7251 Roumare Road

7251 Roumare Road

 June 12, 2024

Up until my 7th birthday, I lived in a peach-colored house on the corner plot of our blue-collar neighborhood. 7251 Roumare Road.

The backyard was every child’s dream equipped with a classic metal swing set. A sandbox my dad built himself, and the only pool on the block.

My memories of 7251 Roumare Road are somewhat limited, helped along only by dozens of polaroids printed and stuck in a photo album on the shelf in my living room.

I find it very interesting that one distinct memory I have of that house is one I cannot find a single picture of. The cherry trees, in full bloom at the side of the house, produced hundreds of thousands of deep, burgundy-colored cherries. Tart and juicy and absolutely the taste of summer!

I specifically remember my summertime daily routine. I’d wake up and immediately put on my bathing suit (80’s girl all the way!)  I’d head down to the kitchen and join my older sister at the table for a bowl of cheerios with milk. We’d shovel those little O’s into our mouths as fast as we could then head to the clothesline, our beach towels from the day before hanging stiffly on the line.

After hours of swimming our tummies would rumble fiercely. We’d grab our towels and head to those cherry trees.  Laying our towels under the shade of the cherry trees, we’d pick handful after handful of those dark cherries. We’d pile them up on our towel until we knew the mound was far more than we could eat. (Side note: just about every beach towel had cherry juice stains on them. My poor mother!)

Criss-cross applesauce, we sat on those towels eating cherries and spitting pits until we got too hot and had to go jump in the pool.

Pool. Cherry trees. 

Pool. Cherry trees. 

That was the summertime daily routine, all day every day, right up until supper time.

By the time I turned eight, we dismantled the swimming pool and took it with us when we moved from 7251 Roumare Road (that’s another story for another time.)

A few years ago, I found myself feeling nostalgic and decided I’d drive by my childhood house for a quick peek.

That little peach house on the corner? It’s now a medium shade teddy bear brown.

The swing set and handmade sandbox? Nowhere in sight.

The two cherry trees? Chopped down. (Honest to God- this is not a play on the George Washington cherry tree story.)

I parked across the street and stared in disbelief. What were they thinking? Did the trees get sick and stop producing fruit? Maybe the new homeowners are allergic to cherries. I’ll never know. I got emotional looking at the blank patch of grass where the cherry trees once bloomed, but I wiped my tears and reminded myself- the cherry trees will always be there so long as the memory, one that has survived nearly forty years, remains with me forever.

I don’t see myself forgetting anytime soon.