Mom wrote this poem, called simply Cherries, when her granddaughter Lucy was just a few months old.

It may be that this cute little outfit inspired her.

Cherries

Lucy’s little yellow dress is cherried

Take her to the hammock under cherry trees
and in the early evening wrap her
in the childhood cherry spread
remembering another evening
when we rode a ferris wheel
after a day of cherry picking

Grandchildren and sister loved the cherries
sent for summer birthdays
and from a country market
we wooed each other
with a paper bag of them
spitting the pits into the picnic meadow

Imagining the orchard to show Lucy

~ joan vayo, July 27, 2001

My brother Bill, Lucy’s dad, remembers making a Finnish Cherry Pie with Dad years ago. Bill recalls the recipe was from the New York Times cooking section.

When I asked Dad if he remembered baking the pie with Bill, he launched into one of his old favorites:

“Can she bake a cherry pie, Billy Boy, Bill Boy? Can she bake a cherry pie, charming Billy?”

Here’s a folk version if you’d like to listen:

Dad’s next recollection about that pie: “We still have the machine – oh, it’s a miserable thing to use!”

That “machine” is a cherry pitter. As often as I’ve been in my parents’ kitchens over the years, I can’t picture it. So it may be an antique like this tortuous-looking gizmo:

… or it could be a more modern version, like this:

Dad fondly remembers the cherry tree behind Mom’s childhood home in New Haven. It was in the backyard, over by the house where her neighbor Skippy lived in later years.

Grandma Cassidy, in her pen-pal letters to me in the 1960s, would mention how Skippy would come over and mow the lawn for her. I always pictured a freckle-faced teen doing the yard work. Imagine my surprise when I found out that Skippy was in his 70s at the time!

Dad remembers picking juicy ripe cherries with Mom when they were teenagers. They were delicious, but: “Boy, did they stain!”

Mom’s sister, Bunny, says Grandma nicknamed their cherry tree the “popcorn tree.” Grandma wasn’t much for making pies, though. She preferred to bake cakes and cookies. Her mom, Gram Regan, was the pie maker in the family.

I asked Farmer Gary if his family ever grew cherries. Corn, wheat, soybeans, but no cherries. He recalls a cherry tree in his aunt Hilda’s yard, though. His mom was close with her sister and would pack up the kids for a visit most weeks. The cousins were invited to pick the cherries for an afternoon snack. The pits, though, were nearly as large as cherries themselves.

“Too much work for too little eatin’.” Gary’s a practical eater.

Our son Tom took a liking to fresh cherries as he headed to college. For a year or two, we’d make a point to send him off to Terre Haute with a bagful when cherries were in season. Knowing he’d snack on them while driving the back roads, flinging the pits out the window, we wondered if he’d become a modern-day Johnny Appleseed.

Although I asked around to see if there were any cherry recipes in the family, none have surfaced yet. But here’s a cobbler recipe from Linda Dilger, the wonderful lady who provided outstanding childcare for our three boys over the years.

Grandma Schaefer’s Fruit Cobbler

Batter: 1 cup sugar, 1 cup flour, 2 teaspoons baking powder, 1/4 teaspoon salt. Stir in 1/2 cup of milk, 1/2 teaspoon vanilla, and 1 tablespoon melted butter.
Spread batter in buttered baking dish.
Scatter 1 cup berries (or other fruit) over batter. Sprinkle 1/2 cup sugar over top (plus cinnamon to taste), then pour 3/4 cup boiling water over all.
Bake at 375 for 25-30 minutes.

The “childhood cherry spread” Mom mentions in her poem is rather threadbare now. But like her poems, it continues to offer comfort and sweet memories.

“Cherries” © 2001 Joan Vayo. All rights reserved.

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