A Garden of Memories
It is Teal’s twenty first. They have all gone off to celebrate his birthday in the Cayman Islands. Since I can no longer fly, I did not go. The dogs are boarded up. I have nothing to do, only to feed the outdoor cats. I have already gone downstairs for my morning cup of tea. I laze in bed reading and listening to my classical music. My mind wanders off to days gone by, when I was young and all my experiences were new and exciting.
I cannot remember how old I was. Perhaps eighteen or nineteen or twenty. I was in Israel staying with my Khaloo Aboud and his wife Saida. I never called her auntie. To me she was and is a wonderful friend, almost like a sister. At that time they lived in Kiryat Ono, in a charming two-bedroom cottage with a spacious lush garden. The area was full of orange groves. At certain times of the year, one constantly breathed in the heady aroma of the orange blossoms. It surrounded you. It wrapped itself firmly around your being. Your soul floated up to the treetops with greedy pleasure, in order to breathe more deeply from that delightful perfume.
Khaloo and Saida were the proud parents of three children. The eldest was their daughter, Nili. She was followed by a set of twin boy and girl, Yakov and Ronit. Life was a bit hectic then, but after the little ones went to bed, Khaloo, Saida, and I would sit at their kitchen table in their spacious kitchen over numerous cups of Turkish coffee. Sometimes her brother Reuben would join us. A deep large ashtray overflowed with cigarette stubs. Saida and I smoked because it was considered the height of elegance to do so at that point in time. We talked and talked as if there was no tomorrow. After a while, Khaloo would go to sleep, for he had to get up early the next morning to go to work.
Saida is just a few years older than me. We had a very special and deep friendship. If my family hadn’t moved to New York forty years ago and never returned to that part of the world, we would have still retained that deep friendship. As it is, we still have a great sense of love for each other, but it has been perhaps thirty years since we last met.
My uncle adored her. She was his muse. When he looked at her, his face would light up with a look of wonder and love, as if to ask himself, ‘How did I become so lucky? How did she become my wife?’ I used to watch him in the mornings making her a cup of coffee and tiptoe up to her bedside and place the mug on the night table. He would whisper her name and plant a gentle kiss on her cheek as she slept. Then he would walk to the bus stop, on his way to work. Khaloo was a loving and demonstrative man. The two of them were sweet and gentle. They complemented each other perfectly. I used to wish that when I got married, I would have such a special and loving relationship with my spouse. I had to wait a very long time, but at last, I got my wish when I married my Peter.
Khaloo worked at Air France. Once a year he and Saida were granted a free trip to wherever Air France went. They traveled everywhere. Her parents and brother lived in the vicinity and took care of the children when Khaloo and Saida went on their holiday. One year they went to Paris. Over there, Saida had her hair styled by a renowned stylist. If I remember correctly, Vidal Sassoon was at the height of his fame then. At that point, he was extremely popular. Saida was a beautiful lady. The stylist persuaded her to have a painted design upon her hair. She looked stunning. She came out of the salon looking like a movie star! Khaloo was so proud to be walking by the side of such a beauty on those streets of Paris. Everywhere she went, heads turned. Saida, however, felt guilty about how much it had cost. She decided she was going to get value for her money. She refused to wash her hair for weeks! I don’t know how she managed not to squish her hairdo while she slept, for the bouffant hairdo was very much a la mode.
Friday mornings would start with the preparation of the Sabbath meal. She stuffed her Sabbath chicken, and that evening cooked it overnight, topped with brown eggs for breakfast. Two dishes were ready for the next day’s meal. Then she baked a huge cheesecake. Over the Sabbath, family and friends would drop in. Everyone gathered in the garden underneath the shades of the trees. The aroma of the heady orange blossoms wafting through the garden added another layer to the warm way this loving couple welcomed their visitors. They served them cake, nuts, and endless cups of tea and coffee. I always had such a warm, wonderful feeling in that garden on those Saturday afternoons, with all the happy chatter of friends and family. The children would play and laugh with glee, climbing from one lap to another. They received cuddles and kisses galore, and who could resist those?
On the main street of the Village of Kiryat Ono, there was a shopping strip. Once in a while, I frequented the hairdresser there. It was a small community. Everyone knew one another. They bantered with each other like old comfortable friends do. They were curious about me but soon included me in their group. My broken Hebrew amused them. The hair salon was a medium-sized room with just two women shampooing and styling hair. There were no assistants to wash the hair. Everyone patiently waited their turn. It was a time to relax. They gossiped and chatted till it was their turn. It was a pleasant and noisy place.
Once I was done, I would walk the few steps to the deli. Israelis had the most amazing salads and cold cuts, knack knick. I could not resist buying some to take back to share with Saida. Even as I write about that memory, I can feel myself salivating. I am not sure if I ate them now, I would still feel the same. Would they taste as delicious? Sixty years or so have passed since then. My taste buds and digestive system have aged alongside me.
Those were simple times. The State of Israel was in its infancy. Most of the roads were unpaved. I vividly remember the sand and wildflowers covered everything then. The land had a natural beautiful appeal, like a young girl in the first bloom of youth. It is called the Holy Land, and I was greatly aware of that. I felt that I was walking on the land of prophets and all the wonderful characters from the Old Testament. It thrilled me! Yet it was surrounded by enemies that on a regular basis threatened to push the Israelis into the sea. War after war was fought. It was truly a miracle the young nation of two million people was not annihilated. It was constantly attacked by the surrounding multitude of the Arab nations, yet they persevered and triumphed.
It is almost sunset now, almost an hour before dusk. I lift up my head from my iPad. I look out of the window. The winter sky is gradually dimming. I moisten my lips with a sip of tea. From upstairs, the faint sound of classical music drifts down into the kitchen. Other than that, the house is in total silence. I had spent my day going back, back into the past, writing, remembering. How fleeting is time, I think to myself, as I slowly saunter through the long passages of my memories…