13 years later - Not Prepared for Pears

The year Alfred was born we planted a 5-in-1 pear tree at the side of the house. Seven years later it bore its first fruit. Not all five of the promised variants bore, and I still don't know which graft is which. Despite good intentions, like the rest of the grove, the pear has been neglected. Its location in an unseen semi-shaded side of the house doesn't help its cause. It's still alive. Every year I harbor romantic notions of attaching a bottle to one of the baby pears and having it grow inside, later to be supplanted with homemade pear brandy. It's been 13 years and it hasn't happened yet. I should go check on the pear tree. During the heat wave a couple of weeks ago I shot some water at it and the apples trees (which are another story). There was so much hope and vision when we first moved here 13 years ago. I read so much on local horticulture. Then I let so much die with neglect. Bastardy, be damned, it killed my garden. Give birth to a bastard nation, kill a community of plants. I still feel guilty.