Midsummer in the north is full of deep pleasures and abundance. The flowers seem to be in a hurry, leaping toward perfection. The earth has to hasten into the season before the cooling and quieting of the fall, so everything grows with riotous abandon.
In the northern part of verdant Michigan, the cherries come. Acres of trees cover the hills. Families carry their red buckets along, eating as they go. Attika, Summit, White Gold, and the wonderful Ebony Pearl, falling into your upthrust hand, each one bursting perfectly on the palate.
Up here, the big waters glimmer and beckon on every side. Harbor town garden clubs fill their parks with color. Ingenious bakeries present variations in cherry cookies, breads, scones, twists, donuts. Cherry pies in the right size for two. Ice cream shops feature an astonishment called Cherry Explosion and another called Cherry Traffic Jam.
There are so many cherries that they slosh out of the water-filled flats in which they are transported. On corners where the big trucks turn the pavement is sprinkled with moist cherries.
Wonders abound and children laugh. At the ice cream shop sidewalk window, an enormous shaggy dog jumps up and waits confidently for a pup cup, his big face framed and eager. The kids inside rush to serve him. His name is Griswold. He likes vanilla. I prefer Cherry Explosion, and I believe I’ll have another pound of Ebony Pearls.
Photo by the author.