Cherry picking is a long standing tradition in my family.

As far back as I can remember the six of us would drive to an orchard and pick tart pie cherries, buckets and buckets of them, then schlep them all home and sit around the kitchen table pitting them and measuring them into freezer bags for future pies.

Now that I’m the only one still living in Michigan it’s mostly my job to go get the family cherries. It’s not a bad job. Last weekend the weather was perfect and I went out early Sunday morning to the orchard we used to visit as a family more than fifty years ago.

Lots has changed since then. What was once a simple fruit orchard now has a gift store and a winery and farm animals and a wagon ride out to the picking locations.

For many years when I’d visit I’d consciously look for families that looked like mine. Sometimes I’d see someone that looked like my dad, or like the four little blond kids that used to fill their buckets with the shiny red fruit.

Sunday I was there pretty early and the picking was outstanding. I was able to pick fourteen pounds in less than an hour, so I was back in my car before things got really busy.

But I got to watch a few families as they picked. One little boy kept exclaiming how beautiful the cherries were. (He was right.)

Another child was focused on finding the perfect tree. And another child in a different family was having deep conversations about tractors and cars with his dad, all the time picking away.

These are adventures they’ll remember forever. And maybe someday when they’re senior citizens they’ll pick cherries in this orchard and watch a new crop of families and smile just like I did.