FIELD NOTE 3.60 - Bradford pears.

I don't know what made me do it but this afternoon I found myself typing my home address into Google Maps. A few minutes later I found myself clicking on the "Street View" for Smokey Road and clicking my way down the street I have always known and past the familiar houses and driveways. When I finally reached my own driveway I couldn't quite make out my house for all the pine trees in the way, but the front yard was enough.
Those 10 Bradford pear trees lining the front yard are as familiar to me as the house itself and I found myself sitting there in my dorm room looking at the one to the left of the driveway whose branches had practically all be ripped down by Hurricane Isabel, the one we weren't sure would survive or not. But we had painted its scars with spraypaint and prayed for the best. It's still there, its scars visible but blooming.
I hadn't really realized until that moment just how much I had missed the comforting sight of those Bradford pear trees - even missed the sight and horrible smell of their white blossoms. But here there are no Bradford pears. The residence's parking lot is filled with cherry trees that are now blooming, their pink blossoms and perfume filling the mornings. And I think how funny it is that I would trade all their color and delicate scent for a single horribly-scented Bradford pear blossom.