The cherry itself is a drupe. In other words, it is a fruit that contains a single shell that surrounds and protects seeds. However, the fruit does not split like an dehiscent-type fruit or pod in order to release the seeds within when it is ripe. The cherry rather continues to contain the seed inside of it past ripeness and ultimately when the fruit becomes heavier, it falls to the ground and decomposes then will the seed impregnate the earth and if given the chance, will sprout in the spring to continue the cycle it has been naturally selected to pursue. This is unless a bird or some mammal such as a hungry squirrel gets a hold of the delicious fleshy outside of the cherry only to leave the pit to start the cycle earlier. If the seed is lucky enough to take sustenance from the ground it has become a part of and bloom, the new tree from the beginning of it's life to the end requires time every year to remain dormant such as the frigidness of winter in most regions of the United States of America. Northern Idaho has such a climate and we had a pair of cherry trees on the east side of my childhood home in Bonners Ferry. The southern tree was the more hearty of the two, growing at least six or seven feet taller than the other, with more pronounced limbs and a solid trunk. The more northern tree was the runt. The trees were planted around the same time to bear their fruits every year for one of the families that lived in the house before we moved into it. Yet, the northern tree was wicked. It had gnarled limbs that twisted and twirled randomly around the unhealthy looking trunk with cracked bark and diseased-born discoloration. It only produced about half of the amount of cherries as the other tree and it was not as frequented by us kids during the early summer nights. These two trees provided a much needed shade to the eastern side of the house as the sun rose up in the hot late spring and throughout the summer for my parent's rooms that resided on the eastern side of the upper floor of the house. My parents did not sleep in separate rooms their whole lives. They slept together in the same room on the same old bed they had for years next to an old blue-lit clock radio my father had since his college days, a set of two mahogany dressers, an air conditioner in the window, and a large chest at the foot of the bed. However, when my father started dialysis at home for his failing organs, with a set up consisting of a tall IV pole on wheels which held his dextrose solution bags and the low hum of the small machine that drained him and cleansed him and replenished him, he had moved to the other room across the hall on the southeast corner of the house that use to be my childhood room. The trees helped to keep them cooler during the morning and afternoon, and they gave my father something to look at above his desk, whether small pink and white blossoms or bright red cherries or leafless dead limbs that hung lower when topped by inches of snow, while he balanced his checkbook or filed his taxes or just looked out the window while going through his process.

In early summer, the cherries would ripen into large, succulent red morsels that not only tasted delicious but also provided to me the activity of spitting out cherry pits. I spent a lot of the hot months of my childhood up in the southernmost cherry tree, which flourished with bundles of cherries with their two stems extending from a thin pliable branch that hung lower each day as the fruit ripened more and the flesh became heavier, bare foot and shirtless. In this tree I could nearly reach the top, which held the juiciest and more flavorful cherries in my opinion. I spent hours in these trees. When I would come down from the top, slowly lowering myself from branch to branch to make sure I didn't tumble down, my hands and face would be stained red and quite sticky. It was not because I was a sloppy eater per se but when I was up high in the tree, I always found myself eating as many as I could as fast as I could and spit as many pits out as I could swearing that one day I would hit the road from up there. It was a tireless goal as there was a large pine-like bush that sat between the road and the cherry tree that I would have to make it over as well but if I ever did, the satisfaction of the clicking sound that the pit would inevitably cause when it would hit the pavement would be worth the effort. However, each time I would come down from that tree, I would come back inside the house empty handed. This did not please my parents nor my sister who lived with us at the time. I spent all that time up in the tree eating cherries and didn't bring any back inside in a bowl for them to enjoy as well.

In the mid to late summer, the fruit fell from the tree onto the lawn below. In my early days, my father made sure that I knew it was imperative that I go out there with a black plastic lawn waste bag and pick each and every rotten piece of fruit off of the lawn. Was this because I was seen as self-centered as I never brought in cherries for the rest of the family and only hoarded them for myself? Or was it just another endless chore for me to do? I never understood early on why I was to clean this natural fruit from the ground as it would deteriorate and return to the earth again making the land more fertile and allowing for more plants to grow and flourish. Think of what the grass would look like! But no, it was an aesthetic issue for my father. When he was still able-bodied, the yard was watered and trimmed, the grass was mostly green and his garden was idyllic. He was not the most anal about his yard, especially compared to many in our neighborhood, but he still liked it to look a certain way. Furthermore, he, as the rest of us, was not a big fan of the large yellow jacket population that enjoyed the dark maroon fallen cherries as much as I enjoyed them when they were the crisp reds that laid in wait for me high above in the trees earlier in the year. However, the chore changed and the cherries began to remain on the ground once we found out about my hefty allergic reaction to bee and hornet stings that would close up my airways tight within a half hour from injection and that would have me carrying an epinephrine pen for the rest of my life. I no longer had to pick up rotten cherries from the ground, but at this time, there was no one in the household who was able to bend over and pick up the yard. But every year, the cherries blossomed and produced again but were picked less and less as time went on. More and more cherries would meet the ground. You, your mother and I were just visiting Bonners Ferry last weekend where we saw your grandmother at the old empty house as she was moving out, and the cherries were in full bloom and perfectly red ripe. But I did not walk over and pick a single cherry off the tree to eat. I just watched the breeze move through the leaves as they opened holes to the sky behind where the morning sun would shine through for a moment.