Binging On Bings

Summertime, in the hot valley, I shimmied up the first few corky feet of the trunk and climbed into the high canopy of the colossal cherry tree. Perched, but cautiously, on the roof of Uncle Freddy's garage, gorging myself on the flesh of the large, heart-shaped fruit. My trick was to pick a mouthful and then bite down, sucking as I did, a dozen or more of the deep, maroon beauties exploding in my mouth. Spitting the seeds onto the roof and hearing them roll to hit the metal gutters at the side of the building while Mom and Uncle Freddy and Aunt Jenny talked about grown-up things below. I climbed down the tree my belly full and my face and hands stained with the juice and joy of being the first to reach the biggest and ripest and sweetest of the tree.