"Apricots! Morning, Noon and Night..."

I am the tall one; bro Matt is the short guy.

You and your eight siblings are part of a July Fourth family extravaganza, circa 1962 down in SoCal, spending the day together with the ‘rents. In which of the following fun-filled, summertime activities do you participate?

A) You drive 45 minutes to Bolsa Chica, just down from the Huntington Beach Pier, and spend the day beach-combing it.

B) You drive 45 minutes up into the San Gabriel Mountains, and spend the day on the river. 

C) You all drive 45 minutes to Disneyland, where for around six bucks per person, you gain entry to all of the rides and attractions.

D) You spend the day at home playing baseball in the vacant lot across the street, engage in water play using hoses, and get ready for barbecue and fireworks.

E) You spend the day stripping two apricot trees of their fruit, washing it and removing the pits and then storing it in an assortment of ways, after which-and only then-the fun begins.

Wrong, wrong, wrong, and wrong again. Unless you guessed E, you are probably like most other folks in this world. Bagging rays at the beach, swimming in the river, riding the Matterhorn or blasting your siblings in the face with water from the garden hose might be more appealing than processing fruit, but hey, apricots!

The governing force would have been that Papa was home from work, the steel factory observing the national holiday, and he was never one to look a golden opportunity in the eye, and then stab it with a sharp stick.

First of all I exaggerated because in 1962, we were still only eight sibs altogether, number nine not making the scene until 1966. That still meant there were a bunch of us able to pick, wash and pit apricots. My job was always whatever was the most stable proposition possible. I was not the one(s) up in the big tree or on the garage roof, upon which one of the two apricot trees literally draped, the weight of the apricots bringing the branches to an excruciatingly slow rest on the roof itself.

This is exactly how packed the younger tree was.

There were two apricot trees, along with a nectarine, orange, lemon, two persimmon, maybe four pecan, a peach, two avocado(!), a pepper and until the storm drain went in, a humongous oak tree. One apricot tree was tall and old; the other was spread out and much younger. We used it to gain access to the garage roof, something that was strictly verboten. 

Why Papa didn’t want me on any roofs defies explanation, but I was careful not to get caught. That meant that if Papa was home, I was not on any roof. [Editor’s note: That would be a fabrication.]

On that 4th I was not transporting or washing apricots out back, using the lemon tree faucet as a source of water. No, I was one of those seated at the kitchen table, knife in hand, busily pitting the apricots. The logic was that I could get into any kind of trouble in all of the other jobs; at least at the table, I could be kept under the watchful eye of Mama at all times.

At the dinner table I was seated to Papa’s left; in church, Papa sat on the aisle, and you guessed it-I sat to his left. Something about kicking the pews was always the reason given. Sigh. For some reason I had the reputation of being a kid who was likely to get into any sort of trouble, if not watched 24/7. I have no idea how any of those rumors might have been started, and categorically deny any and all of the allegations.

Nonetheless, those whose memories do not wear blinders, know that there was ample evidence to the contrary, my protestations notwithstanding. So I was chained-metaphorically-to the kitchen table, where it was hoped my energy would lend wings to my fingers, and the suppliers of apricots would be hard-pressed to keep me supplied.

We used to get so sick of apricots, as impossible as it is for me to conceive of now, it being ridiculously hard to get apricots that do not taste like cardboard. Back then, when we pestered Mama for dessert after lunch, she would always fall back on apricots. We could have fresh ones, cooked apricots in jars, apricot jam on bread or toast, and frequently enough in season, apricot pies.

“Apricots! Morning, noon and night!” became our refrain, often delivered in four-part harmony with a bit too much enthusiasm. “Like it, or lump it,” might have been Mama’s reply, to which we would say, “Or take it to city hall, and dump it.”

Of course, when the production was wrapped up and the mess all cleaned up, with the refuse being deposited on the humus pile out back, we got to do the Fourth. Papa would barbecue three or four chickens, Mama would make the potato salad (with me peeling the cooked potatoes and cutting them up) and we would feast. Later, a most childlike Papa set off whatever fireworks we had, and we were all allowed to participate.

This was when you could look up the street and see everyone else doing the same thing. Of course, you couldn’t breathe for all of the smoke, but who cared? 

The next morning the ‘hood looked as though it had been through a war, with blackened curbs and the detritus of all those fireworks, waiting to be cleaned up. We did so, willingly enough, because Mama had a long memory and would consider any resistance on our part, a direct threat on next year’s schedule of events. 

Unless, of course, apricots were on the agenda, in which case, resistance was futile.