Two old pear trees exist in my yard. The bees and wasps dance in a daze of gorged sweetness as I fill by basket. In their corridor of flight, my child climbs the limbs. I watch in hesitation with one hand extended and prepared to catch her if she tumbles. My breath catches as she ascends to the top of the tree with the stunning equilibrium that only a child could possess. She takes delight in shaking pears free from branches. Watching my work become their play is my enchantment.
When the time for canning for pears draws near, I reminiscence of the sweet memories of women who have left their mark upon me. I take out their browned, smudged recipe papers. I adorn myself with their aprons. My hands nimbly follow the same patterns of washing, cutting, pouring and stirring. My thoughts mingle with the legacy drifted from their lips.
As I prepare, I'm not sure about the variety of the pears. I haven't given it much thought. My husband's aunt simply told me the left is for canning, the right is for baking. So I trusted her insight to be true, and used them for such. Some years back there was an elegantly, petite African-American lady who stopped to pick them after they had fallen. She worked as a cook, and we would discuss the ways to cook the pears and put them up. In her antiqued age, her yearly visits have ceased, but I think of her sweet spirit as I begin the preserving of my pears. Her love for pears is an affection that she cast upon me.
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