We lived during times when you could walk barefoot to the grocery store and not get sympathetic, curious, looks from folk. One could leave back doors, or even front doors, without fear and trepidation. The most that would happen is the kids next door would slip into the house and make themselves welcome to whatever food they could find. Dirty handprints on the counter top would be the evidence.
Our mother always acted as if she were totally stunned and perplexed with the goings on, just like mama bear in the story tale. Yet during an outing the door was always left open. Home made biscuits and grape jam would be conveniently left on top of the counter.
Our country backyard was a festoon of grape vines, strawberries and one sunflower that I could look up to. A tree bearing golden apples shadowed a small peach tree and I can’t forget the center of attention, the grand walnut tree. But the very best ever was the little cherry tree at the hillside.
Our brother, George perched himself on a limb in the cherry tree and tossed handfuls of cherries down to us.
“I got it, I got it.” I yelled. The plump fruit past by my opened hands and fell into Jean’s.
“Next one’s mine.” I said. We couldn’t get many into the bowel for the juicy ones all fell into our mouths. What went into the bowel would go into our mom’s special cherry cobbler. It was a special pie because some of our fair- feathered back yard friends seemed to have a huge craven for the cherries also. They were clever competitors and you had to get up awful early in the morning to beat them to the sweet red jewels.
“What time do you reckon the birds wake up?” Jean asked.
“Early.” I said. “We can beat them if we get up really early.”
Seven o’clock our bare feet met the cool linoleum floor. We were out the back door and over to the hillside, but to our surprise we were confronted with a bunch of barren branches. Only a few pecked over cherries were left. We stood, mouths held open wide in wonder.
“I don’t believe it.” Jean said.
“Those are some early birds.” I cried. “I guess God don’t have no lazy birds, huh.”
We would have to get up even earlier to beat them next time. Summer would be over soon and it would be the end of days for cherry cobblers.
The next morning Jean and I stood over George’s bed at 5 am.
“Wake up, lets go get the cherries.” We begged.
“It’s too early,” he yawned and turned over.
“No it’s not.” Jean pleaded. “The birds will beat us to them.”
“Can’t you just smell that juicy cobbler cook’n in the oven? Come on.” I urged.
Time was ticking and George wasn’t moving. One of us would just have to climb that tree ourselves.
“You can do it.” I gave Jean one last push and she was up on a limb. This time most of the cherries went into the bowel.
“The birds must be still asleep.” I said.
“And God don’t have no lazy people either.” Jean beamed sitting on her cherry limb.
When the bowel was full we ran back to the house with our treasure. At the end of the day the house was filled with the aroma of the last cherry cobbler for the summer.
Dear Ann, Welcome aboard!!!I enjoyed your cute story! It's funny how we remember the trees of our childhood, in a special way. I liked how you said,
"We couldn't get many into the bowl because the juicy ones fell into our mouths!"
I look forward to your next experience. Write on! God blessings are yours!