Over the summer, we kept our eyes on a wild pear tree growing on the edge of a cow pasture near our home. When the time was right, we planned to ask the farm owner if it would be alright for us to pick the pears. The time to pick came suddenly, and the asking was opportune because the farmer was right out there on his tractor. So, we tromped up to him and asked. He was the most agreeable man I've ever met. He had his two little dogs riding behind him on the tractor.
He seemed pleased as punch that we were interested in them and gave us quick permission to pick to our pleasure, warning us that his electric fence went right by that tree. Being shocked by an electric fence is certainly not a pleasant experience, but it's not bad (in fact, it's a little interesting feeling) so we weren't worried. It was a double-fence, so crossing it proved to be difficult, but we managed it.
There were lots of pears on the ground, but there were still plenty on the tree, so Brian got up there and shook several to the ground. We took them home and they fairly filled up our back porch.
They're not that ripe, so they were difficult to cut, but we immediately set out to can them. I love canned pears. They were highly sought-after growing up, and although we made tons of them, we always ran out quickly. In fact, if I remember my Mom's story right, my brother used to hide jars of pears so that when the main supply ran out, he'd still have his own supply to draw from. They're yummy. We can them in a very light syrup: 1 1/2 C sugar and 3 T lemon juice to a gallon of water. It ends up just perfect. I don't have a water bath canner, so I hot-pack my fruit.