Of Progress and Peaches

The problem with progress is that we don’t define it properly.  Or perhaps that is just a personal failing.  Too often my mind thinks that if it isn’t DONE, progress is nonexistent.  That’s not true; progress implies movement, an ongoing journey, if you will.  So, I am not completely settled, but my new home is evolving.  Certainly, it is fully functional: I can cook, eat, sleep, wash sheets, watch TV in high definition (very cool by the way), surf the net, come and go, sweep, vacuum, read, shower, study, and find most things. Only a few boxes and bins await a permanent placement. Some clutter is even beginning to accumulate, which is certainly counterproductive. Friends’ prayers and encouragement certainly helped.

            Lamps and window coverings are the main projects left.  Today, Beth and Bill hauled in my new nightstand, the one new piece that is REAL furniture, i.e. not from IKEA or Kohl's.  On the other hand, Beth told me that indeed I did have something to bequeath to her – the new sofa, even if it was falling apart in 30 years.  Now that’s a delightful thought – she really enjoys the sofa and could put up with me for 30 years.  I should be so blessed – actually, I think I am.

            On an entirely different note, Georgia is the Peach State. Since arriving, I’ve been waiting for real Georgia peaches.  A couple of weeks ago, the sign said it was so, and I selected a few peaches. Perhaps they came from the Georgia that was part of the former Soviet Union, because clearly they were picked well before they were ripe. Peeling them was rather like scraping a knife against wood. Each slice of the knife was audible and raspy.  Barely a drip fell to the counter.  Chewing them could perhaps be compared to munching celery.  But this week, the peaches were finger kissing good.  The knife slipped easily between the skin and the flesh of the peach.  The juice covered my hands as the sweet fragrance drew me into the experience.  Each bite almost melted in my mouth.    The taste was worth the wait.  Hopefully, more will come.  Perhaps that fruit of Eden was not an apple, but a peach - a real sweet Georgia peach.