Read by Matilda Longbottom

I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.” ― Pablo Neruda,”Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair”

Six months after we started dating, J.P. texted me a picture of a dwarf sour cherry tree on clearance at Tractor Supply. Just a stick in a pot. But it bore a tag with the words “North Star.”

A hybrid of the English Morello and the Serbian Pie, the North Star was specially created by horticulturists at the University of Minnesota in 1950 to withstand harsh Winters. It took its name from the motto of our northernmost contiguous state, translated from French—“L’etoile du Nord”—in honor of French-Canadian explorers.

“Should we?” J.P.’s question might as well have been a marriage proposal. To take on a tree, to tend it and watch it grow, spelled true commitment.

What did we have to lose? Soon Finn, my beagle-terrier, and I would be living with the retired sculptor and his two dogs, the affable Buster, a corgi-basenji, and the half-feral Baby, equal parts husky and shepherd, and a cranky black-and-white cat named Little Puss, on 13 acres in southwestern Randolph County, North Carolina. Each of us had been married before, and we relished the fact that we found someone with common interests—the poetry of Keats, used books, rescue animals, old movies, and cherries. J.P. had cultivated apples and plums for years, and he was eager to try something new. Wild cherries proliferated in the area, so it seemed worth the gamble. Love and cherries.

I said yes.

As it turned out, growing cherries in our state is a dicey business. A sudden burst of warm weather in March would lure the trees into blooming early, only to be singed by a night of frost. And instead of our hard earth, the trees craved loamier soil, such as that of the Great Lakes and the northwestern states where large bodies of water moderate the temperature and quell early Springs. To grow cherries in the Uwharrie Mountains of Randolph County took far more than hope. There was only one word for it: madness.

My mother so often spoke of a tart cherry tree in my Aunt Glad’s backyard in Asheboro that I eventually imagined I stood beside her, picking cherries for Glad’s famous pies. I even imagined riding Bonnie, the pony who also lived there. In truth, the tree and Bonnie had disappeared by the time I ever visited. This false memory spurred me to believe that one day I could grow cherries, too.

Even the English word “cherry” is rooted in fallacy. Known as a “false singular,” it entered our language on the mistaken assumption that its Northern French root cherise was plural. People in Chaucer’s day extracted the word “cheri” to denote a single fruit, and by Shakespeare’s time, the spelling changed for good. “So we grew together, like to a double cherry…two lovely berries molded on one stem,” Helena says to her childhood friend Hermia in “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

On one of our first outings, J.P. and I traveled to a cherry orchard in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. He climbed higher on the ladder than I could and plucked fruit from the Montmorency and Black Tartarian trees. I stood by a North Star, a tree just my size, and there I found a double cherry.

“Look,” I said, holding up the prize for J.P. to see. Then I bit the heart-shaped fruit in two and handed the rest to him. The taste—a tangy nip followed by a wave of sweet, then tart, and sweet again—mingled with the bliss of infatuation. I remember thinking that one day the lissome adventurer with unruly curls tipped in gray might be my own North Star.

“The best things in life are round,” J.P. had murmured on the night we met, as he handed me a persimmon bulging with juice. Clouds swathed the moon but we spoke of it anyway, along with the constellation of Cancer and other things not visible to the naked eye. We did not know at that Halloween bonfire that we had a future together—and certainly not that it would begin with a persimmon—but looking back now, those words of his certainly seemed prescient. Our world, however, would eventually revolve around cherries.

We married on the deck of a house we were building ourselves, not long after we bought our second tree, the Montmorency, a variety first grown in France and recommended by Lee, a horticulturist friend and the author of a book on the subject. I took early retirement from a job in college admissions and applied my energies to helping J.P. finish our eventual home. Nature handled most of the landscaping, as oaks, poplars, and pines framed our yard, but we filled in the rare sunny spots with cherry trees, a mix of both tart and sweet, a foretaste of the life to come.

We moved into the new house before it was finished, and tensions between us continually simmered. Neither of us were neat freaks, but the clutter of construction vexed me to no end.

“No tools in the kitchen,” I frequently snapped.

“Fine,” J.P. huffed. “I’ll keep my drill on the table.”

As a former manager who oversaw flow charts and people, I found it only natural to try and organize the free-spirited artist. I couldn’t help with the intricacies of wiring or plumbing, but I believed he would find my to-do lists very handy. He did not.

Eventually, instead of ticking off little things, I learned to set broad goals in the form of questions. “Do you think we’ll pass final plumbing inspection by the Fall?” And he eventually appreciated my dedication to the big picture of us. This quiet man also tolerated my spontaneous ditties while I walked the dogs even though I couldn’t carry a tune.

Whatever our differences, we stood united in concern for our cherries. Every day we walked the hills together, with Finn and Buster occasionally scampering off to chase a varmint, as Baby, our furry wanderer, swished her tail proudly. Then there was Little Puss, forever whining about being left behind.

J.P. installed a concrete bench under a nearby holly tree, where I frequently rested. Due to a long battle with multiple sclerosis, walking tired me, and my right leg often dragged.

From my perch, I helped tie rocks on strings, which J.P. hung on the branches of the newest trees to open up their limbs and make more room for sun. We also weeded and mulched around all the trees, soaked them during the droughts of July, and fertilized in February. We even sprayed them with water on brutal Spring nights to prevent frost damage.

When even the robust Montmorency refused to fruit after five years, Lee diagnosed a pollination problem. So, we adopted a colony of bees. Inexplicably, those little divas flew right past our trees, preferring the larger blossoms of the poplar tree in the distance. I was crushed.

“I don’t care if I have to take a paintbrush to each flower and pollinate them myself,” J.P. said. “I’ll do it.”

While I thumbed through the Bible for a prayer for beekeepers—a psalm from the embattled King David perhaps—a ragtag confederation of butterflies, moths, bumblebees, and wasps bounced from flower to flower. This wasn’t just nature filling a gap. Nor was it serendipity. When our Montmorency exploded into a galaxy of cherries, I recognized the hand of God. The Jubileum and Balaton also fruited, albeit just a handful, but it was progress. Sweet progress.

In April 2022, all our trees bloomed and at last, the bees took notice. They, too, eventually doubled, and now two hives buzzed side by side. The North Star stood closest to the bees, a first stop, perhaps, for a scout bee. Pound for pound, or rather, branch for branch, I predicted this little tree might one day rival the Montmorency. I didn’t dare say anything, but I couldn’t help wishing, as I drank in the slight orangey notes of its nascent flowers, that 2022 would be the year of the North Star.

As I learned in a college astronomy class, the North Star (or Polaris) is extraordinary. It’s a triple-star system, and while not the brightest light in the sky, it’s brighter than most. It’s also easy to find, as it’s located at the end of the handle of the constellation known as the Little Dipper (or Ursa Minor). The North Star is located so close to the north celestial pole that all stars seem to rotate around it, and its position appears to be fixed. For travelers in the Northern Hemisphere, following the North Star will always lead you north. A compass for sailors. A compass for lovers. A compass for lovers who also happen to be cherry growers.

In the deep woods, miles away from city lights, J.P. and I marvel at the night sky from our deck, where we also look for Venus, Jupiter, and Saturn. Only when gazing above is it possible to feel so tiny, yet so connected to the universe at the same time. In 2017, we donned welding helmets and viewed a partial solar eclipse, and in 2022, we watched the shadow of the earth cover the May moon in a velvety crimson cloak. A cherry moon, I decided.

My first memories of the flavor came from sipping from my mother’s glass of Nehi, followed by cherry pie, cherry cobbler, and occasionally cherries from a jar. These early experiences primed my palate for the ultimate treat, a Black Forest cake, infused with Kirsch. It was a birthday tradition my mother embraced since our time in Germany. Every Summer she baked this dense chocolate cake decorated with cherries and cream.

Though 2022 saw no Black Forest cakes, the Montmorency tree took on new life, and the bees worked double-time to keep up. One day in June, I headed toward the garden with my basket to check on the new crop of tomatoes when I noticed Baby picking cherries, a twinkle in her eye. Her joy, however, would soon turn to annoyance when I called J.P. to fashion a quick fence around our tree. Fortunately, Baby preferred tomatoes to cherries and on another trip, she graced me with a tomato stem sticking out of her mouth like a fat green cigar.

I was halfway through my morning harvest when J.P. shouted, “Let’s go!” We’d spent the morning listening to Miles Davis, and he was eager to jump into his truck and savor a picnic at the Uwharrie River.

A blanket and fried chicken awaited, as well as the last of the white peaches from the farm down the road. Since I had something up my sleeve, too, I soon abandoned the tomatoes, grabbed my cherry basket, and headed for the Montmorency. Thanks to the bees, our little tree was loaded with deep red treasures, just waiting to be plucked. It was not the first time that June.

It’s best not to dwell on bad news, but it’s also best to savor the good, and the sight of our cherry tree filled me with peace, so I stayed there for a while, searching for the finest fruit. I even plucked a few off the North Star, but not many. Yet, I realized there was hope for this hardy dwarf. Like me, it could surprise people.

I was in a dream when J.P. leaned down and whispered, “Are you ready?” Then he held out a palm, and I couldn’t resist the urge to put a handful of cherries there. We stood side by side, watching the sun slowly climb. At last, I followed him down the hill, my basket brimming with the finest fruit on our land.

We drove west in the truck as Miles and I pondered the cherries. Finally, I lifted one from the basket and said, “Look at this!”

The double cherry, my new favorite treasure, called for J.P.’s help. I held it up to his lips, then I took a bite. The tangy nip, the waves of sweetness, tang, and sweet again blended seamlessly with the deep groove of “Milestones” as our little tribe kept on following the sun. ❖

About the Author: Ashley Harris lives in southwestern Randolph County, North Carolina, surrounded by the mystical Uwharrie Mountains. She is a regular contributor to Living Well on M.S. Bezzy and North Carolina Literary Review and has written on topics such as roses, gardening, fine art and baking. Twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize, she is also the author of a poetry collection, Waiting for the Wood Thrush (Finishing Line Press 2019). She is currently working on a memoir of linked essays exploring cherries, love and faith while living with multiple sclerosis. For more, see ashley-harris.com