Every year, come fall, we diligently wrap and cover the fig tree, a seasonal ritual of the garden like so many.  Old rugs and bits of blankets do the trick, a patchwork of whatever is large enough to stretch across the many trunks.  Then some tarps wrap the outer layer and we wish our tree a cozy winter’s nap.  This tree is a family tree of sorts, from a cutting of the tree my grandfather tended so many years ago.  Every year we say… ‘I hope we have protected it enough, I hope it will be ok.’  We joke that our tree looks like a mini installation by the artist Christo, although not quite as arresting as his dramatic bundled structures.  And every year, every year, I cut a few ends of limbs and stick them in a glass jar in the kitchen.  Most often the water clouds, they turn moldy, a little smelly, and get dumped out in the garden when hopeless.  But sometimes it’s different… the water in the jar stays clear, and little white nubs of root appear on the branches below the water line.  Green shoots start in time to greet the New Year, and with any luck, new trees are getting ready to be born. Once before, about 4 or 5 years ago now, every single branch of 12 became a tree. Two baby trees from that even dozen are now wrapped in my garden (above left), the others placed with fig adopters near and far. And this time it looks like some new siblings are unfurling their first leaves (right).  Too soon to say for sure, but it looks promising.  So I will watch, and hope for figs.

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