Shortly after the war, my father and his father planted fruit trees along the ditch bank. It was the family orchard. There were two kinds of fig trees, two kinds of peaches, an apricot, a plum, a pomegranate, and a persimmon. The trees thrived. At the west end of our house we also had walnut trees that gave us mountains of nuts, while shading the west end of the house. Orange trees and a grapefruit tree too. And of course we had grapes, nectarines, and other varieties of peaches, plums, and apricots as they ripened in season on the farm itself. Add to this the big garden behind the house. And a little dust-vision of a boy handing wooden clothespins to his mother as she hung sheets on the line. Now, who were they, I wonder? Not that there’s really an answer, or that one is needed. They were, I suspect, just someone who had been granted the fruits of labor and play, a twist of lemon, memory and joy.