Unpacking the groceries this evening, as is my habit, I put aside a little of this and a little of that to snack on. I love tasting the fresh new flavours I’ve just brought home from the market. I finished putting everything away and somewhat distractedly I began to nibble, starting with a juicy bite of my first pear of the season.

Unexpectedly I was whisked away to another time; wonderful memories of years ago pulled me back to a day that repeated itself each year of my youth.

Freshly picked fruits were the reward of a long drive down the highway. Past the exit for church, past where we’d get off for Grandma Lawson’s house, beyond even the seemingly far-away cloverleaf exit for Grandma and Grandpa’s apartment.

On a Saturday morning the whole family was herded into the car. My four sisters and two brothers and our two brave parents then travelled southward to the orchards of the Niagara region. Once there the lot of us would tumble out, talking excitedly, anticipating a ride on the flat bed wagon pulled slowly between the rows of trees by a big red tractor with enormous black wheels. The aroma of fresh ripening fruit would fill the air. In spring we picked peaches; fall brought apples and pears.

We had a task of course; we were to collect fruit to take home for canning, and for jam and jelly. At first selecting the best of the crop felt exhilarating. We’d race about, not minding the soft over-ripe fruit squishing beneath our sneakers. Young voices would call out as we attempted to outdo one another, bragging about the superiority of each beauty we hand-picked.

Later, as we tired and grew bored with our assignment, and when our parents determined enough produce had been gathered to feed our hungry appetites for yet another year, we’d pile back on the tractor trailer. This ride was somewhat quieter; our earlier enthusiasm curbed by the pleasant but draining effects a full day of fresh air.

The ride home felt even longer, though a drowsy brother or sister might not agree, waking to find they were already home. Yawns replaced songs, and even bickering required too much energy.

A dinner of hot dogs was tradition on Saturday night, followed by a procession of baths and showers in preparation for church the next morning. Sleep would come quickly to our weary, happy family.

This 42-year-old adult savoured every bite of her first pear of this season.