When we first moved into our house, we immediately ripped out the red azalea bushes that had been installed in front of every house by the developer. While I like azaleas, that color of red did not appeal to me -- probably because all the azaleas in the whole neighborhood were the same.
We were lucky to have a community landscape designer in our midst. Darryl had designed the landscaping for all of Blueberry Hill, along with our neighbor Mary Harlow who devoted herself to the project. Together they chose all the bushes and trees that are now many times bushier and so much taller, all along the greenway and through the neighborhood, buffering and beautifying.
The tree that I chose first was a sour cherry. In fact we got two, plus a weeping cherry, and Darryl planted them in a row between the side of our house and the parking lot. For years they were small and we counted the cherries in the single digits, it seemed. I made one little dessert out of the entire crop, year after year.
Today the larger sour cherry tree is about 15 feet tall and has an explosion of fruit from top to bottom. The cherries are just beginning to turn red now and in a week or so they will be deep purple red and ready to pick. We will only be able to reach about half of them and the birds will get the rest.
Why did I want a sour cherry tree? For the cherries (which don't need any spraying or maintenance). But mostly because it reminds me of my grandmother, Carolyn Jones Newcomb. She had a single cherry tree on the edge of her front yard, where it was sunniest, just far enough away from all the oak trees. Every May she did battle with the birds. When she saw them eating her ripening cherries, she ran outside with two pie pans and banged them together. It was futile, but she couldn't let the birds poke holes in all the fruit without giving them some trouble.
I do the same thing with all kinds of wildlife. I will not allow Canada geese to relax in our fields, even if there is a protective coating of snow. I will get out of the car on my way home from yoga, still soaking wet, and stomp through the snow roaring at the geese until they reluctantly take off. If there is a deer inside the fence, I will chase it until it finally finds the exit (and this is the practice on this farm -- no deer goes unhounded). People ask me if I think the animals can learn anything from the experience. I doubt it, but that doesn't stop me from trying to teach them through regular harassment.
My grandmother's dear friend Catherine Moutoux lived next door at the orchard and she had two sour cherry trees outside her house. I am guessing the same person (her husband) planted the trees for both of these women. When Mrs. Moutoux's trees were loaded with fruit, she would invite us to come and pick. We would climb into the tree and pick, hands sticky and red, filling buckets and bowls. We gave her half of what we picked. She was a terrific baker and made juicy, oozing pies. No one has ever made a better peach pie in the 40 years since we were the lucky ones who lived the closest.
Right against our house, just a few feet from the cherry tree, are some daffodils that were in my grandmother's yard, along a fence line that ended at her cherry tree. Before her house was torn down, I went over with Jim and we dug up some clumps of bulbs. I am happy every spring, seeing those flowers poking up, a regular hello from Grandma. She wasn't much more of a gardener than I am -- neither one of us made flower beds a priority -- but we both loved daffodils, and luckily they do everything for themselves.
Jon and I don't seem to be inclined to have memorabilia around our house, but this cherry tree is a memento that makes me smile year round. It is so healthy and strong, the blossoms look like popcorn in April, and soon we will be scraping our shins and elbows trying to get into the top branches so we can get enough cherries to freeze. When the girls come home, they can make a tart, tasty pie for us. Our job is to fill the freezer with fruit, theirs is to come home and keep the pie tradition alive.
Grandma and Mrs. Moutoux would be glad that we remember them, every time we eat a ripe sour cherry and every time someone makes a great peach pie.
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