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, canes, and straw hats. 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 they 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, or five pens of
clucking hens. I could not have known that I would write stories every day for six years with no end in sight.
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 his dicey career as a minister. Congregations are partial to picking bones with their pastor. And 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'.
A dozen chicks have pipped at my house this month. They go from wet dinosauresque to irresistible fluff balls in a matter of hours.
But today marks thirty six years of commitment to John. And it is only the beginning.
