melissa's blog

HEY ALISON, I HAVE MY MEMORY!

(Each year, the Carter's share a memory at Christmas time - and thanks to Ali's follow through, it has become quite a treasured collection. I'm afraid, however that I have not been very supportive in years past. This year I intend to be prepared. I am posting it here, 1. So I don't lose it- and 2. because it's a memory I want to keep remembering ).

My grandparents had a small cherry orchard. It sat at the east side of their home, hugging a small mountain. This was my playground. Where I played cops and robbers. Where my cousins and I fought over who would get to play Bossy Pepper's character when reenacting Annie. It was here I first learned about croquet. Where secret dares and exclusive clubs were formed.
My favorite place of solitude stood in this orchard. The tree nestled the house and if you were the daring type, it seemed you could climb up and hop onto the roof. But that's not why I liked it. It was my personal place-the perfect resting tree. The way the main trunk sloped, one my size could lean back against the smooth bark very comfortably and just hang out, eating cherries. While there, I would spend time woolgathering, gazing upward dreamily. The dark green leaves quivered, allowing small streaks of sunlight to kiss my face and occasionally warm the dark orchard ground.

Each visit to the tree, I would dare myself to climb up to the roof. I would pensively gauge my ability to climb, imagining the rewarding feeling of being on top of the neighborhood. Some days I got close. Once I even touched the gutter that lined the roof. Alas, my fear of heights (and my fear of being found out) won over and rather than go up, I would instead brave a daring jump from the branch on which I stood.

My cousins and I spent a lot of time running through those trees. It was always shady beneath the canopy of the orchard and so on the ground lay small patches of sparse, weak grass, spotted throughout the exposed hard soil. I can still feel the cool wet-packed dirt and smashed overripe cherries in between my toes releasing a sweet, earthy, primordial scent.

Adjacent to the orchard at the rear of the house, was a small, grassy slope lined by a vegetable garden. We children would chase, running through the trees and around the corner. Each hoped to be faster than their playmates in order to gain uninterrupted speed for the down slope roll. Vivid in my memory, are glimpses of my grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles picking and snapping fresh green beans and placing them into large colanders as we raced by. I remember the collection of the harvest. Buckets were everywhere, full of the black-crimson fruit, and some full of brightly colored vegetables. Tall, white, plastic buckets full to overflowing lined the back porch. These things I noticed in passing as I tucked my young body preparing to roll down grandma's hill.

My life has whizzed by, just like I used to- thankfully I have sweet memories, if only glimpses. Memories of abundance, flashes of family, colors deep and rich, smells that are sweet and sweaty and alive, trickles of sunlight which warmed my uplifted face and the fertile soil that cooled my bare feet, urging me to keep running fast toward the prize.