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A story from my Dad shared with me in 2002, but reaching back a good bit further.
My daddy loved peaches. On many summer Sunday afternoons we would have a treat to break the hot pre-air-conditioning scorching heat. Sometimes it was cold watermelon–those old watermelons that my mother and grandmother Donie treasured for their thick rind. “You just can’t make good preserves out of these new fangled thin rind melons” I can still hear them recite every time we cut into one of those good old thick rind melons. Some hot Saturday afternoons, we made a trip to the Whing-Dink, for a chocolate dipped cone. But for my dad the greatest treat of all was “ho-made” fresh peach ice cream.
So I was not surprised when we neared Birmingham to hear dad start talking about a place on the road where he had stopped to get a fired peach pie. However I was confused. How in the world do you fry a pie. I pictured in my five year old mind, mom’s giant black frying pan full of dough, and peaches frying on top of her stove. But how on earth would someone turn it over when it was time?
It was many years later, on my first visit to The Varsity in Atlanta, before I gained an understanding about fried pies. We never found the place my dad had stopped previously to have the best fried peach pies he had ever tasted. I was awfully disappointed. Since he was my dad, declaring something the best meant there was no doubt that it was the best. There could be absolutely no dispute about the matter throughout the whole wide world, because my dad said it was so. So it was so.
Fried peach pies missed, we eventually wound up at a strange house in Birmingham. I was told we were spending the night. I was frightened. I had only spent a few nights of my life out of my own house. The summer before, we traveled to Saint Simons Island for a week vacation. Then we had rented a house for the five of us plus Donie, and grandfather Daddy Jones. I sleep in the room with my parents then. Now I was told that I would sleep in the living room with my brothers.
The folks we stayed with were nice enough. They cooked supper for us. They had kids my brothers’ ages, and they seemed to get along. So as the evening progressed, I felt better and better about being there. But I was relieved when we left the next morning. To this day, I don’t know who these folks were. Friends of our family somehow, but I don’t believe they were relatives. I don’t recall having relatives in Birmingham. If we did they must have moved somewhere else soon after that. I need to check this with my mom.
This post is part of a series of stories my Dad shared with me back in 2002. To see the others, check out: