Now to tree trimming. Moshek drops me offer and tells me that Shay
will show me how to trim only the broken branches. Later in the
season, after the leaves drop, Moshek says we will do a more rigorous
trimming, cut the lower hanging limbs, open the crown to more sun.
Moshek only cautions, not to insert a finger in the blades (which run
an arm's length from my pointer).
But, with a wing of a lesson, Shay leaves me with long-armed trimmers
and a folding hand-saw, kind-of agricultural Mack-the-knife that hides
its danger in its own belly, flipping open to attack. I watch Shay a
bit to extend my one-minute tutorial, noticing that he is slaying
many branches, most of which are not broken, still have green leaves.
I follow suit, but without as much vigor. Shay's co-partner in crime
follows, bears a chain saw, felling major offenders, the felonious
limbs, as we move before him, concentrating on misdemeanors.
I am brought to mind of when I was perhaps four and felt, more than
thought, that objects, my toys and the dining room table (recently
bought, of heavy blondish wood, lathed legs) had feelings: a bump was
felt, certainly a dent was remembered and stood accusingly before you
on future visits. There was also a kinder side to my belief: my
sister's baby doll, which she left at home when she began kindergarten
(as she left me), I would play daddy with, and kiss goodbye before I
left for work, certain that dolly would appreciate this. This dolly
was particularly special, as Ester got it as a "gift" from the
furniture when my parents bought their first new bedroom set, which
lived in our living room.
All this mug-about to say that as I trim limbs, I have a brief pang
that these trees will feel the pain of my trimming. Then remind myself
if we were more like trees, more starfishy, we could regenerate
ourselves if we were shorn of the broken parts of ourselves, or the
memories that block sun from reaching the remainders of our souls.
Despite such ruminations, I trim. Learn to step back periodically,
like my fine barber, Moshe, at the King David, check the overall
crown of my client. I learn today that I have 8,000 clients, 8,000
persimmon trees, waiting patiently, not moving from their spots,
although the rising winds rustle their leaves, hint at impatience at
my novitiate status among tree-trimmers. And Shay's co-shearer
closing up the rear with chain saw burps.
The low-hangers I get. Some of the wild sprouts, soaring straight to
the sky as if trying to escape the bounds of earth, I am puzzled
about. To trim or not to trim, is a question. I do a check over my
shoulder and gather that Shay is arbitrary about this. I figure, maybe
I should take down a few of these locks, so that they will not, like
Absolam's hair, in their wildness defeat the roots of their paternity,
steal from their brethren below. My right shoulder has the remains of
my rotator cuff injury -- superspinatus, of the four muscles, comes
into my mind -- picture it flowing off the scapular spine, towards the
acromium, I think, maybe the coracoid process. Whichever, its twinges
of pain remind me to limit my reach. I begin to catch some of these
guys closer to their bases. I get a trick to protect the
superspinatus, yet fell these reachers: I pin my elbow to my side, as
if in a stitch, then muscle the shears with my left arm.
The trees lose some of their wild look as these sky-reachers are
taken down. But I leave some. I leave some reaching to the sky, or
welcoming it. My picking was thinking of this year. My trimming is
thinking of next year. I think, "When Iran sends its Shaheeb missiles
to Israel, they will be greeted by well-trimmed, high reaching
persimmon trees in Herzilya." Persimmon sprouts fending off Shaheebs.
The wind continues to rise and drizzles form. Shay and buddy take
lunch break at 10:30. I, sniffing longed-for rain, muster on. Shay
calls me over for a present: a package of eight, perfectly formed,
unblemished persimmons, now treated and edible. I have them before me
on my desk as I write. A small custom-shaped case, orangey-pink in
background, persimmon on each face, "signed," "Didan," Sharon Fruit,
the Sweetest Persimmon, Class 1" to which I can attest. On its
bottom, leftwards, you will find recipes for cream smoothy, fruit
salad, and fruit salad (this one with celery, almonds and lemon
juice). On the right is stated that new research from the Journal of
Agricultural and Food Chemistry" of the USA states hat persimmons
"{are the most effective fruit preventing heart attacks and reduces
the risk of heart diseases." Below this are the numbers: energy,
fiber, Vitamins A and C, calcium, Magnesium and carbohydrate. All
these my trees have developed for you.
I am touched by the gift. Notice that Shay has a hand-woven, dark
brown small circular basket, smaller than the old sewing baskets, in
which he carries his lunch. I spy egg shells littered where he once
sat. He has his last cigarette, an inexpensive off-brand, crushes the
pack and drops it to the ground. Moshek arrives latter with a liter
of Coke and a new pack of smokes.
Now, Moshek notices that Shay and cohort are whacking off living
branches, those with fully green leaves, not only the broken, those
fractured. He chats with them, their impoverished Hebrew transmits to
him that we have 8,000 trees, not enough help and must trim before the
avocado harvest: can't wait for the leaves to turn, to drop. This
quietly distresses Moshek. He sails close the wind of nature, prefers
to tack tightly to nature's agenda; he is of the earth, the wind, the
seasons. Explains to me, with some sadness the reasoning. Teaches me.
The leaves have precious chlorophyl, xanthophyl and carotene. After
the fruit are picked, after the season begins to turn, the chlorophyl,
xanthophyl are resorbed. (He is motioning along the length of a
leave, towards its stem, still grasping to life on the branch.) When
the carotene remains we see the beauty of the moments before death,
before the leaves fall, as we admire in Washington State. Then, only
then, should we pare the limbs. But Shay argues that we don't have the
leisure, the manpower to wait; also with the chain saw, they are
clearing the tree's crown to admit more sun to the interior. Moshek
shrugs. Lesson taught, he will return for coffee in half and hour.
We feel the misting drizzle in crescendo. We finish.
Lunch is listening time for me. We are in the chadar ochel, where
Moshek seems comfortable. He talks about the detumescence of the
kibbutz in the past two decades. He recalls when the chadar ochel was
run by a small core of kibbutz members, with all members volunteering
to fill in. He, finishing the army in the late '50's, began as a
"waiter" here. In the last two decades, people found excuses for not
doing their shifts; ended up hiring an outside food processing firm to
run the place. Anyhow, about 150 people come for meals, mostly those
from outside the kibbutz, especially those who work in the firms that
rent office son kibbutz; DHL, an architect and such. A few elderly
characters form kibbutz sit nearby; one chewing openmouthed, chicken
spilling out as he describes arriving from Hungary in the early '30's,
just in time to catch malaria in Hadera. (I had visited the tiny
hovels in Hadera where early immigrants lived; two families splitting
a room, divided by a curtain.)
I notice that the other 'white meat" ain't around. The ubiquitous
tray of pork or such that I thought they would put out at each meal as
an ideological statement, has perhaps been retired. Just to be sure,
when I ask for the "Chinese" chicken, I ask about the identity of the
curled, sesame-crusted white strips of meat in the gemisch.
Marx, Moshek reminds me, says that ideology comes from circumstances.
Moshek cites this to suggest that the ideology of the kibbutz early
on, came from practical circumstances: surrounded by active enemies,
night raids, pot shots, the kibbutzniks had to stay together to
survive. His father once explained this as such: he picked up a stick,
broke it easily with two hands. Then picked up a bundle and could not
fracture them across his knee. Stick together, strong together.
But, Moshek continues, circumstances changed. People began to look
around, how others were getting enriched. "I, I do not have a house,
a car. Everything belongs to the kibbutz," he says uncomplainingly.
Also, kibbutz members began to resent how some worked very hard,
others --- not hard at all, even if at all. Why, the hard workers
asked, should I bust my buns (my words, not his) to support so-and-so
and his family? Perhaps human nature doesn't tolerate socialism.
Also, Moshek began, there was the international failure of socialist
regimes. Then he corrects himself, as it is not possible to compare
the highly democratic organism of socialist kibbutz with the
totalitarian regimes who posed themselves as socialist or communist.
Nevertheless, he recalls Golda Meir's lament when Israel and its
kibbutzim were not invited to the international Socialist convention
sometime in the '60's.
then, as if to correct, if not deny his citation of Marx, Moshek
begins to talk about Amuna and Aimun, "belief" and "confidence".
Irony here, I think, as belief, Amuna, is such a religious term. But
he continues. These words are so connected, same root: Amen (I will
believe.). Without Amuna, Moshek finds it difficult to have Aimun,
confidence in one's way of life. (Here, ideology, in a deeply felt
way, seems to precede the material.)
We talk about the religious Zionists. I describe my experiences in
Kfar Etzion, a religious Zionist kibbutz, its modesty, its modest
means. I tell him as they discuss adding homes, they agree not to
build McMansions; they want to attract others who prefer to live
modestly, despite their means. When I tell Moshek that the current
homes are very modest in size, he guesses (I think remarkably
accurately) that a three bedroom is about 80-90m meters (about
800-900 sq. feet). He gets Tzni'ut, a life of modesty. He even eats
modestly, forgoing lunch today, preferring a cup of the watery drink
that passes as grapefruit juice.
He confesses that he envies the belief and confidence that I describe
and that he sees amongst the religious Zionists. But he adds, that
their love of the earth (he motions now with his hands over the
table), overrides their concerns for our neighbors, will dig us deep
into the earth. (Here, a thumbprint as if boring into the table.).
When I tell him of the range of beliefs on Kfar Etzion -- from Chanan
Porat (about whom he knows), who expects the Palestinians to let him
be and he will ignore them, to Myron or Eliaz (the latter a believer
that the sons of Abraham can live peacefully together, who still
yearns for his Arabic teacher in grade school, still is moved by the
muezzin's call for prayer, which creeps into Eliaz's poems), Moshek
is surprised. Pleasantly. But he returns to thumb and table top: such
beliefs will dig us deeply into the ground.
I am off. To T.A. for the Israeli Philharmonic. I have forgotten the
program, but learn later it is Dohnani (born in Germany, conductor of
the Cleveland Symphony, I think) and a wonderful Beethoven Emperor
played by a 21 year old Israeli (Giltberg), followed by a Tzaikowsky
Pathetique, so moving,that for the first time in my life (and to my
embarrassment), I burst into applause at the end of the penultimate
movement. (And much of the audience joins me, which both embarrasses
me further and relieves me of being found out. Sometimes, as Leonard
Bernstein said, music simply hits straight to the heart. More later.
Copyright N. Szajnberg 2005
