No thanks to me whatsoever, the peach tree in my back yard is producing a bumper crop this year. I didn’t get any peaches last summer, perhaps because of the ferociously cold winter that shattered water pipes all over town, but the year before that I ate sheer deliciousness right off the tree.
For that I thank Alice Ann, who lived here prior to me. And who planted the peach tree years ago.
I really, really ought to have culled some of the fruit this year. I think the ripening peaches might have been a little larger right now if I’d had the forethought (and courage) to murder my darlings. (I do it when writing. Why can’t I do it in the garden?) I’m guessing. I’ve no idea how fruit trees work. Is there a Law of Conservation of Juiciness? Beats me.
So, the peaches might be a little small this year, but dang they are plentiful. And just standing next to the tree makes everything smell like peaches. Gosh.
The back yard looks like this right now: