Her name was Joan Goodrich. Every fall she collected the pears from the trees in her yard. So many that she could hardly keep up. I imagine they were even a burden to her in these last few years. She brought buckets of them to church, to be sold by the Presbyterian women at their October rummage sale. She passed away at the end of summer and yet, the pears still fell.
Someone delivered the pears to the sale. I brought my bucket home as I have the past four years. I peeled them, chopped them, and prepared the pie crust. Eleven times= the inquiries from my children, "When will the pie be ready?". Zero= how many pieces of pie left behind. Four= the number of our backyard chickens who gobbled up the peels and cores. I hope somehow Joan's spirit recognizes the fruits of her labor, the harvest that lives on.