pencil with a bunch of smaller branches. But none the less, it was full of blossoms.
This year, the rain came back to Alabama and the little tree flourished. As the tiny peaches began to grow, the weight started bending the tree over. I had to dig a hole near the tree, and sink a post deep beside the peachster. I then took an old pair of pantyhose and secured the young tree to the pole. But the peaches kept growing. Saturday, I found a branch that had been blown off our oak tree during a recent storm. The limb had a "Y" in it that would have made a darn good slingshot. I propped the sagging sapling up with the support.
Today when we got home, we walked through the garden to check everything out. The peaches had ripened over the last few days. I snagged one, wiped it on the sleeve of my shirt and took a big ol' bite. Juice squirted all over my chin. It was delicious.
I know it's probably not smart to eat the entire peach crop in one afternoon, but I've had three so far and Jilda won't fess up to how many she has eaten.
People ask me why we live out in the sticks. In the past, with the cost of commuting, I have asked myself that same question. But today, sitting down in the garden, enjoying fruit from a tree I planted years ago, I knew the answer.