A Legacy

"Eat your peaches," mother said. This time she'd put them in oatmeal. I flipped the slice over with my spoon, then pushed it down into the mush. They hid under lumps. I wondered if I said I was too full if she'd never find them. If they'd just go down the garbage disposal like last night's stuffed cabbage.

"For grandma," she said.

My grandmother canned peaches every summer. Mother said we had to finish what we had by July. This kept grandma going, she said.

She did her work in the basement wearing a pink and blue flowered apron that was torn on the shoulder. She couldn't lift her arm past her chin, so she'd ask me to tie it in the back. For some reason, it was never to loose. Always perfect.

We'd wash our hands as my grandfather brought in boxes of fruit. Then we'd wash all the jars my grandma had been saving. She made family members give them back each year, due to expense. I didn't tell her, but I was sure we could get a case for under $5.

We'd can for hours, pealing and cutting and slicing. Watching the pieces float in sugar water when we were done. Then they were sealed and boxed for the family. And the rest grew dusty on the shelf in her cold cellar.

When my grandmother died, she left us a legacy in fruit. 123 jars of peaches. I wondered what would happen when we finished them. What mother would say. 

Blueberry Peach Oatmeal originally eaten and posted here.