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I was recently in Door County, Wis., the land of cherries—a fruit sweet to taste and, for me, sweeter to recall. The diminutive drupe reminds me of a conversation I had with my daughter Molly, now 19, about a decade ago on the summer shores of Lake Michigan.
Molly and I have much in common, including an abiding love of homemade pies. Since I was old enough to wonder about heaven, I’ve never shaken the sense that freshly baked pies eternally cooling on window sills must figure prominently. My daughter agrees.
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