Growing up, it was a necessary skill. How were you going to hang out in a cherry orchard without knowing how to separate the meat from the stone with your tongue and teeth and colorfully but nonchalantly sending it out over the fields?
Novices could be spotted by the deep blueish tinge under their lower lip where juice and pulp would ooze. But they weren't really worth our time, as they were either youngsters or city kids, up from Detroit or Ann Arbour for summer vacation.
Today I taught the kids the first steps of becoming spitters - how to scrape the solid cherry off the pit (Inside your mouth, please!) and let it drop into a container.
We'll tackle distance spitting outside in the spring.
It was fun, remembering the weight of the sun on my shoulders and the smell of the orchards and the lacy shadows the trees cast, even when the branches were heavy and bowed with fruit.
I'll make Michigan kids of them yet.