Nellie's Pear Jam

The last week of summer before school started always sucked. Not for everybody. Everyone else was shopping, buying new clothes and supplies, but not me. I was shipped off, like clockwork, to spend the week out in the woods, outside of some crap town called Cornwall, to my Aunt Barb's old farmhouse.

It wasn't just being away from my friends and being stuck almost 2 hours away from civilization that bothered me. Granted, that was bad enough, but there was more. Aunt Barb was dreadful, boring, proper and didn't believe in cable T.V. Worst of all, she lived with her grandmother, my great grandmother, Nellie.

Nellie was 87 years old and mean as can be. She never had a kind word for anyone, especially me, and the summer of 1996 was no exception. The second I walked in the door, there she was, sitting in the same tattered brown corduroy easy chair she always sat in armed with criticism, "awful short skirt you're wearing, Darlene."

I looked down at my skirt, it was white with pink and yellow flowers, it was short, but not indecent, it fell to mid - thigh, "I'm Jane, Grannie Nellie, Darlene is my mother."

"I know that!" the old woman spat, "that's what I said, Jane. And your skirt is too short, get upstairs and change into something proper, folk'll be thinking we're running a cat house ... the look of you!"

Aunt Barb stepped in to my defence, pushing a greying brown strand of hair behind her ear, "Grammie," she cooed in this strange mix of soothing and sucking up everyone seemed to use with Grannie Nellie, "this is what young people wear today."

Nellie waived a withered hand in front of her face, "young people!" she spat, "that's the problem with the world today, "young people"." Then she turned her glare back to me, "those ways may work in the city, little girl, but under MY roof, you do what I say!"

Aunt Barb shrugged and I went up to my assigned cell for the week and changed into an ankle length orange and blue peasant skirt. I could hear Grannie Nellie complaining as I descended the stairs.

"No, no, no!" she said, "that won't do. That won't do at all!" That was her favourite phrase, she said it all the time, her brown eyes almost twinkled whenever she said it, as if she enjoyed it. Apparently, Aunt Barb failed to dust the mantle properly.

"Is this better, Grannie Nellie?" I asked, deadpan. I really didn't care what the old woman thought, but I wasn't going to argue.

"Humph!" she snorted, "are you getting fat, Donna?"

"Grannie!" Aunt Barb exclaimed, "that's not nice! You can't say things like that to people!"

"Call it as I see it," she replied with a strange sense of pride, "problem with the world today, is people are afraid to tell the truth. Not me, I don't go in for that, no sir, I'll tell you straight."

I looked down at myself. I wasn't fat, not even close. But I was 17 and I was finally starting to fill out a bit, "Grannie Nellie, I'm Jane. Donna is my aunt, and no, I'm not fat."

"Jane, yes, I know, that's what I said, Jane," she nodded, "well, that skirt makes you look a lot bigger than you are then. Maybe you should stick to slacks, dear."

I wasn't even sure what "slacks" were, but I was sure I didn't want to wear them.

She continued, "you'll not find a man looking like that."

I didn't have the heart to tell her I wasn't looking for a man and was quite happy with my girlfriend, Tanya. Actually, that's not true, I DID have the heart to tell her. In fact I was dying to tell her, just to watch her little old head spin, but I knew the only one who was going to suffer through that was me. Pick your battles and all that.

That was pretty much how the week went, and every week I was forced to spend there before that. I was called by everybody's name but my own and Grannie Nellie bitched about everything, the weather, the food, my clothes, Aunt Barb's clothes, her own clothes. She even complained about her old friend Emma Jacobs.

Mrs. Jacobs, was a demure sort, about the same age as Grannie Nellie and lived a couple miles down the road. She drove an old 1982 Lincoln. I'm not sure if she was supposed to be driving, but I would guess not. She could barely see over the steering wheel. She could barely see at all, for that matter. But that didn't stop her coming over every 2nd day like clockwork to check in on her oldest and dearest friend, often bringing a pie or a casserole.

It made me almost sick to watch the two of them together, Mrs. Jacobs and my great grandmother. She'd be sweet as pie, laughing about old times with her friend, offering tea, showing me off. Then the minute, the very second Mrs. Jacobs was out of earshot, the complaining started again.

"I don't know why she keeps bothering me, foolish old woman," she'd say, "over here looking for news to carry, that's what. Newsbag, she is!"

My great grandmother was just a miserable person and according to my mother and everyone else in the family, she always was.

The day before I was leaving, she asked me to go out to the pear tree and pick a basket of pears. She handed me a large wicker basket.

I stared at her blankly.

"Get and do as I say," she ordered, "don't stand there with your trap open catching flies, go on now, scoot!"

I closed my mouth, briefly, then replied, "what pear tree?"

Grannie Nellie stood up, waving her arms about. She took a couple of steps toward me. She was much shorter than I remembered her being, now only coming up to my chin. "The pear tree," she said, "out back, toward the schoolhouse, that side, by where the old fence used to be."

I had no idea what she was talking about. I didn't know anything about a schoolhouse, a fence or a pear tree.

Aunt Barb came from around the corner, wiping her hands on her shorts, "I think you're confused, dear," she told Grannie, "there's no pear tree here."

"Get my walker, Darlene!" she ordered, "tell me there's no pear tree. I'm not stupid, I know what's on MY property and there damn well is!"

"I'm Barb, Grannie," Aunt Barb said softly, then a little more firmly, "it's too hot for you to be going out."

"Don't you tell me about hot!" the old woman was yelling now, "and don't tell me who you are! I could care less which one you are, get my walker and we're going out to the pear tree!" Her voice was shrill and her head was shaking slightly. It scared me a little.

Aunt Barb rushed to get the walker and we went outside. Sure enough, right beside a weathered old wooden fencepost, standing tall in the long grass, was a pear tree. It was ragged, looking like it hadn't been pruned in decades, but the limbs were laden with dozens of pears.

"Don't pull," Grannie ordered, "just a gentle tug. If they come easy, they're ripe and ready, if not, leave them alone."

I did as she said.

"Look on the ground," she continued, "there'll be quite a few good ones there that just fell. Make sure there are no spots or holes."

In less than 10 minutes, the basket was overflowing with fresh, ripe pears.

Aunt Barb poked her head inside the kitchen door, her dark eyes clouded with concern, "everything okay in here?"

"We're fine, Barbara," Grannie Nellie said, almost smiling, "I'm going to show Jane how to make my pear jam. If you want to be of some use, go into town and get the grocery order, this child's eaten us out of house and home, she has!"

Aunt Barb looked at me, worried.

I nodded, Grannie seemed to be in a decent mood for once and it wouldn't take long for Barb to grab the groceries.

Grannie turned to me, "now we have to peel and core all these pears, and cut them in chunks." I tried peeling and didn't do it to her satisfaction, I was taking too much pear with the peel, so she gave me a strange looking tool to core them.

It was amazing to watch her. She peeled the fruit with a speed and accuracy that defied her withered, crooked old hands. As she peeled, she sighed loudly and said, "I envy you young people, Jane, so much ahead of you."

"What do you mean, Grannie Nellie?" I asked her.

"I mean," she replied wistfully. "Getting old is no fun. Imagine being just as you are, just exactly as you are today..."

I nodded, "okay."

"And imagine your mind is sharp and fresh as ever, but your body just won't do what you want it to. Imagine that," she had tears in her eyes, "imagine, you want to run through the field, but you can't, at least your body can't."

"I can't," I told her softly. I wasn't lying, I really couldn't. It sounded awful.

"Then," she continued, "imagine, what you look like in your mind's eye. You look just as you do now, but you look in the mirror and you see a scary old hag, imagine how you'd feel."

I started to argue, "you're not ..."

Grannie Nellie stood up, "I know what I am, child, just a minute ..." She left the room momentarily and came back with a photo album. She opened it and put it on the table in front of me, tapping an old black and white photo of a young couple on their wedding day, "that's me, me, about the same age as you and your great grandfather on our wedding day in 1930. That's the girl I still see in my mind. She's not the same as the girl in the mirror."

Tears began to stream down my face too. I couldn't get over how much the girl in the picture looked like me, the same full face, the same almond shaped eyes, "you were beautiful!"

"I was," she smiled longingly, "with legs that wouldn't quit!" Then she sat herself up straight, "let's get these on the stove, she said.

We continued to make the jam and to chat. "Do you want to know what the worst part is?" she asked me.

I nodded.

"It's the disrespect," she said, " like you're not really here anymore, not in any way that counts. You get to a certain age and all of a sudden everybody starts talking to you like you're stupid. They yell at you and say stupid things like "how are WE today, dear, and what are WE having for lunch. I don't know about WE, but I'll tell you about ME."

I giggled, she was right, people did do that.

"I know I'm a cranky old woman," she admitted, "to be honest, that's what I'm left with. No beauty, no respect, not a lot to look forward to, aside from your visits."

I hugged her and gave her a kiss on the cheek, "I think you're beautiful and I respect you, and I'll see you next year.

She kissed my cheek and took my hand in hers, "promise me one thing, Jane, dear," she asked, her tone almost begging, "no matter what happens in your life ... No matter what, never ever allow yourself to be disrespected, not for anything, and not by anyone. Promise me."

"Yes, ma'am, I promise, I told her. And I meant it.

I didn't see her the next summer, or any summer after that. Grannie Nellie died that winter, but her jam and her lessons continue to live on in me.