Many, many years ago I learned to can pears. My Christopher was only about 2 years old at that time. I remember thinking how magical this whole food preserving thing is. For a little hard work you can feed your family yummy summer goodness in the dead of winter. Of course, we now live in the year 2016 where you can pretty much buy any kind of fruit all year around. We ship it in from all kinds of exotic places. I am grateful for that. After all, I’d never know the taste of a pineapple or avocado since they don’t grow here in Oregon.

I feel such pride and joy when I put up food. I’m not even particularly a huge fan of pears, but I certainly won’t pass them by. We have a tree in our backyard where hundreds of pears have already fallen. My husband, a man who grew up in a family not given to waste, took it upon himself to get into that pear tree and start picking. We don’t have a ladder, but he came up with the idea of driving my Yukon under the tree then putting a plank of plywood across roof rack. When he had picked all he could from that spot, he climbed into the tree.

I laughed.

I laughed because I never thought I’d see him up in a tree.

I laughed because seeing him up there made me so happy. It’s another way of him loving me and providing for our family. We’ve picked strawberries and cherries together. Now he’s up there picking pears. (I”m really hoping we get to pick peaches soon. We missed the blueberry picking time.) He later asked me what he could do to help get them ready to can. Right now they have a little more ripening up to do, but then we’ll get to work on it.

Even now I laugh out of sheer happiness because he’s so willing to do these sort of things with me. This life with him is good.

That, my friends, is how day 90 of this amazing marriage started out.