Why Never to Plant a Fig Tree by the Front Door

The fig tree was here long before we were, and while we love it, there is a 2-3 week span when we regret having it so close to the house.  Here are a few reasons:



Reason 1

 

Reason 2



Reasons 3 and 4



Reason 5

You get the picture.

As you can see, ripe figs fall and decorate our walk like confetti decorates a bar room floor on New Year’s Day.  They’re everywhere and navigating past them without stepping on one, which would send us sliding to the ground in a heartbeat, is like navigating through a landmine.  The overly ripe fruit draws the attention of every bee, wasp, and hornet in the area and they create a deafening sound as they feast on the fallen fruit.  Each morning, we clean up a new batch of fallen figs, wash down the walk, and then the tree sadistically drops more fruit as we turn our back and haul the bucket full of rotten figs to the compost.  I wish there was smell-o-vision because there is a particular odor that I just cannot completely describe.  Yes, it’s the smell of ripe and rotting fruit, but it makes me think of hard cider and what the inside of a brewery smells like.

There you go- fig season.  Not my favorite, but the season will quickly pass and then we’ll have – winter.

It’s closer than you think.

Pecking Order

View of the fig tree from the kitchen window.

I’m currently fascinated with the fig tree in front of our house, not because I like figs, but because of the commotion that is going on inside of it.  We’re in a draught.  The ground is dry and there are minimal bugs for the birds to eat which means they are looking for any food they can get their beaks into.  Currently, they are attacking the figs.

The other morning over coffee, I was startled to find three enormous blue jays in the fig tree that stands just outside the window.  They were squawking so loudly I couldn’t hear Christophe across the table from me.  They were pecking their way through all the ripe or semi-ripe figs on and chased all the other birds away until they had their fill.  It wasn’t until they were decidedly finished that the smaller birds arrived, peaking away at the open figs the jays had left behind.  It was like a choreographed scene: the jays exited stage right and the smaller birds made their entrance on cue.  There were some occasional flutters, but overall the smaller birds ate together peacefully, sometimes 15 at a time.  By late morning when the sun hit the tree, all the birds were gone, ducking for cover somewhere in the shade, leaving behind bits of fig on the ground for us to clean up.

This morning, the tree was calm.  The jays are gone and all the ripe figs have been eaten.  I thought it was a blessing because while watching the fluttery commotion is entertaining, cleaning up after the birds and half eaten figs is not.  That’s what I thought until I entered the garden; the jays have moved onto our tomatoes.

What the jays leave behind.