Of all our foraging destinations, however, I think our trips to Albert Holiday’s backyard were among the most memorable.

Albert, an only child as I remember, lived about four houses down the street towards the river (north) on Vermillion. His mother was a home maker and his father worked at Sears, if memory serves me right.

We had some high spirited kids in that little pocket of North Shore, Albert was more reserved. He was always rather quiet and what today we might call introspective. All of the kids in the neighborhood played every afternoon from the time we got home from North Shore School until dinner time…and often, after dinner, as well. At that time there was no crime or any real danger other than getting “snake bit” down by (or in) “the Ditch” that flowed for about two miles through our neighborhood and emptied into Trout River. Lord knows what was in that Ditch, but it was always interesting. We played alongside or in it for years.

Albert’s house lot backed up to The Ditch. Those lots had the best soil, loam really, in the area. Things really grew well in the rich soil that was also very moist being so close to the Ditch that never, ever completely dried up.

The garage in Albert’s back yard was in big need of some “chores” being focused on it–inside and out. The sheet metal roof and sides were more rust that paint. Alongside the garage, covering most of the side facing the back yard, was the biggest fig tree…not a bush, mind you…but a Fig Tree…a world class example of Ficus carica, that I had (and to this day) ever seen. (I wonder if it is still there, but I doubt it.)

Several times a year, just coincidently when Albert’s fig tree just happened to be absolutely loaded with juicy, sweet, savory, furry on the outside but figgy sweet on the inside, Figs…the neighborhood “gaggle” of kids looking for someplace to “play,” would end up in Albert’s back yard. Mrs. Holliday was always nice to us and never minded the noise and commotion.

Fes up, how many of you have ever eaten a fresh fig. Now, how about a fresh fig just “off’en” the tree itself? Albert’s figs were Brown Turkey Figs, with brownish, copper-colored skins protecting purple, pink and red flesh on the inside. Unlike green, unripe figs, when Albert’s figs were ripe they definitely drooped lower, felt softer, and would detach into sweaty young hands just by lifting up on the plump fruit. Need I say that the pleasures of heaven may await our arrival, but for North Shore kids on Vermillion Street, heaven arrived about twice a year…in Albert’s back yard. But, if pleasures go too far, is there an unknown line that is crossed? Perhaps!
© Tracy D. Connors 2015 All Rights Reserved