Olive picking

It's olive-picking time. November-December, generally. Last year's crop was poor thanks to the lack of rain. This year's is better due the late rains we got in September-October. Last year, our singular tree - buried as it was by others of different varieties around it - produced a total of four olives! This year it was full.

I've covered the mechanics of the process in a previous blog post (here), so won't go into it now. But a couple of things caught my attention this year, prompting this post.

First, I was struck by the tradition of it when I took my chain-saw for the umpteenth time to the local garden machinery repair man. (In our city days, I used to have a dry-cleaning guy; now I have a chain-saw man.) His father, an ever-present fixture at his workshop, hovers around seeking conversation at every opportunity. A few weeks ago he cornered me as soon as I walked in and asked me if we'd finished picking our olives. No clearance check to even see if we had any olive trees to begin with - he just assumed it. After all, why would you live out here if you didn't have any?

He then proceeded to tell me of all the mishaps he'd heard about - a 70-year-old that fell off his ladder to his death in Macerata, an 80-year-old that broke his arm in Loro Piceno, another anziano (senior citizen) who got badly scratched in a fall. Now this is a wide swath of territory that he's talking about, testimony to the enduring efficiency of the bush telegraph. And it's also a dangerous business too, one that's responsible for its fair share of population culling, it seems.

But more than all that it's a testament to the powerful nature of the cycles that still exist out here in the country. November - olive-picking time. No question, there is nothing else. It's porobably more prevalent and deep-rooted as a tradition for the elders than it is for the merely middle-aged, who see it more as a task than anything. So its gravity may be on the wane, leaving me thankful for the old guy who's genuinely interested in our lonely little olive tree.

Second, we're helping some other neighbours - Teresa and Franco - pick their trees this year. They're both in or near their seventies, and have just a daughter to help them with their task. And it's a big one - they have some 450 trees. That's a lot, when it takes a good twenty minutes to a half-hour to clear just one (moderately-fruited) tree.

Now you can't pick the olives when they're wet, and you can't pick in the dark either, so with the surfeit of precipitation we've had lately - combined with the early hour that the sun takes its leave these days - opportunities to clear those trees have been limited. Once the serious frost arrives, or the last appointment for delivery to the olive press comes and goes (for them it's December 15th), it's all over, and the olives will simply be left to rot on the trees.

That's a real shame in anyone's language, but to Teresa it's more like a tragedy. She's an avid biodynamic farmer - simply put, one who works closely with nature's innate cycles, properties, and spirit to nurture her charges - and so she really cares for her plants and their offspring (even if they're destined for the dinner table). And so these various situational aspects have conspired to add to their stress to get it all done.

Being biodynamic also precludes the use of mechanical devices - or at least automated ones - since they have the potential to bruise the olives and stress the trees. So it must all be done by hand. Luckily their trees are all of a stature that ladders are not required, and some of them are not laden with olives.

But 450 - that's a lot, and so we've been helping. I use the term "we" here more liberally than I should - I've been there three days now, Maria's been there probably more than ten. We're still shy of being two-thirds done, and judging by the speed and the weather, I'm not sure they'll all get harvested. Real pity.

On a crisp, clear early-winter's day, when the sun's shining and the effort eventually prompts the pullover to be discarded, it's a classic pastime. Zen comes immediately to mind - breathe, pick, clear the mind, feel the touch of the silvery-green leaves, the smooth skin of the olives, clear the mind, breathe, pick ... Not to mention the chance to exercise my spotty Italian - neither Teresa nor Franco speak English (Teresa speaks a little, but not really enough for a conversation).

And that's why I have to sign off now - to go and pay homage to this age-old tradition, to exercise my spotty Italian, to get my dose of Zen meditation for the day, and to help out some neighbours. Just another day in the Italian countryside.