This is my fig tree.
It's at Grandma's. Not my house. (boohoo), but that's what happens when you move. And this tree started out at another house. My grandparents' house.
My Grandmother's gardener put in some heirloom figs. They grew tall, they grew strong, they produced lots of figs. These are cane figs, much like bamboo and not like a tree so much.
When we moved from their old house eight years ago I took fifteen cuttings. I bought a book on propagation and began to propagate my own figs. Over the course of the first six months, I lost twelve of those cuttings. Over the course of another six months, I lost two more. That left only one sickly little cutting struggling for life.
I nurtured that baby tree. When it was strong enough I moved it out of the house and onto the deck for the summer (at two years old). It immediately became infested with aphids. Aphids kill fruit trees. Every day I cleaned every single leaf off, removing the offending bugs and their eggs. It was a battle of wills that lasted over four months. I won.
When the tree became too big for its pot, I moved it into the garden next to the shed for protection. It was happy and warm there, but not very big.
Look at it now! This tree is now eight years old. Can you see the shed? Nope. The tree is too big. And, after eight long years, I finally have my first crop.
These are all gone and I've already collected another bowl of ripe figs and there's so many more on the tree.
You probably can't see them in the photo, but the unripe figs are there and still growing. I'm hoping for a bumper crop.
Here's Billy looking at the fig. He helped me pick those first few figs by holding the bowl for me. It's a very important job. Then he got to help me with the second most important job when it comes to growing figs- eating them. He loves fresh figs. And I'm glad I can grow them for him.
Okay, well enough of that. But, eight years of work has finally come to fruition. Back to your regualrly scheduled posts...
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