A few weeks ago, I put my name on the call list for sweet cherries at our local orchard. And then, bit by bit, the sour cherries from our own trees started ripening. My older daughter picked them every couple days and I spent hours in the kitchen pitting the (occasionally) wormy bits of sour. We ended up squirreling away a fair amount. Not a lot, but enough, probably. Maybe we didn’t need to bother with sweet cherries after all? 

But then mid morning on Saturday, we got the call from the orchard: The cherries are ready. Come any time. So we dutifully grabbed containers—not too many so I wouldn’t be tempted to overdo it—and zipped over the back roads to the orchard.

The farmer greeted us. “Want to jump on that picker and I’ll lift you up into the tree?”

We hopped on and up up up we went, the branches, heavy with cherries, hitting us in the face and legs.

The cherries were enormous and perfect and juicy. For nearly 30 minutes, we picked without ever moving from that spot, only stopping when every single container was full.

At one point my son, who, in his cherry-picking enthusiasm, chattered non-stop, shouted, “I got a clunch!” and we burst out laughing. A clunch, we decided, was the wordchild of cluster and bunch. 

Back home, my husband and older daughter pitted away the rest of the afternoon while I scurried around filling jars (7 quarts) and freezer boxes (9 quarts), and making a sweet cherry pie and a batch of roasted cherry vanilla and chocolate ice cream.

Yummy, yum-yum.

(And hip-hip-hip,
Because now we’re all done.)

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (6.20.16), walking through water, refried beans, orange cranberry scones, sour cherry crostatas.

This same time, years previous: smart hostessing, sinking in, dobby and luna, magic custard cake, the quotidian (6.19.12), Kate’s enchiladas, cabbage apple slaw with buttered pecans, freezing spinach.

Yesterday afternoon I got an email from my brother alerting me to an impromptu concert at the local university that evening. Peter Yarrow, of Peter, Paul, and Mary fame, was on the board of an organization that happened to be meeting at the university and would be giving a free concert that evening.

I grew up listening to Peter, Paul, and Mary records. I’ve Got a Hammer, The Great Mandala, Light One Candle, Blowin’ in the Wind, Lemon Tree, Day Is Done, and of course, Puff The Magic Dragon—these were the songs of my childhood. Plus, one of our records, Peter, Paul, and Mary In Concert, had PaulTalk. Our old-fashioned version of books-on-tape, I listened to that record over and over. 

And then last night, an elfin Peter, his shiny bald head ringed with white, walked up to the mic and started singing This Little Light of Mine. For the next hour (or was it two?) he sang new songs and old, interspersed with winding stories about his work, bringing together Democrats and Republicans. It’s a fabricated divide, he said, and so he travels around the country, getting people from opposite sides to talk, and sing, together. When we sing, he said, our masks come down and our emotions rise to the surface, and that is what keeps him going.

When it was time for Puff, The Magic Dragon, Peter invited anyone, but especially children, who wanted to sing with him to come to the front. And my younger son went.

Partway through the song, Peter had us sing the chorus on repeat while he took turns holding the mic in front of different people. The mic thrust in front of his face, my boy sang his little heart out.

And that’s how it came to be that my son had his very first solo with Peter, of Peter, Paul, and Mary, imagine that.

Afterwards, Peter signed my son’s cast—Peter Yarrow, Peace and Love (I guess we’ll have to ask the cast-removal technician to cut out that little square, for posterity’s sake)—and kissed and hugged all of us in turn.

‘Twas a puff of magic, that evening.

PS. As you can tell from all the photo credits, I left my camera at home that evening, GAH. Thankfully, a bunch of friends came to our rescue, sending me even more photos than I could use here.

This same time, years previous: language study, a dare, when I sat down, naps and mowers, old-fashioned vanilla ice cream.