Cherries are part of me, there is no other way to put it. I am sure I have them in my DNA. Summers back home came with lots of the red plump fruit everywhere, but nowhere could compare to my grandfather’s place. When I would go to visit, the first thing I ask is “which one is mine?” and look around the garden. He had a beautiful and very fruitful garden that seemed to wait just for me to come and enjoy. In reality Grandpa would pick a lot of it and sell at the local market. But every summer he would save me a cherry tree. All for me.
“That one, there” – he would smile and point. I get all mushy thinking about it now, and all the time I have spent on those trees, eating and eating and eating, til my fingers and mouth are bloody red, only to return the next day for more.
He used to always tell me the story of when I was little and a bit sick, he brought a whole box of cherries to the city, and how I sat there, shaking with weakness, but not stopping to even spit the pits. And he would show me, all the while smiling proudly, because he was my cherry connection …my cherry-giving life force.
And always will be.
Here cherries are never as good as his, but they still bring pleasure to my own kids. And any fruit that makes a lot of mess and leaves color messages on their body receives the mark of approval.
The Dod was not happy that we told him he cant just bite a bit off each cherry..
So there were a lot of volunteers who kept a steady supply of freshly pitted fruit coming to him from then on.
The girls were trying to improve on their technique of cherry eating. I was called on at one point to show them how its done, because “she is the Queen”, as Miss Fab said. I wowed them with my speed of light ability to pop a fruit in my mouth and spit the pit within a split second.
I have done a lot of training.
On many trees.
I miss you, Grandpa,
my cherry-giving life force.