Peter was nice. Not so tall, erect, proportioned and with a tick foliage. Grandpa Gianni was so proud of him. He planted him in his field that fall when he finally retired. Oh no, Peter wasn’t his nephew! Peter was a pear-tree. Grandpa Gianni had just become a green thumb. He planted a cherry-tree to make his nephew happy, a peach-tree for grandma, an apricot that would keep the peach-tree company and a pear-tree. Pears were his favorite fruits: sweet and soft. He loved the chocolate and pear tart, the pear and mint jam and the strudel of pears and walnuts. The following year only the cherry-tree fruited: only one small cherry which did not have time to ripen because it was eaten by a blackbird that was staying in that orchard. But grandpa Gianni knew it took time, trees were young and they had to grow stronger. In fact after a year the cherry-tree made its cherries, the peach-tree its peaches and the apricot its apricots. Grandpa Gianni was waiting September to finally taste his pears. But Peter did not make pears. Not even the following nor the following year. The years passed and the cherry-tree, the peach-tree and the apricot made always their fruits, sometimes more sometimes less. So grandma became specialized in making cherry strudel, peach jam and apricots in syrup.
But Peter, nothing at all.
Came winter and pruning. Grandpa Gianni wore its old blue jacket, its wool cap and its gardening gloves, he took the shears and approached the pear-tree. He was so angry with it. He wanted to cut all its branches. “ Listen to me Peter!” yelled grandpa Gianni “if the next fall you do not do some pears, you will become firewood in the stove!”
You believe that trees have not ears. And you are wrong. Because the following year Peter made lots of pears, so many pears that the heavy branches touched the ground! Grandpa Gianni was finally happy. And also Peter, because it did not end up into the stove.