If you’ve read some of my earlier posts, you’ll know that I grew up on a farm in rural north-east Scarborough, where there were comfortable and predictable rhythms to the seasons. Part of that rhythm meant that it was busy during the warm months, and we children were expected to find ways to entertain ourselves.
One day in late summer, when my father and grandfather were busy in the fields with the harvesting, my mother’s friend, Anna, came to our place so they could can peaches together. Peach canning is a long, sticky, steamy process, not helped at all by having small children in the house, and between the two of them, there were seven. Continue reading “The day I nearly killed my mother.”