No Figgin’ Way

No Figgin’ Way

            The figs are slow to ripen this summer.

            Throughout the day, squirrels and birds scramble about my backyard fig tree, searching for mature fruit amid the tight-fisted, lime green clusters. For now, they leave with empty claws and gaping beaks. The figlets also are safe from predators like me who will harvest and convert them into sauces, jams, chutneys, and pies.

  The makings for refrigerator fig jam already are assembled in the portion of my brain devoted to cooking. Sugar, lemons, and vanilla extract sit on standby until the main ingredient makes itself ready for plucking.

I’ve grown to relish the daily sprints out back to check on my figs. For a few weeks each July, the business of gathering the fruit fills my days with purpose and my kitchen with a down-home deliciousness that satisfies my Southern soul.

I hate to think this year’s harvest could be my last.

The tree which produces this bounty came with the home I purchased a dozen years ago in my hometown of Macon, Georgia. The property, anchored by a 100-year-old Craftsman-style cottage, also boasted the remains of formal gardens and a trio of palmettos said to be as old as the house. The previous owner added strawberries, rosemary, and the fig tree to the mix.

The strawberries fell into mortal decline during my first summer here. The rosemary bush succumbed to the errant slash of a lawnmower blade. The fig tree, a Brown Turkey variety then about three feet tall, neither suffered nor thrived in its inaugural season of neglect.

The tree’s branches tower now above my head and produce fruit that must be grabbed early and late to avoid losing it to mockingbirds and robins. I’ve indulged in this twice-daily ballet for several summers now, racing out just after dawn to snatch a bowlful of fruit before the critters beat me to the punch. The ritual is repeated near dusk to catch any fruit that ripened during the day.

My life is rooted in the soil that nourishes my fig tree. Would either of us survive uprooting?

Across the miles a new landscape beckons. The suburbs of Denver, Colorado, are calling me to find a home in a climate where figs won’t grow well but personal and professional opportunities could take root and thrive.

My daughter, a Georgia-born geologist who moved west for graduate school, planted the seeds of relocation two years ago over a Christmas holiday visit to her home in Thornton, a suburb of Denver.

She repeated her desire to have me near during a brief visit there earlier this summer, even offering to build an “accessory dwelling unit” in her backyard. Housing costs in Colorado are far more than I can afford on a retired teacher’s pay. Rental rates are unstable in an area where the advertised price is merely a starting point for negotiation. Even the so-called “active senior living communities” have priced themselves out of my reach.

I might have to take Bonnie up on that Granny Pad.

The death of my older brother in 2021 left me isolated and alone in our shared hometown. Moving close to Bonnie and her husband, Tyler, would put me in the proximity of family and a thriving writing community in Denver and its environs.

Yet, what I’ve seen of Colorado so far appears as an alien landscape to eyes more accustomed to lush Southern vistas than to high desert prairies.

The suburbs of Denver feature various shades of brown interspersed with stands of evergreen conifers and pockets of well-watered neighborhood lawns. Bonnie contends that the greens of spring last about half an hour in May, then the vegetation reverts to its typical auburn pallet.

For variety, visitors and locals can visit Red Rocks Amphitheater to remind themselves that colors do exist in a state known for its low humidity and threat of fire. Or they may drive farther up into the mountains in the fall where the aspens paint the horizon with the vivid golds and yellows of autumn.

Those options seem both appealing and extra-terrestrial to me. My sensibilities are tuned to the scenes outside my kitchen windows in Georgia.

Beyond my double sink, a banana tree waves a gentle greeting every time I cross the threshold. Glance to the right and a holly bush tickles the window screen above the table, threatening to puncture the fine mesh with its next spurt of growth.

       And just visible through the back-door glass stands my fig tree, its branches reaching out to catch the sunlight. I may no more be able to uproot myself from this spot than I could expect my fig tree to survive the chopping of its roots.