Petah Tikvah Memorial Park
Bring me Cappuccino (hafuch in Hebrew). He lowered his mask, put the opening of the cover to his lips, no coffee came out. Instead the hot stuff came gushing out of the cup, where his mouth wasn't but his green and white shirt was. Etti sits in the car munching a doughnut. Leon didn't even have a chance to experience its color.
The old folks were on their way. They arrived at Shilat junction, on road 443 at 9:30 heading for Memorial Park in Petach Tikvah. Everything went according to schedule. The mobile phone rang, Avishai said, where are you, what's keeping you. Etti asked, what should I tell him?'' Tell him the truth, said the old man, we'll be late, stopping at the Teller Bakery, to pick up bread. Okay, he said, but make sure they have a toilet, I'm not moving another inch without one, and a coffee break.
The cold of Winter struck Jerusalem, Avishai called and the old folks arranged to meet him in the warmer climate of the Lowlands. They poured Earl Grey tea into their flask, fixed the whole wheat bread and cheese into sandwiches, Cheddar and Gouda for the old guy, Feta for the old lady. Safety belts tied, the destination inserted into the GPS. Mother, hands firmly on the wheel, gave gas and the Prius pulled quietly out of the apartment parking area. The app said turn right and the driver obeyed.
The moment Avishai's Toyota came into view, father understood that they were at the right place. He indicated to follow him. The road led through Jabotinsky boulevard, lined with massive Sycamore's on either side, darkening the road.
Light blue masks over their mouth and nose, the pair entered the park at exactly 10:30.
The couple's son witnessed the scene; his father, a tall man, in the standard neat black Nike cap, on his head, carried a red and white shopping bag, full but not too heavy. His parents peered furtively this way and that. Where in heaven's name was there a place to sit, without suspicion of Covid.
Their eyes skimmed over a solitary figure, on a brown wooden recliner, made of slats, a permanent fixture.
He was dozing, his hat over his face, under the shade of an old Sycamore. According to the Bible, Solomon planted forests of these here 3000 years ago.
IKings 10:27The king made silver as common in Jerusalem as stones, and cedar as plentiful as sycamore-fig trees in the foothills.
The beautiful park, in the heart of the "Mother of the settlements", was opened in 1963 by David ben Gurion.
Leon and Ettie walked, continually searching. A vacant bench didn't appear anywhere. they saw a grassy area where children were playing. This also did not meet with the couple's approval. Any place with people was unsuitable in this day and age, of danger of being infected with the deadly virus.
The quest for an isolated place is renewed every time mother needs to pick a place to sit in the open air. She's forever searching . Before the pandemic, only lovers and mysterious types would explore desolate places. These days are different; a person joining people in a group can be branded as a criminal. Ettie carries out the restriction to gathering with others far beyond the requirements of the law. I am sick and tired of this situation. We have been convicted and must accept our sentence with resignation.
Covid isn't going to last forever, thank goodness. But we might as well take advantage of the spare time being unemployed has afforded us. The travel agent wife can visit the interesting sites of our country, like this memorial park, she's never had time for. Leon, on the other hand, can use the time to learn how to write stories, something he's never had the time to do. He's virtually become an old dog learning new tricks.
Mother finally found a place to sit; on a wall next to a square of black and white paving stones. In Summertime children splashed in little fountains spurting out of these holes. But it was deserted, the quietest place in the park.
Time to stretch legs, said the old man, leaving mother and son to catch up on family news; Jonathan's new baby, Tali, the biscuits which Noga liked, Alma and Jonathan in Tel Aviv and so on and so on.
He strolled down, past the children playing on the swings, seesaws and slides. He came to the North opening, a narrow gate in a fence of dark green stanchions. He watched the road worker in a bright yellow plastic vest, warning cars to turn round, because of roadworks. Vehicles couldn't reach this access.
Leon turned around to walk back to the park. The sight of two leafy Giraffes, shaped out of a bush staring at nothing, came into view, indicating the shut down zoo nearby.
As he was climbing a flight of stone steps, he came across a group of laughing schoolgirls, in long colorful dresses. This was not their school uniform. Their institution won't be functioning until the government is satisfied that the danger of the virus spreading is over. One of them was taking a picture of the others.
At the top he came to a level lawnlike plain, and gazed down over the little waterfall splashing into a pond with fish. On the other side he could see his wife and son sitting and chatting.
Leon continued to walk up the verdant slope, and came to a wall of names, the heroes who died for their country. The recreation area was laid out in their memory. A little further on stood a Sherman tank captured in one of the wars. Beyond, another gate led out of the estate into one of Petach Tikva's suburbs.
Truly this is a memorial, Leon thought to himself, when he stumbled on the remains of an olive oil production plant.
A flat smooth stone on which his primogenitors smashed the small round fruit into pulp, lay on the one side, the basin to collect the mush next to it, and the press to squeeze out every last drop of the precious liquid, and to purify it, in the centre.
The park is a fitting tribute to the industry of my forebears. The oldest apparatus of the press dated from the Neolithic period, more than 10000 years ago, the newest from the Roman period.
Leon reminded Avishai that he was not his first forefather, but that he stood at the pinnacle of a long line of ancestors, who were industrious people. They founded civilization, like planting a seedling, and we are at the heights to which that small tree has grown so far.
Each generation improved the culture of the previous one. Avishai is the accumulation of all those generations of cultural improvement industry and intellect, and his offspring will add more understanding to the knowledge he has inherited from his antecedents. The people grow more intelligent, adding wisdom onto the wisdom of their progenitors millions of years ago.