The Pear Tree

Fiction but based on a true story.

My name is Jack. I never really liked my name until after my great-grandfather came to live with us. See, I was named after my great-grandfather, but I didn’t really know much about his life until I was around eight years old, which was the summer I found the pear tree in a wooded area near a creek in our suburban neighborhood. I was out exploring the neighborhood, something I began doing a lot since Great-Grandpa Jack moved in. My great-grandfather was quiet and sat in a big chair my parents added to our living room when he moved in. He had an old person smell and since I hadn’t spent much time around him before he moved in, I didn’t know what to say to him, so I would leave the television to him and go outside as often as possible that summer.

Down the street there was a creek with trees along both of its banks. Someone had tied a tire swing to a strong branch of one of the trees and the tire swing swung out over the shallow creek. Whoever tied the swing also built a simple treehouse and the older kids would hoist the tire swing up to the landing of the treehouse and hop on that tire swing so that it flew all the way over to the other side of the narrow creek. The tree with the treehouse and tire swing was at the top of a steep drop-off that made up the bank of the near shore. Down the steep drop-off was the water, and on the other side of the creek the shore was at the level of the water. Most of the time the older kids would make sure to jump off the tire swing on its return to the side of the shore with the treehouse, the side atop the drop-off. This ensured they didn’t have to risk getting hurt falling so far on the other bank and also kept them from needing to struggle to climb their way back up the steep drop-off. The only way back into the subdivision was to climb back up to side with the treehouse, unless a kid wanted to Takeru a really long walk along the creek to find a way.

Taking that swing out across the creek wasn’t something that I, as a small eight-year-old was able to do because I just wasn’t tall enough or strong enough to manage getting off at the right time to avoid injury. In fact, the older kids wouldn’t even let us younger kids try it out because the distance would be too far if we fell off or worse, if we got stuck out in the middle without having jumped off on either side of the bank before the tire swing stopped its pendulum motion.

On this day, I walked over to the area where the tire swing was and saw the older kids from the neighborhood swinging from the treehouse on the tire swing. They were all too busy to play something else, so I decided to explore a little more and walked through the trees, along the bank of the creek. Up ahead I noticed a kid around my age climbing in a tree. As I walked up to the tree, he looked over at me and smiled. “Hey,” he said. “Do you like pears?” as he plucked a pear off a branch and held it out to me. “It’s ok. I ate two already! They are really good.” I hesitantly took the pear out of his hand and examined it. It looked exactly like the pears mom bought for Great-Grandpa Jack, so I went ahead and took a bite. It tasted perfect!

“My name is Peter and I’m eight years old,” the kid said as I began to pull myself up to join him on the tree.

“Hi Peter. I’m Jack. I’m eight years old, too!”

“Jack!? Well, that’s my little brother’s name! My brother Jack is five years old, and I have three older brothers, and an older sister, Ruth.” Peter said.

“Cool. I don’t have any brothers or sisters. I was named after my Great-Grandpa Jack, though. He lives with us now.”

Peter and I played on that pear tree all day. When it was near dinner time, I could hear the older kids begin to leave so Peter and I got ready to leave, too. I plucked as many pears as I could hold so I could bring them back to Great-Grandpa Jack. I was looking forward to telling him about the pear tree I found near the creek. Peter plucked a couple pears and took a bite of one as we said goodbye and walked in opposite directions to get home before dinner.

When I walked in the door of the house, mom was in the kitchen. Dad wasn’t home from work, yet. Great-Grandpa Jack was sitting motionless in front of the tv just as he was when I left the house, his arms draped on top of the sides of the big chair. The white mug sitting on the white saucer on the side table next to his chair still had the same amount of coffee in it as it did when I left earlier that day. I couldn’t tell if it hadn’t been touched or had been refilled.

Great-grandpa Jack glanced in my direction when I walked in the door and said “Whatcha got there?”

“Pears.” I said as I slowly walked over to him to show him. “I found a pear tree by the creek. I thought you might like them, so I brought these home.”

Mom came around the corner at that moment and smiled when she saw us with the pears. “Didn’t your family have some pear trees when you were growing up, grandpa? Tell little Jack about the pear trees!”

“Yeah,” he said. “My parents had a few pear trees and apple trees when I was little. My brothers and sister would go out to pick the pears and apples and that was most of our fruit. We always had pears for as far back as I can remember. O’ course, after the Spanish flu pandemic hit, we lost a lot of fruit. Couldn’t pick it fast enough.” Then he went quiet for a moment, staring into space.

“Why couldn’t you pick it fast enough?”

He looked over at me after I asked. I’ll always remember the pained look in his eyes as he stared into mine in that moment. “See, I was the youngest, see. I had four brothers and a sister. They were all older than me. My brother, Peter, was closest to me. Then there was Henry, Robert, and Herbert. Ruth was the oldest. She was my only sister. When the pandemic came, it came in three waves. During the first wave, my whole family was ok. No one got sick. But at the end of the second wave, the flu took Henry and Robert and Ruth. The third wave got Herbert and my dad. And then Peter.” Great-grandpa Jack paused for a moment.

“My brother Peter was my best friend”. Tears welled up in his eyes as he continued. “Peter was three years older than me. He took care of me after the others all got sick and passed away. Peter would always bring me pears from the pear trees even if I didn’t want to go play with him. He always brought me pears from that tree, even if we had a fight.” His voice cracked as he spoke. “My mom always said Peter was such a considerate kid, so kind to everyone. Especially to me.” His hands shook as he looked down at the pear he was holding.

“Great-grandpa Jack, how old was Peter when he died?” I asked, a little in shock.

He looked at me. “He was nine years old. A little older than you are right now.”

I’m sure my eyes widened at that moment. I asked what color his hair was, what Peter looked like. As great-grandpa Jack described his brother my mouth dropped open. I told him and my mom about the boy I met near the creek and when I described his appearance their mouths dropped open, too. It seemed like they were identical but hard to tell without a photo of Great-Grandpa Jack’s brother.

The following day, the three of us took a walk down to the creek to find the pear tree. We were hoping to see Peter, too. When we found the tree by the creek, we noticed there were two more pear trees and a couple of apple trees nearby that I hadn’t noticed the day before. The boy I had met in the pear tree was not there that day.

I went back to the fruit trees nearly every day that summer and sometimes great-grandpa Jack and mom would walk with me. We picked pears and apples all summer, but I never saw the boy, Peter, again. The pears and apples grew back every year and we were able to keep Great-Grandpa Jack supplied with the fruit all season. I asked other kids in the neighborhood if they had ever seen him, but no one knew anyone named Peter. I never saw Peter again, but I’ll never forget him.