The Great Cherrry Tree Incident of 1954

This is from my memoir, Nine Lives. Most of the memoir deals with much more dark psycological issues, so I thought I'd lighten it up.

My bedroom was in the rear of the house. It would eventually become everyone’s bedroom, because we shuffled our accommodations several times to make room for  new additions to the family. There was a Japanese cherry blossom tree outside the window that was so close to the house that the branches scraped against the asbestos shingles on rainy days. In the early spring I would watch closely for the first hard and tiny buds to appear. They had an outer shell the color of a Rome apple. Even before the first blooms appeared I would shimmy up the tree and sway  on the branches, climbing so high I could see the gutter, which was usually clogged. The trunk of the cherry blossom tree had the girth of  a beer keg. It was a shiny plum color, and  it’s leathery skin was nearly impossible to peel.

 

 It was also a home run.  My father threw a wicked whiffle ball, but like my hero, Ted Williams, I could pull dad’s knuckleball into the short porch in right field. Knock a few twigs off now and then., too. 

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Fall was a bittersweet time. It was my favorite season, with the World Series and my birthday falling in mid-October. But it also meant the falling of the cherry blossoms, which was a week-festival. I would rake those soft pink petals into a pile two feet high, climb to highest limb I could reach, and belly-flop into the mound. 

 

When it came time to clean the gutter, my old man cussed and turned blue in the face, while my mother shouted out the window to watch his language around me. Of course there wasn’t a foul phrase or a dirty word I hadn’t heard before. Hell, I was six years old, for chrissakes. I’d been there when we were cleaning  out the garage and a cinderblock fell on his foot. He poured a stream of obscenity the neighborhood will never forget. I was at his side in Seaside Heights when a rusty nail punctured his foot. He set a new record that time, bitching not only about the foot, but the money he’d lost renting a bungalow for a $%^&***# week while all he could do was skip around on one foot. Set a record for vodka tonics as well.  

 

My mother wasn’t that happy with the bungalow, either. She had to cook,  vacuum, and scrub pots and pans, just like at home. Heard some new words between her and my father that time, and I ran to my room to jot them down.

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I took the jitney to the boardwalk every afternoon, even though it was only three blocks. I lugged my inner tube along and floated in the waves. Camped in front of Kohrs and made myself sick on ice cream cones. 

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In the evenings my father taught me to play solitaire.  He got pissed off when I lost.  

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