In the winter of 1976, when i was only four years old, my family moved into a modest home in a growing greenville neighborhood. upon a slope on one side of the house, stood a dozen tree sprigs looking rather bald and barren. by springtime, however, the little trees began growing taller and bushier by the day. upon exploring the hillside in mid-july, i noticed hundreds of quarter-sized, pinkish orbs dangling, daring me to pick just one. of course, i did.

2plums? i questioned. yes, plums. she reiterated. she explained that these were not the same as the deeply colored, voluptuous kind i had seen in the market. these were a smaller and much sourer variety.

3 knowing that they were safe, i ate enough that one afternoon to give me a stomach ache that lasted two days. as the plums became riper and sweeter, my grandma and i picked enough to fill two enormous buckets. she taught me to make jelly from the tiny fruits which we could enjoy all winter long.

4 years later, i was driving down a long, winding highway when i noticed several wild plum trees lining the hedgerow. i had to pull over. i picked a heaping handful. as i sat there on the side of the highway, i basked in the tartness of my childhood fruit and in the sweetness of the memory of making jelly with the greatest woman i have ever known.

this essay is a personal narrative because