Diary of My Country Life-June 12th, 2026

The original source of this blog: https://www.lotusandmichael.com/blogs/diary-of-my-country-life

06/12/2026 Friday 72-92F Partly Cloudy

Recently, I planted two new fruit trees in my back yard: One fig tree and one pear tree. The fig tree’s name is very cute-Little Miss Figgy. The spot where I planted it isn’t ideal: It’s near our courtyard, gets no morning rays but plenty of harsh afternoon sun. To compensate it and also because it stands close to the back faucet, we watered it every day; sometimes my husband watered first then I watered it again. This situation had lasted more than one week until this Wednesday I noticed that my little Figgy didn’t look happy: The bottom part of its leaves all turned yellow. I suspected we might have overwatered it. So I checked online, yes, we did almost drown it-fig trees don’t need so much water; its hometown is Mediterranean Sea, being slightly drier is good for the roots otherwise they may get root-rot.

We stopped watering it right away. But recently the temperature is hot during the day and thunderstorms in the evening, typical Florida weather, I really worry about my Miss Figgy—it has eight little fruits on the branches; I watch them every day and have culinary plans about them. Don’t die please 😭.

There used to be a fig tree in my parents’ house. It was planted decades ago when I was about ten years old because my mother’s uncle had a large one in his house, which must have inspired my mother to have her own, since she spent a lot of her teen years in her uncle’s house—as a hand to help her aunt take care of the four younger cousins. The fig tree was planted two or three years after my parents built their first house in the town, the one they are still living in now. The tree grew quite large later, supplied us with a lot of soft, deep purple-colored sweet figs. My father and my siblings seemed to dislike figs so basically only my mother and me consumed the fruit. The tree stood next to the porch, and its branches partially stretched under the eave. In hot summer, I liked to open the door of my room which faced directly to the fig tree. I looked at that patch of green, ducked often under its branches hunting for ripe fruit. And sometimes after moonrise, I hid under the tree watching the moon, trying to create a poem of my own. 

Next to the fig tree, my father built a robust trellis with thick wood poles to let the grape vine climb. The grapes could reach one and a half inches big in diameter, juicy and sweet. We liked to set tables under the trellis for breakfast and dinner. But watch out! Sometimes I could see big, soft-bodied worms among the leaves. 

Other than the fig tree and grape vine, at the corner of the staircase and in front of my window, there was a tall Chinese banana. The banana had large leaves, shaded off most of the hot sun so my room was cool and dappled with sunlight. On windy days, the banana leaves were torn by the wind and became stringy like huge combs flapping up and down. If it rained, hearing the raindrops pitter-pattering on the leaves was very therapeutic; it went on and on, as if the rain would never stop.

Perhaps my father thought there were too many greens at my window; later one, he planted a cluster of canna lilies alongside the Chinese banana. In my memory, the canna lilies had bright yellow and orangish red flowers; the height of the flowerheads was right at my eye level when I sat at my desk. Therefore, during those long summers, accompanied with banana’s large comb-like green leaves, my green window screen, and the sprinkles of canna lilies’ yellow or orange flowers, I was like in reverie.

I was a diligent kid, liked everything to be clean and in order. In summers when I didn’t need to go to school, I swept and mopped the house daily, including the courtyard. The house was built with red bricks, as was the yard. Many times, during downpours, I rushed into the yard mopping the ground, with my raincoat on or not. No doubt the rainwater made my cleaning much easier, though my siblings standing under the eave could never really understand me. Then the rain stopped, the entire house was spotlessly sparkling under the sun, even the ground of the yard showed its lovely genuine orange color. The neighbors, whoever entered the yard, praised: “I know Little Three (my nickname since I am my parents’ third and last child) must be home—everywhere is so clean!”

How many years have passed since then? Now my parents’ yard space is pretty much occupied; the fig tree, the grape vine, the Chinese banana, the canna lilies all are long-gone stories; my room has become a storage room; only the screen on the window is still in the same green color, much faded and is covered with dust.

Why did I think of these all of a sudden? Because of my little fig tree? I never really meant to duplicate what I had once before in my early years, but I guess it’s not up to me—it’s something that embeds deeply in my soul; all it needs is just a spark to light up the whole meadow.

I read somewhere a few days ago: “Even if we could go back to the old days, we would find not a soul there.” The current moment is for us to live in, right this moment.