The Bald

Atop some of the Appalachian mountains is a curious ecological phenomena. Balds, they call them. Mountaintop fields of grass and flowers where there should be trees. There’s plenty of theories as to what may have caused them, but no definitive answers. That, of course, is not what we’re here to talk about. It is simply important to note their existence, as that is where this story takes place.

In the middle of one of these balds, on a lesser mountain or perhaps just a very large hill, sat a tree. A somewhat lonely life, as trees go, with no companions to speak of, the rustling of their leaves only the faintest whisper at that remove. But the tree was happy enough, once upon a time. Going there now, you would see the tree perched atop its domain, and, if you looked closely, you might notice the foundations of a small house, stone and mortar pitted and crumbled by age, hidden beneath the grasses and slowly encroaching soil. But, once, that small house was inhabited by an old man and his family. The man lived all his life in those hills, but once, as a young man, he had visited the city and made good money selling the products of his livelihood. And while he had been there, flush with cash and that boundless energy of a youth unfettered by his family for the first real time, he had indulged, buying a piece of fruit. A sweet pear, crisp and delicious, the juices running down his chin and sticking the hairs of his beard together something fierce.

All the long wagon ride back, he snacked on that pear. Deliberately taking it slow, each bite small and delicate, each mouthful savored. Finally, all too soon, and well before the ride was done, he was left with nothing but the core and the stem. Carefully, he tucked the seeds into his pocket, licked his fingers and dreamt of the pear, until finally he was home. With the taste of the pear and freedom still filling his mouth, and the heft of cash still in his pocket, he announced to his family that he was moving out, and just a few days later he began building the house on the top of the bald.

Before the foundations were even laid, he planted those pear seeds. Poetic, in a way, that they were there before the house, and now one remains even after the house has all but faded away. And as the frame of the house slowly rose, so too did one of the seeds sprout and rise alongside. The man couldn’t have known that pears aren’t true to seed, that is to say, the pears that tree would, years later, give fruit to would not taste or even look the same as the pear he had enjoyed on that late summer day. He was fortunate though, or perhaps just stubborn or seeing the world through rose tinted glasses, for, when finally the tree did bear fruit, he thought the pears it produced were even sweeter.

And for many late summers and many early falls, he enjoyed the pears the tree produced. And the tree, in turn, enjoyed the look of simple bliss that would cross his face with each first crisp bite, and the tree enjoyed watching the man, in his own way, bear fruit too. A wife that joined the little household, their little children that would ride on the shoulders of the man and pull down pears for them both to enjoy. Often the tree would look on as the woman would poke he head out of the small house and shout about them ruining their supper, as the man and child would scamper off, the child giggling and the man letting out gales of laughter as the woman would sternly shake her head and turn away to hide a smile before stepping off the porch and grabbing a pear of her own. Many more summers and falls passed, the children each returning with pockets full of cash and announcing their own plans to move out, the man and woman graying and wrinkling and settling into their frames, comfortable with each other. Eventually, the man was stooped and walked with a cane, struggling to reach the pears on his own. His children visited, from time to time, and, when the season was right, would pass him a pear before grabbing their own, or sometimes they’d bring a small child and the ancient ritual of shoulder passing would come to pass again. But as the parents aged and their children’s visits became less frequent, wrapped up as they were in their own busy lives, the tree could sense a change coming, like clouds on the horizon or that shift from fall to winter. One day, all the children visited at once, and the grandchildren too, and when they left they took the old man and woman with them.

For five late summers and five early falls, the tree produced its pears, waiting on the old man or the children to come and remark on how sweet they were. But no one visited the bald, and, though it’s brothers had never pierced the soil and its neighbors were nearly out of sight over the rim of the mountain, the tree felt lonely for the first time. But it continued to produce pears, for surely this would be the time they came back.

Then, for the next few seasons, the tree produced pears that were wizened and sour, then no pears at all. If they came back now, they’d get a surprise for leaving it! But still, no one came, and even those bitter pears fell from the tree and rotted around its base.

And again, the tree turned its energy to producing the best pears it could. Sweeter, crisper, even more shapely than ever before. With perfect yellow skin and white interiors, weighty enough to droop the branches, absolutely prolific, a bumper crop for season after season. For surely, the tree thought, this would entice them back. But still, no one came, and even those sweet, perfect pears fell from the tree and rotted around its base

For many seasons after that, so long that the tree lost count, it produced just a few pears a year. Not those bitter pears, but also not the perfect, platonic pears. Just pears that the old man would have been perfectly happy to eat, all that time ago, but now there was no energy in it for the tree. No joy in producing the pears, no anger in keeping them from being produced. Just nature running its course, the seasons happening to the tree rather than the tree making the season.

Then, finally, the tree roused itself from its malaise. It knew now, deep down, that the old man wouldn’t be coming back. But as it had slumbered, producing those few pears, it had slowly come to realize that the pears it produced weren’t just for the man. That, as they lay among its roots, they fed field mice and ants. Occasionally a deer would reach those lofty heights and blissfully eat its fill- and then some- of the pears, before stumbling down the side of the mountain. The tree began to settle into its frame, comfortable now in its place, no longer lonely, but keenly aware of the proliferation of life around it. The little house slowly decayed away, until even the foundations lay pitted and crumbling, just as they are now. And, just a few special times, some of those grandchildren have found their way to that bald, remarking on how it was just the same, and plucking a pear as they had so many seasons ago. They’d turn then, slowly walking back down the side of the mountain, juice running down their chins as the pear tree whispered, leaves rustling to itself that they would ruin their supper.