When I was a boy, we had a pear tree in the back yard of our rented house. The tree was never sprayed, so it fell victim to every type of insect and blight. In late summer when the pears ripened, they fell off the tree and landed in a mushy heap on the ground below. There the wasps and flies gathered to feast on the sugary corruption. In spite of this unsavory memory, I have always liked pears when they are ripe, chilled and free of defect. Their flesh is firm, slightly grainy, rich with sugars. Their shape reminds one of the breasts of a nubile wench eager for new experience.

    In October the apples hung heavy from trees, chilling in the frosty night. I would park my bicycle and slip into the nearby orchard and pick a prize specimen. The fruit was at its peak, solid, and when I bit into it there was a loud snap as the bite separated into my mouth. The juice spurted cold onto my lips and ran off my chin, tasting of nectar and summer's sunshine. The flesh of the apple was crisp and firm, tart and sweet at the same time, with the unmistakeable bouquet of autumn.

    The pears and apples were metaphors. The old town was built upon the fertility of the land surrounding it, but it was corrupt with the wealth of the rich who had taken much and paid little back. Still, the land kept giving, and there were common people I knew who did give back, and in their humble but solid endeavors provided the example for the generations of the future.