A Partridge in a Pear Tree

It hung on a wall. By the family dining room table. A giant yellow-green pastel pear. It was gigantic.

Young Mary sat at the dining room table staring at the pear. Her dinner got colder. Her papa sat across the table finishing his casserole.

“Mary, your supper is no longer hot. Please eat.”

The young child turned her head towards her papa. And then back to the framed pear. It was a beautiful piece of art, fifty-four inches by sixty-two inches. Framed in a dark solid wood. Maria was mesmerized.

“Papa, is this pear from a pear tree?”

His head went up and down, nodding. Mary was only two-years old when they first started going to the pear farm at Niagara-on-the-Lake. He hoisted the young child onto his shoulders, and she gasped at her nearness to the fresh fruit. And then began to pick one pear at a time which he placed in satchel wrapped around his waist. They spent hours until Mary’s mother called to them.

It was father-daughter time. So in the interim Mary’s mother usually drove to the fruit stalls, and any stores that took her fancy. She brought back ice-cold lemonade for them both, along with a sandwich that father and daughter shared. It was always a beautiful moment.

Papa held those fond memories. When Mary was five-years old, her mother died. And so, did their pear picking expedition. Mary was now eight-years old. He wondered how much she remembered, of their pear picking, but also what she remembered of her mother.

Although their visits to the pear farm, and to Niagara on the Lake stopped. From that day forward, papa always sang about a partridge in a pear tree, and the gifts he gave his true love. Mary’s mother. And he drew the pastel pear which hung on their dining room wall. An artist at heart, he spent days creating this masterpiece.

“Mary, do you remember how we used to pick pears?”

Mary turned to her father and cocked her head to the right. She stared into her papa’s eyes and nodded.

“Papa, I remember a little. There were pear trees, and I sat on top of your shoulders. I loved that you picked me up.”

Papa had tears welling in his eyes. Mary continued.

“I picked pears papa.” And she pointed to the pastel pear. “Just like that one.”

He hugged Mary. “You have a good memory, my child. Do you remember anything else?”

Mary stared at the pear, and then at her father.

“Mama would come too. She would bring us the best, and coldest lemonade ever.”

Papa smiled at his child. He was so glad she remembered this memory. How long could she hold on to that thought, that loving memory. He hoped it would be forever.

“Papa we haven’t had lemonade in a really long time. Do you think we could have lemonade? What about picking pears? Could we do that again too? And share a sandwich?”

He was amazed at how much this child remembered. And he missed his wife. Who would bring them the cold lemonade, and sandwich with Mary’s mother gone?

She left their life. It was like she walked out of their lives by choice. But it wasn’t a choice. She died quite suddenly of a rare heart condition. They were lucky to have one child at all. Mary.

“Papa! Papa, can we?”

He hadn’t answered his child. Duke, their cat meowed in that moment of silence.

“See Papa, Duke wants us to go. Maybe he wants to come too.”

They both chuckled, and papa shook his head, yes.

“Of course, we can go pear picking. We’ll pack a cooler with lemonade, and sandwiches. And anything else you like.”

“Can I have a piece of chocolate too?”

He grinned. “Of course, my sweet child. But first, you must finish your supper.”

Mary grabbed her fork and ate spoonful after spoonful of the casserole knowing in her heart, she’d be back at the pear farm with her papa.