But, this is a story about cherries, which always whisks me to the side of my Grandpa, Lee Barrett Johnson, called L.B. by most, Barrett by my grandmother and daddy by my mother. Like all my grandparents, he was a country child and with that came both the intelligence to comprehend the universe and the ingenuity to do whatever he sat his mind to: build a house from the ground up, grow cotton in West Texas, memorize one million poems by heart, tell a story like no other, teach you to fish and a thousand other little things, big things, things known and unknown. Being with him was being right where you were supposed to be all of the time. He might take you out in his little brown car to go fishing, but you would also catch turtles and use a pocket knife to carve your initials into the softy underbelly of the shell like he had done as a boy and his father before him. Perhaps he would take you out to the shop and you would make little tops out of discarded wooden spools from Grandma's sewing room to be colored and decorated with markers. Or maybe he would just sit and play the guitar by the fire at night and sing song after song after song while rocking in his chair.
One summer, I think we were all there at my grandparent's home. By all, I mean my aunts and uncles and my parents and my little brother and my three girls cousins and four boy cousins. But in my head, when I say we were all there, I mean all five hundred ninety-two of my cousins plus my little brother and me which is how it seems in memory, all of us going this direction and that direction and every which way we could. I will tell you it was July 4, but someone else will remember it was a different holiday, a different reason to all be gathered from the corners of the country to my grandparent's home. At some point driving hither and thither the week before, Grandpa had spotted a cherry tree, heavy with fruit along the side of the road and it had planted a seed in his mind, an idea that was unspoken, yet growing into something larger. At some surprising moment, the seed bore fruit and he said to me, my little brother and my cousins, "We're going to go pick cherries," an announcement that brought cheers from my five hundred ninety-two cousins plus my little brother and me, because we were always up for a new game or diversion or adventure. All five hundred ninety-four of us piled into the little brown car and as we sped up the hill away from the house, a giant bug hit the window and Grandpa said dryly, "I bet he doesn't have the guts to do that again," followed by the riotous laughter of the cousins who always thought it was funny no matter how many times we heard it. "I bet he doesn't have the guts to do that again," we cackled and laughed in response.
When we got to the tree, it was in the yard of a big black woman--the biggest woman I had ever seen in my life--who sat on the porch in the shade drinking a big glass of iced tea. Her three hundred seventy-two children or grandchildren or nieces or nephews were running around the yard and all five hundred ninety-two of my cousin plus my little brother and me were instantly running around the yard as well, sucked into some instantly invented game without rules or winning or ending. While this continued, my grandfather visited with the woman on the porch. He was a gentleman who treated everyone with respect. He wore a hat to church on Sunday and also when he and my grandmother would travel to see our widespread family whether by car or bus or plane. I say this, because he was thoughtful and I'm sure he offered the woman something for her cherries. It may have been money, but I imagine that it was probably something better than money, a favor or fix of something at her home. Probably something this very large woman couldn't do by on her own because she was simply too big to move from that chair and it was all she could do to sit there in that chair on that porch and sip iced tea. A bargain was reach and the cherries were picked and the game without ending was ended and all five hundred ninety-four of us piled back into the little brown car, returning to my grandparents home where we were instantly distracted by the expansive yard or the long swing in the black walnut tree or the fireflies in the distance.
While we were distracted, magic was happening inside the house. My Grandmother, Ruth Barbara Pierson Johnson, was from a family of women with powers that were not known to the just anyone. Whether they got them through blood or learning, no one ever knew, but they could do certain things--things that would help you or heal you or hide you. All manner of unknown magical things. And Ruth, as my grandfather called her, worked her quiet magic in the kitchen while all five hundred ninety-four of us yelled and ran and played and swung and screamed in the yard, unaware of what was happening inside. Suddenly, the magic was moved to the large screened in backporch, with its green carpet and white plastic Parson tables and metal chairs and shells and wind chimes, and all five hundred ninety-four of could just feel it and were instantly drawn from the yard and our games and the dusk quietly settling. Ice was packed into a ice cream churner, salt was added and something was poured into the freezer container of an old-fashioned hand crank ice cream machine. Grandpa churned the ice cream and then each one of my five hundred ninety-two cousins and my little brother and me had their turn at cranking. But despite the magic, it still wasn't frozen, so grandpa took over again. He seemed so very ancient to us with his balding head and wrinkly face, but he was still so very strong. He had held up a horse by its front legs--there was a photograph in his office to prove it. He had built a house from the ground up--there were memories and stories of the house to prove it. He had moved a wife and a family halfway across the country and created a life out of nothing in the desert--there were grown children and their spouses and five hundred ninety-four cousins to prove it. Surely he could churn this ice cream and so of course he did just that. And when it was finished and the paddle was lifted from the container, the result of the magic was revealed: a cool, creamy ice cream studded with those cherries from the tree we had picked that afternoon rendered even more delicious by my grandmother's secret work in the kitchen.
There was plenty of ice cream in that container for all five hundred ninety two of my cousins plus my little brother and me to have giant bowls of cherry ice cream and seconds and then thirds. Our parents looked on approvingly--because it was summer and we had picked the cherries and we were at our grandparents's home so they knew they could not deny us second or even thirds. When I see cherries in the market, I think of that magical moment of togetherness, my grandfather and that night on the porch when we ate the best cherry ice cream ever conjured. Whatever recipe there was is gone and probably never existed, but it doesn't matter as the flavor was so much more than just cherry and sugar and vanilla and cream. Even with all of the ingredients and steps and the magic, it could never be duplicated, but the power of gathering and flavor memory remains.
