A rain of pears

 A rain of pears




     Just a mention of Uncle Hank's farm put me into scenes from the good old days in Paso Robles. This is one of Greg's favorite stories and as I have heard it butchered by some before I want to set the record straight. A great bit of Creason archiving is the historic 8 mm film of our visit to the farm back in 1955 which is full of the essence of  Paso Robles farm living. There was a large barn that was home for about a dozen milk cows that had to be milked earch morning early. There was a corral attached to the barn where Carl the bull roamed and Dandy the horse had a stall. Not far from the other side was a cinder block structure that contained a rudimentary but very effective Sulphur hot springs bathhouse where visitors could sink into relaxation unknown in the big city. Far beyond that point was the water treatment facility with stories attached for later. Near the farmhouse there was a wood shed and vegetable garden and across from the back porch was a modest grape arbor. The main part of the compound contained the chinchilla hutch, a garage where an old Plymouth sat and a milk room where the products of the mornings milking would be just poured from buckets through cheesecloth into milk cans that would be taken to a buyer in town who then bottled and delivered the products. Under a huge oak tree there was an outbuilding that was constructed to house the boys when they were young. You took some steep wooden stairs up to the room where some Pogo comic books were under the bed. It smelled like camping gear up there but it was exciting to be free from adult interruption. Behind the outbuildings were some orchards and one productive one was for Bartlett Pears which figure prominently in this story. The wonderfully delicious bartlett pears are in season in late Summer and early Fall so their availability coincided with our Summer holiday. While the home movies do not show the family near the orchards there are hilarious shots of BC  in a suit posing near the tractor out in the sort of front yard. Stephen is about 12 or 13 and a real wise guy who was encouraged by his peers to "be funny" and he was for the most part. However, the sad time was at hand and we were leaving the farm to head home with a glum father and Mom who enjoyed the freedom of the farm life where she did not have to ride herd on us or make dinners. Uncle Hank had risen early and picked several large cardboard boxe of unripe, green pears that could be transported all the way back to LA and be ready to eat in maybe a week. They were packed into the back portion of the station wagon we were driving with little room for anything else. Leaving the farm entailed a long drive down a dirt road and then another portion of unpaved street before reaching the big highway. BC was in a dark mood and ordered Stephen to roll up a window as we traversed the dirt road. The smart-ass pre-teen took it as safe to sass the old man which was never a good idea. BC responded by stomping on the brakes and turning in a fury to strike big brother for his transgression. The problem was that when he jammed on the brakes violently a wave of fast moving green pairs were ejected out of the back and pelted the pissed off father right in the puss. Even when the rain of pears ceased there was so much confusion and damage to the fruit that Stephen escaped just this one time the wrath of the boiling BC.



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