A STORY OF LOVE AND "FIGS."

Whenever I meet a new person, the first question I am often asked after they find out that in my youth I lived in Italy is, “Do you miss your native land?”  My response today is and has always been, a positive, “No” because here in the United States, I have found what no other country on earth could have given me, the opportunity of a lifetime.  Yes, in these United States if one is willing to work, success is not only a dream, it is a reality.

For the past 50 years, I have adopted this country as my home and furthermore, living in Delaware County for most of the 50 years, has been my greatest pleasure due to the kind of environment the county offers all of its residents.

But as the conversation continues, the subject of figs always enters my mind because although this country has given me everything a man could want, I still miss those large, sweet figs of my youth when I picked them right out of the tree.  Yes, even when I lived in the heart of the main line, Bryn Mawr, my love for figs was never satisfied because in this area, even in the summer, fresh, large and juicy figs are hard to find.  This is a fruit that in Italy and throughout Europe is aplenty with fresh figs growing as large as grapefruit.

The same is not true in Delaware County even if someone has a fig tree growing in the backyard.  Some years ago, I met a lady at a local produce market who over heard me talking about my quest for figs.  She told me that she had lots of figs on her two trees and invited me to come over and pick some.  A few weeks later, I ventured to her home in Springfield and saw her fig trees loaded with figs on every branch of the tree, almost like Italy…. but not quite.  The figs were small but sweet and temporarily satisfied my desire. 

I was encouraged by her trees and soon after planted one of my own when on father’s Day, my beloved gave me the best gift I could receive, A Fig Tree.  Well, since then, through cutting and other garden tricks that my father taught me, I now have six fig trees growing in my backyard but my figs are still struggling because here in the east coast , the climate is not conducive to fig-growing.  Even though, in the last couple years, I did have many delicious figs on my trees and have continued to enjoy my favorite fruit immensely.   Last year, I even gave a taste of my figs to my friends at the weekly Bridge game at the Tredyffrin library.

But last month, I had the thrill of my life when I traveled to Europe visiting 12 cities/states in 14 days.  At every stop, I made it a point to buy fresh figs at every produce market that I passed.  So for two great weeks, I had the opportunity to eat the delicious figs of my youth, sweet, large and delicious.

 A big ripen fig was cherished in Italy when I was young.  I remembered when my father would come home from work during the summer months with one sweet juicy fig in his hand; he would then hand it to my mother like it was a piece gold.  My mother acted like it was gold because she loved figs as much as me.  To her, the first fig of the season was more than special; it was the best gift in the world.  To Italians, Sicilians in particular, figs are very special.  In fact, for any of us who know something about the Roman Empire, figs were enjoyed by all the Roman Governors over 2000 years ago.  Such is the love of figs by Italians. 

Recently, even my own daughter who just last week moved to Texas showed her love for figs.  The first thing she did was to email me a picture of her local produce market selling very large white and brown figs.  Maybe, she was trying to entice me to move to Texas where I could once again have the figs from my youth at my disposal. 

Love and figs, what a story to tell; Yes, this beautiful country has given me the best of everything, freedom, opportunity, family, and friends abound and now even figs in my backyard.  But the figs of my youth when I used to climb the highest tree to pick them, large and sweet are still a big question mark in my life.  Yes, the memories of youth, how precious they are especially when our parents make a feast out of the smallest event of one’s life, “A large, sweet Fig.”