Cherry Picking

My Parents began vacationing in Door Country, Wisconsin, in the mid-1970s, shortly after my paternal Grandmother, Tatjana, had died.

(The Door peninsula is the "thumb" of the Wisconsin mitten, in case you're tracking that debate.)

By then, my Dad's health wasn't great, so he and Mom decided it wouldn't be wise to continue making the three-day drive from Chicago to Glacier National Park. He'd fallen ill once while visiting Glacier, and it wasn't a good experience. At the time, the closest hospital that could admit him was a somewhat primitive facility forty miles away, in rural Canada.

Mom and Dad bought a property on Door County's "Quiet Side," in the Town of Liberty Grove. They traveled to the place once a month for a long weekend, and in the summers, they vacationed there for about four weeks. My Dad found the getaway exquisite. He did things there that he no longer did in the city: he chopped firewood, mowed grass, carved walking sticks, and cross-country skied.

My Parents bought the property from an old-time farming couple who traced their roots on the peninsula back several generations. The farmers kept on eye on the property when my parents were away, and they graciously offered us farm-fresh eggs when we visited. They also let us pick cherries in their orchard. There was little more satisfying than tying on that pail and spending the afternoon in the breeze, with a dog, plucking sour cherries from the dainty trees.

Door County, Wisconsin, August 1978. My Dad picks cherries while our Poodle, Gigi, watches. The farmers' Collie dog has joined Dad and Gigi in the orchard.