My husband was a "city boy," so he doesn't understand the urge to "plant and preserve" that this farm-reared woman feels. Since I've been in Orangeburg, I've tried my hand at many agricultural endeavors: apple, peach and fig trees, blueberry bushes, grape vines and row plants -- tomatoes, strawberries, asparagus and other various vegetables.

Generally, the perennials, bushes and trees have done best, though I've managed to kill quite a few of them. However, I don't seem to have the perseverance to deal with corn, squash, okra, beans, melons and such, and definitely not their pests.

This year, though, the figs have outdone themselves, reminiscent of the huge figs at my grandmother's in Georgia. Unlike upper South Carolina, we have their sandy soil, tall long-leaf pines -- and even the gnats and other pesky critters they had in south Georgia! The fig preserves my family "put up" in later years were the smaller ones, grown at Gray Court -- different varieties, I'm sure, with the different type of soil and climate.

When I was growing up on the farm in Laurens County, the only way to have fruits and vegetables in the winter was to can them; in addition to canning and preserving in glass jars, our family made use of tin cans at the cannery at our school.

Child sitters way out in the country were almost non-existent, so we children had to tag along, whether to town to sell produce and eggs, buy groceries or to Mama's "missionary meeting." It was a given that Mama would take us children to pick beans or dig potatoes; we would also have done our share of helping plant "potato slips" to have sweet potatoes in the fall. As we grew older, brother Hassell might be helping Daddy pull "roastnears"(tender fresh corn) or gather the tastiest cantaloupes ever grown (that red clay soil imparted a special flavor).

The major money crops were corn and cotton, and by August, the tender corn had hardened, the cotton had been "laid by," and it was time for fun. There were family picnics with the aunts and uncles and cousins, sometimes at the shoals on Rabon Creek, or perhaps we'd have a dip in "Mr. Boot's" creek.

But we needed to visit South Georgia relatives, and a time was coordinated so that Mama's siblings and families would gather together at her mother's farm outside of Sycamore. The fact that figs would be ripe may have been a factor. At any rate, school would have soon started, and though I was born there late one August, we never seemed to be able to stay through my birthday.

On occasion, Mama, with us three children, would take the bus or train to visit her mother; however, an entire family trip involved an eight- to 10-hour auto trip. Our mother would have been up for hours packing a picnic lunch to be eaten by the side of the road. Along the two-lane highways back then, there were only gas stations with dubious restrooms, and Daddy had to find a wide spot with a shade tree for our picnic. Burma Shave signs alongside the highways provided the main entertainment -- no electronics back then! When our route took us through Honea Path, we'd roll down the windows to "smell the honeysuckle." Before we had gone even 30 miles, we would be asking, "Are we there yet?"

Below Macon, we would begin to see the sandy soil and tall, tall pine trees, similar to the terrain in Orangeburg County. We drove through several small towns and Sycamore, then turned into a long dirt lane bordered with enormously tall pine trees leading to Grandma Boroughs' house, with its swept yard, huge live-oak tree and well (water) at the end of the front porch. There was always a comfortable feeling about being there; perhaps it was because our mother had "come home." I recall high beds, with one room for all the women and girls and another for all the men and boys. One uncle and family had driven all the way from Miami; others came from various parts of Georgia and my family from upper South Carolina. Her youngest brother Willie lived there and worked the farm at that time.

While we were there, there were many activities, but standing out above the play with cousins, visiting with relatives and eating huge meals were the figs. We children would run along with the adults to pick the figs, and some were so huge, they would fill a youngster's palm. Daddy would peel them for us to eat.

Other varieties must have been smaller because I recall the glass jars of whole fig preserves Grandma and the other women put up. Were the big ones also canned? That kitchen was the scene of much activity. I recall the wood stove with its well for heating water on one end, a big baking oven and a warming oven above the cooktop. The simmering of the figs was coordinated with midday dinner preparations, and we ate around the big table that had been moved to the back porch. I thought it so neat that leftovers and other foods were stored in the pie safe. The heat did not seem bother us too much; we just used hand fans and didn't know any different! However, on another trip years later, it was so hot that Daddy ruined his good hat helping to gather peanuts.

I have a picture of Grandma Boroughs and us cousins under the oak tree, all of us grandchildren vying for a place to hold the youngest's hand (there would be other cousins in later years).

Excerpted from "Iris Remembers" by Iris Simpson Arant-Kittrell, EdD.

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