Grandfather’s Fig Tree

This was the very first story I had published; now more than ten years ago.

I grew up in a wonderful three-decker house that my grandparents owned; more than just a three-story home, it was the dream they worked so hard to attain after arriving from Italy in the late 1800s, and it was their pride and joy. The house was located in a somewhat congested neighborhood of two and three-deckers and an occasional single-family home. Three families occupied the house. My parents, brother, and I lived on the third floor. My aunt lived on the first floor with her husband and three children. On the middle floor were my grandparents and my great-grandfather.

Alongside the house was a driveway, leading to the backyard grape arbor. A variety of mature fruit trees; cherry, pear, apple, peach, and apricot surrounded the arbor. Adjacent to the house and easily visible from our third-floor kitchen windows was a wonderful vegetable garden. Our third-floor tenement offered a magnificent view of this large garden and its produce: broccoli, cabbage, spinach, corn, peppers, eggplant, tomatoes, and zucchini. A fig tree, which stood at least fifteen feet tall, was in its center. The garden was a special place for me. I remember many a hot summer day when I would sit next to the tomato plants eating the warm fruit from the vine, often sprinkling the tomato with salt.

My grandfather was a hard-working man who had an enviable feeling of confidence about him. I loved to follow as he did his chores around our yard. He seemed to be able to do anything; probably learned from his many years as a manual laborer. He could build anything, lay cement, make wine, and, above all, maintain the garden. When he arrived home from his job, his work was not done; for it was he who planted and tended to the enormous garden. The fig tree occupied the prominent spot. I suspected it was his favorite not only because of how much he enjoyed its fruit but also because of how carefully he nurtured the tree each year. And one day, I was lucky to observe one of those yearly chores

Grandpa dressed for work

On a Saturday in October, I was sitting at our kitchen window and saw my grandfather digging next to the fig tree. He started in the early morning, and I was able to watch him through the course of the day; at my breakfast, lunch, and dinner, when I sat at our kitchen table. The tree was his prize, and he was preparing its winter home; for in contrast to the hardiness of the other fruits, the fig needed protection. If it were to survive, it needed a warm den. The newly opened ditch beside the tree was longer, considerably wider than the tree, and at least three feet deep. Following his excavation, grandfather drove wooden stakes, gently wrapped cloth around the tree trunk, circled rope around that cloth, and then gently but forcefully, pulled the tree into the ditch. Now it was completely bent over, parallel with the ground, and ready to be permanently anchored to the stakes.

The tree was secured. Grandfather stood back, wiped his forehead, rested a moment on two hands nestled over the end of his shovel, and soon continued. He buried the tree under a mound of dirt and covered that dirt with a thick layer of leaves. He then carefully placed boards over the mound. He loved his tree and caressed it with his covering of soft dirt, dirt that would protect and care just as much.

He stood back for another moment and wiped his brow again. It was now late afternoon, and the sun was setting lower in the sky. My grandfather then shoveled more leaves and dirt onto the boards, completely covering them. The mound of cover took the shape of a hump. With his task finally complete, grandfather stood back. Although he looked tired, he seemed content. His tree was secured, snug, and ready for the first frost and snow. He had methodically worked alone for the entire day.

Winter came, and every day, as I sat at the window, I looked down into the snow-covered garden imagining that the hump was a sleeping elephant. Rather, it was grandfather’s treasure. His view from his second-floor window was the same. He had to be pleased.

Winter passed and spring arrived. On his first warm day off from work, my grandfather reversed the process. The tree was freed and as the summer nurturing began again, my grandfather’s family awaited the ripe fruit, which was served with wine and pride.