My father claims that he first fell in love with my mother during cherry season. He was 10 years old and loved nothing more than climbing trees...and the fact that he could fill his belly with ripe cherries while nestled in the branches added to the fun. But lurking beneath the tree, wracked with the spasms from whooping cough (it was 1942), was this little girl from the village. Seeing the tears of pain stream down her face, he took pity on her, filled his shirttails with cherries, and offered them to her.
The rest, as they say, is history. —Windischgirl