Plum Line

Barbie was perched precariously from the gnarled branch of the giant plum tree. Her come-hither high-heels dangled daringly from her pink-nailed toe tips. Her long blonde hair was drawn back in a sensible pony tail. She tried desperately to recall how she found herself in such a predicament. She dared only to dream of rescue.

Back at base camp on the ground, between the man-sized tree roots erupting from the grass, Joe and Steve plotted their ascent. Joe was proportionally larger than Steve, and more rugged. Both men had military training, Joe in the infantry, Steve in the Air Force (later with NASA). Joe had a Kung Fu grip. Steve was bionic. They both had gear. They were both eager to climb.

They made their way up, slowly at times. They used alternately brute strength and daring finesse. The ancient fruit tree was fortunately cris-crossed with rope bridges, rappel lines and swinging vines. Steve made the direct approach, out on a limb. Joe attempted a monkey-like flanking maneuver. They both reached Barbie at the same time.

Bitch that she was, Barbie danced a jig on a twig just to prove that she wasn't helpless.

Girls!

Barbie belonged to Wenda. GI Joe belonged to David (different David). Steve Austin, the Six Million Dollar Man, belonged to me. Mission accomplished, the three seven-year-olds sat in the plum tree in my front yard, lazily picking fresh ripe Satsuma plums off the tree, biting into the sweet tart red flesh.

We would pick and eat at will, the fruit traveling mere seconds from tree to mouth. The plums were sun-warmed and swollen with juice. There is nothing in the world like the flavor and aroma of fresh ripe warm plums. There are few pleasures that measure up to lying in a plum tree with your friends, sticky with nectar, giggling like idiots on a summer afternoon.

I now wait each year for the summer fruit to arrive at the local grocery store. Anticipation and hope mount each plum season for the first arrivals. Each year, I hope that this will be the year. Each year my hopes are dashed.

Pumped up with chemicals and genetically manipulated, today's store-bought plums are a beauty to behold. Perfect smooth skin, blemish free. Deep reds, blues and purples, shining under the special produce-department halogens. They lure me in with thoughts of summer vacation, playing in the sprinklers and climbing trees.

Then, I get home. Unable to wait until the groceries are stowed, I search the sacks for the pile of plums. I bite deep, and inevitably, I spit the whole into the trash. No plum juice. No plum smell. No flavor whatsoever.

Hopes dashed again. Maybe next year.

Reading for Comprehension:
1. GI Joe Vs. Steve Austin?
2. Why don't they make shows about cyborg-astronauts fighting Sasquatch anymore?
3. What fruit disappoints you the most? (No, the answer is not "Brian.")