Local writer and artist, Cheryl Lynne Lucas, shares memories of her Oregon childhood.

Life is a bowl of cherries— well, at least my bowl of cherries. My upstairs bedroom in our two-story duplex at the edge of a little town held a special opportunity: a cherry tree! I always knew when that tree began to bloom that it would soon bear cherries that would pop out and start turning red.

I would open wide the old painted and peeling little window frame and touch the blooms and branches, watching and waiting for my little treats to ripen. It was one of those private moments in life which no one understood but me. Even Momma didn’t understand my affections for the tree. In fact, she scolded me every year not to touch the tree nor steal its treasured fruit. The reason had something or other to do with homemade cherry pies and canning those cherries.

Somehow in my 12-yearold mind, I figured it was an unfair request that I touch not the lovely cherries, seeing how the tree grew right there by the side of the house, and right up to where the top branches reached snugly against my little upstairs window. This is where all the good cherries bloomed and ripened first on that tree—right at the top by my window! I figured they were growing there just for me, or God surely would have planted that tree somewhere else... like down at one of them local orchards...or maybe ten-buck-two...but not here!

The wonderful thing about that tree was I could climb on it and reach the far red fruit hanging high up over the porch...then sit there all happy and pick it clean. The closer branches were a snap: I could just get a good hold on them branches and drag them carefully inside my window and with one hand hold a branch while the other hand picked it clean as a whistle. I always had my bowl set on the floor so I could toss those wonders in it and fill it as quick as you please!

I made sure the bowl was full so I could have some when I let go of the branch and have some to slide under my bed for night-time munching. I was the only one who had these treats under her bed—the rest of the 4 kids never hardly got any of those particular cherries and never had a clue I had plenty to munch on anytime I wanted. In fact, when the fruit was ripening, they’d all beg Mamma for some and she never hesitated to tell them ‘No’ since she was going to either can them or make a cherry pie.

I don’t know for sure if she ever figured out why that tree didn’t produce enough for what she wanted, but she was always so pleased to pick enough for a pie once in a while—thanks to me! I was always quiet as a mouse in my cherry-picking days, and I was always in denial about snitching those treasures. Mamma never caught me, although she was forever suspicious of me. I guess God truly gave me that special tree as a personal gift since I never felt guilty when I tasted the those juicy gifts. However, that tree wasn’t the only thing which kept a smile on my face when I was 12.

Those days of long ago were poor days and we lived a fairly ragged life in our little town of Myrtle Creek, Oregon. Other people knew we were poor, but somehow it didn’t mater much

to me. After all, I owned 2 dresses which were plain shifts with daisy flowers and lilac blooms printed on them. I claimed one pair of shoes, two bandannas, two pair of tattered jeans, a few blouses, and one army cot to sleep on—with one homemade quilt to keep me warm.

I remember fresh garden vegetables to savor, fresh fruit to enjoy, including Oregon grapes (which is the state flower), and all the walnuts we could eat. I could swim anytime almost anywhere. I owned a little fishing pole (homemade) and could dig up lots of earthworms for a day of fishin’. I possessed the beautiful Umpqua River across town and little Myrtle Creek which ran right through the lovely little town, and all the mountains in the world to explore. We all found our way periodically to one of the most awesome coastlines in the world. The rugged Oregon coast was an hour and half away. We played there often in her melting salty sand, collecting agates, shells, and driftwood. The towering snowy peaks of the Cascades were mine when Grandma and Grandpa lived at Mt. Hood. The wildflowers, the wild animals, meadows of plush green velvet, the fresh waterfalls, and plenty of wonderful memories all belonged to me.

I claimed a family, a Sunday School, a wiener dog named Gretchen, and I had my dear paper dolls, too. I enjoyed the blast of the train as it would chug across the high bridge path the south end of town. I cherished the family who loved me....No! I did not chop down the cherry tree, but I sure enough claimed it as mine, as are all these other wonderful blessings which I claimed as my own. And when I think of my childhood sometimes, I realize how rich I truly was in the things God provided (for my so-called deprived life) as a child.