Perhaps I have grown more tolerant (cue explosive laughter from people who know me intimately).
The pears used to irritate me, too.
I hopped right onto the informed bandwagon of anti-pearism.
Bradford pears, callery pears - Pyrus calleryana - are an approved New York street tree. You can request one for your block. But they have weak crotches. That still makes me smile. Their limbs split. They drop onto cars and are ripped off by buses. Not good in high winds. Like the ones we had on Sunday. In fact when I heard the wind I thought I'd better post my pear pictures fast, before they are downed.
And people say they smell like fish. That is where I draw the line. They do not smell like fish.
These pears, above and below, are all in our immediate hood. I have known them for over a decade. And now I like them (again). Let's not plant more. But let's not despise what is not despicable.
In these days of Syria and Paris and Pakistan and Ankara and Belgium and Zuma and Trump and melting everything - railing against a non-native pear tree seems a privilege.
Sure. We could plant native trees in their stead. We could also be living in shacks made out of cardboard. I know. Not a very intelligent argument. But it's all I've got. It's exhausting seeing every side of a thing. I'll be better tomorrow.
I took these photos over the last four days.
There. I have run out words three photos from the end. Now what?
Walk home along Court Street, I guess.
Happy to know where I am going to sleep tonight.
Under a shower of impossible petals.