Many of my young figs (started as cuttings this year) have fruits on them, some quite large. I'm thinking many will ripen, but to enhance that probability, I'm thinking of moving those with fruits around to the really sunny side of the house. Total south facing, serious winter sun, and right up against reflective windows. And we can see them from inside the house as a bonus. Our no-frost version of the fig shuffle. They might even skip going dormant in that location.

Most of them have really good vegetative growth so I'm not worried about stunting my plants by letting the fruit mature.

Go for it Gina, excellent idea. A neat way to push the season

TEMPUS FUGIT!

Weren't we all just eagerly waiting to see our trees sprout those emerald green buds?  Spring morphs into Summer, and then the colorful cloak of Autumn is draped over all that is green.  The waxing Autumn brings us such a sweet harvest.

Now, we think of our precious trees, and how they will fare through the harsh Winter.  Within a month we will once again wish for those hot days we cursed. 

For me, nothing rivals the beauty of a New England Autumn.  The Impressionist painters couldn't capture what the eye beholds when scanning a meadow filled with that special, chilly mist that clings to russet-colored Oaks, and scarlet Maples.  Birds, flit among the brambles eating ripe berries, and squirrels are darting around eating every acorn they can find.   The sky seems so blue, and the golden shadows lengthen as the season progresses, ultimately, ending, dressed in white ermine, to close out the year.

When I was much younger, far more romantic, and still looked at the majority of my years that were yet to unfold before me, I enjoyed reading all the small bits of poetry that the Old Farmer's Almanac quoted under the names of each month.  The poetry from Wadsworth, Longfellow, or Frost always seemed so descriptive, and tinged with hidden meanings that eluded me.  I was too young to notice the secret language.  Now, when I read these same quotes, or the poignant, "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening" I see with crystal clarity what they were trying to tell me.  With some age, I now understand the metaphors.  Oh, to be that clueless youth just once again.

Frank

Got a few clueless youths I'd like to see grow up

Frank - beautiful.

Rafed, you need to install a heated greenhouse on top of your rig.  Just espalier the plants and keep the verticals short so the bridges don't do your pruning for you.  Here in the Umpqua
Valley we had a cold spell in the mid 70s, but the rest of the week will be in 80s and 90s.  Plenty of time for a few ripe fruits.  Plus I have one section of the house with lots of fluorescent lights dedicated to plants.  In the fall the ones with unripe fruit go there.  In Jan I start my cuttings there.  Right now I have a few Plumeria rooting there.  One's been there for 3 months and is flowering.  Fig cuttings grow well there, too, until it's time to go outside.

I've lived a lot of places, I hope I don't have to live colder than zone 6 or 7   :)

You know, the horticultural skills of your poor shivering northerners truly amazes me. Down here we can just stick a cutting in the ground and it will grow. And then we can walk out barefoot all year 'round to visit our trees. I will grant you that the summers are a trial but the winters are painless. Nonetheless, applause and kudos to you excellent, skilled and knowledgeable people up there.

Here's a poem from a good man and poet I knew.  He has passed away several years ago.

Seasons

by Ed Banta

Sweet is the blue and the dreams of you

That come with the Summer days;

And sweet is the bliss of Springtime's kiss

But Winter deserves its fame

Sweet Summertime is yours and mine;

Summer bespeaks your name!

Each cotton cloud on the ocean sky

Bespeaks your sacred name!

Each cotton cloud is a ship of love

On the sea of Summertime;

while Winter's reign is for death to claim

Summer is yours and mine

And never founds our ship of love

On the sea of Summertime!

Love is like the changing seasons

Sometimes fluctuating...

For on buds of May and skies of gray

Hang lovers' hopes and treasons;

Summer's love is Winter's death

But Spring brings resurrection;

For no true love does really die

But sometimes lies a-dreaming

While Summer's ships of love are gone

To ports of Winter-keeping.