JANET SCHLICHT
QUERENCIA Like all seductions, the path that curves away from the main road is fraught with both promise and peril. When that detour also contrives to intersect in some way with the sacred stories of the past, a bit of extra caution may be in order. We sought no confrontation with the past, though; only the merest re-acquaintance. And so, lulled perhaps by the fine autumn day, we proceeded on our little jaunt. My mother held in her hand a scrap of paper with an address on it, and I turned the car off Interstate 5 toward Dark Hollow Road. I should interject here that our family – I will put this in the mildest of terms – we were never really storytellers. I know that there are families that gather around under big oak trees on limpid summer afternoons, aunts and uncles and cousins, sipping lemonade and recalling tales of the past. In place of robust tales of love and hardship, our family seemed to have settled for a ragged and scanty collection of story fragments. Mostly, you had to put things together in your own mind, and there was never any knowing whether you came up with something like the truth. That is at least part of what makes the story of the peach orchard such a treasure. It was one of the only stories that we told about ourselves. Like a precious gem sewn inside an old coat, we could take it out and admire its shine. Embedded in the story was the acknowledgement that “these are the people we come from.” This repertory of one seemed to be ample for us. 83
