Peace

Around 9:30 Saturday morning outside Inman, 37 degrees, wind about 10 mph, light overcast, and I'm loading seasoned split oak into the bed of my truck. Firewood for my parents. The property owner, Peter, is working from the other end of his 6' by 8' trailer. His accent suggests somewhere well to the east of Germany or Austria. But I'm not sure.

So I ask. 

"Me? I am from Georgia. The Republic of Georgia."

We continue chunking wood. "When did you come here?"

"I came 1986. To get away from Russia, you know."

Our pace is steady. "Troubled times here now."

"No good. No war. They don't know."

"No."

"My brother calls, tells me is craziness. My friend calls, tells me 'See, see how it is'. My mother worries."

I thought of my parents, he and I are certainly of the same generation.

He stops for a moment. "They have everything. They don't know. Like Serbia."

"Like Ukraine," I add.

"Yes, Ukraine. Very bad. What do they want?"

"They don't know."

We keep to our task. The sun breaks through now and then, but it is cold and cloudy. When we finish I step around the truck to pay for the load.

"You have peach trees and apples?"

"Yes, I leave wild." We both move out toward his orchard. "Now I have persimmons." He gestured to a small clearing behind the car shed. Six persimmon whips, 2 rows, trees about 8' apart.

"You have family?"

"Oh, yes. Three daughters, 2 sons." I hear a change in his voice--pride. 

Before I get back in the truck, I wish him and his family well. 

"Yes, be well. Democrats, Republicans, I don't care. I am here for peace."

Peace, indeed.