Yes, it is olive picking season. Yes, our family does it every year and yes, it is a lot of work.
When the children were younger, we picked olives from the one remaining field that was not lost in 1948 to Israel-sort of a family ritual, picking olives as their ancestors had before them for decades upon decades upon decades. We took photographs and many friends came with us. It was a day out and a history lesson combined.
In this field, the thistles were high, so small children had to pick via a child carrier my husband had on his back...an unfair advantage on the rest of us.
That field was eventually lost to the new train system several years ago so we searched for one nearer to home. We found one in the heart of East Jerusalem. Out of our four boys, there is one who is a lazy picker and prefers to throw olives at the rest of us. He shall remain nameless but he knows who he is.
This year, our picking team was reduced to three out of six. It was going to take a long time.
Fortunately for us, our daughter-in-law (to be) got included in the team. Hurray for us! Hurray for her! Hurray for olives! Hurray for tradition! She is no stranger to olive picking so hopefully the tradition will continue to the next generation even if the lone family field is gone.
Emotions, connections, traditions continue. Even if these trees are taken away, we will find others.
Thought/speculation: Our ancestors would be pleased with us.