I was born in the South, and raised as country as fried chicken.
Like any typical southern child, I had the overwhelming need to pluck fruit from trees and bushes, and put said fruit in my mouth. So much so, that my poor mother and grandmother were always at odds over this particular situation due to the stomachache that usually followed, but always got along on other accounts.
My grandmother lived in an independent, assisted living apartment when I was four years old, and in that parking lot next to her home, stood the complex’s single crabapple tree. To my absolute delight, it was filled with sour crabapples from the bottom to the top of the tree. I reached my little hand up, and hoisted down my treasure, and into my mouth it went. This one followed another, and another, and yet another.
The usual belly ache ensued, and my grandma babied me back to health to my poor mama’s dissatisfaction. My mama thought she had threatened me well enough with a butt whooping for the next visit to Grandma’s, but alas, nothing could keep me from that crabapple tree.
The second my mama and grandma turned their attention away from me, out the door I went to smuggle fruit. My mama was hip to my plan though, and she flew to intercept the morsel that was already lodged between my teeth.
“Young lady, I’m gonna whip your tail for eating those crabapples! What did I tell you about that before we even got here?”
“Vickie!” Grandma would say, “You leave that baby alone! She can eat all she wants! The crabapples will grow back! Don’t you whip that child!”
My grandma was always my savior. In her eyes, none of her grandchildren could ever do any wrong. Grandma wasn’t satisfied with where she lived. She was getting older, and her friends in the neighborhood were passing away. She couldn’t grow her plants, or raise a garden on her front stoop, and she had always been a country bumpkin at heart. She found a small property with a singlewide trailer in the Mollie area that she could afford, and she moved in as quick as she was able.
The most beautiful feature on the lot was a humungous old fig tree that grew grand and tall. It took up the majority of the front yard, and was always filled with ripe fruit during the summer months. On the backside of the property sat a field, and the farmer that rented it was kind enough to let my grandma borrow the first three rows to plant her vegetable garden. My summers were filled with working in Mama’s garden in the mornings, Grandma’s in the evenings, and you guess it, eating figs while making jelly with the two elders in my life.
I think Mama finally gave up trying to stop me. I was a little older, and figs filled my belly much faster than those old crabapples. I knew when to stop when I was full.
Mason jars and snap beans filled Grandma’s kitchen quickly, and I tried to shell butter beans as quick as my little hands would go. There were tomatoes a plenty, and it was not lost on me how a plate of tomatoes and rice and a fried porkchop could please the palate so successfully. I absolutely cherished those summers, and as an adult, that knowledge of preserving those hard grown vegetables and fruits carried on with me from my childhood.
In January of 2020, we began our search for a new home. Jonathan and I looked at so many homes, and had yet to find what we were looking for. It had to be cozy, and homey, and it had to be up to date on all the electrical. Location meant everything.
Our previous home was over a hundred years old, and as much as we loved the old girl, we just had to move on. She had too many repairs to be made, and the neighborhood wasn’t exactly delightful.
Stephen Mills with Century 21 was so patient with us, and did his best to steer us to the right property. He indulged us on catfished homes, those homes that had pretty pictures online, but looked nothing like what was in front of you when you arrived, and gave us the ins and outs of real estate.
One morning, we got phone call from Stephen who was bouncing off the walls to show us a property he had found at the lake. Jonathan wasn’t completely convinced at first, but I was already sold the minute we exited the garage, and rounded the corner of the house.
There, in all their magnificent glory, stood two fig trees.
Memories of my childhood came rushing back to meet me at the speed of a loaded 18-wheeler traveling on 74/76. In my head, I was already making jam and jelly, and eating a belly full of figs. I could hear my grandma’s voice ringing in my ears, scolding my mama about that butt whooping she threatened so many years ago.
In that moment, I knew this was it. This was the place for us.
The day before yesterday, I was stretched out in my kitchen making fig jam for the first time since I was kid. I sealed the lids, and wiped the jars, and thanked the Lord for the generations of women before me who made me who I am.
I thanked Him for my family, and mostly, I thanked Him for bringing me home.
