The Cherry Tree

 The Cherry Tree

S.E. Killingworth

5.23.2023

Gifford had moved to Chandler, Oklahoma, out of the blue. It was 1977. I suppose he felt a stab of being left behind as all the children had grown, the older four children now off and married and in all parts of the world. 

The youngest two of Gifford’s six children left the panhandle also. Brother, also referred to as ‘Papa’s Baby Boy’ and ‘Teenie’ had flown the coop to Oklahoma State University (OSU). 

I (the youngest of the six) had also graduated high school and merged onto the superhighway of university life. I arrived at Southwestern Oklahoma State University (SWOSU), primarily because I had been awarded a music scholarship there. 

As the fall leaves arrived, both Wendell and I received a call to meetup with Gifford in Chandler at the old motor hotel. Our lives were incredibly busy! Neither of us necessarily wanted to go, given no information except the brief directive from our Dad, “Meet me there.”

Upon arrival, I was installed in a hotel room with the instructions, “Stay here.” No other explanation. I stayed and probably fumed again at being kept at bay from the iron-willed male world in which I existed. 

We later learned that Gifford was purchasing a sweet old house on about 1/3 of an acre right in the middle of town. If Gifford had hand-picked the place and ordered every detail, it couldn’t have been more perfect. 

The white clapboard home was surrounded by a sweet white picket fence, heralded by an extensive driveway, and full of established flora and fauna. 

An outer workshop proved to be splendid too, with its established wood-working table and even an indoor toilet. An extra room was possibly used for a bedroom or storage of some sort. 

Those were the best later years of Daddy’s life. He visited the coffee shop most mornings, chatting away with locals, enjoying his coffee and breakfast. The locals were so kind to him. They wanted to know about his day and his life. 

The tree:

As the next summer arrived at the quaint house in the middle of town, I went out to discover beautiful red cherries growing out on a tree in back of the house. I proceeded to go find a bucket, and pluck each gorgeous cherry off the tree. Surrounded by summer-emerged Daylily remnants, I would eat a cherry, enjoying every juicy morsel, then drop another cherry in the quickly filling old tin bucket. 

After spending some great nature time with the cherry tree, and basking in the task’s completion, I put the old rickety wooden ladder away, and carried the bucket to the kitchen. 

Dad asked, “What do you plan for the cherries, Sugar?” 

Without hesitation, I rinsed the cherries and began removing the delicate seed-pits in preparation for making something delectable. 

“I think I will prepare a cherry crumble, Daddy,” I answered in between thoughts. “Maybe we’ll eat it right out of the oven with some yummy vanilla ice cream,” I pleasingly offered. 

So, the pit removal proceeded. To my vast horror, I discovered a tiny worm in each and every cherry. I was aghast! How many worms had I consumed in the process of gathering all those cherries? 

I didn’t know whether to get physically sick or just move on with the process of removing both the cherry pits and the minuscule worms. Not being one to turn back once a project was in motion, I continued with the sorting process. 

Not that the cherry crumble was any less delicate and delightful, as my daddy scooped up every bite with no reserve, I just couldn’t bring myself to enjoy it very much. I think it was the “worms” that ruined it for me. 

All these fifty years later, Pistol Pete has given hours of time and much talent to the ever-important role as Pistol Pete Alumni. 

All these years later, the old but still sweet house in the middle of Chandler remains. The exterior has changed, the grounds remain somewhat the same. The park still exists across the drive where children emerge and play.

Maybe the old cherry tree remains as well. Possibly some young girl on the cusp of adulthood, grabs a rickety old ladder and climbs up to pluck juicy cherries. Maybe she tastes those fabulous red bites without remorse. Maybe she dreams a dream of making the world better even if she has to eat a few worms in the process. 

Copyright 2023 S.E. Killingworth. All rights reserved. No portion of this writing may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the author. Brief quotations are allowed in critical reviews or articles with appropriate reference notation.