Cherry

As you already understood from previous stories, Grandma (great) Manya had a dacha. There was a vegetable garden, various flowers and trees at this dacha. Some of these trees were cherry trees. These are the ones we'll talk about.

Once, when Manya was about ninety years old, I met her at the dacha. She'd been living there in the summertime, and I came to relax for the weekend.

"It's so good you came!" My great-grandmother was delighted when she saw me. "We need to pick cherries."

Even though gardening and other delights of working in the fresh air weren't part of my plans, I wasn't upset when I heard this news. I love climbing trees. I love cherries. And helping Manya is sacred. So, I didn't see any obstacles to completing the cherry-picking quest. Armed with a ladder, a bucket and a Panama hat, I got to business.

For the next few hours, everything went fine. I crawled along the branches, filling buckets. My great-grandmother moved beneath from tree to tree, held a ladder, received the harvest and gave me plenty of valuable tactical advice.

At one point, it all ended: I collected everything I could reach. Then, with a feeling of accomplishment, I went to take a cold shower. The shower was located outside and was a stone structure with a big plastic tank on the top. This tank had to be first filled with water from a hose. This process invigorates (if you know what I mean). However, I've lost the plot. Let's return to the cherry.

When I finished my water procedures, wrapped myself in a towel and opened the door, Grandma (great) Manya stood on the threshold of the shower stall. She stood and looked at me through her big, almost square glasses. She had a way of pausing before starting a conversation. It was scaring some people, but not me. After all, I love Alfred Hitchcock's classic films.

So, a long thirty seconds passed before the great-grandmother broke the silence and said, "We're not done with the cherries."

"We're done with the cherries," I said confidently, "there's nothing else to pick from there."

"But there're still plenty of berries at the top," Manya stubbornly stood in my way. "A whole bucket. Or maybe two whole buckets."

"Or maybe three whole buckets," I confirmed. "But we can't get these berries. The branches are fragile, and they won't support me. Our ladder is short, and there's no support for a long ladder. So, we're done with cherries."

I walked around my great-grandmother and headed towards the house, but she followed me.

"I can hold the ladder," she offered.

"And I can go to the beach," I kissed her wrinkled cheek. "Granny, the ladder is heavy, I'm heavy, you're light. This plan will end in disaster. You can't pick all the cherries in the world. Accept it."

This was the end of our conversation. I went to the beach, and Manya was comfortable on a sun lounger with a magazine. There were no signs of trouble.

The weather was great. I spent about three hours at sea and got hungry. On the way home, I met one of our neighbours. He was ten years younger than my great-grandmother. But at the moment of our meeting, he was so excited that he even seemed older.

"Mashenka, it's you!" the neighbour was happy. "It's so good you're here! Please don't worry!"

Never, my dear reader, hear, never start your news with the phrase: "Please, just don't worry." Because after this phrase, people usually start doing things you asked them not to do. Especially if these people have a ninety-year-old great-grandmother with a huge awl in a specific place. My heart sank.

"What's happened?" I tried to pull myself together.

"I saw Mrs Frost just now," said the neighbour, "she was climbing the cherry tree."

I looked the old boy up and down. I was walking from the sea to the dacha in about ten minutes. For him, it was probably half an hour. Therefore, his "just now" was quite a long time ago. This means whatever happens, it has already happened.

"You didn't try to stop her?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Stop Mrs Frost?" the old man was confused. "Are you kidding?"

"Just kidding," I agreed obediently, "in that case, how did it end?"

"I don't know," the neighbour looked at me guiltily. "I have a bad heart, and the spectacle wasn't for the faint of heart."

That's where we parted. I flew home faster than the wind. Opening the gate, I ran into the territory.

Grandma (great) Manya (Mrs Frost) calmly reclined on the veranda in a chaise lounge and read a magazine. Two buckets of cherries stood victoriously near her.