When my mother was about seven, she remembers padding barefoot along a well-worn sandy path that connected her southern West Virginia farm to Aunt Grace’s. My great aunt’s house was a weathered wooden structure flanked by two great pine trees, resting in a horseshoe of luscious, green hills. She remembers the lovely, sweet scent of roses, phlox and heliotrope coming from her garden. But the delicious smell that stamps itself in her memory is one of freshly baked pies wafting from her kitchen window. Best of all, dear Aunt Grace lovingly welcomed my mother and always shared from her table. My mother can attest that her peach pie, unbeatable at the county fair, had the taste of heaven.