As for the peaches

Truth be told, I’ve killed a lot of plants in my time. For instance, a 27-year-old bonsai tree in just a few weeks. Dozens of tomato plants. Cukes.

Crystal was skeptical when I began planting fruit trees and grapes out here where I live now, at Pineapple Hill in rural South Carolina, after growing up in cities.

She was rightfully concerned. The struggle has been real.

My learning curve looks like the face of a cliff.

The tiny vineyard continues to be a challenge. Insects. Fungi. Heat. Weed whackers.

There’s a black mission fig bush that’s been moved around so much it should be on wheels.

As for the peaches, they at least have not been killed off yet. I’ve had a few bumper crops—lots of billiard ball-sized peaches (because I didn’t know about culling) perfectly round, perfectly colored.

Until this year, despite pruning branches last year and fertilizing, they were mutants. Oddly shaped. Buggy. Spotted. A bizarre disease that leaves them mummified. And then a midnight raid. Deer coming in. Picking the trees bare. Eating even the pits. Cleaning me out. Even the way-up-there ones.

Leaving just a few. Enough for Crystal make my annual peach cobbler. An event.

City boy rewarded for trying at least.