Don’t overlook Tu b’Shevat: It connects us to a dream

Tu b’Shevat, like Hanukkah, is a post-biblical holiday. Unlike the over-celebrated Hanukkah, Tu b’Shevat is, in my estimation, under-celebrated. It was not always so, at least in my youth.

Each night of Hanukkah we lit the candles, said the blessings and sang about the steaming hot latkes coming to our table. We heard stories of Maccabees and miracles, and we played dreidel. From a drawstring bag, each of us received 10 shiny pennies with which to start the game. It did not matter who won or lost, because the pennies were not ours to keep. At the end of the evening’s play, they were returned to the little sack for use the next night.

After the eight nights, the dreidels and the pennies disappeared into the drawstring bag and were placed in the back of a drawer until Hanukkah came around again. The eight days were fun, with a connection to some ancient history.

Tu b’Shevat, on the other hand, was our connection to a land far away and to a dream, the dream of a Jewish homeland. It was also our connection to the halutzim, the pioneers who were paving the way for its fulfillment. 

We welcomed our Jewish Arbor Day and heard songs about blossoming almond trees. The story of Honi ha-M’agel and the carob tree had a special meaning for us, because we, by dropping coins in the Jewish National Fund Blue Box, were helping to reforest the barren land for future generations.

Adults in our extended family gathered in homes or at meetings where conversation and discussion were abetted by noshing on figs and dates, raisins and almonds, accompanied by Kosher wine – the tastes of fruits grown in Eretz Yisra’el. Of course, they were all products of California, but no matter. One could imagine.

There was always one fruit that truly came from the Holy Land. It was never known as carob but by its Yiddish name – bokser, or haruv in Hebrew, but usually bokser, as it had always been known in Ashkenazi homes. The word came from the German bokshornbaum, literally the ram’s horn tree, a reference to the shape of its pod. 

Bokser was dark brown, dried out and hard as a rock. Taking a bite endangered your teeth and your taste buds. It was awful, but among all the fruits grown at that time in Eretz Yisra’el, it alone could survive the ocean voyage. For that reason it had a special place at the table.

Many years later, during a visit to my daughter and son-in-law in Israel, I noticed trees with unusual pods in the park near their apartment. Some were green, others brown. All were soft and pliable. What are they? I asked. Bokser, came the answer.

Oh, no – too soft, wrong shade of brown, wrong time of year. This may be carob or haruv, but not bokser. Bokser’s reality had nothing to do with a botanical genus. Its connection to a dream gave it a unique place and meaning in our lives that these pods would never have.

On another occasion, a visit to Israel ended just after Tu b’Shevat. On the way to the airport, I glimpsed pink blossoms on trees growing near the highway. Almond trees! For the first time I was actually seeing the blossoming almond trees of our songs and our dreams.

The driver was unimpressed. He could not understand my excitement: Come again next year at this time and you will see them again. For him, the blossoming was just part of the annual life cycle of the trees. For me, it was miraculous.

A number of years ago, Warren and I bought a condo in Florida. As a sort of house warming, we invited friends for lunch. The date chosen, one of our friends pointed out, would fall on Tu b’Shevat.

The house-warming lunch became a Tu b’Shevat seder, with conversation and discussion abetted by postprandial noshing on figs and dates, almonds and raisins, tastes of Israel complemented by Israeli wine. 

The Tu b’Shevat seder became a feature of our annual stay in Florida. Only one thing was missing from our celebration – bokser. Though I scoured the stores in the area, there was none to be found. No matter. Bokser still had a place, if not at the table, then in our memories.

For me, Tu b’Shevat is still a connection to that amazing land I have visited so many times. My thoughts on Feb. 11 will not dwell on the past – that is for old people – but on the environmental challenges we all face now and in the future. Taking care of our environment, replenishing it for coming generations – that, for me, is the message of Tu b’Shevat.

Chag sameach. 

GERALDINE S. FOSTER is a past president of the R.I. Jewish Historical Association.