Blood Red Slash....

Last Edit July 16, 1999

There was a blood-red slash where the mouth would be, the red liquid running down the corners of her lips.
There was red smeared on her right breast, a sharp contrast on the untanned skin.
The jean jacket she was wearing over the black and blue bathing suit was open and revealing.
More red was smeared on her thigh where she must have brushed it, and more on the extension ladder where her slip-ons had smeared it on the rungs and on the concrete below.
She was stretched out, arms raised.
She had scratch marks on her hands and legs, and a scrape that must have come from the ladder.
The position of the ladder indicated how high she had climbed, as did the bucket of ripe Bing cherries at her feet. The wind was swaying the branches and the cherries that had obviously been left out of reach. Bird feed.
And the twilight was filled with lilting birdsong.
She was quiet.
Her hair was windblown and unruly, long plum-colored tendrils waving in the breeze. There were twigs and cherry stems in her hair, more detritus scattered over her face and on her jacket.
Accident victim?
Nope.
Just Momma picking cherries.
My older son held the ladder. Helped me when I was struggling too much as I moved it around to reach the elusive clusters. Refused to watch when I put it against the post of the fence that has not yet been repaired.
The cherries, after I broke my diet and ate some, I washed and put into the fridge.
Pie.
Calling to me.
To make it.
All busy, all the time.
After a few days, during which I snitch more cherries or a decidedly regular basis, I decide to bite the bullet and pit the suckers.
A very tedious job.
I know they make a kitchen gadget that pit cherries, I don't have one. If this keeps up, I will get one. My hands are as red as my lips. Cherry-stain.
But this is the first year that the tree has gone off. I will prune it this year (you prune them when they are dormant) and see what happens.
Of course, I may move by then.
So I stand, and I cut them up and depit them. And put them in a pot. With sugar and flour 9 cups of cherries - but I used less sugar and flour since these are RIPE cherries. If I had not done them now, I would have started losing them.
I added nutmeg and cinnamon, lemon juice and a touch of ICBINB.
I cooked them down into pie filling.
And put that in the refrigerator.
Good for morning tasting. And Evening.
So, after finding that one of my raids had left a cherries on the floor and it had been tracked, I decided it was time to make the pie.
I did not make MY pie crust (secret recipe), I BOUGHT pie crusts. Pillsbury.
And slapped them into one of my Corning flat dishes, since it's been so long since I made a pie that I can't locate my pie pans.
I baked it.
I had a slice warm with low fat vanilla ice cream.
I had a little, tiny piece after that.
Uh oh.
Time to remove the pie.
My younger son, you see, does not eat my fruit pies!
So I brought it to work, left it in the truck and called my older son.
I gave a small slice to one of the admins. where I work, and went to Cisco for afternoon break.
The receptionist called my son.
"A pie is here."
A few minutes later we heard the thundering sounds of my eldest thundering down the stairs. In his socks.
Front-line support people are a bit different. True . software geeks. Wired. Hyper. Fast.
He escorted me (and my pie) back upstairs, where he placed the pie on a file cabinet, grabbed a plate and fork, and promptly cut himself a piece.
He then bellowed "Pie on the Frontline".
He also e-mailed his group.
The pie vanished.
Good.
I don't have to eat anymore.
There was a discussion about what strange spice I had used (nutmeg) and a discussion about Stormy Leather. A few rushed to check out the story on-line.
My son included.
Then his work was calling him, the freeway was calling me and my pie pan was empty.
Mission accomplished.