Figs. I know, not everyone loves figs. Strawberries, maybe. But not figs. However, If someone offers you some fresh figs, well, you take them. I just finished a weekend of making fig preserves, fig bread and even a fig jelly roll.

Down a county road in Baldwin county there is a modest house situated close to I10 but without the chaos of an exit ramp. If you sit in the yard you can hear the hum of the cars and large semis on the interstate.

My brother and cousins and I use to comb the woods and fields surrounding that house. We plucked tiny crawdads out of the river, stomped around, eating blackberries and wild blueberries.

But nothing beat the big juicy figs that came from that modest little house by the interstate. Back then, I never though much about family. I lived for riding bikes, swimming in the pond and playing baseball in the field with my cousins.

But this weekend. The figs. Well it WAS about family.

Figs were picked, the internet scanned for ways to keep them fresh until I could get them. And a day was planned for me to pick them up.

I made the short trip from Theodore to Loxley. Picked up my figs and went back home to begin my creations.

But let me go back to family. The fig picker? The first man I ever loved.

My parents divorced when I was young so I didn’t get to spend a lot of time with my dad. But it didn’t keep me from worshipping him. I know now he wasn’t perfect but back then? I thought he was. He seemed to know a little bit about everything. He was the original worlds most interesting man.

As an adult I began comparing every new man in my life to him. No one else compared. He set the bar high. He showed me how you treat others, how you give of yourself to your family. He showed me that you work hard and you take life and you make something out of it.

So the fig picker, my dad, called me, offered to pick the figs for me and offered to make sure they were fresh when I came by to get them. And they were.

I made the trip, I spent the day with my Dad. We talked about family. We talked about my childhood memories. We talked about regret and mistakes we both had made. We laughed. We ate lunch at the local “greasy spoon” where we laughed and shared some more. I collected my figs and went back home.

I made the most delicious fig preserves that would win in most any county fair. But the memories that I have of that day. Spent with my dad. They will last a lifetime. I realized I still worship him.

So if someone offers figs? You take them. And you make something out of it.