Epitaph for a Peach; Four Seasons on my Family Farm

By David Mas Masumoto

Selection from the Prologue

 The last of my Sun Crest peaches will be dug up.  A bulldozer will be summoned to crawl into my fields, rip each tree from the earth, and toss it aside.  The sounds of cracking limbs and splitting trunks will echo throughout the countryside.  My orchard will topple easily, gobbled up by the power of diesel engine and the fact that no one seems to want a peach variety with a wonderful taste. 

            Yes, wonderful.  Sun Crest tastes like a peach is supposed to.  As with many of the older varieties, the flesh is so juicy and it oozes down your chin.  The nectar explodes in your mouth and the fragrance enchants your nose, a natural perfume that can never be captured...

            I’m told these peaches have a problem.  When ripe, they turn an amber gold rather than the lipstick red that seduces the public.  Every year the fruit brokers advise me to get rid of those old Sun Crests.  “Better peaches have come along,” they assure me.  “Peaches that are fuller in color and can last for weeks in storage.

            I have a recurring nightmare of cold-storage rooms lined with peaches that stay rock hard; the new science of fruit cryonics keeping peaches in suspended animation.  There is no room there for my Sun Crests, all of them rejected with the phrase NO SHELF LIFE stamped in red across each box.

             “Consumers love the new varieties,” brokers advise.  “They’ll abandon your old Sun Crests.”

            My sales returns at the end of each growing season confirm their comments.  Demand remains weak and I have to accept lower prices.  But I can’t give up.  I often picture shoppers picking a Sun Crest out of one of my boxes, not knowing the hidden treasure that awaits them.  When they bite into it they’ll say, “Aah. This is a peach!” 

            I’ve been keeping those old peaches for years, rationalizing that it’s worth hanging on to something that has meaning beyond mere monetary reward.  But I’m scared.  Scared because I can’t sell my peaches; thousands of boxes sit in storage, blacklisted with a bad reputation.  Boxes that have been paid for, fruit that cost me and my family, a year’s labor wasted, unproductive and impotent.

             Many farmers with fruit varieties like Sun Crest peaches no longer calculate how much they earn but how much they owe.  Can you imagine working an entire year and having your boss inform you that you owe him money?  No matter what you believe, you can’t farm for very long and only be rewarded with good-tasting peaches.

             This year will witness not only the possible death of this peach but also the continuing slow extinction of the family farmer.  A fruit variety is no longer valued and a way of life is in peril.  My work remains unrewarded.  When I first started, I realized I would never make a fortune in farming, but I hoped I could be rich in other ways-and maybe, just maybe, my work would create some other kind of wealth in the process.

             Part of me knows I’ll survive.  The family farmer is a tough species, and we will find ways to continue.  But when I think of that Sun Crest orchard, it hurts to see a slice of my life ripped out, flavor lost along with meaning.  Life will be different without Sun Crest peaches, and with the loss of variety consumers will be the ultimate losers. 

            I envision my orchard yielding to the bulldozer and the trees tumbling without a fight.  I imagine setting a match to them and listening to the crackle of dry leaves as the dead branches are engulfed by rising flames.  I estimate the embers will last for days, glowing in the chill of the fall nights. 

            I’ll plan on going out daily to watch the fire, my face and arms warmed by the heat of the burning wood.  Later I’ll plow the ashes back into the earth.  The ground will be renewed, and I’ll hope that my next orchard will become as rich.  Are my Sun Crest peaches obsolete?  This, it seems, is my epitaph for a peach.

Copyright David Mas Masumoto, 1995