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Catherine Temma Davidson
The Orchard
Catherine Temma Davidson is the author of the novel The Priest Fainted, a “resonant mélange of wisdom and humor, a testimony to the strong bonds of family and cultural traditions” (Publishers Weekly). Her poetry has won acclaim on both sides of the Atlantic, including a 2016 commendation for the Troubadour International Poetry Prize. The grandchild of immigrants and an immigrant herself, Catherine teaches writing to international students and works as a writing consultant at Amnesty International. She serves on the board of Exiled Writers Ink, an organization that promotes writing by refugees and asylum seekers. Originally from Southern California, Catherine lives in London with her family.
First published by GemmaMedia in 2018.
Gemma Open Door 230 Commercial Street Boston MA 02109 USA
www.gemmamedia.org
©2018 by Catherine Temma Davidson
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Printed in the United States of America 978-1-936846-64-1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Davidson, Catherine Temma, 1963- author.
Title: The orchard / Catherine Temma Davidson.
Description: Boston, MA : GemmaMedia, 2018. | Series: Gemma open door |
Identifiers: LCCN 2017057318 (print) | LCCN 2017060904 (ebook) | ISBN
9781936846658 (ebook) | ISBN 9781936846641
Subjects: LCSH: Immigrants--Fiction. | Greek Americans--Fiction. |
Grandparents--Fiction. | GSAFD: Domestic fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3554.A9243 (ebook) | LCC PS3554.A9243 O73 2018 (print)
| DDC 813/.54--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017057318
Cover by Laura Shaw Design.
Gemma’s Open Doors provide fresh stories, new ideas, and essential resources for young people and adults as they embrace the power of reading and the written word.
Brian Bouldrey Series Editor
Open Door
To my family, on both sides
Prologue
Apricot Jam
What is an apricot? An apricot is a small fruit, from a small tree. Apricots fit into your hand. They fit into your pocket.
Everyone knows about peaches. Peaches get good publicity. They appear on posters and in poems. Apricots are the poor relation of the peach, the cousin with only a suitcase. But when you eat an apricot, you understand its power.
The flavor is deeper, stronger. It comes alive on your tongue and bites. You can cook with apricots. You can dry them. Dried apricots keep their flavor like no other fruit. Apricots can be addictive.
Inside the apricot is a stone. Inside the stone is a soft heart. Inside the soft heart? Some say poison. Some say health. Eat too much and it can kill you. Eat just enough and it can cure you.
Where do apricots come from? China? India? People have been eating apricots for a long time. You can find traces of apricots in ruins three thousand years old.
The scientific name for the apricot is Prunus armeniaca, the Armenian plum. Today in Palestine if you say, “during apricot-blossom time,” you mean “never.” In Turkish, to say a thing is like “an apricot from Damascus” means there is nothing better.
There are many ways to make apricot jam. If you want a clear, sweet jam, it is easy. Find some lovely fruit. Take out the hard stones. Cut the fruit up into pieces. Put it into a big pot. Bring it to a boil. Add sugar. In ten to fifteen minutes, the fruit is cooked. Pop it into jars and voilà!
There is another way to make the jam, which I learned from my brother-in-law from Beirut. He learned it from his Syrian mother. Put the cooked apricots in pans. Use the pans your mother gave you. If you have lost your mother, buy new pans. Leave the pans in the sun. Cover them with cloth. The heat will pull up the water. Soon the fruit will turn the color of copper, of smoke. The taste deepens as the color darkens.
After a week, this jam will be ready for your jars.
When you eat this sun-ripened jam, part of you sings and part of you cries. You want to put spoonful after spoonful into your mouth until your belly hurts.
All the apricots in the world are linked to the first apricot. That piece of fruit came from a wild forest. One day, a human walking through the woods looked up. There in the branches was a glint of gold. Luckily for us, our ancestors knew how to climb. They knew how to reach. They knew how to grab for sweetness wherever they could.
Chapter 1
On the Road
Friday Afternoon
Lisa Katsouris left Los Angeles to drive eighty-three miles north to the family orchard in Ojai. She was alone in the car. Alone was not what she had expected to be.
The first time Lisa had done this trip, she was a baby in the back of her parents’ car. Fifty years later, her hands were on the wheel.
It was her grandfather Joe’s hundredth birthday. His family was gathering to celebrate. Some lived nearby. Some were arriving from as far away as New York.
Lisa’s grandfather bought the orchard in 1957, the same year Lisa was born. All her life, she had felt linked to those trees.
Joe Katsouris came to America in 1925. He was an orphan with an orphaned wife. Both Joe and Anna had been born Greeks in Turkey under the Ottoman Empire. They lost their families when a rise in nationalism broke up the old borders. Greece for the Greeks. Turkey for the Turks. Muslim Greeks were expelled from Greece and ethnic Greeks were forced out of Turkey. Many people died. Lisa’s grandparents were among a million refugees who fled to Greece.
Joe and Anna met in a camp in northern Greece. They were too Greek for the Turks, but too Turkish for the Greeks. So they ended up in America. They settled in California, where they had four children. Joe and Anna worked so hard they never looked up.
Never looked up, according to Joe, until the day he saw a parcel of land for sale in Ojai. There were rows of apricot trees in blossom; there were poppies growing in the grass. The orchard reminded him of the world he had known at the beginning of his life, a world unbroken.
He bought the land. For years afterward, his family grew around him: children, grandchildren. They gathered every weekend, then every month. Eventually, they came once a year. Then Anna died. The generations
