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It is a jewel plucked from a tree, a prize that the victor can eat without guilt or remorse. I couldn’t stop fantasizing about my childhood as we passed sign after sign advertising fresh peaches. Finally the desire overwhelmed me and I begged my boyfriend to pull over at the next orchard. He didn’t want to stop, and when he asked ‘why?’ I told him. I had an insatiable desire for a peach. He informed me that there were numerous markets in Gatlinburg. I was quick to point out that there is no comparison to a freshly harvested peach and I felt sad that he had never enjoyed that particular experience. Rick agreed to stop, if I would make it quick, and I practically jumped from the Jeep and made a bee-line for the peach farmer who had taken up residence on his porch. Something about that grizzled man reminded me of my father. The old fellow was sitting in a cane backed rocker on his front porch, a piece of straw in his mouth, pondering the wonders of the universe. Or perhaps wondering. ‘That girl,’ she muttered, tossing the last of the feathers on top of the pile. ‘She just doesn’t know her place.’ ‘Teddy, dear, please move a little quicker with that wool,’ Elizabeth called, seating herself on the small wooden stool later that day behind the table they had already set up. Going to market and trying to sell her family’s only means of income was not her favorite task, often the weather was disagreeable, and there were days where they hardly sold any wool at all. She looked around at the other tables at the market, piled with produce and housewares, materials for dressmaking and yards of lace. Then she watched as her brother set more wool down on their table, and she sighed. She was well aware of the pressures her parents placed upon her. It was Elizabeth’s duty, as the eldest, to watch over her brother as they made the trips to market every weekend. It was Elizabeth’s duty to sell as much wool as she could, since this was how the Winshaws made their money. It was.
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