Yet, Moshek takes time before leaving me for work. The Thai workers
head elsewhere in the orchard. Moshek teaches me the wisdom of
nature. Trying to grasp both the Hebrew and the biology, I seek
pockets in vain for pen; Moshek snatches his Bic from his shirt rim,
and I begin scribbling in two tongues, first on my fist, then
realizing that the heat and my body will erase these, on my thigh
beneath my shorts' hem (so as not to look too odd when I stop at
stores on the way home).
Persimmons are self-pollinating, needn't rely on anyone else,
self-sufficient characters, these cheeky-fruited trees. Moshek shows
me my task. Trim off the sappers to "window" (Khilon, in Hebrew) the
tree, so that the sun comes to its interior. I learn to recognize
quickly the sappers that come of a tree limb, or where a limb was
amputated, a cluster of sappers. (My mind wanders as I flick: does
Khilon, "windowing" and Khiloni, "secular" have a connection? Is there
something about being Khiloni that one opens windows into the world,
one asks fundamental questions?) I look carefully to be sure that
these sappers do not have buds, these of same green tint as the
leaves. The sappers flick off easily. As I work, I work from within,
upward and outward. I begin to feel the sun on my face, to feel the
warmth I can bring into the tree's heart. I see sky. I realize later
the ruthlessness of nature: these sappers will sap the energy of the
tree, will not bear fruit. Off with them and the fruitful limbs will
thrive, the tree "hoping" that its energies to make fruit will
perpetuate its existence. We, we humans defeat these trees; eat the
fruit and do not deposit their seeds nearby. A ruthlessness I begin
to develop: any new branch, new sapper without buds is flicked off.
No mercy here for the menopausal limb, the fruitless branch.
And, as I see the beginning furled persimmon buds, like the crepe
flowers we used to make in grade school for Mother's Day, I think back
and forwards: back to last fall when I arrived to pick, to sort, with
my Bedouin cousins, their acrimonious explosions towards each other
that never came to blows, their hospitality to me to join them for
homemade lebana, olives, pita beneath the shade of the orchards. The
toothless matron who frisbeed a pita towards me; the young fellow who
showed me on his phone, the photos of his room up north, with posters
of Rastafarian singers; the patient, quiet, stolid Bedouin
paterfamilias, who spoke clear Hebrew, proud of his service as a
tracker for the Israel army; the Bedouin who asked me to inspect the
lump on his neck, his souvenir -- his memory -- of the shrapnel in
Lebanon; the fiery pseudo-=leader, who strutted about, one persimmon
in hand after Moshek left, to "supervise," threaten, and do no work.
And these trees, if I work well, if the Hamsin doesn't fell its
fruit, will bear again in the fall. Such orchard work gives me a
deeper sense of life's rhythm.
The heat, dry now, moves me slow. I am paced by the sun, a slower
pace than my inner metronome, which urges me to work faster. Instead,
I enjoy the sun's languor. This is not Camus's Mediterranean sun,
glinting off a dagger on an Algerian beach. This sun warms and slows
me. Lentement.
Before he leaves, Moshek takes me across the dirt lane to the
avocados. Here are two species side-by-side: fuerte and Hagshamim. The
former named after its hardiness against frostbite (and therefore, the
last to be harvested), the latter after its origins on Kibbutz
Hagshamim. Fuerte, ironically, has a thinner skin, more squat in
conformation. Hagshamim looks more like an oversized pear, with green,
toady skin. Avocados must be fertilized, the flower. We look above
for hovering bees, those accidental workers, who, intent on sipping
nectar, dirty their breasts with pollen (avakah, as in "dust") and
anointing the flower's ovary (tzalveket, if I read correctly what my
lap says). Too chilly above for the bees to appear. Unlike animals,
flowers get others to do the act, perform the dance of two backs, so
to speak.
But, such sexy matters become more complex. For, avocados are divided
into two families: one raises its stamen, unfurls its mast, in the
morning and its ovary in the afternoon; the other shows its femininity
in the morning and only after midday does it raise its flag to full
mast. The bee, not the wiser, goes about its business without
checking on species. Therefore, much cross-pollination: a morning bee
gets dusted by one species of avocado pollen and that same morning,
fertilizes the second species' ova; the afternoon bee picks up sex
dust in the second species and fertilizes the first species' ova.
Cross-pollination makes for more genetically robust avocados;
diminishes inbreeding. The avocados look the same: Haas looks Haasy;
Fuertes, Fuerty; Hagshamim, ibid. But, Moshek continues -- and I am
remembering the 19th century monk's, Mendel's, discovery with peas
-- if you were to plant such avocados, their offspring would show some
breeding surprises. Yet, for the tens of thousands of such plantings,
few would come up with a robust enough new species for both growing
and selling. Moshek came up with such a tasty, handsome new breed --
that could not withstand the rigors of shipping: unintentionally
became guacamole (without the spices) in the ship's hold. Moshek is a
farmer: if you can't grow and sell it, it ain't nothin".
But, I am a listener of stories. And this "ain't," is a good story for me.
As he teaches, he reaches for an unimpregnated ova; peels back its
lips (the word in Hebrew is the similar as for "scar", "tzrifa"); or
points out the miniature cluster of avocados on the tip of a branch:
avocados the size of peas, avocados that could be placed on the table
of one of the model doll houses in the doll museum I visited in the
Chicago Art Institute. Long slender stems end in a pea-avocado. He
describes how, by season's end, only one, perhaps two or three of
these will remain. The rest will be felled by wind, or the Hamsin, or
a drought. A bad water season and an entire crop can be destroyed.
He picks a miniature avocado to show me. I wince a bit at the loss of
a life.
If you believed in god, Moshek says, then you would believe how much
wisdom this god has to create such matters. And if you don't believe
in god, he continues -- referring I suspect to himself -- then you
believe in how much wisdom there is in nature, in the evolution over
millennia. He points to his head as he speaks of nature's wisdom. I
find myself thinking of how much knowledge is beneath this
closely-cropped, unfashionably shorn gray head. How one could follow
him a round for seasons and learn much of nature's wisdom.
Uncharacteristically, Moshek dwells a bit longer. I am a bit filled
with Hebrew, not only written on the base of my thumb, the back of my
hand, my left thigh, but crowded into my head.
But it comes time to flick sappers. I recall my learned ruthlessness
as a lopidator of limbs after the picking season. I can see where the
others have worked, as I spy fallen green speckled branches circling
the trees. Already, the heat wilts those fallen. They will not sap
these trees any longer, but become dust and feed their parents. For
the first time, I find myself checking even where my compatriots have
already tread: find more sappers. I pride myself. Want these trees to
bear as much fruit as they can; do not want them sapped.
I am distracted occasionally. I am to head off on a five-day biking
trip from Jerusalem to Eilat with a group of some 150 cyclists,
including my friend Jon. I call the road-bike shop to try to reach
Nimrod, the guru of bicycle fitting. Three days ago, Ziv, at Rosen and
Meents has already measured me; adjusted my new Italian Cella seat so
that my perineum will not suffer badly. He has a sharp eye: checks me
on both pedals as his assistant stands astride the front wheel; shows
me how my knee is locked and suggests an adjustment of 1/4 cm.
forward, 1/2 cm. downwards. Yesterday, he checks me again and points
out that my seat is far too backwards, explaining the numbness I begin
to feel after an hour or so. The trip will likely run 6-8 hours daily;
for all the adjustments, I will need to remember to rise out of my
seat periodically. He advises I use much baby powder in the area of
unmentionable. He shows me a formula for measuring optimal biking seat
height, using my inseam. A road bike is so minimalist, so little is
needed and so much needs be just right. It is elegant. Made by man's
hand; not nature's directly; not like avocados. But it has its own
beauty which transports me from the orchard twice: once in my
daydreaming and the second in my trip home, past the railway station,
alongside traffic that gives little leeway in Israel.
Before I leave, Moshek is back, bringing the Liters of Coke and a few
packs of cigarettes for the Thai workers. I feel a touch of sadness
each time I leave, realizing that I always expect he will be there
when I return, as if he is a manifestation of nature's eternal
endurance.
