For a few, blessed weeks each May-June, the cherry trees here in the Golan Heights take their turn in the season and strut their sweet stuff. This year, the farmers on our moshav extended a generous invite and welcomed us locals to come out to the fields and enjoy the last pick of the season.
My eight-year old son and I had been looking forward to it for days. We arrived late in the day, hours after most folks and didn’t expect to find much. In fact we were cautioned by several different people, farmers alike, that there really wasn’t too much left to pick at all. The big harvest was well over – the locals had already picked through the leftovers and we would be lucky if we found anything.
On our way out, I suggested that maybe we skip it and redirect to the pool, but my boy said, “Mommy, I just know we’re gonna find cherries.”
I’m not fit to argue with that kind of knowing.
In an effort to prepare him for what I assumed would be disappointment, we decided that we would be super happy if we found just one cherry. So off we went, bouncing up dirt roads through acres upon acres of apple orchards and vineyards in search of a single cherry.