Last year we planted twenty figs. About ten lived…. just. I can’t walk along the rows without feeling sad and find the best strategy is to go la la la la la whenever Beaker303 says something like ‘not looking good’ despite my protestations to not say anything at all. Maybe I should face reality…. some dreams die. Or am I seeing the fig jam jar half empty instead of half full?
Because look at these lovely babies…
I have the best memory of being in Portugal when Jarrah was four, nestled in a huge fig tree ensconced on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic. We were covered in fig juice, sticky and sweet, and ants.
One day this fig tree might make some nice memories for someone else… and that’s what I have to think about, not the figs-that-never-were. I can’t give up. One day when I’m dead and gone someone may be enjoying the figs we DID plant – and won’t even know about those ghost trees.