Of gardeners and trees

Getting a new house is the brass ring of kibbutz life. When you join a kibbutz your name goes on the bottom of a list. Every time the kibbutz decides to build new houses, the next people on the list get the call and so it goes. Year after year you inch your way up until you get the call.

Then comes a year and a half of frenzied, obsessive activity: deciding on a floor plan, choosing tiles, a kitchen, cupboards and closets, and where on earth am I supposed to stick the computer? After dealing with the parade of carpenters, electricians, plumbers and brick layers, the last one to deal with is the Garden Guy.

The negotiations with Garden Guy were good training if I ever decide to join the diplomatic corps. Now, I am not a gardener. I love to see growing things, but I don't want to spend my afternoons with my hands in the dirt. So low-maintenance was the key. I definitely wanted wisteria on the pergola. "No point," said Garden Guy, "the flowers will all be on the roof." My pergola won't have a roof. I wanted some lime trees. "You can have one, and you'll have to pay for it." Lavender around the house and bamboo out back. "No problem." What about the front of the house, something beautiful and colorful like bougainvillea? "No. Bougainvillea grows too big and it has thorns, not very welcoming." (This last bit was a good point.) So what can I have? "Cypress trees."

Before I came to Israel the only cypresses I knew were the kind that grow in the swamps of Florida dripping with Spanish moss. I didn't know that the tall, skinny trees you see in Italian renaissance paintings are also cypresses. It's a wonderful choice for the front of the house -- architectural and elegant. I think of this as I look out my window. I'm happy to see that they've doubled in size in the past two years, and I have to doff my hat in thanks to the Garden Guy.

On a scale of 1 to 5...

Once every few days it seems I get a call from a poll taker. They're not interested in my political opinions. They want to know how I spend my money: what kind of frozen vegetables do I buy, how much cola, did I see the ad featuring the practically nude model selling kosher wine spritzer? They say the poll will only take 10 minutes. Of course that's 10 Israeli minutes for native Hebrew speakers. For me, having to have every question repeated 2 to 7 times, it balloons to the better part of the evening.

I always try to be nice. I respect that this person has a job to do and it's not his/her fault that I've just added the spaghetti to the water. This last time the pollster promised it would only take 1 minute. How could I refuse? True to her word, this poll consisted of only two questions. Did I favor a new coastal road which would cut through the only decent park in the area, or did I prefer upgrading and expanding the existing road? A no-brainer, I thought, fix the road we've already got and keep your grubby mitts off our park. Did I think the head of the municipality should push for this option in Jerusalem? Well yeah, it's about time he did something useful.

Then come the dreaded statistical questions. My age, education and marital status, I don't care who knows. My income? "I'm a kibbutznik." Sometimes the pollster doesn't understand what this means and still wants me to pick a number. "But I'm a kibbutznik. I have no income."

The plastic bag thing

I should have known we were in for trouble a few weeks ago. We walked into the dining hall and were confronted with a huge representation of Edvard Munch's "The Scream" constructed entirely out of plastic bags. It was cleverly and faithfully done, and astonishingly ugly. But I thought it was just art.

No, no, no! This week the other shoe dropped. The kibbutz now wants to charge us for every plastic bag taken from the shops, and the members approved this by more than a two-to-one margin.

Now here's my problem: plastic bags are useful. They keep food fresh, they keep the onions away from the peaches, and they are irreplaceable for the disposal of garbage. If ecology is really the problem, the kibbutz can pry open its collective wallet and buy the bio-degradable kind. But no. Instead, they pass the bag tax, further taxing my already stressed budget. It's unforgivable.

The murder of crows

A sizable murder of crows, I think I've counted 5 or 6 of them, has taken over my backyard. They like the relatively large lawn and seem to find plenty to eat in it. These are big, aggressive Israeli crows -- think American crows on steroids -- with grey bodies and black wings. They are so tough that even Finnegan, my most ferocious cat who never met a dog he couldn't take, does not mess with them.

Most distressingly, the crows have a particular fondness for my pergola. Normally I wouldn't mind. But I'm anxious for my precious wisteria to grow and cover it. I love wisteria, having first experienced its gorgeousness as a small child at a friend of my grandmother's in North Carolina. The crows keep breaking off the tender, new branches with their claws. At least I think that's what is happening.

What can I do? I can't scare them away. They just laugh at me, circle around for a few seconds then return to the pergola. Maybe what I need is a bigger, tougher bird to stand guard. Now, how do I tempt an eagle to take up residence in the kibbutz?

I gave at the office

Last week several children came to my door. Immediate anxiety, whenever The Children appear. The first problem involves understanding what it is they actually want. Hebrew is not my mother-tongue and it's not just that they speak indistinctly but that they speak so darned fast. The younger they are, the faster they speak. So it took several passes before I understood they were not asking for money.

What a relief! Now, I am not stingy and I am not without sympathy for a good cause. Or even a mediocre cause. It's only that I have so little actual cash on hand. I have just about enough to get myself home if I am abducted by aliens and they leave me stranded on the highway. Assuming they let me take my purse.

But it wasn't about money. The children wanted me to sign a pledge not to pick wildflowers. Easily done. I'm not much of a flower picker, not even out of other people's gardens. I happily signed their paper with the crayon provided and sent them on their way with my praises for their environmental responsibility. Or, given my proven ability to mangle the Hebrew language, for their spinning clarity. But I suppose they got it.