This is the story of a pear, a single pear that is very dear to my heart. Here is its official portrait:
You might wonder why I’d be making such a fuss about a single pear. It isn’t just any pear. This pear is a heroic survivor, a specimen knowing its role and determined to fulfill its destiny. I am going to eat it and enjoy every juicy slice. Such is the fate of this mighty pear. Now for its story.
Years ago, when I finished building my house, the fellow I hired to help me, a truly talented independent construction supervisor named Charlie Cowie, gave me a celebratory gift. You guessed it: a pear tree. It was a delightful little tree about five feet tall.
In my ignorance, I planted it in the backyard where I thought it would get ample moisture and sun. It grew, filled out, had blossoms in the spring, and contributed handsomely to my moderately shabby landscaping. A few years went by with nary a pear in sight. In case you haven’t guessed, I do not have a green thumb.
A friend blessed with a green thumb pointed out that I didn’t have a pollinator tree for the bees and butterflies to swap whatever swapping they needed to do to consummate the love fest required for my pear tree to bear fruit. Who knew trees have lascivious sex lives involving multiple parties and secret trysts?
With my newly acquired insight and great excitement, I took a picture of my tree and charged off to a nursery with pear trees for sale. I bought a healthy-looking specimen about as tall as me, brought it home, and planted it ceremoniously in the backyard approximately fifty feet from tree number one.
The following spring, blossoms abounded, bees buzzed, and pollen found its way between the two trees. Lo-and-behold, within a few weeks, both trees had many dozens of hard little nubbins adorning their branches. It was a profusion of baby pears. Like a proud father, I smugly admired the outcome of my efforts, even holding up my thumbs to see if they might have turned green. They hadn’t.
Throughout the spring and early summer, the pears grew larger. I would periodically check them by giving a squeeze to the few I could easily reach. Hard as rocks, they weren’t ready to pick.
The pears continued to flourish, and I was contentedly reading recipes for pear strudel, pear brown betty, pear crisp, and just plain old pear slices with wedges of cheddar cheese. The glorious harvest awaited…until…one day, not a single pear was to be seen…and I hadn’t picked a single one.
Someone or something had outwitted me. Larcenous wildlife has no respect for humans when it comes to sharing pears. Squirrels, raccoons, and deer had joined forces to rob me blind. But how could that be? In a single night, rampant rodents, masked omnivores, and pesky cervids had cleaned me out. We’re talking about a tree (actually two trees) completely devoid of fruit. I had to seek revenge.
My initial plan for retribution involved reversion to the marksmanship training I received in my Marine Corps days. I felt the stirring of my inner sniper. I would rid the area around my house of the evildoers. My mantra was “one shot, one kill.” Weapon of choice was my trusty Gamo .22-caliber pellet gun.
It all made perfect, if somewhat bloodthirsty, sense until the intercession of my dearly beloved wife, Leslie, who believes all creatures, great and small, deserve long, happy lives…even if they steal and consume my pears. I have seen Leslie rescue a bug struggling on the surface of the lake where we summer. She has jumped from our boat to find a floating leaf upon which she has placed the bug to swim it ashore. Presumably, per Leslie, the bug would live happily ever after…until, of course, some bug-eating bird had it for supper. Bottom line: there would be no wholesale slaughter of fur-bearing brigands in our backyard.
Nonetheless, I have an understanding co-conspirator in planning the extermination of backyard fauna. My dog and I are in complete agreement about squirrels and raccoons. They are the spawn of the great Satan. They steal bird food, chew wires, build nests in the most exasperating places, and, sin of sins, they eat my pears. My dog doesn’t give a hoot about pears, but his lifetime aspiration is to catch a squirrel on the run. His inability to climb trees causes him a deep sense of inadequacy. The little gray devils always escape and hurl down chittering insults from high in the branches.
So, back to the heroic pear in question. My landscaper found it on the ground underneath the tree in perfect condition. Somehow, it had performed a miracle. It had survived the arboreal assault of Rodentia and masked Mammalia. Then, after falling to the ground from a great height, dastardly deer overlooked it. And, wonder of wonders, I had a beautiful, succulent, single pear to eat. It was delicious, and I will always cherish its heroic journey from blossom to my breakfast fruit bowl.
Oh…and please don’t tell Leslie, but my dog and I continue our scheming collaboration to enhance the survival of our backyard pears.
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