Snapshots Not a Snap

As you can probably see, I have at long last bought a camera. I’ve taken a first few pictures of my house so I can show my dear ones in the States how I’m living, in the process adorning this page with a picture of my back door.

It’s a simple, little camera of the point-and-shoot variety (a Canon A1100) and not at all expensive. It takes lovely pictures to my untrained eye. But whenever I buy anything I feel slightly sick afterward. The more expensive it was, the sicker I feel. I suspect my husband of blessed memory had some nefarious operant conditioning performed on me while I slept because otherwise I can’t explain this. I used to love to shop.

But that is nothing compared to the sheer terror that awaits when you get the camera home and open the box. Then you have to contend with finding where the batteries go, how to open the place where they go, insert the memory card and figure out what all those little buttons with the unintelligible symbols instead of actual words do. And heaven help you if you press the wrong one. At least the instructions were mercifully in blessed English. Of course, in the olden days you just had to know how to load the film.

Oddly enough, the hardest part was transferring the pictures to the computer. I say “oddly” because I work with computers all day long and I’m not afraid of them and I’m not mystified by them. I actually like them. But try as I might I could not get the computer to recognize the camera. Two phone calls to the service department of the camera store were not much help. Then in desperation I rang my friend, Drora, who’s a wiz with all things technical. “Use the USB port at the back of the computer instead of the front,” was her advice. Presto, it worked like a charm.

I plan to illustrate these pages with my photos in the fullness of time. For the present, I’m still a little shaken and suffering from technoshock. It will pass. I will learn how to use all this stuff. But my question for the universe is this: why is nothing ever easy?

If It Ain't Broke, Don't Fix It

Late last week Maabarot voted to remain a kibbutz. You probably heard my big old sigh of relief. I expected the vote to go the other way and was very pleasantly surprised.

What am I talking about? A self-assembled committee put together a proposal to start paying wages for the work the members do just like in the real world. And just like in the real world, the more important your job, the more money you would make. Then the members would pay taxes back to the kibbutz to keep the place running. For months we’ve been bombarded with strident propaganda about how we could forge a better kibbutz. This got right up my nose: I think the kibbutz is already good enough.

Capitalism is a great system, especially for over-achievers, providing prosperity to its citizens. And for anyone who wants to live like that, there are plenty of cities to choose from. But it’s not the kibbutz way. Here we get a monthly budget, everybody gets the same no matter what they do and everyone’s equal. I like this about the place, the Fantasy Island aspect: no material worries, not much money, but enough to get by and even save a little. I didn’t want to give it up to start worrying about scraping by and paying bills in my old age. And I didn’t want to see the unemployed begging for food in front of the dining hall.

I thought I was in the minority, but apparently I wasn’t. The proposal was overwhelmingly rejected and I am grateful. Life is good here on Fantasy Island, so why fix what ain’t broke?