“Life is a bowl of cherries.”

Once again, it’s cherry-picking time in Kansas.

Every June, the “pie cherries,” as we call them, are red, ripe and ready to pick. And pit. And make pies with. And/or freeze, but especially to enjoy.

Gail, Suzanne and I, like most people, love a good cherry pie, cherry crisp, cherry cobbler or any other baked cherry treat. However, we haven’t always enjoyed the process it takes to get there.

On the farm, we had two cherry trees. We each have our own memories about cherry-picking time, perhaps not altogether good ones. I recall Mom calling us at an ungodly early hour of the morning in June–7 a.m. is ungodly when you are a kid on summer break–to get up and pick cherries. I remember groaning, half asleep, “No, Mom…we can do it later.” To which she would reply, “No, it will be too hot later. We need to do it now.“

Suzanne agreed that, at about eight years of age, this seemed ridiculous. She sees the logic now. So do I. I’m pretty sure that Gail, with her work ethic already in place likely at birth, never questioned Mom’s logic.

Gail remembers getting up at 6 a.m. She may–or may not–have embellished her memory of the time, but perhaps Mom got her up earlier than us. You know, because she was older…or maybe because she stayed out too late the night before and was being punished…not sure.

Suzanne recalled a couple from town appearing early in the morning to pick cherries. Perhaps they had permission, but we didn’t care because that meant less for us to pick.

I remember climbing the trees to pick cherries. Now, I still love a good tree climb at almost 60, but our tree does not lend itself to climbing. The cherries were too far out on the branches.

As much as I loathed the job as a kid, I couldn’t wait to have my own cherry tree in my own backyard to pick my own cherries. My arborist husband planted one about 15 years ago, and it produced within three years. This year, however, the bumper crop is the biggest one yet.

If you know him, then you know he is the king of improvising/inventing solutions/MacGuyvering. He uses the paint bucket on his ladder to collect the cherries. This hands-free method makes it much easier.

Picking cherries is sometimes a neighborhood event. My neighbor brought her daughter, Eva, down this morning to pick cherries. She was mostly interested in climbing the ladder and feeling the cherries, but both are rich learning and sensory experiences.

Aside from an outing with a friend and writing this post, my day has consisted mostly of pitting cherries. I have enough for three pies in the freezer, with more added to the large red tub above to pit, hopefully before the day is out. A dear friend gave me a cherry pitter a few years ago as a gift, but I find joy in the old fashioned way: one at a time with a paring knife. And, sitting on the front porch instead of standing at the kitchen sink seems to add to the joy.

Funny how those tasks we dreaded as kids now bring joy. When we were at home and there was no choice, it wasn’t so much fun. Now, as Gail and Suzanne recall, too, I’m still getting cherry stains on my shirt and my hands are sticky. However, it is now a nostalgic event for me.

I invited Gail and Suzanne out to pick cherries as well, but so far, no response. If you live near me, please feel free to come and pick cherries. Just be sure to bring a ladder taller than the one in the picture, because we will likely have picked to that point. Perhaps a real, mechanical cherry-picker–also known as a boom lift, according to my husband–would do the job. That’s likely how it got its name.

I made a cherry crisp after yesterday’s harvest. It wasn’t as crispy as I’d hoped, but apparently my family thought it was tasty. It was easier than a pie; those will come later.

The phrase, Life is a bowl of cherries originated in 1931 in a song by the same name, sung by Ethel Merman and Ray Henderson. It is often used in reverse, in a sarcastic tone to suggest that perhaps life can be tough sometimes. Or, as one of Mom’s favorite artists, Mary Engelbreit illustrated, sometimes Life is just a chair of bowlies.

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May your life be a bowl of cherries. And if you show up in my backyard tomorrow morning at 6–or 7, if you are like Gail–with a tall ladder or a cherry picker, I will welcome you to all the cherries you wish to pick. And then you, too, can enjoy the glory of pitting them all day.