This morning I went to an orchard and picked several pounds of tart cherries. This is a family tradition that I carry out most years; the orchard I visit is the same one we used to go to as kids with Mom and Dad. Spicers Orchards has dwarf trees and no ladders; it was the perfect playground for four rambunctious kids. And we picked a lot of cherries too!

Many years when I go there I feel somewhat sad because I don’t have any of my family there with me anymore. Sometimes I would catch myself looking for my parents among the trees laden with fruit. Sometimes I’d just tear up at memories. But today there were fewer young families, and English was not the predominent language I heard, so I found myself remembering less and enjoying a beautiful day in the beautiful orchard. I did see an older couple that reminded me of my parents, and instead of feeling sad I just smiled at the familiarity of it.

As the morning moved into afternoon more families arrived and I heard bits and pieces of conversations that made me laugh. “I found one, I found one!” screamed one little girl as she carefully placed one cherry in the bottom of her bucket, crouched among trees heavy with fruit. “I have to go potty!” called another child. His father replied “You should have gone while we were up at the store, you’ll have to wait.” Right I thought, THAT won’t last long. Soon…”I’m taking Anthony to the potty.” called a young mother. “Get down from that tree!” “Just a little bit longer, we’ll go soon.” “Stop hitting your sister.” It all sounded so familiar.

The orchard is getting more commercial now, with rides out to the strawberry patches on trailers pulled by tractors, and employees walking through the orchard to see if we were doing alright. The young man in the Spicer shirt and straw hat that stopped to check on me asked if I had any questions about the orchard. I replied I didn’t think so, I’d been coming here since I was six. He looked at me for a moment and then said “That’s a really long time.” I smiled and said yes it was, and he wandered off.

After I filled my bucket I wandered back up to the store to pay, stopping to watch the automatic pitting machine that has been there as far back as I can remember.

Then I took the back roads home, like I usually do, enjoying the farm country, the horses in their pastures, the fields of corn that are “knee high by the fourth of July” this year. As I was enjoying the scenery I noticed a young girl by the side of the road with a sign for lemonade. I remembered doing the same thing at her age, and how no one ever stopped. I contemplated that for a couple more miles, and then took the next road to the right and went around the big country block, heading back to buy some “ICE COLD LEMONADE” from her. I’m glad I did, because I came across this field of wheat, browning in the July sun. It was so spectatcular that I had to stop and take a picture.

As for the lemonade? Well, it wasn’t ice cold, and it was a bit watered down. But it was the best lemonade I’ve had in a really long time. Her smile as I paid my 50 cents confirmed it.