Billy Partridge and the Pear Tree

He owned the tree, but technically Mister Wilson didn’t own the land where it currently stood. Developers had cleared a vast tract of land to build new houses for all the GIs returning from the war in Europe. Money ran out before they could finish the massive home on that piece of property, and construction ceased. After remaining vacant for a time, Mr. Wilson decided the cleared field that abutted his land would be the ideal spot for a fruit tree and unofficially declared the area his.

The tree in question was a thirteen foot tall pear tree that the old man had planted right smack in the middle of the dirt plot that was the heart of the neighborhood.

It was a fine Saturday in May, and the boys wanted to play baseball. Unfortunately, the pear tree stood right where second base should be.

“Well. There’s no way around it,” the boy declared, as he looked up from the base of the towering tree.

Billy Partridge was the newest kid in the neighborhood. He was likewise the biggest. The nearly six foot tall preteen therefore had become the de facto leader of the neighborhood children.

Jimmy Weber, the smallest of the boys, peered at Billy with worry in his eyes. He wasn’t afraid of the bigger kid, but of Mister Wilson, the owner of the pear tree.

“But won’t Mister Wilson tell our folks?” asked Jimmy.

“Probably. But if we want to play, the tree needs to go,” replied Billy.

Mister Wilson was the neighborhood curmudgeon. He hated children and loved the tree. God help anyone that damaged so much as a leaf, never mind what Billy proposed.

Billy rubbed his chin as he contemplated what to do next.

“I’ll be right back,” he said. “Keep an eye out for Wilson.”

“What do we do if he shows up?” a smaller, younger girl named Lynn asked, but Billy was already running down the street.

Moments later, Billy reached his house- a modest white ranch-style home. He jogged across the front lawn and slipped into the garage. The garage was actually just a storage space for tools that Billy’s dad hoarded like a dragon hoarded gold. On the far wall, between greasy fan belts and sections of chain, hung a collection of dangerous looking tools, outlined in red grease pencil.

Billy quickly searched the implements. Amid the chisels and saw blades, his eyes eventually settled on the perfect tool - a hand ax. The boy reached up and grabbed the ax from its resting place. The tool seemed dangerous, yet impressive to the twelve-year-old. A shiny four inch, tempered steel blade sat atop a well worn, foot long, ash shaft.

Billy hefted the ax in his right hand. Picturing the tomahawk wielding indians he’d seen in countless westerns, he flipped the blade into the air and immediately regretted the decision. He ducked out of the way as the ax plummeted, hitting the dusty concrete with a metallic clatter.

“Bill, is that you?” asked the boy’s mother from inside the house. Billy grabbed the ax, scrambled out of the garage and down the street.

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“Are you nuts?” questioned Ed.

“It’ll work. Trust me.”

Ed had been Billy’s best friend since the first grade. With shaggy brown hair and thick glasses, he was as round as Billy was tall.

Ed started walking away. “I’m not cutting down the tree.”

“Give me one reason,” Billy yelled after Ed.

“It’s dangerous. It’s suicide to piss off, Mr. Wilson. If they find out, my parents will kill me…”

“I said one reason. Come on, Ed. I need your help. And I promise you will not have to cut down the tree.”

“Fine. But you owe me. What’s the plan?”

“Ed, Buddy. Start climbing.”

His friends stared at Billy with their collective mouths agape. Ed, who knew his best friend better than anyone, approached the tree without question. After a few failed attempts, his fingers grasped the lowest branches, and he heaved himself into the tree. As he climbed, a few pears fell from the spindly branches to the ground below. Billy picked up a piece of fallen fruit and carefully polished it on the front of his replica Brooklyn Dodgers jersey.

Billy peered into the tree to find Ed resting his large bottom on a tree branch, sweat pouring down his brow into his dull brown eyes.

“You’re gonna have to get higher than that, Ed,” Billy observed between bites of pear.

With a huff, Ed returned to his upward climb. As he ascended higher, the branches became progressively thinner.

“Um, Bill? I don’t think these branches are gonna support my weight.”

“That’s kinda the point.”

“What?”

Billy dropped the half eaten pear to the ground, approached the tree and took up the ax, leaning against the trunk. After a few trial swings, he attacked the tree trunk with fury.

A minute or two later, Billy checked his progress. He was disheartened to find he had barely scratched the outer bark. He ran his finger along the completely dull ax edge.

“Shit,” Billy muttered. “Okay. New plan. Everyone into the tree.”

The group of remaining kids scrambled up the tree like barbarians ascending a castle wall. In moments, five preteens scattered throughout the pear tree’s branches. Billy approached the trunk for a second time. He flipped the ax around and once again attacked the tree - this time with the butt of the ax. With quick work, he put a significant dent in the trunk.

“Okay guys. Everyone lean to your left.”

As everyone shifted their weight, the tree bent noticeably. Seeing progress, Billy continued his attack with renewed vigor. Pears dropped with each whack of the ax. After several more swings, there was an audible crack.

“Here we go!” Billy yelled to his friends. They replied with an enthusiastic cheer. With a few more strikes, the tree began leaning significantly. Realizing the situation, everyone leapt from the tree - except for Ed. With the shift in balance, the tree finally toppled over with a resounding thud.

As the tree hit the red clay dirt, Ed dropped like a baby bird falling from their nest. As his corpulent body plummeted to the ground, he yelled, “The South will rise again!”

Billy scanned the scene. The tree lay on its side like the corpse of a hunted giraffe. In a broad radius encircling the tree, dozens of pears littered the field. Protruding from the ground was the short, jagged stump that would serve as second base for the rest of their childhood. Ed, who would endure much worse years later, during his time in Viet Nam, walked away from the Great Pear Tree Incident with merely a few scrapes and bruises.

Every time Billy hit a double that summer, he glanced over at Mister Wilson’s front window with a smirk and tip his cap to the old man. In turn, Mister Wilson could never prove who had destroyed his precious pear tree, but, of course, he had his suspicions.

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