Although it was not a climbing tree, the limbs were so big we could climb in the lower branches without fear that our weight would break them. What we were seeking during those blistering, precious last days of summer, was the innumerable purple-black juicy figs that covered the tree. They could just be popped into the mouth, warm and sugary, and enjoyed right on the branch. The countless tiny seeds added a sandy crunch to the pasty fig sweetness.

Of course, we were not the only denizens in the neighborhood who knew about the tree and enjoyed the fruit. The neighborhood birds enjoyed the things as much as we did, and would leave half eaten figs on the branch or on the ground that showed they had been there.

Western literature, respectable and not, abounds with stories about orgies, of all kinds. You name it, someone, somewhere has orgied on it….with the probable exception of a “Fig Orgy.” I have yet to read about a Fig Orgy, and you may be reading about one now for the first time. You may want to shield sensitive eyes or even ears to what I am about to describe next. Yes, I admit it, lo these many years later. Right there in Albert Holliday’s back yard, several times a year mind you, we held a Fig Orgy…and Albert, as the ever thoughtful host, led the orgiasts in, around and even through the burdened limbs of that massive Brown Turkey fig tree.

As orgies go, however, it was not terribly exciting to casual observers. The only cavorting we did was to reach higher limbs to get the biggest, ripest, plumpest, figgiest figs on the rapidly-being-unburdened tree.
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