A Pear Tree for Me

It was my first summer in east Tennessee. I hadn’t wanted to move there, but my father’s job was more of a priority than my feelings, so we went. We arrived there, and I hated it. Everything was so slow when I was used to the fast-paced life of the city, the food sucked, and one can only hike and see the mountains so many times before it gets boring. I was always more of a beach person, and there are no beaches in east Tennessee. That first summer was an eye-opener for me when I realized I couldn’t get a lot of the same things I could back home, and that I would have to be stuck here for at least three years until I graduated high school (if I didn’t run away and emancipate before then). All I wanted was to be able to do the same things I enjoyed before we moved, but of course, that was impossible.

One day after coming home from swimming in the bird shit infused lake, all I wanted was a pear. Back home our pears were fresh all year round, crisp, juicy, and quite possibly the best things I had ever tasted. Having hope against hope, I pulled on a t-shirt with Johnny Cash giving the finger that was sure to get some looks, and headed to the grocery store across the street. I walked the produce stands, looking for some fresh Anjous. Of course, they only had Boscs. I settled and grabbed three, checked out, and walked back home. It was a hot August day, and the five-minute walk home was enough to leave me dripping with sweat. I placed my pears in our fruit bowl then showered quickly, looking forward to that first bite of a fresh pear when I got out. I finished showering, and, too hungry to wait, wrapped my towel around myself and dripped as I went into the kitchen for my pear. I rinsed it in the sink, dried it, then took a giant bite and immediately spit it back out into the sink. It was bitter and mealy. Of course. It seemed there wouldn’t even be fresh pears to enjoy in this hellhole. I should have figured that, as nothing was enjoyable here. Fed up, I threw the pear against the wall, leaving the oozing, splattered fruit as a reminder to my parents of how much I hated it here.

The next day, after a lecture about how I should be more “open to new experiences,” I decided to do just that. If I couldn’t get fresh pairs from the store, I’d grow them myself. Off to Wal Mart I went, the only place near me that had Anjou trees ready to take home and plant. I’d done my research on how to grow your own pear tree and found (miraculously) that our soil was perfect for it. Finally, Tennessee had thrown me a bone. At Wal Mart, I told the young kid, probably my age, working in the garden center that I wanted every pear tree they had, all sixteen of them. He gave me a weird look then proceeded to help me load them all into carts, ring them up on Dad’s credit card (if I was going to have “new experiences” I’d need some seed money), and then load them into the back of Dad’s truck. Satisfied, I thanked the kid and left.

No one was home when I pulled in, which was just as well since I didn’t want to be given grief about turning our backyard into a pear orchard. I opened the back gate and drove the truck through the yard to where I wanted to plant my orchard, then got out and started hauling each pear tree to its spot, along with the new spade I’d bought. Once again, I was sweating within minutes in the August heat. The pear trees were lined up in rows of four, a neat four-by-four grid tucked into the back right corner of our expansive yard. I made sure everything was even and properly spaced, then stuck my spade into the ground and began to dig.

It was 5 pm by the time I had finished planting the last tree and my mother pulled into the driveway. She could see straight through the gate into the yard, a clear view of our new pear orchard. I knew she wouldn’t be happy, so I braced myself. She got out of her car very slowly, never taking her eyes off of me, and walked over. Dad pulled in behind her as she was making her way over. He looked mad, too, as he got out of his car. I cleaned my spade off, threw it into the back of the truck, and prepared myself for the verbal lashing. Dad wouldn’t be happy that I’d spent nearly $500 on trees, and Mom would be upset that I had ruined the “aesthetic” of her yard. But they had told me to be open to new experiences, and that’s what I was doing. I was experiencing despair at being in a place I hated, I was experiencing frustration that I couldn’t find anything there that I liked, so I decided to experience making something I wanted on my own, and that experience would be growing my own pear trees.

Dinner that night was awkwardly silent, especially with the two remaining mealy pears sitting in the fruit bowl at the center of the table, taunting us all with their presence. Mom and Dad hadn’t been happy about the pear trees, as I’d predicted, but they couldn’t argue with the fact that I was doing what I could to make the best out of it in Tennessee. They’d ceded and agreed to let me grow my pear trees, emphasizing that they were completely my responsibility and that they would not be helping (like I wanted their help when they couldn’t even keep a succulent alive) at all with any of the upkeep. They also balked at the fact that the trees wouldn’t fruit for several years, not understanding why I had decided to take on such a drawn-out project. After that, I pointed out to them how first-world our problems were and that sparked a whole new argument, mainly about how ungrateful I supposedly was. I’d never said I was ungrateful, just pointed out in typical, sarcastic teenage fashion how superficial the whole conversation was. They didn’t like that very much. After dinner, I went and closed myself in my bedroom for the night, not having the emotional or mental energy for any more conversation (or argument). I peeked through my curtains out at my pear trees glowing in the last rays of sunset and smiled. It was the first time I’d truly smiled since we had been in Tennessee.

The seasons passed and I tended to my trees dutifully, treating them like my babies. I braced them when it was windy, watered them when it was dry, kept the harmful insects off of them. I loved taking care of those trees, and that love showed. On the eve of my graduation from high school, a pear was borne. My first fresh pear in three years. I plucked it from the tree and took a bite. Sweetness filled my mouth as I closed my eyes and savored the taste. I’d done it. I’d seen through what I had started and could finally reap the rewards, though it was bittersweet as I’d be leaving Tennessee in just over a month. Just as I was finally getting what I had wanted, to get out, I got something else I had wanted, a fresh pear. I was sad to leave, knowing that as I went my trees would bear more fruit and I wouldn’t be there to pick them. I loved my trees, but I had to move on and begin the next part of my life. As sad as I was, it was worth it to grow those trees and have something to make me happy for those years. It was an experience I’d never forget.