It’s easy to find all kinds of flaws in this image, and yet it appeals strongly to me. The flaws, in fact, enhance its appeal in some way that I would be hard-pressed to explain. It’s fortunate that I create such an image every once in a while - one that I can't quite discard. I’m a Type A, anal-retentive person, and these sorts of images remind me to loosen up. They remind me to try to be a human “being” for a change rather than a human “doing” or a human "obsessing".
Some years after my grandfather died, my parents built a house on the Bois d’Arc Creek farm. I had already left home by then so I never lived there, but I made a bee line from the Metroplex to the farm every chance I got. Daddy planted all kinds of trees and berry bushes around the house, and of course there was a huge garden. One of the trees he planted was a fig tree. He must have chosen a particularly propitious spot because that tree grew like lightening. It became a giant, sprawling just outside the back door - a beautiful and magnificent specimen of figdom. It produced bushels of luscious, sweet and juicy figs. A treat we enjoyed all the year round due to the fig jam my mother put up by the quart. It could transport you to another realm, it was that good.