Crescendo Day. The new refrigerator arrives in the morning. Then comes the a/c technician, armed with the replacement part. He’ll spend the morning schvitzing in the attic. Two flights below, a plumber replaces boiler room piping. Outside, I seal a deal with the third roofer to give me an estimate.

Then come the tree people.

A sight to behold. A dozen men plus assorted vehicles and equipment: buzz saws, a giant crane, a tractor with a huge claw in front to grab and transfer the big logs, a “chipper” for the smaller limbs and twigs, trucks for hauling the lumber, blowers for cleanup. A perfectly choreographed ballet of manpower and machine power working in unison.

Fascinated, I watch from a window as the once mighty tree is dismantled, piece by piece. Even the stump is removed — last trace of its existence.

I feel sad… yet strangely exhilarated. Three years ago, whooda thunk I’d have the koach and knowhow to deal with flooded basements, leaky pipes, broken appliances, and dead trees? Yet somehow, I’ve found the strength to do it all myself. And unlike the tree, I’m still going strong.

And the icing on the cake: with all the repairs, my old house is practically brand new!

Okay, I still need to get that faucet replaced. And I have a lightbulb to change. No sweat. Aytzim v’avanim.

Miriam celebrates…

Mustapha and the Tree and You and Me

This is a tale of shemittah. And sharing. And a dancing washing machine and a little pomegranate tree with a big message.

Not to mention the Kohein Gadol’s laundry.

It takes place 15 years ago. At the time, there was far less fanfare about shemittah than there is today. There were certainly no programs to allow landless city-dwellers to purchase a small plot in a field in order to take part in the mitzvah.

With, to the best of my knowledge, one exception — the Zakon/ Zitter Land-Sharing Program.

It was a lot less formal than it sounds (and, indeed, I just made up the name tonight). Just a few lines scribbled in pencil on a piece of paper. “I, Jay Zitter [Emmy Leah’s husband] give Nachman Zakon [my husband] the corner of my garden to plant a pomegranate tree and perform all the mitzvos ha’teluyos ba’aretz.”

Since we had no garden, backyard, or even space on our porch, this “contract” enabled Nachman to fulfill one of his dreams: to observe the many mitzvos connected to Eretz Yisrael.

Since that day, Nachman takes ma’aser off each rimon harvest. Every seventh year, he foregoes pruning and harvesting and puts up a sign announcing that the fruits are free for the picking. And, of course, at least once every shemittah year he goes out, looks fondly at his tree, and bids it “Good Shabbos.”

It was generous of Emmy Leah and Jay to share their backyard, which isn’t large. But when we proposed the idea, we knew they’d approve. After all, hadn’t we shared something not long before?

Hadn’t we shared Mustapha, the washing machine?

Now, most people don’t give their washing machines names, but this one was a bit different from your average Maytag. It had a backstory — literally, because its story began when it was carried on the back of a delivery guy named Mustapha, for whom we named it.

For one incredibly fun year, my identical twin sister Emmy Leah and I lived in the same Har Nof building: her family on the fifth floor, mine on the third. This arrangement was temporary, while we waited for our own homes to be built. These apartments were not fully furnished, and each was missing a washing machine. Neither of us wanted to invest in a new machine until we had our own homes. But we also couldn’t last a full year without one.

We came up with a creative (some might say crazy) solution: buy one cheap used washing machine — and share it!

One of the charming peculiarities of old Israeli washers was their tendency to dance — up and down, right and left — during the spin cycle. Quite a dancer was our Mustapha. One memorable night, Emmy Leah walked into the closed porch that Mustapha called home and saw a sight that still sets us laughing: The sponja stick had fallen onto the moving washing machine and the two of them — fat little Mustapha and the tall and thin stick — were doing the tango.

One night, I was trudging up the stairs with a pile of dirty laundry. On the fourth floor, I met Emmy Leah, coming down with a basket of my clean clothing. We looked at each other and (being identical not only in faces, but in quirky thought processes) burst out laughing.

We both recalled, at the same time, the famous story of two brothers bringing each other food in the middle of the night and meeting at the spot where the Beis Hamikdash would be built, a tribute to the love between them.

“And on this very spot, the fourth floor of Rechov Ruzhin 25,” we both said, giggling, “will be built the laundry for the Bigdei Kehunah!”

Okay, it was a joke, and maybe a silly one. But there’s a truth here. If we learn to share — our washing machines and gardens, our material and spiritual blessings, our words of comfort or laughter, whatever is needed — then perhaps, sooner than we can imagine, you’ll be bringing Nachman Hakohein the bikkurim from your very own rimon trees!

Emmy Leah strolls through…

Fall Foliage

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. One of those books you may or may not have read, but you recognize the title. Maybe you joked about the one tree that grows in a city of eight million people. It gets a bit crowded when they all squash under it for shade on a sunny day.

Well, I grew in Brooklyn, too, in Boro Park, as the neighborhood became a center for frum Jews. And if there really was a tree growing there, honestly, I never noticed. I was busy watching new brick houses popping up on what seemed a daily basis, rejoicing in Jewish schools opening, and reveling in the kosher pizza shops, falafel joints, and delis moving into the neighborhood.

Who had time for trees?

That city-girl view changed drastically when I moved to upstate NY. Watching the fall foliage was the favorite local pastime. I got to know some trees personally: the maple down the block whose leaves for some reason turned red in late August, before all its fellow trees; the oak where we hung a swing — we’d laugh as brown and yellow leaves fell gently on the children’s heads as they swung.

And then there were Sunday family trips. We lived a short drive away from some of the most beautiful autumn parks in the country. We’d gaze, awestruck, at gorgeous gorges; the colors of the changing leaves rivaled Crayola’s most generous crayon boxes or an artist’s fullest palette. We’d run through meadows where the green grass set off the flaming reds, shining yellows, dusky browns of the surrounding forests.

The beauties of fall came and went quickly, followed by an endless cold and snowy winter. We’d exchange our rakes for snow shovels. But somehow the foliage of November made the snow-covered trees of December… and January… and February…. and March… more bearable.

That was long ago, decades before we made aliyah. On a November morning, just last week, I was worlds away from the fall foliage I’d enjoyed so many years before. It was a warm and sunny day, so I decided to skip the Jerusalem light-rail ride to work and walk down busy Rechov Herzl.

I didn’t feel sad, not exactly. Who could feel sad walking under the beautiful Yerushalayim blue sky? But somehow on that November morning, memories of the fall foliage I’d left behind intruded, and I felt a little — was it wistful? nostalgic? — surrounded by buildings and construction, hearing cars and trucks honking and trains clattering by. Where was the quiet November beauty of fall foliage?

Then I saw it. A narrow simtah, a passageway between houses. The bit of green between the white stone walls of the buildings beckoned me. Israel actually does have trees that change color — but up in the Golan, not generally in Jerusalem courtyards. Still, maybe I’d see something growing that would remind me of those glorious fall foliage days.

I did.

Not trees. Not colors. Not gorges, not meadows.

A piece of paper.

I saw a piece of paper.

It hung loosely on the bamboo fence surrounding a tiny Yerushalayim garden, stuck in a transparent plastic sleeve.

The handwritten message began, “Shabbat Shalom, Eretz Yisrael!”  and went on to invite anyone to enter the garden to pick the herbs that grew freely there.

Shemittah!

I actually didn’t go into the garden. Awkward to walk into my office with pockets full of homegrown parsley and coriander, and in any case, dealing with hefker shemittah produce is quite complex.

I returned to Rechov Herzl without any herbs — but also without that slight melancholy I’d felt, remembering the beauties of the fall foliage I’d left behind.

Hashem has spread His gift of beautiful physical scenery throughout His world, and I cherish the memories of those glorious November landscapes. But my little detour between buildings on a busy road in Yerushalayim reminded me of the glorious spiritual landscapes of Eretz Yisrael.

Yes, a tree, possibly even more than one, can grow in Brooklyn, and groves of breathtaking foliage can certainly flourish in upstate New York.

But only in Israel does a simple herb… or flower… or tree… keep Shabbos.

Shabbat Shalom, Eretz Yisrael!

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 771)