It’s the pits

A road trip revisited.

The peaches weren’t ripe yet when we arrived in the southern Ontario, but the sweet cherries were in full season. I picked up a basket at the first fruit stand and tucked right in. Soon I had the van, my shirt, and hands littered with pits and stems. The stains might come out after a few washings.

“Gee whiz! Take it easy you’ll make yourself sick! Remember what happened the last time you o.d.’d on that bag of oranges. You were on the throne for a week,” warned my faithful wife and guardian, the Pearl of the Orient as she watched the level in the container drop at an alarming rate. (I don’t think she was as worried about me getting sick as she was about not getting her share)

I gently ‘tut, tut’ed her explaining, I was raised on a farm where cherries were abundant and knew not only exactly my limits, but how to increase one’s tolerance to the undesirable side effects by gradually increasing consumption.

“You see,” I concluded as I stuffed another half dozen in my mouth, “I’m an expert on cherry consumption. Oranges on the other hand are sub-tropical. Why didn’t you warn me about them?”

When we arrived at our friends’ place, to my delight our hostess, anticipating my fondest wish had a great big bowl of cherries front and centre on the table.

“Dig right in,” Kay offered and I obliged.

After a road trip that involved too much fast food and not enough exercise, things were a tad bound up, but the cherries were fixing that in a hurry. By the time we left Kay & Len’s, Tuesday morning I was more regular than the dozen odd clocks she had scattered throughout the house that gonged, donged, and tweeted every hour on the hour.

“Here, take along the rest of this basket. Len says he can’t handle any more,” stated Kay as she passed the basket through the open window on our departure. The Pearl started to protest, but I cut her short. Settling the basket between the seats, I was well into the first handful before we made the end of the drive.

The Pearl muttered protests for the first forty miles and as we approached the 401 she suggested pointedly perhaps now would be a good time for a pit stop and to simply place the remaining quarter basket out of reach.

“No reason for either of those actions,” I breezed as I kept munching and spitting easing the van into traffic that was hitting about 30 klicks over the limit. I waved at the cop on the shoulder as we passed, but he appeared way too busy reading the morning paper.

It only took ten more klicks to finish the cherries. I began to suck on my coffee and munch on sunflower seeds. Apparently this combination was incompatible as a chemical reaction began that produced a lot of rumbling and gurgling.

“Next Rest Area, 40 km,” read the sign. I buckled down and concentrated on keeping things under control. It was a struggle but we made the exit and I swerved across two lanes of traffic to hit the ramp. Not to worry, I used my signal.

That’s when the 18-wheeler cut me off.

The van was the only thing I didn’t lose control of.

Fortunately they had a nice garden hose out by the trailer sanitary dump station, even if it was little shy on privacy.

The Pearl didn’t even hang around to help out with the operation. I think she’s losing her desire to be my travel companion.