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“There are only 10 minutes in the life of [the average] pear when it is perfect to eat.” —Abraham Lincoln, amended by Ginny Neil
Text and Art by Ginny Neil
When we began renovating our farmhouse almost 40 years ago, the interior floors had sagged. There were no bathrooms. The old shiplap walls were covered in layers of filthy enamel paint or peeling layers of newspaper that had once served as wallpaper. The chimney leaned left.
Outside, an old outhouse tilted precariously in the side yard. The fence was mostly empty air, and the two pear trees that flanked either side of the front porch were gnarly and decrepit. Pear trees can live over 100 years. We finished our renovations to the house just as their fruit began to ripen.
The one on the right produced puckery pears. They needed to be picked and stored in the cellar to sweeten. Even so, the fruit was mostly inedible.
But the blushing pears on the left tree were firm, tart, and juicy, even when slightly underripe. I picked one, took a sun-warm, juicy bite, and the day was suddenly a little better. The pears from that tree were practically perfect. And, once picked, they ripened in the cellar to soft sweetness just right for canning or baking.
While the trees were still alive, I promised myself every year that I would try to graft the left-hand pear onto some rootstock so I could keep it. Life kept interrupting my good intentions. I never got around to finding someone to do the graft.
Then, the two elderly pear trees were converted into woodpecker condos. They toppled within months of each other.
I have been on the hunt for a wild pear that matched the practically perfect tree since it died. There are over 1,000 varieties of wild pear trees in the U.S., and they don’t grow true from seed. I stop along the road and pull fruit. I ask my neighbors if I can taste theirs. Some are too hard. Some too sour. Some too mushy. I have never found another one that seemed practically perfect.
Last September, I loaded the grandkids and some carrots into the side-by side and drove to the horses across the road so we could rub their noses. As we rode over the second hill in the back meadow, I spied a tree drooping under a load of blushing pears. We paused to pick a few. And we tasted them. They weren’t bad, so we picked some more and I dropped them behind the seat. Then I noticed every pear tree on the place was swooning with limb-loads of fruit. Suddenly the horses were less interesting.
We wove our way through a high meadow, stopping under each over-burdened tree to pull a few pears and taste them. We tucked the ones we liked in various places to keep them separate from each other. I put the second picking behind the seat on the left. Six more went into a cap. We dropped another half dozen in an old bag. I memorized where each had come from so I could write it down when we got home. Soon the grandkids were running ahead of the vehicle, scouting out trees and hollering for me to come.
We ate pears until we were sticky with juice, fed some to the horses, and then drove back to the farmhouse. I made tags for the location of each tree and matched them to the pears stashed in the corners, caps, and bags. For the next two weeks, I fed fresh pears to family members for opinions. I made tarts and crisps and flans. I placed some in the cellar to see how they ripened. One variety showed promise.
This year, a late frost fried the blossoms on the pear tree near my house. But location can be everything when it comes to fruit trees. Perhaps the one I loved in the meadow was protected by the hill rising to the west. Soon, the grandkids and I will choose a perfect fall day to ride over the hill and check. If there’s fruit, we will pick a bucket full.
Then, we’ll eat sun-warm pears until we are sticky with juice. We’ll feed some to the horses and rub their noses. We’ll carry the rest home to enjoy fresh, or baked in pies, crisps, tarts, and flans. I will call my friend who knows all about grafting and see what we can do about preserving the legacy of the practically perfect pear for the next generation. I won’t put it off this time.
The story above first appeared in our September/October 2026 issue.
