My body aches like a tooth that needs filling, but the aches are good. I worked hard this day. I composted, weeded, raked soil, planted new seeds, gathered and shared muscadines and figs. I strewed grated cedar to combat the fire ants that love my ankles. And the figs. Oh, the figs! They are so much bigger than last year's yields. If I close my fingers around one I run the risk of bruising and squashing it! Tall tales run rife in Texas, but this is true-true. Those who mean well urge me to prune the big little fig tree, and today I almost agreed, because figs are growing atop the grass! The branches are just that low. I ask in turn: Who trims the branches in the forests? Wild fruit grows just fine. I have zero desire to force a tree grow, yet I want espaliered apple tree. Am I a hypocrite?
A fig is ripe when it sags. The weight of these purple figs pulls them down. The milky sap squirts like a severed artery when I gently tug one away from it's home. Alex loves them. So does Myrna. And Fatima and Kindra! Myrna is an adult mind you. She didn't want to share with Alex. LOL! Her stories are worth a peck of figs, and watching Alex's face when he bites into fruit from my backyard makes the hard work and muscle aches worthwhile.
I remember the letters Mama read to me out loud when I was a girl and we were far away from her family. Grandma wrote about the wild plums, figs, muscadines, and berries that she and my aunts turned into jellies and preserves. She always promised to save some for us when we came home. NowI write to Mama about the progress of my own growing things, and I send half pints of jelly to her in the mail. She loves the pictures and enjoys charting their progress as much as I do. My little mama sounds as homesick now as she did back when I was a girl, and she read her coveted letters from home. Betty and I took turns getting the mail when we were old enough, and tall enough to reach the mailbox. I sent her a small box of figs last year. They spoiled in two days. Pictures and letters are better.
Make some memories. Spark even more. Write on!