Bosc & Bartlett

Apples. Crisp and sweet and deliciously red. I remember I tried to make a pie out of them but didn’t get too far. It was by all means a happy accident that I tried to make work, but I simply didn’t know enough about pie crusts and dough. I didn’t know enough about anything really, but it kept me busy, kept me working. Functioning in those four tiled walls with grease stains and the random cleaning marks from bleach that was too strong for dirt that was too old.

My hands had grown tired. They burned like the scouring brush scraping against my skin. Like when I put down the brush to squeeze lemon juice into the mix to only reveal the fresh cut there from chopping apples earlier.

Red. But not deliciously so.

It was just the beginning really. The beginning of a long journey that started with the faintest weakness on the tiniest part of me.

I decided to leave red behind one day, and opted for the succulent sweetness of pears. The knife had to go. The scouring brush and bleach needed to be tucked away. The lemons ended up getting zested, and those old stained tiles of the kitchen could only be forgotten.

Me and all my failures (so vivid they have faces of their own now), were going to plant a tree.

I got in my car and watched the tiny levels in my dashboard go up.

15. 25. 40 .64. 75. 80.95…

The wind whipped through my hair. I was a speed junky again pushing past everything around me. While my engine was long overdue for an oil change, my car’s engine was doing just fine. The leather was still reminiscent of juniper and patchouli with the faintest hint of moist tobacco leaves. While strong and pure, its scent was masked by that fake pine tree that swung back and forth in so many peoples cars. With each sway, it held my secrets. It recalled every time I broke the law to drive like a maniac under the guise of a perfectly sane woman with a sweet smile and coffee stained teeth.

My car knew me. My glove compartment could guess my credit score. My seatbelt knew how stubborn I was. My rear view mirror saw right into my soul. It knew exactly how many times I checked to see what was behind me, and completely missed what was right in front of me.

All these mirrors. All these smells. All the money and energy to maintain this large piece of machinery that had so many hidden compartments, and all I needed to forget them was speed. One long press on the gas pedal is all it took to throw out their wisdom. Speed to destroy it all.

Not today though.

110. 95. 85. 70…

It wasn’t lost on me that while I drove a car that was perfectly maintained, I was not so. I smiled the smile every person learns to show they are content. I learned all the greetings. I had the titles. The education. The tone. And yet…every manual and office meeting and deadline and sales goal, nights I celebrated, days I cried, tears I wiped, people I hugged, people I loved, could not prepare me for this.

This was the hand that reached out in the night and scarred you as a kid. This was the shadow behind your goals and plans. The fear. The reason we’ve all said “because I don’t want to end up like that,” or “that way,” after explaining our reasons for making the wisest choice we could.

My car is fine. But my apple pie was not and now, this old landscaper was sneering at me.

"You gonna plant a pear tree from scratch?” He scratched the white hairs on his neck. They were brittle and coated thick skin that was too red and too dry. Despite the odd look he gave me, I decided I liked him.

"Are you going to tell me a better way?”

"Loads better. Stay here, miss. I’ll be right back.”

I sighed but nodded. I didn’t know what I was doing. I straightened my blazer and leaned on the counter.

The air was clean but it was hard not to be overwhelmed by the various scents of florals that forced their way into my nostrils. The colors were beautifully arranged so it was impossible to get stuck in one hue for too long. The orange from marigolds, fuchsia from petunias, the pink of hibiscus, the flash of poppy red, and some I didn’t care to linger on too long. I was out of my element. Gardeners passed me in shorts and sneakers and eyed my habitual black slacks suspiciously. My clothes and posture weren't right here. I wasn’t one of their regulars, loyal customers who hovered over plants, and leaned heavily on one leg from carrying too many bags of mulch and topsoil.

I looked away and flicked through more seed packets when the sunburnt man returned to me. In one hand he held what I could only surmise was to be my baby tree.

He placed it down on the counter in front of me and then surprised me with a second.

“Meet Pyrus Bartlett and Pyrus Communis Bosc, better known as the pears you’ll pick up from the average grocer. The Bartlett is sweet and juicy while the Bosc pear is sweet but more firm, great for salads. They grow out easier in tree form and will shave off a few years of waitin’ for them to sprout fruit.”

I put down the small seed packs and took in the four to five feet baby trees perched on the counter. The soil was wrapped at the base in a mesh like cloth while the branches elegantly stretched out their arms that were accompanied by full green leaves that swayed easily against the gentle breeze that flew through the nursery.

"Why two of them?”

He wrapped his arms around the mesh bases like he was caressing a woman.

"Think of these two like partners.”

I couldn’t keep the frown off my face.

"The Bosc tree here is self-fertile. Helps with pollination…that is..so your tree can bear fruit better. While the Bartlett may make a sweeter harvest but needs a little help. The Bosc tree backs up the Bartlett. Just plant them together and if you treat them with love- er, follow the care guide - you’ll be growing them pears by next summer. Alright?”

"Right.”

No. Not alright, but what did I really have to lose?

The dirt felt good in my hands, moist and rich. I found myself rubbing it all the way up to my elbows. I planted Bosc and Bartlett close together. I never got to have a partner. I was too busy chewing down on iron and trying to spit out honey. I figure it’s what we all do in life while we can.

I smoothed out the topsoil and patted the trunk bases down. It was like tucking in little blankets. I pushed the bitter thoughts from my mind and went back to bed. The red was creeping up again, as it would time and time again as I went to feebly tend to my pear trees.

The man in the nursery was an angel who unknowingly gave me a gift through simple wisdom. I wanted to see something grow. Something become once more. In the months passing, despite what new sensation developed in me for the worse, I got to see each leaf sprout with vicious anticipation I scarcely had the strength for.

When it got cold, I took extra pills and layered myself to sit outside and read to my baby pear trees even in the night. Gardener blogs suggested talking to them kindly, but as I didn't have much to say, I figured a story was as good as anything. During the peaks of summer and impending climate change, I took to watering my trees even more so they could survive. I fought off infestations like a mad woman with an array of pesticide sprays I barely knew how to use.

Soon I would need my neighbors to help prune them. With August’s arrival, the pear trees gave their first ready fruit for harvest.

I sat holding myself in front of them. The sun’s rays were pouring through the leaves, turning them from forest green to lime. My neighbor's kids plucked the last few pears left dangling. They smiled and waved at me.

I was leaving my home tomorrow. All those stained tiles and memories, bittersweet and fragile, would soon be fragments of another person’s existence. Someone I was still trying to get over. My car was already sold and the new homeowners would take what was left of everything. Only this pear tree will remember the times we spent together. All I was, and the soil-smeared tired woman I became making them grow. Sunburned and sweating in heat waves. Shivering like a fool in snow storms. Weak and fading from life’s own viscous inclinations and yet... the fruit was the sweetest I’d ever tasted.