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On the perimeter of Israel’s Jezreel Valley, with the Carmel mountains rising up in the west, Meir Shalev has a beloved garden, “neither neatly organized nor well kept,” as he cheerfully explains. Often covered in mud and scrapes, Shalev cultivates both nomadic plants and “house dwellers,” using his own quirky techniques. He extolls the virtues of the lemon tree, rescues a precious variety of purple snapdragon from the Jerusalem–Tel Aviv highway, and does battle with a saboteur mole rat. He even gives us his superior private recipe for curing olives.
Informed by Shalev’s literary sensibility, his sometime riotous humor, and his deep curiosity about the land, My Wild Garden abounds with appreciation for the joy of living, quite literally, on Earth. Our borrowed time on any particular patch of it is enhanced, the author reminds us, by our honest, respectful dealings with all manner of beings who inhabit it with us. Jacket art by Refaella Shir
On the perimeter of Israel’s Jezreel Valley, with the Carmel mountains rising up in the west, Meir Shalev has a beloved garden, “neither neatly organized nor well kept,” as he cheerfully explains. Often covered in mud and scrapes, Shalev cultivates both nomadic plants and “house dwellers,” using his own quirky techniques. He extolls the virtues of the lemon tree, rescues a precious variety of purple snapdragon from the Jerusalem–Tel Aviv highway, and does battle with a saboteur mole rat. He even gives us his superior private recipe for curing olives.
Informed by Shalev’s literary sensibility, his sometime riotous humor, and his deep curiosity about the land, My Wild Garden abounds with appreciation for the joy of living, quite literally, on Earth. Our borrowed time on any particular patch of it is enhanced, the author reminds us, by our honest, respectful dealings with all manner of beings who inhabit it with us. Jacket art by Refaella Shir
בשל מגבלות הוצאה לאור, הספר הזה בפורמט קינדל לא יכול להיות מועבר באופן אלחוטי ויש להורידו ולהעבירו באמצעות USB.
עקב הגבלות המוציא לאור הספריה אינה יכולה לרכוש עותקים נוספים של הכותר, אנו מתנצלים אם יש רשימת המתנה ארוכה. וודא שבדקת עותקים אחרים, מכיוון שיכולות להיות מהדורות אחרות זמינות.
מובאות-
From the cover1: A NEW PLACE
At the heart of my garden stands the house where I live. I remember very well the day I saw it for the first time. Back then, I was looking for a house outside the city. I wandered through villages and hamlets; I poked around, knocked on doors; I questioned corner-store owners and met secretaries of agricultural cooperatives. I chatted with fathers and mothers and shared secrets with sons and daughters. I had already seen quite a few possible dwellings, but this one I loved at first sight: a small meager house, the kind that looks like what were once called Jewish Agency houses. A modest lawn dying at the front, prickles and dry weeds tumbling around it, and a few ornamental bushes and fruit trees, some of which were about to die of thirst.
The house stood on a slope. I went down and walked around it, and here was the surprise: an expansive, deep landscape that stretched out to the farthest western edges. It began with two plots of cultivated land with a few spears of cypresses at their margins, and above them two ranges of forested hills, dotted with dense impressionistic smudges of variegated green: the pale green of the Tabor oak, the dark green of the Palestine oak, here and there the gleaming green of the carob, and the green of the terebinth—that of the slightly faded Land of Israel terebinth and the more vibrant mastic. And above all this, veiled in the summer haziness of the valley, lay a familiar bluish range that extended from one end of the horizon to the other—the Carmel. Which valley? I don’t want to insult anyone, but when I say the valley, I am referring to my very own Jezreel Valley.
I turned around and looked back at the house. Because of the sloping nature of the plot, the rear of the house was supported by thin concrete pillars that created a space between the house and the ground below. Someone, I noticed, had built a small wire coop for chickens. I peeked in and saw four small carcasses bedecked in feathers, and they were all as dry as the tin water trough that stood beside them. When he left, that person had abandoned the chickens in their prison, to die of hunger or thirst. But the house filled me with the happiness of a new love, and even this evildoing did not curtail it.
I examined the plants and trees around it: an old pear tree, a dying lemon tree, a shady pecan tree, two oaks and three terebinths, chinaberry, and jacaranda. A hardy prickly pear also grew there, and a crisp marijuana plant, remarkably green against the brown and yellow background. I wondered who might be coming to water it with such devotion? At the front of the house stood a fig tree, its fruit overripe, but when I drew closer to it I saw tiny mounds of fresh sawdust, heralding disaster, piled up by the trunks. A closer look also revealed tunnel openings dug by the fig-tree borer, a harbinger of death that eats through the flesh of the trunk and eventually topples it.
Everything I saw suggested the garden would need much work and forethought. But although I’ve always loved nature, I had precious little experience in gardening. I was an observer: of my grandfather in Nahalal, and my mother—his daughter—in Jerusalem.
#
My grandfather was a professional planter who planted a vineyard, a grove, and an orchard on his farm. I loved watching him prune and trellis the grapes in his vineyard. The movements of his hands enchanted me. I was just a child and did not know how to express this in words, but I felt that the movements of a craftsman were the most beautiful movements ever to be embedded within...
על המחבר-
One of Israel's most celebrated novelists, MEIR SHALEV was born in 1948 on Nahalal, Israel's first moshav. His books have been translated into more than twenty-five languages and his honors include the National Jewish Book Award and Israel's Brenner Prize for A Pigeon and a Boy.
JOANNA CHEN is the translator of Less Like a Dove and Frayed Light. She is a columnist for the Los Angeles Review of Books.
December 16, 2019 Shalev (My Russian Grandmother and Her American Vacuum Cleaner), an Israeli novelist and amateur gardener, endears in this delightful memoir cum gardening guide. Inspired by his Hasidic grandfather’s Ukrainian garden with fruit trees inspired by the Torah, the author developed his own garden, gathering hyacinth squill bulbs, anemone, Syrian cornflower-thistle and lupine seeds from neighbors’ gardens, and sage and marjoram from a nearby nursery. He generously references the Bible (“The first fruit trees to be given names were the tree of life and the tree of knowledge that grew in the Garden of Eden”) and elaborates on the virtues of the pomegranate, blood orange, and lemon tree (it “does not make any special effort to endear itself to its owners”). Shalev’s own garden, he proudly writes, has attracted everything from brides and kindergartners to mole rats, bats, and aggressive ants. Punctuated with charming botanical drawings, Shalev’s musings flow effortlessly from start to finish. His lyrical prose, generous pacing, and passion will please any reader with a green thumb.
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This audiobook, essentially a love letter to gardening, wends its way through foliage and flowers with a sweet, affectionate tone, thanks to Arthur Morey's genuine narration. With a unique texture to his tone, Morey treats this very specific subject matter with a warmth that transcends mere reflection and allows the listener to consider larger, more personal connections with nature and its inhabitants. There is a gentle gruffness to Morey's timbre that, paired with a consistent pace, lulls one into the center of rich descriptions and creates a hypnotic effect. Yes, this is a very specialized topic for an audiobook and, yes, the details can be esoteric, but the affection for beauty and all living things is universal, and Morey's delivery amplifies that love. L.B.F. © AudioFile 2020, Portland, Maine
