The Fruit of the Spirit is Love, Joy, Peach

There's a man* in my neck of the woods who sells peaches and tomatoes**.

*An old man.

**To die for peaches and tomatoes.

Now for those of you who have only spent one hour with me may not be aware of my love for old men. (Anyone who has spent two hours with me definitely knows of this love, because it's kind of right there on my sleeve). Well I'll say it again for those of you just joining us. I love old men. They are so adorable. When older male customers come into our store, I elbow my way to the register to be the first to help them. While I think that children are cute, old men are more irresistible to me. They're just so precious. Gray hair, cute wardrobes (caps, suspenders, hankies in the back pocket), shuffling walk. And they wink and flirt at young ladies like myself. Oh my goodness. I'm gonna have to stop there.

But this old man. I stopped in his garage today to pick up some amazingly delicious peaches and tomatoes. The first thing I said, after "hi!," was "mmm, those peaches smell so good!"

"Pardon?" he said. He said "pardon" approximately five times during my visit, as I was not speaking loudly enough. And I wanted to pinch his cheeks every time he said it.

Well we got to talking about the peaches, and he explained the crop to me. Then I'm not sure what happened. I must have said something else about the peaches, or maybe I looked confused at all that he was telling me about the multiple peach varieties, because then he said with a big grin, "If you want, I'll cut one for ya."

"Oh, no no, you don't have to do that. I believe you, I'm sure they're delicious."

He didn't listen to me. "Hang on a minute."

He then disappeared into his kitchen, leaving me alone to protect all the tomatoes and peaches. I looked around while hoping no crazed produce thefts would pull into the driveway while he was out of sight. I looked at pictures of him in his garden, beaming proudly next to the stalks taller than him. His chair with multi-colored, mismatched cushions, pushed away from the table housing his unfinished game of solitaire. I wonder which game it was. Perhaps his 500th of the summer, all those hours waiting for friends to come buy his produce. His wife is often with him in the garage, but today I think she was in the house.

A minute later he appeared with a paper towel and two halves of a peach, minus the pit. He handed it to me, and I awkwardly held my purse, car keys, and the peach in my two hands. I took a bite and made a very genuine (although still somewhat forced, as one always feels pressure to be dramatic when opening a gift or tasting a dish someone has offered while that someone is watching, needing to assure that someone that his or her effort was not in vain) sound of satisfaction with the juicy morsel in my mouth.

Finally as I made my selections and he bagged them up, I asked "how much do I owe you?" "$6.50." "Can I pay you for this one?," holding out my now even more occupied right hand that was also juggling cash, then 2 quarters change, then 2 bags of fruit, all the while trying not to get things sticky.

A firm "No" was the response I received.

I gave him seven dollars and humbly accepted my 50 cents change, wishing there were a tip jar I could slip a dollar or two in. I ate the rest of my peach on the short drive home, thinking to myself, "Now he's a peach."