Cherries… My Grandma Rose had the stuff. “Life isn’t a bowl of cherries,” she’d say. For her it wasn’t. My Uncle George had the goods. “Get a bowl,” he’d say, “stop walking around with a fist-full of pits.” Some of his last words to me… I know. The juice, the edge to get a leg up. The sucker punch you didn’t see. It's the daily dose in writing my music… It takes a whip hand. You chop that cherry tree, tell yourself no lies.