As the olives ripened, we celebrated the Jewish holidays. We
marked Eliad’s first birthday (which falls on the harvest holiday of Sukkot).
We went on hikes, we went to the theater, and we celebrated with friends and
family. Only when the kids went back to school and routine resumed was I able
to turn my mind to the harvest. I was determined to pick my first batch whose
end did not entail decaying in the garbage bin. (I relinquished an earlier
batch to my brother, because, still, I did not have the proper jars. But though
those olives travelled as far as Tel Aviv, their fate was not much different
than last year’s crop. My brother eventually disposed of them in a trash can. A
Tel Aviv trash can, but a trash can nonetheless.)
So on my first work- and kid-free day, I dug out the hockey
stick and the old pink bed sheet and set on the tree. The new liter airtight
glass jars, purchased that week, were standing at attention in the kitchen, waiting
to be called into action.
When I cleared all of the lower branches, I dragged over a
chair and aimed higher, striking the tree again and again until solitary olives
remained here and there. With each hit, sending down a hail of leaves and
olives, I beat back encroaching thoughts. I should be going to the grocery
store. Bam. I should do a load of laundry. Bam. I should prepare my kids’ next
meal. Bam. I should read the newspaper (which is actually part of my work, but
even when I’m off, I can’t not read the paper.) Bam. I should do all of things
that generally occupy my off day, the endless errands, appointments, phone
calls, cooking, and more, that keep a household of five running smoothly. Bam.
Bam. Bam.
And then, when the first collection bowl was full, I was
empty. Emptied of the usual burdens and free to exalt in the moment. If before
I was motivated by the determination to see a project through to its conclusion,
now I was driven by the sheer joy of the immediate task at hand. Delighted and re-energized,
I ducked under previously prohibitively dense branches at the back of the tree,
positioned myself in the corner, leaned way over the railing towards the
street, and greedily grabbed at the bounty almost out of reach. I chuckled as I
considered how I, a zealous olive-picker perched precariously over the passion
fruit-entwined fence, might look to passing drivers on that quiet Wednesday
morning. And I basked in the calming realization that even if the end result of
the olive project was unpalatable (a distinct possibility), failure was not in
the realm of possibility. There would be none of the bitterness that marks raw
olives.
When the bowls were filled and the tree was mostly stripped
of its fruit (except for one patch which I discovered later), I still needed to
go to the grocery store and then prepare my son’s lunch. After all, though the
emotional burden was lifted, the physical need to buy (and eat) food was as
real as ever. But the rejuvenating effect of the morning’s activity was
restorative as an olive oil balm. I tackled the routine tasks with a lighter
step and higher spirits.
My kids enjoy a story called Up, Up Up, It’s
Apple-Picking Time, in which two children travel to their grandparents’
apple orchard where they pick and sell apples, all the while eating the fruit
off the tree and then enjoying apple cider and apple pie in the evening. Unlike
apples, olives are not an instant gratification crop. (The explanation,
perhaps, for my kids’ less than enthusiastic response.) Harvesting the fruit is
only the beginning of a long process involving weeks of soaking, rinsing and
flavoring. With immediate physical needs to be met, I put aside the hockey
stick and the old sheet, and then made my usual detour to the grocery’s deli counter to pick up a large container of my favorite Syrian olives. Enough to last
the week.
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