I love pears. When I was growing up we had a pear tree in the yard. It was an ancient and gnarled tree that produced the sweetest of sickle pears. I would climb to the top branches of that tree with the library book I was reading and could literally spend and entire summer afternoon in complete oblivion to the rest of the world.
The summer that I discovered Louisa May Alcott was also the summer I discovered the boy that lived in the house next door and played football in the yard between our houses. I believe I was in fourth grade and was precociously interested in the rippling of his shoulder muscles as he threw and caught the football. So, the tree took on a new facet for me; a place where I could observe un-noticed the object of my 10 year old affections.
Always the pears were ready for me in the golden heat of a late August afternoon. Warmed from the sun, sweet, ripe and juicy – those pears had a flavor that is indescribable to this day. I can taste them. Continue reading
