My Great Grandfather build the second house on a major road that connects two cities.
He raised his family there- him, his wife, and his three children: Marion (a lover of theater), Jack (a solider and singer and big time romantic), and Patricia (a dancer). He had a turkey farm in his backyard. It had a reputation for excellence and come November, teachers from the local school would place their orders much to the embarrassment of his children. He stocked the land with pear and apple trees that grew poorly despite much love and attention.
When Jack and his wife Gloria moved next door and built their first home (my father's childhood home), they continued to farm the land each year. Corn and pumpkins rotated seasonally and were the talk of the neighborhood. The pear and apple trees produced only mottled fruit much to everyone's dismay.
When Jack and Gloria died within a four month span of each other, the farm changed hands and grew wild. I hate to think what my Grandfather would think if he saw all of his hard work gone to seed.
For the first time in anyone's memory, the apple and pear trees blossomed with ripe, healthy fruit. Stealing a bite, I encountered something sweet and pure and good. I know this is a good sign.
It was a gift from my father and his father and his father and it was just what I needed.
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