Page 10 - Italian American Herald - September 2021

10 ITALIANAMERICANHERALD.COM | SEPTEMBER2021 ITALIAN-AMERICANHERALD REFLECTIONS
In a flash of lightning, an old cherry tree finds new purpose
By Rick DiLiberto
I planted the cherry tree in our side yard 35 years ago, when our first of three daughters was born. Had I known how lushly and
quickly it would grow (with proper pruning and fertilizing), I would have planted it farther away from our house. Now, it stood about 30 feet tall, with thick, strong limbs, and prolifically produced plump, sweet cherries every summer.
The limbs and branches gloriously sprawled out from the trunk symmetrically on all sides, and those closest to our house enveloped our master bedroom window. The branches and leaves would pleasantly brush against the window with morning breezes, gently waking us. Our children’s well-worn wooden swing, with now-rusty chains and chipped red paint, hung from one of the thick lower boughs, but no children ever sat on it anymore. It just creaked mournfully in the wind.
Our three daughters were now grown women: educated, working, married ... and gone. My wife and I were experiencing what I think they call empty-nest syndrome. My wife had been encouraging me to take down the swing for a few years now, but I avoided the suggestion repeatedly.
When I look at that cherry tree, my
mind rewinds to the days when the girls were small. We had a little family contest every March, to see which of us would be
the first to spot a robin red breast. Usually, the first robin would appear in the cherry tree, happily chirping about spring’s arrival.
If I saw the robin first, I would not admit it. Rather, I would stealthily lead the girls over to the tree, trying not to frighten the bird, until they would notice and point to it with stiff arms, happy hops and gleeful laughs. The contest usually ended in a three-way tie.
We looked forward to the tree’s glorious pink, aromatic cherry blossoms bursting to life every April. The blossoms clung to the branches for only about two weeks before gently floating to the lawn, and coating
the grass in a pink hue. They seemed to illustrate life’s fragility, and its untimely, unfair transition from glory to grave.
Our young daughters would join us in the tree’s shade each summer, and we would all feast on the abundant fruit. We picked so many of the juicy orbs that we made cherry turnovers, cherry and cherry pies on the weekends. There were plenty of cherries
left to eat while sitting on the porch under moonlit summer skies, listening to Phillies baseball on a transistor radio. Each year, as the girls grew taller, so did the tree.
Beneath the tree, I told them about George Washington and his father’s cherry tree. The legend related how our first
president received a hatchet as a gift at age 6 and promptly chopped his father’s cherry tree. When his father asked him about the damage, he candidly admitted, “I cannot tell a lie.” His father warmly embraced him and forgave him. I hoped my daughters understood, through the fable, that I would do so, too, throughout their lives, for much more serious mistakes.
As soon as they were old enough to hold onto the chains, they took innumerable turns on that swing. “Dad, push me on the swing!” they would exhort, when I arrived home from the office. That simple device gave us so much time to talk, laugh and just enjoy life, with nothing except simple potential energy and kinetic energy to entertain them. I can still see the anticipation in their faces when
I would pull them back on the swing, then the sheer joy as I let go and they propelled forward. They knew no matter how high they swung, when they retracted back toward me, I would be there to give another push, repeatedly. They did not need to look back to know their dad would always be there.
When they were toddlers, we sang silly songs as they swung, making up nonsense words to rhyme. When they were teens, we sang top-40 songs beneath the tree, usually off-key, but no one cared. We thought it sounded melodious. After softball games, there I mended skinned knees. After school dances, there I mended skinned hearts.
However, now, there were no more knees
or hearts to mend; no more songs to sing; no more pushes to push.
Therefore, on that cold February Saturday, I relented and finally took down the swing. The wind blowing in my face, I think, caused my eyes to tear. We were expecting a rainstorm, so I did the unpleasant task early in the day.
The swing then rested in a twisted jumble, in an old cardboard box in my dark garage.
It was Presidents’ Day weekend.
When I was a child, we called the holiday Washington’s Birthday – the only day I could taste a cherry Coke at the corner drug-store luncheonette. Oh, not the stuff in a can, you get today...but ice-cold Coke mixed with real cherry syrup in a paper cone nested in a silver metal cup. The waitress even provided a fancy paper straw. Back then, to mark the holiday, the local baker made fresh cherry pies, and if you were very lucky, you might find a silver dollar in one (to commemorate Washington supposedly tossing a silver dollar across the Delaware River).
After I took down the swing, that Saturday, I drove to the market. It started raining heavily on my way back home. To avoid the main highway in the high winds and rain, I drove through a neighborhood. Through the rain, I saw a crooked red sign in front of a small unkempt house, with big black letters: GARAGE SALE. I typically do not stop at those things, because my wife
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