Since our daughter, son-in-law, and grandson Joseph, known as JB, live around the corner from Dan and me, it should come as no surprise that this short distance is walked frequently by all of us. About halfway between our two houses, at the edge of Luke and Laura's yard, right on the street, is a beautiful fig tree. The tree is not only beautiful, it is huge, towering perhaps 12 feet high, and in season produces abundant fruit, so abundant that the owners have kindly given us permission to pick and enjoy.
Late last summer when the figs were ripe and the pandemic fully upon us, every time one of us walked by with then one-and-almost-a-half year old JB we picked one for him to eat. A perfectly ripe fig is a sweet treat and JB was definitely a fan. As fall approached and the figs were fewer and finally gone, as were the leaves, our daughter explained to JB that next spring there would be new leaves and new figs. I suspect he didn't really understand, but as we adults tend to do, we kept explaining. All through the winter whenever we walked by the tree with JB, we would stop and examine the bare branches and assure him that in the spring the leaves and the figs would come back.
As spring approached and JB neared his second birthday, we would examine the branches even more closely, looking for buds, and then one day, yes, can you see it JB?, the tiniest suggestion of a bud, brown, at the tip of the branches. After that nearly every day we would check for any growth of the buds, however slight. Since the tree's branches nearly touch the ground, JB, who by now almost always walked to our house and didn't need the stroller, could see for himself. But it was slow going. Even for grown-ups, there seemed to be a long wait between the first hint of a bud and evidence of green leaves.
We were nearly a year into the pandemic at this point and still staying close to home, so not only did we have many opportunities to conduct our inspections, we had learned how rich and fascinating our seemingly ordinary suburban neighborhood could be. I loved how our son and his wife, who live in Annapolis with our other grandson, Vincent (only two months younger than JB) expressed this sentiment in their holiday card: Vinny's world -- our home and a few blocks in every direction -- is a boundless universe of possibilities for learning and growing, with people to greet, ducks to watch, flowers to sniff, and holly berries to add to his collection. And the fig tree on Knox Street, here in Durham, was part of this "boundless universe of possibilities" not only for JB, but for us, for me.
Finally, after many weeks at last we could see a bit of green -- "Those are the leaves JB!" -- and then ever so slowly, a slight unfurling. As JB looked closely at the ends of the branches we would ritually say "And those leaves will get. . ." so he could exclaim, "Bigger and bigger!" It was genuinely exciting for all of us.
As predicted by JB, the leaves indeed grew "bigger and bigger," greener and lusher, and we started to look for actual figs. "Look at that little green ball JB! That is going to grow into a fig!" And although still hard and green and unripe as I write this in mid-July, the figs are getting bigger. It won't be too much longer before JB can pluck a warm, ripe fig from the tree all by himself this year and then experience, for a second time, the last figs, the falling leaves, and the beginning of the long wait till spring.
The pandemic, for those of us fortunate enough to remain healthy, has taught us many things, including how how our homes and neighborhoods and towns are in fact a "boundless universe of possibilities." And going through a pandemic with young children reinforces that lesson profoundly. Before the pandemic I saw the fig tree in a much more superficial way. Now, I can't wait to take a walk tomorrow, hopefully with JB in tow, to see how the tree is doing and whether the figs have grown. I look forward to next year and watching this complex and wonderful process repeat itself. For all of that I am grateful.
