One of the sweetest memories of my parents is a duet they used to sing. Dad had a deep voice, and was the bass in a barbershop quartet with matching suits. They came in second on the Ted Mack Amateur Hour. The lady who won clacked her false teeth to "Turkey in the Straw".
But my mother's voice was, well, gravelly. The song my parents crooned was about cherries.
I gave my love a cherry that had no stone.
I gave my love a chicken that had no bone.
I told my love a story that had no end.
I gave my love a baby with no cryin'.
It was their standby act in talent shows at summer camp, and I ate it up. I had no idea then that nine wailing babies were in my future, as well as four years of keeping chickens. I could not have known that I would write stories every day for twelve years.
But I did have questions.
How can there be a cherry that has no stone?
How can there be a chicken that has no bone?
How can there be a story that has no end?
How can there be a baby with no cryin'?
My questions ricocheted around my mother's mental health, and dad's sometimes rocky career as a minister. Congregations are partial to picking arguments with their pastor, as I learned when my own husband chose that career path. Plus when the babies came I searched for answers on how to calm them.
A cherry when it's blooming, it has no stone.
A chicken when it's peepin', it has no bone.
The story of "I love you" it has no end,
A baby when it's sleepin' has no cryin'.
I have a mind to make a cherry pie this week. I will make the crust the way my mother did, with woven lattice on top.
Plus today marks forty two years of commitment to John. And the story isn't over.
