I found two Oliver trees in
Shirlington, Virginia by the river bank of the Four Mile Run. Someone intentionally planted them there long
time ago to memorize an event, I suppose, for finding an olive tree in Virginia
is rare. Early September, the fruits
begin to ripen and they bring me back to the time when I lived in Sumgayit, a
small village where I served the Peace Corps in Azerbaijan. The olive trees are everywhere. By end of summer, all the olives turn black
and ready to be harvested.
Picking olive is a family
event. Grandmother lays a big piece of
cloth underneath the tree, the youngsters climb up to the highest branch to pluck
the darkest ones, Ana (mother) uses an aged wooden stark banging on the tree
trunk, in no time, all the shinning black and green olives hitting the ground
where grandmother and little girls are eager to collect them. Grandfather is the oldest member of the
family, he does not do much, just looks up to the tree with his hands behind
his back, watches his grandchildren laughing and picking the fruits. Occasionally, he guides his grandchildren to find
the biggest ones. When his grandson
hands him a handful, he smiles with an appreciative nod. One late
autumn day, I walked home and found an old man collecting a few olives left on
the ground. I picked up a big one and handed
it to him, he gave me a big smile with a “sağolun”
and I said “Dəyməz”.
Nowadays,
I can only remember a few Azerbaijanis, most have already been forgotten. But the time I spent there, the life I lived,
the ancient cultures I witnessed, and the people I encountered, still live deep
inside my heart. The Morning Prayer I contemplated
every dawn, still haunts me, still lingers in my head…..
