Tuesday, May 13, 2008


I bit into my childhood today. My first juicy cherry of the year and I found myself transported to the backyard cherry tree at my parent’s old house.

In the tree . . .

I remember gripping my toes against the long branch, teetering as I reached for the green orbs turning pink—unable to wait until the summer fruits reached their full maturity.

I remember twisting ‘round and ‘round in the swing hung from that same long branch. My hair got caught up and tangled in the twisted ropes. I screamed for help—really screamed—and soon saw Sister Fuja hurtling the back fence, frantic to save the life of a small child wailing for aid.

I remember climbing the tree with Tamara Snell, cherry hunting. Her squeal startled me when a bird dropped an ecological contribution in her hair.

I remember the tree house Dad and Stuart Gray built. A nail protruded from the ladder of that tree house and left it’s mark in Whitney’s thigh when she slipped down the ladder and caught her skin on the rusty protuberance.

(As a side note: I was talking with Caitlyn one day as she dressed my hair. “Remember when I fell out of the treehouse and cut my leg really bad?” I asked her. “That wasn’t you. It was Whitney.” “No, it was me.” “Do you have a six-inch scar on you thigh?” “Uh, no . . . Wow. I really thought it was me.” Turns out I really do think the world revolves around me, seeing as I remember other people’s memories as my own.)

As little ones, my sisters and I spit the pits, competing for distance. We believed that little cherry tress would one day spring from the spots where the seeds landed.

When I was in my car today, tasting that first cherry of 2008, I didn’t think tying to propel the pit as far as I was able was such a great idea—what if the pit hit the windshield and ricocheted into my eye and I became half blind?

But when I got home and out of the car, I went to the front yard and spit a pit as far as my little lungs would propel it.

Maybe we’ll have a cherry tree there one day. That'll really chap the HOA's hide.

1 comment:

Just Sue said...

I loved that cherry tree in your backyard. Is it still there? Maybe you can be like Johnny Appleseed. Maybe he spit out appleseeds. You can spit out cherry seeds all over the western U.S. and we can call you Megan Cherryseed. Oh, hello first grade teacher.