Cerridwyn Tiponi's Musings & Meanderings

            Growing up, my grandparents only lived several blocks from my house.  It was a relatively easy walk, so my mom would take us there quite often during the summer months.  My sister, Melanie and I would run all over Grandma’s yard playing with balls, hoola-hoops and jump ropes.  We would dart between the sheets which were hanging on the clothesline, billowing in the warm summer breezes.  When we would need to take a break, we would drop down on the swing with popsicles or lay at the base of one of the fruit trees in the yard.  Grandma’s yard had two cherry trees and a pear tree, all of which were at the back, close to the garage.  Mel, age 5, and I, age 6, were too small to reach up and pluck the juicy cherries from the tree.  They looked so delicious and red.  Rarely did we find any cherries on the ground.  Oftentimes, we would only find pits lying around the trees because the birds or squirrels would have gotten to them first.   Many times, Grandma would pick cherries for us.  Either Mel or I would hold the bowl while she would reach up into the low-lying branches to gather enough cherries for both of us.

            As much as we enjoyed the shade and the sweet fruit from the cherry trees, our favorite tree was the pear tree.  The way the tree had grown, it was a perfect tree to climb, even for a young child of 5 or 6.  The pears would have greenish gold skin when ripe.  Their white flesh would be slightly sweet and extremely juicy.  Biting into them, the juice would roll down our chins, making us sticky.  I would like to get up into the tree to snatch a couple of succulent pears for Mel and me, and then scamper back down before I could get scolded by Mom or Grandma.  Many times, Grandma would ask us to pick up and throw out the fallen pears from around the base of the tree.  These were pears the squirrels attempted to snatch, yet because they were too ripe would fall to the ground, forgotten.  Mel and I would pick up the pears, but instead of immediately throwing them in the trash, we would use them to draw all over the sidewalk.  We would make rainbows, suns, and stars.  We would write our names and numbers.  We would even draw out a hopscotch frame so we could play.  We would wile away the afternoon in Grandma’s yard; writing and drawing until we used up the last of the overripe pears.  Excited at what we had accomplished, we would call Mom and Grandma’s attention to our creations.  Grandma would chuckle at our creativity, while Mom would tell us what a good job we had done, yet, reminding us Grandpa would not be pleased when he would get home from work.  Oftentimes, Mel and I would still be drawing with pears when Grandpa would walk into the yard.  He would see what we had done and scold us for the mess we had made.  He would grumble as he pulled out the hose, washing the sidewalks down so the flies and the bugs wouldn’t swarm to the sweet pear juice.  After he finished cleaning the sidewalk, Grandpa would sit on the swing and motion to us to sit on his lap.  Obviously, he wasn’t really angry with us, since he would swing with us until his dinner was ready or Mom would take us home.