It was so long ago that it seemed like a dream but it wasn’t. It was a memory of the house I lived in until I was nine in Richmond Hill, Queens. Every house on “the block” had some sort of fruit tree, whether it was an apple tree, pear tree or peach tree. There were also grapevines and wild blackberries that grew in the abandoned lots all around the area.
Oh, I forgot to mention the one and only gigantic cherry tree that took root in a lady’s driveway next to her house. With all the other fruit trees around, the cherry tree was the piece de resistance. When I tell you, every kid on the block knew exactly when the cherries would be at their ripest and ready for picking. The taste of those cherries was like no others. The cherries were yellow and we all grew up thinking that yellow was the only color that cherries were.
Every summer, when the time was ready for picking the lady’s cherries, we all gathered in our friend’s yard next door. We would hang around, play, and pass the time waiting for the lady to leave her house. Suddenly, there it was the sound of the start of her engine and off she would go to run some errands or visit a friend. As soon as she was gone, we would run to her cherry tree like a swarm of bees buzzing around some honey comb. Some of the bigger and taller kids would climb up the tree and throw some branches down below with tons of cherries on them. The smaller kids would reach on their tippy toes and pluck the cherries off the branches one by one. We were always careful to finish picking before the lady returned to her house.
We had it down to a science until one day the lady drove away, and we took our positions around and up the cherry tree, started picking and eating cherries when we hear the sound of her motor coming right back to the house like a boomerang! “She tricked us,” said one of the older boys. “She only went around the block,” said one of the girls. The smaller kids stationed under the tree just kept chanting, “Old lady, oh, oh,” over and over again. There was no time to run, escape, or hide. We had been caught red-handed. Well, you could have said yellow handed.
The old lady organized a meeting with all the parents and told them what we had been doing to her cherry tree. She stated in a loud voice, threatening voice, “I do not want even one of you little stealers to go anywhere near my cherry tree. If you dare to, the next car coming around the block will be a cop car.” Many parents could be heard mumbling under their breaths, “She doesn’t eat even one of the cherries from that tree. What a waste!”
The taste of those cherries with the juice running down my chin I shall never forget. It is one of my fondest childhood memories. The wrath of that old spinster with her silly putty formed face protecting her tree I, too, shall never forget.
Years later, while shopping in the supermarket, I saw both red and yellow cherries being sold. I always thought cherries were only yellow based upon my experience with the old lady’s cherry tree. Being curious, I researched some information about cherries, specifically yellow ones. I found out that yellow cherries are called Rainer and are considered a premium cherry. The top producer is Washington State and the old lady with the yellow cherry tree in her driveway. Rainer cherries were being sold at $6.99 per pound. The old ladies were free but never again within reach to anyone.
Thinking back, I am almost 100% certain that if I drive down the street where that yellow cherry tree was, it will still be standing tall and proud in the driveway, however, sad because no one ever comes to pluck her yellow gems.
Ellen
June 2024
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