I was sent to Fort Bliss in July of 1952. In August, my mother, who was in failing health, sent me a box of ripe peaches. As you know, ripe peaches do not last very long, especially in the mail on an Army camp. At mail call, I was handed a soggy juicy shoebox on a shovel. It contained slimy peach seeds and peelings. It was humorous at the time, but my mother passed away one month later. In retrospect, due to her love and thoughtfulness, those were the best peaches I never tasted.