The Subject Was Peaches
Thursday, April 23, 2009 at 11:44PM 
By the time I was your age I was in the coffee business nine years. ~John Cleary, The Subject Was Roses by Frank Daniel Gilroy
Of course I like her! She's a peach! ~George Bailey, It's A Wonderful Life
I rather crave violence. ~Jo March, Little Women by Louisa May Alcott
Just peachy, Mr. Shooter. How are you? ~Mort Rainey, Secret Window
Who ate the last of the peach cobbler? ~Me
It's a cryin' shame. ~Astute four-year-old boy, son of a South Carolina lawyer
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On Wednesday (where I live we pronounce that word "winsdy") I reported the deposition of a young man embroiled in a sticky bit of litigation stemming from the purchase-gone-awry of some peach orchards and an adjacent packing and shipping operation.
I used the opportune moment to wolf Nip-Chee crackers and quaff copious amounts of Diet Coke.
Sound like a nickel-and-dime dispute to you? Nope. This here was a seven-figure deal, gone further south than a moss-draped bayou. Hence the acrimonious lawsuit.
I like money okay, and often fantasize about it, but say the word "peach" and my mouth commences watering. Immediately. The mere thought of a sun-ripened, fuzzy-blushy, pinky-gold, firmy-soft, tangy-fragrant, succulent South Carolina peach practically makes me forget ...
I can't even remember what it makes me forget. Large fortunes? Johnny Depp? Oh, wait ... the two are synonymous. And both quite peachy.
All I know is, I want the peach strings in my teeth and the peach juice dripping off my chin. And elbows. And I want it now.
Our (understandably) somewhat tense deponent -- a young peach farmer who is also a devoted husband and the father of baby twins -- told me during a break that the peaches will be ready "on May 20th."
Duly memorialized on my calendar. And etched on the inside of my skull. Nobody better get between me and the nearest farm stand on twentyo de Mayo.
Back to our legal proceeding, which featured long stretches off the record so that the plaintiff and his attorneys could pow-wow out of earshot. I used the opportune moment to, in a ladylike manner, wolf Nip-Chee crackers and quaff copious amounts of Diet Coke (I'd had no breakfast; just coffee). Between crunches and slurps, I asked the remaining two gentlemen in the room to tell me about their children.
The twins can't talk yet, so our guest of honor had no anecdotes to share apart from the fact that they are "cute." Duh. His sweet smile, though, when he talked about them, told me all I needed to know. The wee tykes won't want for love. Or, apparently, peaches.
I was tired of sitting still. I wished for some excitement.
But the attorney of the young man who will soon celebrate his first Father's Day was glad to share a few recent utterances of his own little son, whom I quoted above. The one about something being "a cryin' shame." I could tell by the look in his eyes (and the goofy grin on his face) that the legal eagle was mighty proud of his eaglet's early command of southern slang.
As it should be.
Amongst all this misty-eyed talk of young'uns (yes, I slipped in a few doting-mamaw comments about my grandkids), what I thought was a cryin' shame -- besides the fact that the peaches won't be ready for another month -- was that no fisticuffs erupted between our witness and his adversary, who was in silent and watchful attendance.
Into the third hour of his testimony, the model deponent -- calm, courteous, credible, clear of speech, unflappable -- began to show cracks in what had been pretty impressive composure. After all, the fellow who had done him wrong was sitting three feet away, giving him the evil eye the whole time. And occasionally making faces.
When he wasn't scribbling notes on a yellow pad and showing them to a member of his legal team. All perfectly normal and above-board.
I guess you'll think I'm mean or something, but all I was, was bored. Weary and still hungry, I was tired of sitting still. I wished for some excitement. So I surreptitiously eyed first the witness, then the other guy, then the witness again, watching for signs of emerging testosterone-driven redneck hostility.
You might say I was keen for it. Peachy-keen.
For a few breathless seconds -- when the deponent recounted that his former friend had "lied to my face about the deal even when I took him out and paid for the beer and wings" and the other guy was looking daggers in reply -- I thought there was a peach slice of a chance. But then the moment passed, uneventful.
It was the pits. And a cryin' shame.
Reader Comments (8)
Sounds like you're having fun, thinking of all these funny things to insert in this post!
@ Mari ... yeah, but it was too easy! The reaches of peaches ... what they teaches ... LOL
You know what's a crying shame? I have never tasted a really fresh peach. I've had oranges from a roadside farm stand that almost brought tears to my eyes with their orangeyness, but I've never had a perfectly rip, ultra fresh peach. Maybe one day ...
It's also a crying shame that Johnny didn't invite me to cruise with him on board his yacht last week. But let's not go there. LOL!
Jay, I don't know what's worse ... that you haven't had a real peach, or that you haven't sailed with the pirate! May all your dreams come true, luv.
Seems like this was the case of the ripest peach being highest on the tree, if I may slightly misquote. You sure have a way with peaches... I mean words!
Oh, yummmmmmmmm, I'm sorry to report I was drooling all over the keyboard. Yuck. But the thought of a perfectly ripe, dripping fresh peach - I'm in raptures. I had one once... the ones you buy here go bad before they get ripe half the time, which just makes me crazy!
@ Keli ... thanks and it's so good to see you!
@ Tracie ... I know exactly what you mean, luv ... it would make me crazy too! SC peaches are incredible. When you come see me, I'll serve them at every meal!
Oh, my gosh, I'm so there!