pears ovenbird During a heated game of Scattergories my son insists that “pear picking” is a legitimate hobby. Debate ensues. We let him take the point but only because my daughter got away with “Farden” as a boy’s name earlier. But why not? I imagine myself heading out the door in a bright summer dress with a basket swinging from my arm. “Oh! I’m just going pear picking!” I would say, and then disappear into an afternoon of leisure. Because “pear picking” is what you say when you have no plan at all. It’s what you say when you leave the dishes in the sink and forget the heaps of laundry and go out into the world to see what stories find you. It’s what you say when you have no intention at all of accounting for the hours. You will fill your basket with wildflowers and crabapples and pinecones. You’ll stare out over the water and count the Mallard ducklings paddling through the reeds. You’ll snack on wild strawberries and come home sticky with the day’s sweet sap. And when they ask where you’ve been you’ll smile and say, “I’ve just been pear picking” and no one will ask you why you never come home with a single pear. 260722 what's it to you? who go blather from