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PEAR TREE

The Forbidden Fruit

By CJ FlanneryPublished 3 years ago Updated 2 years ago 7 min read
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PEAR TREE

The Forbidden Fruit

“Hurry! He’s coming.”

The words drove fear into my heart. At eight years old I was sitting atop a six foot block wall. Dressed in denim overalls and a T-shirt, like my brothers, I was participating in an annual coming of age ritual for the children in our neighborhood.

Mr. H was a fanatical gardener. In his suburban backyard he grew an amazing number of trees that bore the finest fruit throughout the summer. He was proud of his harvest and rightly so. He was also not inclined to share, which we children thought was wrong.

So every week, nay every day of every summer a few of the fifteen or so children who lived on our block (eight of whom were my brothers) would sneak down the alley behind his house and ascend the wall. The remaining children would attempt to create a distraction out front.

Often we would succeed in stealing only the low hanging fruit easily reached while standing in the alley. Local lore said any fruit hanging over the perimeter wall was fair game in the public domain, anyone could take it and it was not considered stealing. This usually consisted of the more common fruits like apples, grapes, guavas and loquats.

Loquats, or that fruit which we called loquats, is a fruit the size and shape of an Italian plum, the color of an apricot and a texture and taste unlike anything else I have ever tasted. The skin and thin strip of meat are stretched over a disproportionately large seed. I have only ever seen two trees bearing such fruit, and both were in backyards on our street. Perhaps it was an accidental hybrid of two other fruits, but if I ever find another I will definitely attempt to grow my own tree.

As I said, the more common fruit was easily attainable. It was the trees inside the perimeter wall that our goal of slipping over the wall, obtaining the prize and getting out uncaught was the rite of passage we all strove for. Not all of us succeeded.

On that day, I had successfully made it over the wall, and had wandered among the plum, peach, and apricot trees in search of my target, an elusive pear tree.

At last, there it was in the corner nearest the house. Boldly I crossed the yard in plain sight, for I had been assured by our scouts that Mr. H’s garage was empty, he was not home. I took my time under the pear tree, searching for the perfect fruit. Size, shape, color and ripeness were my criteria. There it was at the top of the tree. Being the tomboy I was, shimmying up the trunk and ascending branch by branch took only a matter of minutes. Deftly I plucked my prize, turning it carefully to inspect it, to make sure no hidden blemishes existed.

One handed I descended the tree, the pear lovingly cradled in my other hand against my breast so that no injury, no bruising could spoil it.

In a moment of braggadocio, I held my trophy up for all to see, forgetting none could see over the walls, and I swaggered back to my exit point. Then with a quick jump, I caught the top of the wall with my free hand and using the protrusion of mortar between the bricks as steps, pulled and climbed my way to the top.

“Hurry,” my brother called. I felt sure he wanted only to steal my prize and claim it as his own. I held fast to it, swung one foot over the wall and then the next. But with next words, “Hurry, he's coming,” I lost focus and caught my pant leg on a branch. The more I struggled the more tangled it became.

“Sis, get down here now or I’m telling Dad.”

The ultimate threat. Displeasing Dad meant a spanking (in a time when parents were still allowed to spank their children,) being sent to bed without dinner and/or being grounded to my room for the weekend.

But the look on my brother’s face told a different story. I realized he wasn’t afraid for me. Being the only girl amongst so many brothers, and having -- undeservedly -- a reputation for being a goody two shoes, my punishments were never as severe as my brother’s. Seeing the fear in his eyes I realized I would get a token punishment for my behavior; he would be more strictly punished for leading me into trouble.

More than the fear of punishment, I did not want to disappoint my brothers. I had tried to be one of the boys for as long as I could remember. I only wore dresses for school and church. The rest of the time my choice of wardrobe was hand-me-downs from the boys. I played army with them, carrying a wooden branch for a rifle, crawled on my belly in the dirt and mud, dug foxholes, and snuck leftover food from dinner to serve as K Rations. I learned to do wheelies on my bike, jumped it from ramps, learned to ride a skateboard (in those days we made our own from a piece of 2 x 4 and the metal wheels off our skates.) My athletic ability in baseball and football often saw me being first for the girls’ team, or picked to play on the boys’ team on those rare occasions when the nuns allowed us to play together. Most days I went to school with skinned knees and stubbed toes, and even a dislocated shoulder a couple of times when my brothers tried to teach me to wrestle.

This rite of passage was just another attempt to fit in with the boys, to be a part of my brothers’ group.

Now I was stuck on the wall, my leg trapped by a tree many years older than myself, and the dreaded Mr. H about to catch me. And my failure would reflect badly on my brothers, several of whom had left their scouting positions to try to help.

I knew what I had to do. “Catch,” I whispered to no one in particular and yet to all of them, and tossed the pear in their general direction trusting one would catch it. I closed my eyes, took a breath and leaned over the edge of the wall praying my free fall would sever the tree’s hold on me. I knew I risked injury, broken bones or maybe even death, but in that case my parents would be too worried to punish us, or so my eight year old mind insisted. Yes, I see the flaw in my logic now, but at the time it seemed like a good idea.

I prepared myself for that magnanimous sacrifice, in less than the second my fall lasted. I imagined how everyone would congratulate me on my bravery, how many tears would be shed for my injuries or death, how I would become a legend in our community. Where I expected to crash to the ground, I was instead caught by several pairs of hands. My brothers broke my fall, set me on my feet on the ground and damn near dislocated both my shoulders as they ran dragging me behind them.

We made good on our escape that day. And every summer after that until I was in high school, we would make our weekly raids on Mr. H’s house. Sometimes we escaped without being seen, other times he chased us down the street. He never caught us, and though he knew very well who we were and where we lived, he never told our parents.

I don’t know why. I never understood if he was playing with us or really angry.

As an adult, I was talking to one of the parents of my childhood gang, she told me we never needed to steal the fruit. If we had simply knocked on his door, Mr. H would have given us all the fruit we wanted.

The last time I was home, Mr. H had been gone for decades. The walls of his property were completely overgrown with ivy, extending far above the six foot walls. I have no idea if the trees of my youth even exist anymore.

But I think of them often, most especially as I look into my yard and see the deer, not children, jumping the fence to capture the precious pears from my trees.

Short Story
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About the Creator

CJ Flannery

I have been writing for over 50 years, just now getting the nerve to share my work. Be gentle in your critiques.

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