PEACH COUNTY — Next to an I-75 off-ramp here at Exit 142, Melvin Self spends his summers selling fruits and vegetables from a covered stand on wheels hitched to his 1986 Ford Ranger.
This time of year, you can probably guess his top seller. Plumper than baseballs, his peaches, thanks to a bumper crop this season, go for about a buck apiece.
Self has, for the past decade or so, set up shop in this spot on the outskirts of Warner Robins. Situated a couple of hours north of the Florida line, he has unwittingly seized upon a quirk of geography and free enterprise.
The interchange is commercially barren, save for an RV park and a sod farm. There is a Buc-ee’s one stop north up the freeway, but the nearest gas mart to Self’s exit is more than a mile away, to the east on Ga. 96.
Even so, colorful interstate billboards lure travelers off the super slab right past Self’s stand with the promise of irresistible nectar: sweet Georgia peaches.
Only it’s not Self’s sign that motorists see on I-75. (More on that later.)
Credit: Joe Kovac Jr.
Credit: Joe Kovac Jr.
Self makes a living catering to vacationers. His maroon-and-yellow produce hut is an attraction and curiosity all in one, a slice of Americana for those in search of this state’s famous warm-and-fuzzy orbs.
Stands like his are, for some anyway, a nod to yesteryear, a reminder of times when farming was a way of life for many. And of eras before supermarkets, when fresh fruit was nowhere else to be had.
“Some of these young people ain’t never seen a roadside stand,” Self says. “They take pictures of it.”
Self, 70, was once in the septic tank business. He also has been a row crop farmer. For this venture, he visits wholesalers to stock his stand. His first name, slapped on the side of his stand in italics, reads friendly and familiar.
“A lot of them call me Melvin,” he says, “and I don’t know their name for nothing.”
They’ll say, “We’ll see you next year, Melvin,” or, “We’ll see you when we come back through, Melvin.”
“Some of them,” he says, “I remember their faces, but no names.”
Regulars passing through will call him on their way to wherever. He’ll have a box of peaches waiting.
Mistaken identity — sometimes, impatience — draws others to the stand.
Credit: Joe Kovac
Credit: Joe Kovac
A couple from Louisville, Kentucky, a husband and wife, cruised in about 10 o’clock on a recent morning.
They were headed home from Florida and happened to spy a sign out on the interstate advertising peaches.
The sign was promoting the orchard of a renowned peach-packing outfit and its agritourism adventure land. The place has an eatery that dishes out cobbler and ice cream. Its gift shop offers local jams and jellies that make out-of-staters slam on brakes.
The orchard, though, lies well west of the exit, nearly 5 miles distant.
But there atop the off-ramp, hitched to a primer-gray pickup, sits Melvin’s Produce — and basket upon basket of peaches ripe for the purchase.
The couple cruising home to Kentucky hooked a U-turn and whipped into Melvin’s to get their fresh-picked fix. The wife figured why drive 10 minutes out of the way when there at the roadside sat baskets of auburn-blush, Georgia gold.
Self rarely sells peaches from that household-name orchard down the road. (He prefers peddling ones from a competing packing shed in a neighboring county.)
He also says he drives surface roads and wasn’t aware of the signage on I-75 until customers started mentioning it.
But he sure appreciates the nearby establishment’s ads, and siphoning off the occasional customer.
Travelers will invariably mention the big-dollar, freeway billboards and say, “I like your sign.”
“Thank you,” Self will say. “I’m just using it.”
