The Sour Cherry Tree
Some experiences can’t be replaced. Like picking cherries from the old sour-cherry tree back home.
I’m tired of the city, tired of the temp job I’ve taken on while I contemplate leaving teaching after twenty years. I left the profession at the top of my game while the world has gone mad. I drive home to visit my parents for some peace and quiet.
When I walk through the door, dad is eating lunch at the kitchen table. Mom comes through the sliding glass door saying, “I’m out back picking cherries, sour cherries.” They are both enjoying their retirement from working for the Veterans Association.
“I’ll join you,” I say. I know this tree, one of the last of many cherry trees that were on the property when we moved in over thirty years ago. They say these old trees live to be 20-25 years old. The first time I picked cherries from this tree was during the summer after we moved in. I was 14 years old at the time, and the tree was big enough to hold my weight back then.
One afternoon, while sampling the sweet, red bounty on the property, our faces puckered when we reached the sour tree that borders our neighbor’s cow pasture.
Our 3 acres had once been a part of a homestead and a dairy. In the sixties, someone had sold off the acreage and placed a mobile home among the fruit trees, old stable, and a milk cooling shed. Sometime afterward, they planted the sour cherry tree.
My older sister, younger brother, and I grew up in a neighborhood riding bicycles with friends. We weren’t used to the isolation of this new home. One afternoon, while sampling the sweet, red bounty on the property, our faces puckered when we reached the sour tree that borders our neighbor’s cow pasture.
“These cherries are for pies!’ My sister exclaimed. “Let’s make one!” She had all the good ideas back then.
We scrambled to the kitchen and pulled out the gingham covered cookbook to find a crust recipe. Then we hurried back outside with the yellow tupperware bowl, the one big enough to hold a family sized portion of popcorn on movie nights. All three of us knew how to bake from helping out in the kitchen previously. Our junior high Home Economics class did the rest.
We picked until juice dripped down our hands and arms making them sticky, eating one or two along the way despite the pucker. When we returned to the house with a full bowl, we ran into a snag. The cherries had to be pitted.
We tried multiple ways to take out the seeds, also known as kernels, but ended up crushing the cherries beyond recognition. This is a lot more work than we thought!
Then mom called us from work to check to make sure we had done our chores, and also to make sure we hadn’t burned down the place.
“We are making a cherrie pie but don’t know how to get the pits out!” We said.
“Use a bobby pin to scoop them out, " she suggested. “That’s how my aunt Hazel taught me.”
“Ok.”
"Use one of the new bobby points on the cardboard,” she added.
My brother and I got to work pitting the cherries, one at a time, while my sister rolled out the dough and measured the other ingredients.
It took all day to make that pie. We pulled it out of the oven about the same time my parents got home from work.
Over 30 years later, my head disappears into the branches, just me, the cherries and my memories. Mom picks cherries beside me. Dad feeds the chickens and then tends to the garden. The sun warms us all.
The mobile home is no longer there. Years ago, we tore it down with a sawzall, a dumpster, and chain attached to dad’s truck, building a small house in its place. Mom makes a cherry cobbler for after dinner. Dad goes to pick up his 94 year old mother, still living independently down the road. Grandma Z was fifteen years old when WW2 ended. She has already seen the world go mad once and has met others who witnessed the madness before her time as well.
The world may be going mad again, but I feel thankful, blessed to have this time with my family; recharged and ready for the week ahead, and whatever comes next.