The roots of this story are grounded in the backyard of my childhood home – literally. I grew up in Memphis, Tennessee, in the region called the Mid-South, known for its slow-paced living and temperate climate. Life seemed more leisurely then, less pressured than today. Maybe it’s just the difference between an adult’s and a child’s perspective, but it seemed that people had time to work and time to relax and recharge. The relaxation component is something that’s touted today as essential to our well-being. It even has a name – work-life balance – and nowadays, people actually have to schedule downtime to make sure that it happens.
My parents were
both Southerners, by location and by temperament. They enjoyed their family,
their friends, their shul, their neighbors, and they appreciated having a
comfortable house in which to raise their children. They also both liked to
cultivate other growing things. My mother was an expert at nurturing
houseplants and had a genuine knack for encouraging the most reluctant of
plants to grow and flourish. She also managed to coax her plants to mature
enough to produce magnificent flowers. My father’s domain was the outdoors, and
he relished the opportunity to enhance our corner lot yard with not only hardy
foundation trees and shrubs but also blooming bushes and an assortment of
colorful flowers. I remember abundant hydrangeas, multi-hued azaleas, and
majestic coxcombs, among others. Those graced both our front and side yards.
Taking the place of honor in our backyard were two towering and productive fig
trees, which provided not only delicious fruit but also a shady bower for our
dogs during the hot summer days.
We lived in that
house for 13 years, and when we moved to be closer to our shul’s new location
in a different part of town, my father transplanted several of his flowers and
plants. He also took cuttings from the fig trees and planted them in a
prominent place in our new backyard.
After a few years,
the fig tree that grew from those cuttings proved to be a prolific producer of
sweet, aromatic fruit. By the time I married and left home, it towered several
feet over our heads, and picking the figs from the higher branches required the
use of a stepladder. The yearly harvests were quite impressive; from August to October,
my parents enjoyed collecting the fruit several days a week. They generously
shared the bounty with friends and neighbors, and we had plenty to eat, both
fresh from the tree and as preserves for later use. I recall many days when the
kitchen counters were covered with figs from the week’s harvest.
The fruit on fig
trees ripens gradually over a number of weeks, and every day there are newly
ripened figs. They have to be picked as soon as they are ready; otherwise, they
over-ripen and spoil. The birds and squirrels had a stake in the game. It was
sometimes a competition to see who would be the first to claim the ripe figs –
my father or the wildlife. My father quipped that he had an agreement with the
birds: He would take only the figs from the lower branches, and they could have
the ones higher up. The squirrels, he averred, could have the ripe ones that
fell to the ground.
* * *
My mother
predeceased my father by five years. My father remained in their home after her
death, and whenever we visited in the summer, we joined him in his daily check
of the tree. When he passed away, we closed up the house where he and my mother
had lived for 40 years, leaving behind decades of wonderful memories. Before we
left the house for the last time, one of my brothers and I remembered one more
thing we wanted to keep – we each took several cuttings from the fig tree,
packed them carefully for air travel, and went back to our respective homes.
I did some hasty research on transplanting fig
cuttings and did my best to follow directions. I don’t have the same affinity
as my parents had for nurturing plants, but I hoped that a little of their knowledge
had rubbed off on me. I carefully put the cuttings atop my fridge, keeping the
cut edges slightly moist, hoping that they would sprout roots. After a couple
of weeks, some of them looked promising, so I moved them to a small planter and
covered the roots with soil. I kept them inside until they seemed stable. Then,
when spring warmed the air, I put them into a larger pot outside on my deck.
Not all the cuttings survived this initial period, but at least half were still
healthy and looked viable. When they seemed strong enough, I looked for a
suitable place in my yard to transfer them into the ground.
I found what I
determined to be the ideal spot – a place where my future tree could deepen its
roots, spread its branches, and drink up the rays of the afternoon sun. It was
also clearly visible from my kitchen window, a definite bonus in my book. It
was, I thought, the perfect spot for a fig tree. To my dismay, and unbeknownst
to me at the time, it was also the perfect spot for our neighborhood deer to
spy it and claim it as their own.
* * *
Before moving to
Baltimore and settling into our house, I knew nothing about the appetite or
gastronomical preferences of the white-tailed deer. The first few years of
living in our house did not prepare me sufficiently for the animal-versus-human
tug-of-war that was to come. Most of the homes in our neighborhood have
spacious yards and plenty of trees and shrubs. There are also woodsy areas
sprinkled throughout the area, remnants of what was undoubtedly the habitat of
deer in years gone by. As the community grew in size and numbers, the demand
for more housing increased. Formerly verdant swatches of land were developed,
and slowly but surely, the resident wildlife was pushed out of its territory
and forced to share space and resources with the ever-increasing numbers of human
settlers.
As deer
sanctuaries dwindled, a marked change occurred in the flowers, bushes, and
trees that previously grew in blissful ignorance of predatory animals. Almost
all varieties of annual flowers that I was used to planting in the early spring
now fell prey to the ravenous deer. Gone were my impatiens. Gone were my portulaca.
Gone were my pansies. And certainly gone, the moment they appeared, were my
tulips. In addition to the flowers, the bountiful shrubs around our house fell
victim to the voracious deer appetites. A curious effect was visible on many of
the shrubs. The deer denuded the branches only as high as their mouths could
reach; the tops of the bushes were untouched, creating a cupcake-like
appearance of bushes with bare branches below and green foliage on top.
My initial
response to the issue was to select only deer-resistant varieties of flowers
for my spring planting, and for the most part, that worked. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been taken by
surprise, but somehow it didn’t occur to me that deer would also like figs and
fig trees – as in let’s–eat-every-bit-of–green-that-appears-on-this-luscious-looking-little-tree
type of liking.
I had high hopes
for the small fig-tree-to-be, but it faced some life-threatening challenges
almost as soon as it was transplanted into the ground. And this was without
taking the deer into account! At first, I planted it without protective
barriers as I assumed (wrongfully as it turned out) that it would be able to
hold its own in my yard. After the fledging tree’s first negative encounter
with the deer, I placed a tomato stake around it to discourage such behavior.
How naïve I was! The deer simply reached through the rungs to pluck off the
tasty young leaves.
Shortly after the
fig tree’s transplant, we encountered an issue with a different tree in our
yard. A once-magnificent oak tree, standing unobtrusively at the back of our
property, had died. It was not in danger of falling, as attested to by an arborist
we called in to examine it. However, our backyard neighbors, whose house was
closer to the tree, were concerned about what might happen to their house if
the tree became unstable and fell. They asked us to remove the tree, and we
decided that, for the sake of shalom, we would do so. That’s the reason that,
not long after, a truck drove up our driveway into our backyard to position
itself for the tree removal. Surprisingly, the truck driver failed to see the
young fig tree directly in his path and drove right over it, knocking it down
without even noticing. Horrified at the offense, I rushed out to rescue the
tree, realigning it and gently setting it back in its place. I also informed
the truck driver, who at least expressed some regret and assured me that he
would certainly avoid the tree on the way out!
* * *
For the first few
years, as fall got underway and the temperature began to drop, I prepared the
tree for the winter cold. It was still so fragile, and I didn’t think that it
would survive the Maryland winter. I packed the sapling with fallen leaves from
our yard, covered the top of the vegetable stake with a hard plastic bowl, and
wrapped the entire thing in burlap, securing the fabric with duct tape on the
sides and with stakes driven into the ground.
Every year, as
spring rolled around and the weather climbed above the freeze mark, I uncovered
the tree to see how it had fared. It was always a surprise, but, somehow, each
year there were tiny green buds at the tips of some branches, informing me that
the tree had survived another winter. Throughout the spring, the tree would
increase in height by several inches, and leaves would sprout. I placed an
additional stake above the original one to accommodate this growth, but
apparently, I hadn’t provided enough protection on the sides. As soon as the
deer discovered the leaves, they would help themselves to a few bites and
damage the struggling tree.
The next deterrent
I tried was chicken wire, left over from a small garden planted by my daughter
a few years earlier. With it in place, the deer couldn’t approach the branches
from the sides, but whatever grew high enough above the wire became a snack for
the deer.
One summer, when
the still tiny tree was approximately five years old, it actually produced a
fig – one solitary fig. In never grew to a respectable size and never ripened,
but the fact that it grew at all validated my hope that at least the tree could
grow figs. The tree trunk was still very small in diameter, so I wasn’t
concerned about the miniscule crop. It needed time to grow bigger and stronger
to produce edible fruit. My goal was to protect it from predators, so for
another year or two, I kept it fenced in, well-watered, and winter-wrapped.
There were a
couple of mishaps along the way. One year, the deer, who must have eyed the
protected tree like kids in front of a candy store, leaned against the wire too
hard. The fence upended a bit and allowed the deer a few bites, but the tree
rebounded after a repair to the fence. Over the years, I had despaired of
actually seeing the tree bloom, but each time I saw the spring-green tips of
leaves at the beginning of the growing season, I again resolved to invest a
little time to help it along – until one summer, when I gave up.
* * *
Our backyard has
always been open to passersby, as it offers a neat shortcut from our street to
the one behind us. We often had people walking through the yard, especially on
Shabbos, and just about everyone would walk past the tree. Occasionally, I
would notice that someone had fiddled with the wire, but nothing that actually
disturbed the tree. Situated as it was, visible from our kitchen and about 30
feet from our back deck, I probably glanced at it a couple of times a day. One
day, something seemed unusual about the tree, and when I walked out to
investigate, I saw why. Someone (not
a four-legged animal this time) had removed the wire, unfurled it to its entire
length, and left it leaning against some bushes not far from the tree. This
left the sapling totally exposed to any animal that might be meandering through
the yard, and the deer had taken full advantage of the opportunity. Not only
was every leaf chewed to the stem, but the bark of the little tree had been
stripped and devoured as well. The remaining branches were a sorry sight to see
– scraggly, dismembered, and drooping.
At that point, I
gave up. Although I had thought to defend the tree against the animals, there
was no way that I could deter people from compromising my efforts. My attempts
to salvage the tree were over, and I reluctantly declared them a failure.
Still there was an
emotional thread tying me to the frail fig tree, a nostalgic one that connected
me to the memory of my father. Resolute in abandoning the tree to its fate, I
sought a way to console myself for the loss of that connection. Instead of
trying to grow figs, I decided to create virtual ones. I paint as a hobby, and
for a few months, I produced canvasses filled with figs – figs on the tree,
figs on a table, figs in a bowl – luscious, ripe figs. I mentally (and
humorously) referred to these paintings as my “Fig Series,” and it seemed to
provide some comfort as a substitute for the real thing.
* * *
At this point, in
the most unexpected of ways, the fig tree saga was impacted by the Covid-19
pandemic. In the spring of 2020, my steadfast fig tree made its annual,
tentative foray into the world of budding trees. I had no intention of
assisting it in any way, but events nudged me to adopt a different perspective.
My daughter, who lives in another state, was staying with us for several weeks.
Much like the rest of the world at the time, my husband and I were teleworking,
and my daughter joined the workforce from our home. She began to encourage me
to help the tree in its efforts to grow, but I explained that it needed a
stronger fence than what I had provided in earlier years: “I can’t build one
myself that would be strong enough to keep the deer out.”
Her reply: “I’ll
help you build one. We certainly have the time to do it. Just show me what to
do.”
Her encouragement
moved me to try again. If the tree could try again each spring to re-establish
itself, then I would try once more to give it a hand. And indeed, I had an
extra pair of hands to help me! I surveyed my tools and equipment (we weren’t going
anywhere to procure more), deciding that we would build a higher, square
enclosure to protect the tree. I had some long 2x2 boards that had once been
used for schach for our succah. We shortened them to six feet; these
would serve as the corner posts. We used a staple gun to attach the well-used
chicken wire along the lower four feet of the posts, dug holes to sink the
posts, and encircled the tree, leaving one side hinged for easy access. It
wasn’t elegant, and it wasn’t professional, but it would probably keep the deer
out.
As the tree began
to grow, we realized that, once it topped four feet, the deer would again be
able to reach it. Another of my daughters joined the effort and wove a plastic
mesh covering to fit across the top of the wire. Once I attached it above the
tree, neither birds nor deer could reach it. So far, the tree was safe. Still
recovering from its traumatic experience of the previous year, it wasn’t big
enough to produce fruit, but for the first time in years, it grew in height and
in diameter.
The enclosure
withstood the ensuing winter, and once again, the tree began to bud and grow
the following spring. This year, two unconnected problems threatened the health
of the valiant tree. May 2021 was the season of the cicada, those locust-like
insects appear only every 17 years. These short-lived creatures invade nearby
trees and bushes in the millions, creating quite a commotion during their brief
six-week lifespan and causing severe pruning of branches in their favored
trees. Baltimore is the epicenter of the Brood-X cicadas, and in anticipation
of their arrival, many homeowners covered their more fragile trees with
protective netting. Small, young trees are especially vulnerable to the
onslaught of the cicadas; my tree was at high risk of infestation and damage.
I considered doing
nothing to protect the tree, but while shopping at a local nursery for some
annuals for my flower garden (“deer-resistant,” of course), I took a cursory
look at the bird-proof nettings in the store. There was only one net left that
was the perfect size for my tree. How could I not buy it?
The little tree
survived the onslaught of the cicadas, not that there was a lack of attempts by
the insects to thwart my efforts – we discovered a few of them caught in the protective
netting. Some even made it through to the mesh covering, but none made it
through the barrier. When the cicadas died out, the tree still stood,
unscathed.
That hardiness was
actually the cause of the second problem. Because the tree was doing so well –
it had grown at least a foot in height and spread its branches in width, the
enclosure was fast becoming too small to contain it. The leaves were bunching
up against the wire, and the tree had no room to grow. Additionally, and most
gratifyingly, because the tree had been growing stronger for more than a year,
a few figs actually made their appearance. Would the encumbered situation stunt
the tree’s growth? Would the developing figs be undernourished?
Until now, the
goal had been to keep the tree alive by protecting it from external threats to
is existence – harsh weather, predators, negligence, or pests. Now that the
tree was thriving, the problem was that it was doing so well! So, as in every
other phase of its erratic move toward maturity, I took stock of the situation
and tried to figure out the next action plan. It was obvious that the tree
needed more space, but I lacked the skills to provide it with a sturdy enough
enclosure for further growth.
The solution came
in the form of a business trip generated by the Israeli high-tech company where
my son had a managerial position. During a break in the worldwide travel
restrictions resulting from the pandemic, his company sent him on a trip to the
U.S. to meet in person with his American colleagues. At the end of the business
part of his trip, he was able to spend Shabbos with us in Baltimore. My son is
very talented with his hands and has always been creative in approaching any
home-improvement project. The challenge to build a better fence was child’s
play to him. He gifted me a couple of hours of his time on Sunday, purchased a
few items at Home Depot, and built a spacious, eight-foot tall enclosure around
my burgeoning tree. He provided easy access for me to open and close the
structure, and he re-hung the protective net over the edges, barring entrance
to all flying creatures. The tree gratefully relaxed its branches and spread
out comfortably within the larger fence. My son’s trip was in July. In
mid-August, the first of the figs ripened.
* * *
Fig trees all over
the world produce ripe figs every year. This is one of the miracles that we
call “nature.” The struggles that I experienced with this one tree were
indicative of the challenges that actually face every fruit tree, but seeing it
up close (and personal) gave me a new appreciation for these stars of Hashem’s
natural world.
Looking back, I
know that I learned a few things from my fig tree tale. None of them is
particularly profound, but it helps to remember them when the occasion calls
for it. And maybe I can apply them to other areas of life as well. Here are
some:
·
Perseverance helps attain a goal.
·
Steadfastness requires inner
strength and determination.
·
If one tactic doesn’t work, try
another.
·
There will be challenges in life;
embrace them and try your best.
·
Be flexible.
·
Some things take time.
·
Reach out to others for help when
you need it.
·
Nostalgia is very potent.
These are a lot of thoughts to entertain, but then,
I’ve had a number of years to develop them. I remain curious to see the next
phase of this story; perhaps there will be more things to learn.
That watershed year, the tree produced five figs in
total. One by one, over the coming two months, they developed into fully
ripened fruit. The “harvest” lasted until mid-October, with a crop yield of 100
percent! Each time I picked a fig from the tree was cause for celebration. And
the figs themselves? The taste was deliciously sweet – undertones of vanilla,
with a hint of Memphis!
P.S.: As of this writing, my tree has
experienced another summer. The results? An eight-fold increase in fig
production and figs equally as succulent as in their debut year. I even had
figs to share with friends!
L’ilui nishmas Mendel ben Berel, whose yahrtzeit is 9
Shevat.
