Yesterday I think I caught a glimpse of at least some pears in our pear tree. If so, there should be a few whitetail deer seeking some freebies come autumn. Last year there was nary a fruit on the tree. I think a lack of pollinators was the problem. Nearly a decade ago, we had quite a few pears, and visitors, come mid-October.
autumn visitors to our pear tree
Photo by J. Harrington
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The driveway and yard under the bur oak are covered with acorns. They don’t look like they’re fully developed, but I’m far from an expert. So far there are
Today’s high temperature hasn’t yet reached 70℉ at mid-day. Hardly the kind of weather we expect in August. The forecast has us roller-coastering up into the low 90’s a couple of times over the next ten days. It feels as though we’re transitioning more than enjoying peak summer. We just haven’t yet reached a point at which I feel more energized than enervated. Maybe in a couple of weeks? By then the summer community supported agriculture season will have ended. Autumn shares will start mid-September, just before the equinox. Meanwhile, I’m slowly getting back into my routine of sourdough bread baking. Another loaf will go into the oven Friday or over the weekend. This time I think we’ll add some kernza flour for flavor.
Pear
after Susan Stewart
No one ever died for a biteof one, or came back from the deadfor a single taste: the cool fleshcellular or stony, whiteas the belly of the winter hareor a doe's scut, flicking,before she mates. Even an unripe oneis delicious, its crisp bite cleaneralmost than water and its many namesjust as inviting: Bartlett and Comice,Anjou, Nashi, Concordeand Seckel, the pomegranate-skinnedStarkrimson, even the medievalBosc, which looks like it droppedfrom an oil painting. It is not a sinto eat one, though you may thinkof a woman's body as you do it,the bell-shaped swell of itrich in your hand, and for this reasonit was sacred to Venus, Juno, all womencelebrated or dismissedin its shape, that mealy sweetnesstunneling from its center, a goldthat sinks back into itself with age.To ripen a pear, wrap it in paper,lay it in cloth by an open windowor slip a rotten one beside iton a metal dish: dying cells call alwaysto the fresh ones, the body'ssiren song that, having heardit once, we can't stop singing.This is not the fruitthat will send you to hellnor keep you there;it will not give you knowledge,childbirth, power, or love;you won't know more painfor having eaten one, or chokeon a bite to fall asleepunder glass. It has no usefor archer or hero, thoughanything you desire from an appleyou can do with the pear, like a dark sisterwith whom you might live outyour secret desires. Cook itin wine, mull it with spices, roast itwith honey and cloves. Time sweetensand we taste it, so gather the fruitweeks before ripeness,let summer and winter bothsimmer inside, for it isa fall fruit whose name in Chinameans separation, though only the fearfulwon't eat one with those they love.To grow a tree from seed,you'll need a gardenand a grafting quince, bees, a ladder,shears, a jug; you'll need waterand patience, sun and mud,a reverence for the elderswho told no true storiesof this fruit's origin,wanting to give us the freedomof one thing that's pleasure alone.Cool and sweet, cellular and stony,this is the fruit I'll never die for,nor come back from the deadfor a single taste.The juice of the pearshines on my cheeks.There's no curse in it. I'll eatwhat I like and throw the restto the grasses. The seedswill find whatever soils they were meant for.
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