Only a half dozen acres were left of the once large farm. Over the years the descendants of the one who actually farmed had sold off the land, acre by acre, tract by tract, as financial needs or lavish yearnings demanded. The parson now walked the remaining parcel checking on the status of things for the owner.
Overgrown and empty were the adjectives. Shrubs had not been trimmed in years; paint was flaking on once proud dwellings. Only a whisper of more prosperous and joyous times remained.
Survey completed the parson was headed to his car when he saw it. Reaching from beneath the overgrown hedge, the uniquely shaped leaf stretched toward the sun in a desperate attempt to survive in a hostile world. How had it gotten here? Was it a shoot from a root of a once proud but now gone tree? Whatever its origin, it reminded the parson of other times and other places.
He was a wee boy when he first became aware of the massive fig tree growing behind his grandfather’s workshop. Originally, it was one tree, but when he became aware of its presence in the yard it was two, one having grown from the roots of the first. The parson’s grandfather treasured that tree. Mostly, he treasured the fruits that came from that tree.
It became the parson’s assigned task to keep the fruits the tree bore safe from the fig destroying jay birds. His was the task of sitting on the stool beside the open window that looked out into the tangles limbs of that massive tree/shrub for hours. Across his young lap rested the .22 rifle. At the approach of any winged villain intent on attacking one of those purple orbs of sweetness he slowly raised his rifle, took aim, and fired.
The jay birds and other winged creatures were unable to wreck their havoc upon those fruits as long as the parson was on duty. Actually, he could never recall having actually shot a bird, but that rifle made a lot of noise.
When his Mama died all the cousins headed for house to divvy up the objects of memory. The parson, however, went straight to the back yard, to a spot behind his grandfather’s old workshop. The tree, now ancient, stood proud with its limbs spread over a whole corner of the yard. The parson’s horticulturist wife dug in the ground and cut a root from the tangle.
She nursed that root in some secret concoction in the parson’s workshop for months. And on the appointed day they planted it. The first year it seemed but a twig, always in danger of being trampled. In two years it was chest high. In four years it began bushing out, conquering territory. And the fifth year of its transplant there was produced three purple fruits. The parson picked one, one day, and sat down on the front porch of their cabin. In a slow motion born of anticipation he moved the fruit toward his mouth. He bit. The sweet juices trickled down his chin creating a joyful memory of childhood days enjoying the fruits of his protection. On a following day the other two figs became the highlight of breakfast.
The parson’s wife died a few months later. When later he married Ms. Parson, he sold the cabin, and with it the fig tree. His was not the ability to nurse it through another transplant.
The weather is changing now. As the parson drove home he began to wonder if that tree still thrives. He wondered if those folks who bought the house would allow him one slow, dripping, sweet bite.
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i have a fig tree... i don't have it for any reason other than to be able to walk outside... pick figs and eat them. what i don't eat... the birds... and my scottie eat.
see if the family who lives there now will let you take another cutting... and use Root Tone powder... to help it grow roots... then plant it outside. the old timey figs are better than the trees they sell in most places today.
Posted by: Beach Walkin | March 22, 2010 at 07:58 PM