A Fig Fest

A fig tree (ficus carica) grows into the elbow of our second-story deck. Tall and robust, it is fulfilling a promise honed across a winter of silence, a perky spring, and a June and July dedicated to puffing up its green marbles into squatty, purple figs. Now it hosts a swarm of bees and a chorus of monarch butterflies, all rejoicing in figgy abundance.

Viewing it this warm morning from my favorite chair on the deck, the tree seems to have been planted specifically to host famished winged creatures who can finally intoxicate themselves with sweet, drippy pulp.

Even though not a cookie person, I made peace with Fig Newtons as a child. They smelled nice, made few crumbs, and their level of sweetness didn’t require immediate follow-up from the water fountain. But I had no idea what an actual fig really looked like, not until I moved here. Nor did I realize how luscious they were to the nose, mouth, and eyes.

Ripe figs appeal to all of the senses. The texture when you bite into them is unlike any other fruit I know (firm, yet soft, stringy, and dancing with minuscule crunchy particles). Their color is gorgeous, a shade of purple that probably has a poetic name. And oh, what a fragrance! You can smell the figs across our yard into the neighbor’s yard (and our houses aren’t all that close together).

So if the seasons are a four-act drama, I’m pretty sure that the fruition of the fig tree serves as the climax of the play. To watch the story unfold from our deck is one of the many pleasures we’ve discovered living here in North Carolina. And while our deck is small—we joke that it is more like a perch—it parks us above one of the biggest blessings of the house: a yard that jumps right out of my Virginia childhood. It is wide, deep, sloping, shaded by towering trees, and rimmed by a palate of flowering bushes like hydrangeas, azaleas, wild roses, peonies, rhododendrons, camellias, and gardenias. Back in North Central Texas, that collection would have blossomed only at a nursery (and an upscale one at that).

So this morning here I sit, mesmerized, not wanting to rise or work. I just want to listen to the tremolo of bees that flit between the ripe figs. They move like a virtuoso melody above the dull bass of someone’s lawn mower a few blocks away. I suppose the butterflies make sounds too, but I cannot hear them. Once in a while, a bird darts through, crashing into the figs and racing away in a frenzy.

Watching all this, I think about the state many modern children are in. They are learning their facts about nature filtered through a web of trendy social ideas. But they rarely see what nature weaves. High schoolers may speak superficially about climate issues and ecological resources, but can they distinguish an oak from an elm?

A number of authors have addressed this “nature deficit disorder” in excellent articles and books, but solving the problem will take more than the printed word. Furthermore, the longer our children go without contact with real nature (including understanding where their food comes from and how excruciatingly difficult it is to produce it), the worse the situation becomes.

As part of the solution (this is a frivolous, but perhaps has some substance), what if we all began re-describing things as they once might have been described? After all, through most of human history, the natural terrain and its verdure served as primary landmarks. Maybe we could reprogram the GPS to say, “At the next cluster of pampas grass, turn left.” Or, “After passing a narrow grove of pecan trees, look over the ridge and, set back from the line of cedars, you will have reached your destination.”

Or, what if real-estate descriptions were to read: “Three-bedroom, two-bath house, planted lavishly on the north side in pines, oaks, and oversized Japanese maples, on the east with a sprinkling of crepe myrtles and two large magnolias, and featuring a southern fence line abounding in lilacs and honeysuckle.” If that were the system when we bought this house, our fig tree would have commanded this description: 

The centerpiece of the property is a gorgeous, sturdy fig tree that will, in late August, supply nutrition to a mass of critically needed bees and butterflies while guaranteeing you an ideal focal point for entertaining on the deck.

 

Despite the warm weather in most place, the crashing cymbals of winter lie a few page turns away. It won’t be long until we read about an early snowfall in the Rockies. Let’s get outside as much as we can to drink it all in. There will be time enough in the winter to fill our senses with landscape paintings, poems, and ancient songs that extoll nature’s glories. Right now, her real beauties call us to a feast.