Shemittah and Me

Growing things has been part of our lives since we married. In England, we had a huge garden with an apple tree and large flower beds on either side of the lawn. I’d grow huge broadleaved courgette plants between a rainbow of rose bushes, tall aromatic tomato plants rubbing shoulders with peppers. During a drought — yes, there are droughts in England — I’d cart buckets of bath water down two flights of stairs to water my plants, my toddlers waddling behind on bandy legs to help.

One year we planted asparagus. Asparagus requires time and patience, and it would be a year before we reaped the fruits of our hard work. Meanwhile, it grew into a huge unruly fern dominating the flower bed. One day, a man showed up at our door looking for work. He was wearing a dirty tattered coat, the odor wafting along the freshly mown grass.

Bill asked if we needed a gardener, assuring us he would do a “good job, Missus!” For a modest wage, a strong cup of tea with three sugars, and a plate full of biscuits, he set to work, tackling our unruly paradise with vigor. He did a good job cleaning up all the weeds — including our asparagus. We didn’t have the heart to tell him.

Before Rosh Hashanah we’d mobilize the whole family to help pick apples. Wielding the long-armed apple picker, the older ones would endeavor to reach the topmost branches, while the younger members of the team would either brandish brooms to dislodge the fruit or gather the apples that had fallen beneath the tree. I’d examine each apple for bruises, carefully wrapping those that passed muster in newspaper, to be stowed away in the garage and used, sometimes months later, for the apple crumble that always ended our Shabbos meals.