Garden Therapy

Dawn breaks. Birds sing their morning praise and crickets keep a steady song. The fall air is crisp like fresh mint, offering welcome relief from a blazing hot summer. Yet fighter jets fly non-stop overhead, a constant rumble above. 

It has been a week since the massacre of my people, an atrocity the Jewish people have not experienced since the Holocaust. However, this time, it happened to Jews in their own homeland; they were butchered while sleeping in their own beds, captured while preparing festive meals for beloved family in their own kitchens, pleading for mercy while their children were mutilated in front of them.

And so the butchers systematically went from one house to the next, killing mercilessly, pulling their captives by the hair, continuing their bloodbath for nine hours until the Israeli army finally arrived. 

Then they turned their violent efforts on our soldiers, brave young men who had no idea what had happened to their brothers and sisters. They killed many Israeli soldiers, including two heroes, sons of family friends. The bloodbath continued with rockets on the civilian population as the army jumped into action, recruiting thousands of soldiers and reservists. 

One week later, the Arabs are rioting in Judea and Samaria, while Hezbollah infiltrates the northern border with Lebanon. To the east, Palestinians on the Jordanian side are trying to climb the fence. 

This is an existential nightmare. Everyone I know has lost someone dear. They kidnapped the wife and two children of our next door neighbor’s close friend. On Friday, my son was at the shiva of his rabbi’s brother, a high-ranking officer who was killed in battle. Another neighbor’s nephew was killed while fighting for our safety. We are hoping to travel to Raa’nana today to pay a shiva call to friends who lost their beautiful son. No words. 

More horrific details are released daily, revealing inhumanity. I would not even call these terrorists subhuman as this word incorporates “human.” Animals don’t even treat their enemies this way. It is pure evil. And this is how I understand that it is a fight of good over evil. Those who side with the perpetrators are themselves voting with evil. 

It looks like this battle will encompass the world. Iran, whose dirty hands are all over this, is now saying it will intervene if Israel enters Gaza. Meanwhile, the US is placing another battle ship on the coast. Is this it? The prophesied Gog and Magog?

As Amir says, we have front row seats and he is right. As some Israelis pour out of the country like war refugees, others fly in to fight. 

We hunker down. As we do not have a bomb shelter within a 30-second run (yes, we have 30 seconds to run from safety when a rocket is, G-d forbid , launched from the north), we made an improvised safe room with water, mattresses, chairs, and a kettle.

There is a box by the front door with necessities like instant coffee, a change of clothes and random things like apples, pretzels, diaper wipes and a bucket. So far (aside from one terrifying siren with reports that Hezbollah terrorists were flying above in ultralight planes and had overtaken the nearby gas station), it has been quiet in our neck of the woods. I am aware the situation in the north could change in a heartbeat and it is already happening.

The strangest things keep me calm - like an orderly kitchen, folding laundry, and sweeping the floors. Every time I unload the dishwasher, I wonder if this is it, the last time I put away my cutlery.  Such thoughts offer me an appreciation for how good and blessed my life has been.

A long, hot shower I cannot have; I am always conscious that a siren could go off when I am covered in suds, knowing I have just 30 seconds to scramble and get out. Every time a child leaves the house, I say ‘I love you’ and mean it deeply. The list goes on, turning into a quirky prayer of gratitude whispered every second of the day. 

My greatest solace and therapy is my garden. I spend hours outside planting new seedlings and weeding with veracity as if I am uprooting an enemy, clearing my tiny piece of land of invaders and danger. I planted lettuce, mizuna, beet leaves, celery, tat soi, and parsley. 

I am preparing a new bed for cactus and succulents, filling wheel barrow loads of earth from the back, dumping it, then spreading is gently and evenly with my hands, appreciating the feel of the life-affirming soil. I made a raised bed for strawberries and then gently planted ten, patting the earth around them so they are snug. 

We now have a seed table complete with overhead misters. I took out seed containers, made a soil mix, then seeded trays of winter crops, one seed at a time. It was a type of meditation focused on bringing life, sustainability, and a nourishing future. I seeded Chinese kale, coriander, broccoli, Ethiopian kale, scarlet kale, rocket, garden peas, fragrant peas, snow peas, red beets, yellow beets, colored carrots, Turkish spinach, red Swiss chard, Japanese mustard, and black radish.

And two days later, the rocket (the vegetable version, not the weapon), Chinese kale, and peas sprouted, a sweet and gentle affirmation that yes, there is a tomorrow. It is a sign that life continues despite the stress, onerous threat and intense difficulties. We must do, we must trust, and we must pray. 

I am now in the car with Amir and Shaya looking for equipment for soldiers. Rockets are flying in the north and the south, while rain is pelting across the country, our first downpour since March. The shelves of many outdoor stores are empty but we found some important items, filling our car with woollen socks, long underwear, shirts, ponchos, rain pants, tents, and battery packs. 

And so we go on, like those seedlings finding the strength to poke their head through the earth, then reach up to the skies for rain and sun, their nourishment. 

We are also doing what we can on the ground, while beseeching G-d above for a speedy end to this and a return to peace, goodness, and humanity.

Weed Whacking

Come September, the Israeli landscape is parched, crunchy, yellowed, and prickly. It is as if nature is spent and experiencing symptoms of advanced old age; plants are skeletal, withered, grey, their stems fractured bones. They are exhausted, save for seeds that many will spread to ensure a future generation. For the next big event in this circle of life will be rain. And come Sukkot, we will be praying for it.

As a farmer (with my micro plot, can I call myself that?), I am deeply aware of this cycle and also of those prickly yellow weeds. And as I am an inattentive gardener, they have easily found a foothold and invaded my garden. They are predator and I am prey.

I saw them start life as tiny seedlings popping out of the ground and shrugged my shoulders, ignoring them unaware of their innate power. Now, some of them are taller than me and others have deep tap roots that must lead to China. 

It is not surprising that the weeds here as so invasive, sharp, rough, and hostile; this is, of course, the Middle East. Consider the soft mosses and alpine flowers of Switzerland, or the dreaded fluffy dandelions of North America - child’s play compared to their Israeli counterparts! In fact, some invasive plants here are not shriveled up but are fully alive and doing well, happily living off pure sunshine and my compost and mulch. 

There is Syrian mesquite, or ‘yanboot,’ as they call it in Hebrew. The golden hills and mountains are now dotted in green Syrian mesquite or Prosopsis farcta. It looks pretty, but on a closer look, it has thorns everywhere, right down to the base. Once it has a foothold, one would need armor to try to pull it out, plus lots of force. 

I researched this plant and to my horror learned that it is actually an underground tree that reaches a depth of 20 meters below, meaning the ‘little’ green thorns coming up are its branches and leaves. These leaves can spread across a kilometer, with each prickly baby belonging to the same mother mesquite. Before you blink, the babies are bushes. 

This yanboot is everywhere I look in my garden. I learned in permaculture that when you weed or trim back the garden, you should chop and drop, leaving the plant to decompose on the ground. Not so with yanboot. After it has been pulled out and dies, it turns reddish brown and is still as prickly as ever, so you basically need armor to pick it up. And if you touch it while wearing a sandal or flip flop, it will really hurt. Believe me, I know; a stroll through the garden is accompanied by the word ‘ouch.’

We had to buy heavy duty gloves that look ideal for trekking up Everest and when I am wearing these, I feel like I can conquer a young yanboot or two. As for the large ones, I wear the gloves and clip them at the base, making peace with the fact that they are there for good, part of an underground tree that surely starts in China. Yes, by cutting it back, I am simply fortifying it but at least I can’t see it until it rears its prickly head again. 

My other archenemy these days is the squirting cucumber or Ecballium elaterium. This plant is alive and well in my garden despite the heat and drought. When it first popped up with its greyish-green downy leaves, I thought it was pretty and left it to grow, enjoying its yellow flowers. But then it grew invaded my zucchini, and my carrots and my tomatoes. That was the signal that it had to go. I took out my shears and cut. 

With great force, a benign little ‘cucumber’ shot out a smelly, liquid mass of seed right into my eyes. I felt like I was in a scene from a horror movie. “Arghhhh,” I screamed, wiping my face. It happened again and again, and it burned a bit as well as stank. 

Its nastiness simply made me more determined. I observed that it had green pods that exploded upon impact. If I cut it at the base and ever so gently move the cut stems aside with the clippers, it does not explode. I have had a few mishaps but have learned my lesson the hard way. I since read that it is poisonous, so beware.

My other adversary cannot attack me by exploding and it does not leave a trail to China. It looks to be a type of thistle. It is prickly from base to tip and on all its branches and even my Everest gloves cannot protect me from it. I cannot find out its name but there are fields of it standing high and proud just behind my garden. They look like zombies from the Night of the Living Dead and I imagine them leaving their shallow graves each night to stalk the fields, arms stiff as they rattle and sway. 

To remove this villain that was the size of a tree, I took out a saw and hacked and hewed at it, then carefully it chopped it into tiny pieces. Throwing the thorny parts into a garden bag was also precarious, but slowly, slowly, I chopped away, understanding that I would never let one of these reach menacing maturity again. 

And then there is the creeping, crawling green thing that looks like Bermuda grass. This squatter digs itself deep down then sends a network of thick, strong roots underground that pop up in the middle of an innocent, unsuspecting vegetable bed. It takes hold fast and furious like a dictator. Good luck to any seedling that wants to make its home in this neighborhood.

Getting rid of this grass requires sitting on the ground with a small shovel and digging away, trying to figure out which way the roots are traveling. It’s like reading a subway map except it is dirty, sweaty, mostly unfulfilling work. Yet, when you pull the entire rail system up and find the mother root, it is gratifying in an strange way. Usually, the grass wins. 

I weed and I whack and I often call it a day, understanding that I will soon have a ground cover of mesquite and creepy crawly grass. We don’t use pesticides in this garden so I will have to enter into some kind of peace process and live with them side by side – as long as we can stay on equal terms.

Missing TJ

We lost a good friend last month. We mourn our comforting, cozy, loyal and affectionate friend TJ. Our golden retriever, who turned 16 in January, was part of our family since he was a tiny pup.

Our kids still remember the day we came home with this tiny white fluff ball. We were in Tzfat and happened upon a guy with a wild beard driving a motorcycle. Inside his front carrier was a bundle of white puppies. 

“Another typical scene in Tzfat,” I commented. 

My father, who was standing beside me, had a different reaction. “You have to take one home.” 

I wheeled around and asked, “Are you serious?” My dad did not even live in Israel back then, yet decided that it was time his Israeli grandchildren owned a dog.

Amir, who had never had a dog in his life, agreed in silence and amazement. Before we knew it, my father and I arrived at the motorcyclist’s house. Inside, it looked like a scene from 101 Dalmatians. 

There were puppies galore. A few chairs were covered in sheets and the pups had the run of the house, peering out from under couches and playing in the laundry hamper. Some were white and some were black and they seemed to be having a pretty good time chewing on errant socks and peeing all over the floor.

We asked about the mother and were told that she was so loyal, she ran out to her owner’s car the other day and he accidentally ran over her, killing her.

“Orphaned puppies,” I cried out, covering my face. That sealed the dog ownership matter for me. My father was already busy at work selecting ‘our dog.’ 

“You want a male, a white one, the larger the healthier,” he explained as he examined the dogs. “Like this one,” he said, cradling a white fur ball with huge brown eyes.

Say no more. We got a box, a blanket and bought some dog food, a leash, and bowls, then drove him back to Ra’anana. This was the start of a love affair.

My kids were in disbelief. When it comes to large decisions in life, we do act spontaneously.  Making aliyah, moving homes multiple times, and taking long driving trips without a clear destination are examples of this behavior. But a pet? A puppy, just like that? 

My kids took him in their arms and cuddled him. They called their friends and they cuddled him. The fawning and gushing created so much excitement over this puppy, it was as if someone had just given birth to a newborn human.

Well, not so far from the truth. He actually acted a bit like a human. Once, when we were in Tzfat for Yom Kippur, he refused to touch his food and fasted the whole day. He had a high emotional IQ and could sense all of our emotions, even reading our minds sometimes! Akin to a therapist, he was ready and waiting just when we needed him. 

TJ was named for his birthplace Tzfat, and January, the month of his birth. He was always available for a cuddle, a walk, a hike, a car ride, or a swim. And he did all of the above - plus more. Running with him was another matter altogether as he was obsessed with smelling every flower and peeing on every tree. As he was extra strong when his olfactory sense went into overdrive, he pulled me into many a bush on our running forays. 

Like most puppies, he was a terror during puppyhood, chewing shoes, hats, and table legs. One day we came home to a row of single shoes. He had gone into our bedrooms to select shoes, then lined them up in a row and chewed each one. And at the very end of the neat row was my favorite straw hat with a large bite in it. This was TJ's way of saying “I miss you guys.” 

We would get angry with him and he would give us his guilty look with a goofy smile, refusing to look at us, as if this could make him vanish. He would hide under the table shaking, but his tail would still be wagging.

It was hard to be mad at him for too long. He left his puppy antics behind and grew into a beautiful, well-behaved, athletic dog. When we took up hiking the Israel Trail, TJ came along with us Ra’anana Hikers.

TJ soon became our hiking mascot, grinning in every photo we took. By paw, he has seen more of this country than the average Israeli; he hiked down the Hermon mountain, swam in the Jordan River, ran along the Mediterranean beach, and walked through the desert. We even hoisted him down canyons using a harness.  

He never fussed – he simply wanted to be with us, always. In fact, such loyalty was to TJ's detriment. Once, he doggie paddled way out into the Kinneret to reach my husband who was swimming. He was either panicked because Amir, his beloved alpha, was gone; or he thought Amir needed TJ the super dog to rescue him. Who knows what goes through a dog’s mind. 

So out swam TJ. He paddled out farther and farther. We stood on the beach watching and soon realized that TJ was dawg-gone in deep water. We whistled to TJ and waved to Amir but to no avail. TJ was losing stamina but his nose was still pointed right to Amir. Finally, Amir turned around and swam to him, bringing home a wet, tired, and relieved golden.

Another time, we were hiking a canyon in the desert with friends. I decided to turn around with TJ and head back to our campsite, but Amir wanted to continue on. Whenever there was such a separation between TJ and his Alpha Amir, it meant trouble. We would hold TJ on a leash and pull. TJ would dig in his four paws and resist. He was strong and stubborn. 

This time, TJ pulled out of his leash and ran in Amir’s direction. Except Amir had scrambled down the rungs of a sheer cliff. We watched TJ run to the cliff at full speed and thought this was it. As he was about to free fall down the canyon, someone grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, averting his demise.

He loved most of our adventures, especially camping, when he could be chief champion guard dog of the deep, dark, and starry desert night. There were lots of nocturnal animals to keep him busy and when he was tired, he would crawl into our tent and snuggle against our sleeping bag. 

The one activity he did hate, though, was visiting the Dead Sea. He put his paw in the smelly water, then turned away, wondering why his crazy owners would want to go in such foul water. 

He was with us for many house moves, lying on the floor and raising one eyebrow as he watched us pack up boxes and move furniture. After a few exhausting moves, I secretly wished he would catch on and help shlep, even if it were his food bowl. But no, his domain was to be cute, to hike, and to be there for a ‘cute thing’ tummy tickle, for which he would lie on his back waiting with his legs in the air.

When the moving truck came, he would jump in our car and then happily stake out his territory in a new city or neighborhood. He was easy going to say the least.

We made our final move (or so I hope) last August. TJ was already ancient by then, past 15, which is old for his breed. Our mountain hikes in Amirim were getting to be too much for him, but he always came along, following us slowly. Stairs were hard for him and we had to start carrying him up to our room where he insisted on sleeping.

We hoped he would make it in health to our new home where there is a huge garden to roam in, no stairs to get inside the house and just three stairs up to our room. He made this move, learned his way around the place and the garden, and even barked at the neighborhood cats even though his bark was weak and hoarse. 

He then lost his hearing – or maybe he had selective hearing – as the word ‘treat’ still seemed to perk him up. He still came on walks with us but we sometimes had to sneak out without him as longer hikes became too exhausting. 

Every Friday night, we would do kiddush on wine, then wash and say a blessing over the challot. TJ knew the weekly custom and would eagerly wait at the table to eat the heel of the challah. Except one Friday, he did not get up from the carpet. He slept that night  in the living room, refused to eat, and by morning, could not walk.

We stayed by his side all day Saturday, stroking him, feeding him water with a dropper, and talking to him. He looked up at us with those big brown eyes and long blond eyelashes, then slept, until the moment when he did not wake up. 

His space beside the bed is empty, his favorite spot on the carpet is vacant, and our hearts are desolate. For a dog’s life, he had a mighty good one. We miss you, buddy. You were truly a best friend.

Don't Count Your Chickens (or Melons) Till They're Hatched

The heat is beyond belief. As I am new to this part of Israel, I am not sure whether this is normal or whether the whole world is burning up. 

 To do any work in the garden, we must now get up before 5am, a time when the chickens stir, the roosters cock-o-ri-coo, and both crickets and birds share the stage with song. This fresh and inviting time is short lived for by 8:30am, it is time to run inside for refuge. 

It may be comforting for us to run inside to the air conditioning but the chickens cannot! 

They crowd under the shade of the trees with their beaks open in a panting position. I add electrolytes to their water and give them several servings of cold cucumber. They have two awnings for sun protection and we hung a few bedsheets on the fences which we hose down a few times a day. 

The issue is that the water pipe is exposed in places so when the water comes out of the hose, it is so boiling, I can barely hold the hose. So now we are placing ice cubes in the chickens’ water to encourage them to drink. 

The heat is so intense, it is cooking everything alive. I wanted a red pepper for my salad today and went out around noon to pick a few. When I touched a pepper, it exploded into goop, literally broiling on the stem. I do not want chicken broilers. 

Yay, corn 'tiras' season!

This is also the time our silkie female decided to go broody. On July 1st, I noticed she was lying flat on her nest inside the coop. She was there all day long and this continued. As I did not know what a brooding chicken looked like, I actually thought she was expiring. 

On day 2, I saw her leave and ran in to see that she was sitting on two eggs – large brown Bielefelder eggs, not her own tiny white ones. Still unsure about what she was up to, I took one egg and left one there. 

I checked this online and learned that she was brooding, a behavior I thought was rare these days. I learned that it would take 21 days of sitting on the egg until a chick would hatch. It looked like a miserable predicament in the heat of summer, especially for a chicken wearing a mink coat. But at least this kept her away from the three overzealous roosters for whom she was easy prey. 

A Bielefelder and a Silkie co-mothering.

To add further complication, one Bielefelder hen also claimed this spot for laying her eggs. She would go in there and sit on top of the tiny overdressed silkie to lay eggs. By the following Friday, she was sitting on 13 eggs. 

I soon learned that I should have marked the original egg with a marker so I would know which ones were the fresh eggs. I did not as I could never predict when the silkie would leave her eggs. 

On day 18 there were 20 eggs there, some of which were cracked or pushed aside. Her tiny body could not even cover so many eggs. I don’t know why that Bielefelder could not figure this out and why she insisted on laying her eggs on top of the silkie. 

One morning, I saw the Bielefelder was actually sitting on the eggs in a brooding position. I thought the silkie was pushed away after all her hard work, but no, she too was back on the eggs a bit later. They were co-mothering. I had no idea what was going on and trusted that nature would figure it out or at least the hens would. 

Checking to see if the melon is ripe for picking.

Since broody hens stop laying, we were only getting two to three eggs a day for our own consumption, down from five to six. Fine with me, I thought, but how do the hens know when to get off their nest? Do they wait for one chick to hatch and then call it a day? I did read that hens can hear the chicks peeping inside the egg before they are hatched; I also learned that a broody hen will sit on plastic eggs, duck eggs or nothing at all. 

Day 21 came and went with no sign of chicks. Perhaps the eggs were not even fertilized. Meanwhile, the hard-working and over-devoted silkie sat and sat. She was getting thinner and her feathers looked forlorn. I was worried for her health. 

Adding more drama to the coop, we decided to give away one rooster. They were loud and aggressive, like nasty bullies on the block, and three roosters in one coop is actually two too many. Yesterday, a farmer came to get one rooster; he literally lunged for the rooster, grabbed him by the legs, and walked off to his car with the rooster dangling upside down while I was hiding in the house. 

Right away, the chickens rearranged the pecking order. The remaining Rhode Island Red rooster is now the officially proclaimed King of the Castle. He has taken control of everything in there and  forced the poor male silkie into perpetual asylum under our olive tree. 

We may be down one rooster, but back inside the coop, the Bielefelder had taken over the remaining five eggs, leaving the silkie to nest on empty straw. We had to intervene. 

This morning, Amir shooed the silkie away from her bare nest and into a second fenced-in area. She was so agitated, she paced the fence clucking out in despair. My vision was then to move the battered male silkie into the same area so they could have their own honeymoon suite. Not so easy. 

Critter damage.

I spent 45 minutes today trying to cajole him with lettuce and honey dew melon but he was too focused on evading the newly crowned and menacing King Red. I tried to throw a sheet over the male silkie but had no luck. Talya then came out and chased him into the coop where she caught him. 

Both silkies are now safely separated away from King Red and his hens, but they are not exactly celebrating their new life alone. This has been quite the learning curve and has proven (at least for me) to be more emotional than I could imagine. 

I did learn that broodiness is contagious so if I find another hen flat out on a nest, I will know what to expect and then how to proceed. 

It is now melon, squash and corn season in our garden, if you know when to harvest them. We have some critter with a sweet tooth who quietly slides under the electric fence each night for his banquet. He has methodically taken a bite from almost every melon in the garden using sharp teeth and claws. (So far, the the thick rind of the watermelon has shown to be critter safe.) 

We planted those squash and melon seeds in trays back in April, tended to the seedlings, planted them under the trees, watered them, and now we are feeding the  critter's banquet leftovers to our chickens! 

From broody chickens to domineering King Roosters, and from to exploding peppers to melon carcasses, every day brings its own form of overheated farm drama. The moral of this story is not to count your chickens or your melons before they are hatched.