The last of the peaches

I'm thinking. I'll write about it when and if I see the funny side: other people's problems reminding me of mine. Its not entertaining, its messy and I'm not going to rant about it here. Instead we have:

The smell of Peaches: part the last (and yes, this really did happen to my grandfather)

The farmer fiddled with the lid of the first of the churns and flicked it open exposing milk, innocent and unsullied in its whiteness. He stood back, innocence once again written large on a face made for mischief. The traffic policeman was piqued.

‘Open them all, sir’ he rapped out in his best ‘Don’t argue with me, I am the law’ voice. Can after can was flipped open, can after can contained nothing but milk.

The traffic officer scratched his head. ‘You’d best move on sir.’ He hesitated, wanting to make some remark about the aroma of peaches and alcohol, but what was to be said? Heaven knew, he’d been in the sun for long enough, long enough to doubt his senses... almost. He bit his lip in frustration as the antiquated engine roared into life and the pickup chugged off accompanied by sundry bangings and rattlings.

The farmer sat back in the driver’s seat and grinned through his beard. Wartime rationing was hard. There wasn’t ever enough diesel for a farmer, but the good peach moonshine kept the machines going well enough. He felt almost sorry for the traffic officer standing by the roadside in his dust and sweat with disappointed puzzlement writ large on his features, but it was funny too. He began to laugh, a laugh beginning deep in his belly and working its way up till his whole body shook before it burst from his mouth, uncontainably, uncontrollably.

The traffic officer turned to watch the pickup as it disappeared over the brow of a hill. Was that a howl of laughter? And… yes... the smell of peaches.

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Here's a pic of what that pickup might have looked like: not too good with auto dates, so it could be all wrong...