The Peach Tree

understood first-hand the oppression my newly acquired friends in the field suffered from so many white-collar stiffs. I had become a part of my friends' world, though only for a brief time. At the end of the summer, I would return to my world of privilege. I would enjoy my grandfather's and father's help as they paid for my college degree. I would delight in the new car my grandfather would buy me while there. But despite this return to privilege, I would never forget the lessons or my friends. I would take the lessons with me to college and live by them. And when the school year was over, I would return to the field to learn more lessons, to visit with old friends, to make new ones. I did this, too. Every summer during my college years, except one, I returned to the mountains of northeast Tennessee and labored next to men I appreciated and respected. Even after my first year of law school, I returned home as a laborer and truck driver for BurWil. Though in some ways I had ventured far beyond them, these men of the field always welcomed me back and accepted me into their fold. They watched over me, protected me, and respected me. Yes, I am truly privileged, privileged to have worked with such great men, to have labored beside them. I shared in their struggles, hardships, and joys as they did in mine. And I now revel in this type of privilege, a privilege not handed to me like so many others. Now that I am pursuing a Ph.D., as I teach college students just like I was so long ago, I sometimes return to the field. With my son in tow, I cross mud-spattered walks and dodge scaffolding and re-bar. I search out my friends, the men of the field, who labor through the sweltering heat of summer and the intense cold of winter. I embrace them; I honor them. I celebrate the lessons they've shared with me, lessons to carry me through my life—long after I'm absent from their field. The Peach Tree Bring me a peach tree switch my mother says when I've been bad. The thin limb stings my legs until I cry to Mother's satisfaction. Sweet Peach, just yesterday I ate your fruit. Your juice dripped down my chin. —Glenda Beali 23 ...