Ali Bey, the Apple Farmer

I bit into the crispy Fuji apple with a snap and a crunch, that unmistakable taste of from-the-tree apple juice bursting in my mouth, and praised God. It wasn’t that good produce was hard to find, but after living in a state where apples were grown and we could enjoy fresh local apples every fall, I knew they were such a gift!

I drove each week to the Sunday pazar (market) just a mile from our village house. It was a perfect opportunity to build my confidence driving in our host country, and I became a professional parallel parker. After my first two pazar carts lost their wheels, we purchased a big, collapsible wagon that made me stick out like a sore thumb among the shoppers, who all had one of two types of carts. While I did not enjoy standing out in a society that celebrated conformity, I did have admirers every week ask me where I got my cart. It was gratifying to fill it up each week with fresh local produce and other necessary household items for my family.

The pazar tables were spread out here each Sunday under canopies in a large parking lot near a mosque, a post office, and several small stores in a suburb known for its many Bulgarian immigrants. Depending on the time of year, there were piles of colorful fruit and greens, eggs, dairy, bread, clothing, and household items. There were small booths where farmers sold their own products as well as larger booths stocked with items brought from larger distributors.

The apple farmer had a wide table in the bottom half of the pazar, along with pears, homemade molasses and vinegar, and, depending on the season, peaches, strawberries, oranges, and other local fruits. Manning the booth was a stout man with a thick, calloused handshake and an instantly friendly manner. After Ali Bey sold me apples a few times, he invited our family to visit his farm, which was an hour north.

Accepting the Invitation

In a small village against the base of the mountain, surrounded by a patchwork of farm plots, we met Ali Bey’s wife and three daughters. His parents, grandmother, aunt, and some cousins also lived in the village dwelling, which was really two homes, a large workspace, and a garage built around a courtyard, sandwiched between other village homes. Around the tightly packed homes of the village, the farmland stretched out in different plots, and Ali Bey bought them as he was able, which meant his land was mostly scattered in separate pieces. He drove us around to these plots, where we picked fruit, vegetables, and strawberries. They loaded the tractor-trailer up with picnic food, and we drove to a waterfall outside the city. We then toured the mausoleum next to the village mosque, with the tombs of the village founders—early settlers who hunted on the backs of elk. The elk antlers hung from the rafters overhead. Finally, we were taken back to the village home and shown the backyard with the family garden and goats. Women and children hung out at the house while the men went to the “tea garden” for a hot drink.

Every week I bought apples and other produce from the hardworking farmer.

We visited Ali Bey’s family many times. We helped pick peaches, cherries, strawberries, and a small red sour fruit. They took us to see the neighbor’s sheep. We had picnics in the orchards, or meals of bread, cheese, and olives around the family’s crowded table. And every week I bought apples and other produce from the hardworking farmer.

One day Ali Bey’s lot was empty, and when I asked the nut seller, he said Ali’s nephew had been killed in a tractor accident. According to the custom, we drove right up to see the family. It was somber in the dwelling with the maze of rooms. We sat with them for an hour, remembering the tall, quiet boy who regularly helped his uncle at the market. Then they begged us to come back on Saturday for the funeral.

We arrived right on time that Saturday and proceeded to wait five hours for the formalities to start. All the villagers crowded into the outer courtyard, which had been scrubbed clean of vinegar bins and decaying vegetation. The women covered their heads while an imam recited Qur’anic suras in a haunting song. Finally, plates were handed out with rice pilaf, chicken, and yogurt drinks. In serving food to the guests, the family expected to earn merit for their lost boy. In Islam one works to earn merit but never knows at death whether one has earned enough to make it to heaven. Though Ali Bey and his family never asked serious questions about our faith, we had the opportunity to demonstrate Christlike love to them and share words of encouragement from our own experiences of loss and grief. I pray the time spent with this family will bear fruit in the kingdom, where we will all spend eternity with our loved ones!