A friend mentioned that she was going to buy some fruit. That caught my attention, followed by some disappointment when I found out she was just going up the hill to get it locally.

There is nothing wrong with going to a local market, but her comment had conjured up the good old days when Mom would announce we were going to Keremeos to get peaches. That was like a mini-vacation, even if it was just a day away. It was away from the barn, the wood box, the chickens and chores in general.

Dad would spend some time getting the car ready over the next few days. Maybe Jock Fraser would change the oil and grease it up or maybe it was just a general radiator, fan belt, spare tire check. Either way, the canvas water bag would be draped over the hood ornament, Dad would complain about the price of a full tank of gas and the car would be ready.

Because the old Trans-Canada Highway to Hope had nothing like a McDonalds or an A& W, Mom would pack sandwiches, cold chicken  and Kool-aid and, after we all went to the bathroom one more time, we鈥檇 be on the road.

Dad didn鈥檛 like noise in the car. Singing or arguing would distract him from driving and listening for a piston to come through the block or a wheel to fly off. He was always sure something was going to happen and it rarely ever did. But we were quiet and he was ready for anything with one eye on the road and the other on the gauges.

If the Hope-Princeton wasn鈥檛 busy and we were making good time, we might pull off at a creek for a quick dip in the frigid mountain water. It was good to cool off as our car had what was known as two-forty air conditioning; roll down two windows and drive at 40 miles an hour. After Dad had some tea from his big plaid Thermos and we had a snack, we were off again.

When we finally got to Keremeos, there was always a loud debate about which fruit stand we bought at last year and finally we would settle on one. The hot wind was always blowing and the cold pop and cider always looked tempting. But they were not in the budget.

We loaded the trunk with peaches, nectarines and whatever else was in season. If relatives had heard we were going, often we brought back some for them as well. We brought back cherries for canning and some in a bag to eat on the way home. Our big sister doled them out like gold nuggets so we wouldn鈥檛 鈥済et the runs鈥� before Hope.

If the price of fruit had been right, maybe we stopped in Hope for dinner at a restaurant and it was always dark when we got home. The next day the stove was fired up, the canners and the jars and the rubber rings were put into an assembly line and the fresh fruit was sealed away.

Then, on a damp, rainy November night after a dinner of stew and dumplings, one of those golden jars would appear on the table, maybe with some ice cream, and you could feel that hot Okanagan wind warm up the kitchen.

Food just tastes so much better when you鈥檝e worked for it. At least that鈥檚 what McGregor says.