The Ash Creek Papers

I had a deep sense of family pride when I learned of Uncle Saul’s cherry pit spitting exploits.  I learned of this not from my Aunt Meggie; but from my Mother. The story was related to me one miserable rainy afternoon in July. The type of summer afternoon that could deflate the spirit of a boy who preferred to remain outside playing all day. After all, isn’t that what summer vacation is for?

Sullen, I made my way to our small breakfast room nook with a rather stout bowl of plump dark cherries. I ate my way thru the darkest and firmest fruit, accumulating a small pile of pits around the bowl in the process.  I can’t recall what prompted me to try and spit a pit into the crystal chandelier over the dinning room table in the next room… but I did. My first effort fell short, barely reaching my Father’s chair at the head of the table. My second shot made it on to the table; but still lacked both length and height to hit the chandelier.

My first reaction was to inspect the quality of my pits (and by connection to the choice of cherries). I could see that this would be no different than selecting a perfect rock for skipping on Long Island Sound (something that I had a certain skill for). I looked to the immediate supply on hand from my discards, and arranged the pits by what I judged to be their heft. When I had ten pits selected, I then put them back in my mouth to strip away any excess bits of cherry… I figured that any clinging cherry meat would create wind resistance and limit my effective range.

I examined my ammo, now clean as a whistle. I pulled four away… not good enough. I picked thru the bowl, trying to judge the quality of the pit by the quality of the cherry itself. It took me ten cherries to get four replacement pits that were suitable. I was ready.

I moved my chair closer to the breakfast room table… got up on my knees, placed my hands on the table for support, rocked my body back, then propelled my upper body forward and spit the pit into the dinning room. The length was better. The pit made it on to the table and dribbled past the chandelier line and almost to my Mother’s chair on the far side. The second pit nearly duplicated the path of the first.  If my pits had been exploding shells, I clearly would have taken out the chandelier.

I had a trajectory problem. I gained new respect for the artillery officers in the Civil War. I needed to raise my head and add to my forward thrust. By the sixth pit I began to hit the front end of the chandelier with ease. When I exhausted my initial supply of ten pits, I began to clean off the remaining available projectiles.

Having solved the range and trajectory problems, I switched to other challenges… pure distance. Or to other flights of fantasy. I am in a battleship in the English Channel, miles from the Normandy Coast peppering the German defensive positions in back of Omaha Beach… which included taking aim at our Bedlington Terriers ambling thru the dinning room to pee on the drapes… a Panzer formation is moving close to a landing zone…

It was during the latter stages of the artillery barrage when my Mother came into the dinning room. “What’s going on here!!!” Thank God I had cleaned off the pits in my ammunition prep so that the table cloth didn’t sustain any stain damage. But Mom was not a happy camper, as we say. I gathered up the spent shells, without complaint; but with plenty of embarrassment.

I was spared any punishment… luckily Mom’s anger melted away with the improbable sight of two dozen plus cherry pits scattered on and near the dinning room table, looking like an unworldly version of connect the dots. Bless the stars that she had a sense of humor… and a story to tell.

“Did I ever tell you the story…”

I have learned that this is a pointless question to answer. Yes, or no… the result is the same. A story will be told.  A response of yes simply means that the version of the story will in some way be modified… perhaps by only changing the tense.

“Your Uncle Saul returned home from Europe.  His attempt to be the next Benny Goodman ran on the rocks. Saul, however, met your Aunt Meggie in Paris.  They weren’t married yet.  Meggie was in Paris is study dance.  From the start they became a couple… I would get letters from Meggie: ‘this man is terrific’.  But when they got back to the States they had to get on solid footing before our Father would agree to any marriage.  This led to Saul going to Law School.” 

I am not sure how this was going to pertain to me creating a mess in the dinning room.

“How he got into Columbia’s Law School, and with a scholarship, I can’t tell you. But he did. A bright guy… your Uncle.”

I hoped that this wasn’t going to be a long tale.

“Saul didn’t have much money.  He was always scrambling for a dime.  Back then it seemed that every conceivable business ran contests of some type to create interest and publicity.  Win the contest and win $25 or something.  Back then $25 was a lot of money.  Saul?  He entered everything.  Oyster shucking.  How long could you keep a corncob pipe lit.  Point to Point swims.  Number of push ups in an hour.  And a cherry pit spitting contest.”

Bingo.

“Saul traveled to this country farm somewhere in New Jersey where they organized a yearly cherry pit spitting contest.  The winner got $20, a fancy certificate and his, or her, picture in the newspaper.  Each contestant was given 3 cherries and 60 seconds to fire off a shot having first put a cherry in your mouth and cleaned the cherry of its fruit.  There was a rating system that allowed for anyone, young or old, to compete.  If you were 4 feet tall, like you, you could stand right up to the first line… but for every inch above 4 feet you would have to move 2 inches from the line.  Saul, nearly 6 feet had to stand 4 feet in back of the line.  He ‘fouled’ on his first spit… meaning he crossed his starting mark.  The second cherry he didn’t get off in time because he was too busy arguing with the officials about the foul on his first try. 

But on his last spit, he took an extra two steps behind his starting mark, and he hauled back, took a monstrous intake of air and by accident swallowed the pit!  He began to gag… his eyes bulged out… he face turned lobster red… had a massive coughing fit ’til it brought up that pit into his mouth and just before he would have suffered a second time foul, he spit that pit an amazing 61 feet and 7 inches, with the roll.  The crowd cheered.  It was a clear record… and while he took the prize money they didn’t give him the record because they say that his spit had been wind aided.”

“WOW!” That’s all I could say… wow.  I took a look at my starting mark in the breakfast room and my range into the dinning room.  Thirty feet maybe to Mom’s chair at the far end of the dinning room table.  Maybe.  Sixty-one feet would have been from the breakfast room thru the dinning room, thru the hall, to the living room… and maybe the den!

“I know what you’re thinking… I just made this up.  Well, I thought it was made up, too!  Then one day Meggie and I got to talking and she said that she was going thru some old papers… and there under some old pictures was the certificate Saul won at that contest… complete with his prize winning distance: 61′ 7″!  Saul really did it.”

I was speechless.

“And before you get any bright ideas about trying to surpass Uncle Saul’s record, pit spitting indoors is now forbidden, even though I can see that skill in this sport seems to run in our family.”

I was proud to be related to a record setter.  Yeah, proud.  I wondered if Uncle Saul was good at skipping rocks on Long Island Sound?  I bet that ran in our family, too!

“Practice is restricted to the backyard in back of the raspberry patch.  Who knows?  Maybe we’ll grow a cherry tree or two.”

I nodded.

“One more thing.  No spitting pits at people or the Bedlingtons.”

“How ’bout German gun emplacements?”

“Only if they’re outside.”