When the dark red round berries ripened, and they were so large that no more than two pieces fit in my child's palm, all our relatives came to collect them, leaving their affairs and going to help in general. They put ladders to the trees, tied cans around their necks and climbed up. We children, having hung cherry earrings on our ears, picked berries along the lower branches.

Cherries were collected in buckets, basins, troughs, and then carried home. In every house, cherry jam was made from it for the winter. And not just some five minutes, as they do now, but a real jam that can be stored for years, covered with paper or a plastic lid on top. The jam, thick, viscous, full of berries, was poured into jars and ten-liter bottles. I remember that tea was always accompanied by a vase of cherry jam, and in the basement there were many jars of various jams all year round. During the day, we, children, spread jam on a piece of bread and ran out into the street. It seemed to us tastier than honey.

For my whole life I have remembered the tart and at the same time sweetish aroma of cherry jam. I love the process of cooking it. There is a kind of homeliness in this, coziness and immediately I remember the most dear people: grandmother and mother, bowls of jam were standing for long summer days.

My grandmother lived in the city center. The residential quarter in which the grandmother's shack was located was located on the right side of the square, which was laid out to decorate the theater square. There were up to a dozen families living on the edge of that square. There lived old women, young women and working people. The park itself, with a continuous stream of greenery from the front side, was well-groomed, decorated with cascading fountains, the paths were covered with asphalt and bordered with low cut bushes, in the center and on the sides were flower beds with snapdragons, daisies and multi-colored petunias. Dressed up residents of the city walked along the paths, sometimes wandering into the residential quarter of the park. Seeing the houses, they quickly left.

Once my grandmother hung out a Persian carpet to dry, and they took it away. I didn't keep track.

In this small garden, not far from a large forked pear, a public oven was laid, on which cherry jam was cooked in summer. It was my responsibility as a child to collect wood for the stove. If you walk through the bushes, here is the brushwood. And then stand near the oven - stir the jam and skim the foam. And that was my responsibility. Adults have their own worries!

I recently visited this small garden. Everything has changed here. There are no more bushes that have bordered all the alleys. Instead of the grandmother's house, there is a cafe. The old pear is gone. It was sad for me to wander through familiar places. There are no secluded places anywhere. Everything is visible far. The police are on duty. People walk around the public garden with dignity. Everything is in sight.