A Simple Pear
I went to the Farmers Market on Sunday. I was so excited... up early to make sure I didn't miss out on the lettuce, or blackberries, or nectarines. Lettuce I got, but alas, all the blackberries and nectarines are gone. The season is over. That must mean summer is coming to an end.
As much as I hate the oppressive heat, the even more oppressive humidity, and the endless mosquitoes of the South, it always strikes me as sad when summer comes to an end. Actually, it seems a bit humbling when we move from each season to the next, regardless of the time of year. It's like saying goodbye to a dear friend that we know we won't see again for quite some time. There is remorse in not having taken more time to enjoy the relationship and all that it had to offer (maybe another pint of blackberries perchance?).
At the same time, it clears our calendar, and our plates, for new friends. Sitting by the pool gives way to afternoon hiking in the mountains. And nectarines give way to pears.
So like I said before I became a bit nostalgic for the bounties of summer, I was at the Farmers Market on Sunday. There were all the usual subjects present. The lettuce people had my favorite Mizuna. Paul at Humble Heart was offering goat cheese crumbles... new for him. The large farms had peaches still and tomatoes, and some were starting to have apples and exotic pears. These were a bit promising.
But outside the pavilion, there was a man under the tree with his son. His son was maybe 6, and they both sat quietly in the shade, a card table sitting next to them. On the table were little purple pails of pears. They were no placards speaking of their organic nature. There were no labels touting exotic names. There was only one sign, handwritten, saying $4. But there was something special about these pears. something that didn't require advertising, or hard selling in a crowd of hungry suburbanites. They were quiet, and country, and reminded me of growing up Southern, drinking from the hose, and eating fruit fresh picked off the trees in old Mr. Hamilton's yard.
Today, I'm having one for lunch, on my lettuce, with my goat cheese crumbles and walnuts. Tomorrow I might bake one with cinnamon. It doesn't really matter. Pears keep long into the winter. The man that sold them told me that if you wrap them in newspaper and store them in cool darkness, they will keep for a year. At least that's what the old-timers told him. I choose to believe him. Because for all the attention-grabbing marketing and life-enhancing technology out there, sometimes the old fashioned ways - like paying attention to the changes of the seasons, or appreciating a simple thing like a fresh pair harvested just the day before - are best.
I have to comment and say you made my small-town heart sing with this post. Childhood summer was the best time of life and your blog made me think back on all those great, but simple memories. Building grass forts, drinking lemonade on the front porch and jumping into the cold creek from a rope on a tree. I think it is a fantastic reminder to all of us to slow down and remember the best things in life are simple, personal and come from the heart. Thanks for reminding us! Enjoy the pears.
Reply to this
Great story and I remember similarly summers taking long walks with my Grammy to pick fresh blackberries and pears from my aunts yard to make cobblers and preserves...makes me kinda hungry now..think I'll call my Grammy!
Reply to this