Very Real Stories: George & The Cherry Tree

History, Shistory, Puddin' and Poo

In the tremulous twinkle of twilight, a tale unfolds under the tittering twigs of a terrifically towering cherry tree. Here, in the heartland of happenstance, young George Washington, cherub-cheeked and axe-armed, embarks on an endeavor most daring and definitively daft.

Cherry, cherry, chirry chirry, cheerily calls the tree. Its branches are the barbs of Baroque, bejeweled with the blushing, blooming beacons that bob buoyantly in the whispering wind—a palette of plump pink punctuations against the vast viridian verse of Virginia.

George, in his gregarious gumption and with the axe—a gleaming slice of silver, forged in the ferocious furnace of familial fidelity—whacks! Oh, the whackery! A slapdash chop-chop that chomps through the cherry’s cheeky chest. But lo! What lore this act unlocks!

With every hack and hew, the tree bleeds—a syrupy stream, not of sap, but of stories! Each droplet a ditty; every splash, a saga. The tree, a towering tome of arboreal annals, weeps whimsies of whispered wisdom: of empires entwined with the roots of rebellion, of cherries chomped in the churning jaws of change.

Behold! From the gashed grin of the cherry tree, a figure forms—Father Time, perhaps, or a phantom of fruit-forward fortunes. "George," the specter speaks in seeds and syllables, a sonorous spectrum, "why wield such woe upon my wooden womb?"

George, gobsmacked by the gabbing grove, gapes. Aghast and all a-glitter, he grapples with the gist of his gory game. "Sir," he stammers, standing stout, "I sought simply to sever the silence, to harvest honesty from the horticultural heart here hewn."

The cherry specter, in a chuckle chortled, shakes the shady shawl of its shimmering leaves. "Cut not for clarity with cleaving blows," it counsels, "for truth is a tree perennially planted, not plucked from the paltry peace of a petulant prune."

Meanwhile, in the moonlit margins, Martha, mistress of Mount Vernon, marvels at the melee. Mirthful yet mindful, she muses on the macabre masquerade, her eyes enameled with the eerie effulgence of events erupting.

And so, as stars stitch the sky in silvery strands, George groks the gravitas of his gouge. With a final fling of his fateful flint, he vows to veer no more into the vanity of vanquish, but to nurture the nascent nexus of nationhood.

Thus, tethered to the tree, our tale twirls and twists, a tapestry of the fantastical and farcical—a risible remembrance rendered in the roots of a republic, retold by the rustling rills running through the relics of remembrance.

And the cherry tree? It stands still, supremely statuesque, a silent sentinel of the surreal, forever flourishing in the fertile folds of fabled fields.