An Olive Mart in Casablanca

This is an “Olive Mart” in Casablanca, a sight familiar to anyone visiting southern Mediterranean countries, and especially in the Middle East.  It immediately made my mouth water from my love of olives.  My first reaction was to dive head first into one of the many beautifully arranged open containers displaying hundreds of perfectly formed ripe olives hydrated in brine.

However, it was a partial turn-off that the open market was less than desirable from a sanitary standpoint, as the sludge from the morning makeover was difficult to ignore.  Moreover, I would have to compete with the Moroccan flies that were looking to enjoy a free meal, hovering safely out of reach like Predator Drones from the vendors focused on controlling the infestation.

My father, born and raised in Ramallah (now part of occupied Israel), loved Mediterranean olives (he is no longer alive).  If you put a plate of olives in front of him, he would slowly devour the entire plate.  It was not a binge but rather a slow methodical disappearing act meant to savor every morsel, nearly invisible from the rest of us, almost as slow as termites chewing at your windowsill.  By the end of the meal, not one olive would be saved as an offering to others; there was no remorse for the lack of civility in his act of gluttony.  After all, he was the father!

However, in the later years of my father’s live, his love of olives did not go unnoticed by his body.  Clearly related to the significant salt content of his daily olive feast, his feet would swell like a balloon by the end of the meal providing incontrovertible evidence of his gluttony.  When this first made itself apparent to me, I was convinced my father was in heart failure.  However, his heart was not the problem as he lived to almost 102 years of age, and in the end, was taken down by an injury sustained in a trivial fall which fractured his hip….a common terminal event for those who have outlived their destiny through good genes and good fortune.

Children growing up see themselves as different from their parents; often they see their parents in a negative, perverse, and/or unpleasant fashion….especially at teenagers growing up in the age of discovery and rebellion.  But the time comes when we have to finally surrender this notion, as we finally understand the role of genetics in determining our destiny, or at least to help us explain some of our behavior and preferences.  From there, often a dreadful anticipation unfolds overtime as we grow to adults and past, observing more and more of our parents in our behavior, much of which is not appreciated or flattering by our own standards.

    

In my case, there was much to appreciate about my father and some to not appreciate.  It turns out that his life was infinitely more interesting than my own, his accomplishments much greater than mine, and the level of self determination and independence almost unrivaled.  This for someone with a 2^nd grade education, who came to America with $24 in his pocket, and who taught himself English and how to read and write without assistance………do I have your attention?  More about my father in a later publication.  

My father Jaber in his 90's and my mother Maria, about 80 y/o in this picture