I chuckled to myself as I cut up a whole perfect peach in the bottom of my breakfast bowl before I sprinkled a bit of cereal on top. a “peachy” childhood memory floated to the surface of my consciousness.

Lebanon is truly the biblical land of “milk and honey.” You haven’t tasted fruit unless you’ve tasted the fruit of the Land of the Cedars – from the pomegranate and citrus groved coastline to the grapes adorning the ascending terraced hills, and on up the mountain ranges flanked with peaches, apples, pears, and cherries.

It was the summer after first grade and that year we had moved from the coast line to the hills of Lebanon where a grape-vined arbor stretched across the back length of our home and fig trees bordered the scarlet bouganivilla laced property line. Pomegranate and quince trees lined the front driveway leading up to our rose and honesuckle vined front balcony. My normal snack was always fruit and I loved it!

We, one of my sisters, my mom, and I were sitting at the white formica topped round kitchen table. I was peeling peaches that had been dipped in boiling water to loosen their velvety skins as part of the assembly line of making deep dish peach cobbler. My childhood’s mind, eyes, and ears absorbed the chatter about our upcoming stateside furlough. It sounded like the “wa, wa, wa” blurred words of the Peanut Comic Strip until I heard, “the fruit in the U.S. looks appetizing, but has no flavor!”

My alarmed little mind exclaimed, “what?!!!”

This particular line of conversation was flowing while mother’s fingers, arms, and elbows dripped peach nectar into the large pie-crust-lined pyrex dish as she sliced the peaches headed for cobbler. While I inhaled the peach , cinnamin, sugar, and buttered perfume, I worried about a whole year looming ahead without delicious fruit, my favorite food.

But, I had a solution!

Excusing myself from the table, I washed my sticky hands, slipped several peaches from the pile drying at the sink into my square patch apron pockets (we always wore aprons in the kitchen). My aim was to add the pilfered peaches to the zippered carry-on Pan Am bag which I’d been gradually filling with my childhood essentials like my Cinderella coloring book and raggedy doll.  I had stashed the bag at the back of my standing wardrobe. Satisfied, I returned to my job as peach peeler with total peace of mind. I was prepared!

Weeks passed by and I had forgotten all about my stash of fruit until my room-mate sister exclaimed, “what’s that horrible stink?”

I yelped, “the peaches!”

Fast forward. . . ., Why am I telling this story? It dawned on me today while cutting up a pretty tasty Georgia peach that hoarding a treasured gift turns to foul rot, breeding stench and maggots. Preciousness is not appreciated unless shared while perfectly ripe and deliciousness.

Share your gifts at the peak of freshness lest they decay and spoil.

What gift are you hoarding?