The Jewish year moves with the grain. Targum Pseudo-Jonathan on Exodus 34:22 marks two hinges of that turning wheel: the feast of weeks at the first of the wheat harvest, and the feast of ingathering at the conclusion of the ear, when the fields lie stripped and the storehouses groan.
The Targum calls them by their agricultural moments. Shavuot, chag ha-shavuot, comes seven weeks after Passover, when the wheat first ripens in the fields of the Holy Land. Sukkot, the ingathering, comes in the fall — after the threshing floor has been swept, after the grapes have been pressed, when every last sheaf has been carried home.
The Torah binds these harvests to the memory of the wilderness. Shavuot is the day the rabbis later identified as the giving of the Torah at Sinai — first wheat, first words. Sukkot sends the farmer back out of his stone house into a flimsy booth, remembering the clouds of glory that sheltered Israel in the desert.
The Targum's pairing is not accidental. A people that gathers wheat must also remember it once had nothing to gather. A people that fills its barns must also sit, once a year, under a roof of branches open to the stars. The harvest festivals were designed to prevent the one thing wealth always threatens to do: make us forget that it came from somewhere.
The takeaway: every ingathering is on loan. Judaism anchors the farmer's abundance to the wanderer's gratitude — and that is why the feast returns each year, insisting the barn is not the beginning of the story.