I'll write more about the man who loved peaches. Today, he gave me a Harmony peach, which are coming into ripeness this week. I wonder if the Red Haven supply has dwindled, either picked or fallen to orchard floor. A week ago, I accepted, gladly, a Red Haven peach from him. I allowed it to perfume my desk for a few days before I enjoyed it for breakfast. Peaches are delicious disasters eaten at the desk. Plan ahead with towel and hand sanitizer for the juices gush readily over the hand that holds it as bitten. I'm not leaving this Harmony over the weekend, allowing the fragrance to fail or flesh to soften. When I turn from my work, I'll reward myself with that peach. I'm planning to pick up a peck, at least, or maybe a bushel to take to my daughter's home. Maybe her grandmother will help her can them? Wait upon the rest of the story, dear reader. A bushel of peaches from 1991 figures deeply in this story, but I don't know what breed of peaches were available second week in August that summer in Elk Rapids, Michigan. I bought them. I drove them home. I gave them. I ate peach jam from glass Ball jars for the first year of my marriage to my daughter's mother.
I visited Papa Joes's this past weekend with my daughter, looking for a picnic to take into Border's Birmingham. Why shouldn't we have a picnic in Border's the last week of the clearance sale? Building has a wonderful outdoor patio off the coffee shop, second floor, a patio commanding a gorgeous view of Woodward looking south and Birmingham looking west. We talked about oysters, especially the Lynnhaven Oysters, no longer safe to eat from the Lynnhaven watershed of Virginia Beach, the water no longer pure enough for clean oysters, the watershed encroached upon by homes and suburban lawns. I've met men who once made a living filling barrels of Lynnhaven oysters. There's talk of cleaning up the watershed and bringing back these notable seafood, once a proud name on menus of old world New York City.
It's hard to put nature in reverse when it comes to oysters. Oysters are the great conundrum of the industrialist who likes to eat. Industry, run in an unsustainable fashion, taints the oyster bed. Yet, the industrialist flush with profits from manufacturing is most likely to sail into a seafood shack and order a double dozen. The Chesapeake is a second nearby place where the oyster harvest is far shy of historical plenty. There's school and hobbyist projects that show how to raise clams and oysters to replenish the Chessie, which means the greatest estuary in America lives on life support. Once the oysters of the Chessie filtered the water of the bay daily. Now, it takes a year for this hydrological feat to complete. Daughter and I joked about taking a dozen blue necks and slabs of Atlantic salmon for sushi up to our picnic deck, but I probably should talk to her mother first before introducing raw meat into her diet. The fish monger loved the idea and lobbied hard. Oh yes, for daughter, sushi from the sushi bar has finally included tuna and salmon, but I trust those chefs more than I trust myself. I did pick out six perfect Red Haven peaches for her, Select Michigan brand. I inhaled the fragrance of the fuzzy stubble skin, and it reminded me of the fragrant, pheromone laced scent of a newborn's head.
We walked over to Borders in a light drizzle. The shelves near the entrance had a full supply of books, but now the shelves could be purchased for ninety-nine dollars the three shelves. unit. The door to the patio was barred by rows and rows of store fixtures for sale. I didn't feel like braving the forest, risking falling racks. We walked down stairs to the children section, and the stage, three steps high, had sold, removed. We sat on that stage a decade ago, sometimes I read to her, and she roamed amongst the shelves, picking our her books. The children's books must have moved quickly.
The first day I learned my daughter was on her way into this world, her mother and I met friends at an old Birmingham, Michigan restaurant. They tore it down to erect the two story Borders. I cannot find the name of the restaurant mentioned. It is a fact that my daughter has heard repeated.
One more irony to share before I close. The first cybercafe in my acquaintance opened within view of the second floor patio, 1994 or so, two years before Amanda's birth. I once drove there to download drivers for a Banyan network. Some guy was teaching a class in the computer section and shooed me off, treating me like a tool. However, I saw the beautiful canvases of Stephen Goodfellow for the first time, a man I have never met but have encountered each time the web launched a new killer application. He has some great physics theories on YouTube. He keeps the annals of the Cass Cooridor tribes up to date, mostly with notices of sad news, funeral processions through the old neighborhood. I am aware that he has moved out of the country. I might write him to verify.
The internet cafe closed and became a home decoration store. Then the internet gave rise to Amazon, and Amazon eventually stole Borders lunch.
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