The Kingfisher

A kingfisher was hanging around my house the other day. I don’t know why. There are no fishing opportunities in the immediate area so I can’t imagine what was here to interest him. He perched for a long while on the pergola and then later I saw him out front on the signpost. He was absolutely gorgeous – bright turquoise with a red breast.

I remembered hearing a saying from the American South that if there’s a bluebird on your porch on New Year’s Day it portends financial difficulties for the year. Like you’d need a bird to tell you that. Given the global crisis you’d have to be crazy not to be at least a little nervous. But, I told myself, this was not a bluebird and it wasn’t New Year’s Day, and this isn’t even any kind of South. And anyway, I don’t believe in portents.

I realize it’s human nature to look for patterns in random events. In a big, scary world being able to see the signs and predict the future would be a considerable advantage. But it’s just an illusion, the sort of matrixing and pattern recognition that’s hard-wired into our brains. The bird represents nothing but his beautiful self.

I haven’t seen him since, but he’s welcome to come back. Maybe a fish pond would tempt him back. I’ll have to think about this because clearly, a splash of turquoise is just what the garden needs.

At Last a Palm

I’ve always had a soft spot for neathebella palms. It was the first houseplant I ever bought way back when I was in college. I cared for it tenderly year after year as it grew from a little thing to a quite reasonable size. Then my heart was broken when it was stolen from my front porch back in hometown America. I never got over it and I never replaced it, until this New Year’s Day.

For months I had noticed a palm in the kibbutz store stuck against a wall far from any light source. It was in the place where they put orders that will be picked up later so I always assumed that a) someone was coming to get it or b) it was part of the décor – I don’t know what I was thinking here, the place has no décor. On New Year’s Day I was buying provisions for the weekend and I could not get my mind off this plant. It was bone dry and begging to be rescued so I asked if it was for sale. There were two staffers on hand, one said yes, the other no.

Then as luck would have it the manager happened to call for reasons of her own and said I could have the palm for 35 shekels. I bundled up my prize and flew home without the faintest idea where I was going to put it. But as soon as I walked in the front door the answer was obvious: by the back door where the cats have their water bowl. It’s a place just crying out for a point of interest. All I had to do was move the bowl forward a few inches.

Cats can be difficult to live with – very demanding – and as it happens, they don’t like to drink where they eat. So to accommodate this idiosyncrasy their water is on the opposite side of the kitchen. I moved it into its new position, carefully leaving enough clearance for bowl, cats and plant. I innocently believed there would be no problem. Wrong!

Usually when a new object comes into the house the cats sniff it thoroughly and maybe insert a claw or two to gauge the reaction. But this time all three just sat in a row and stared at the invader that was menacing their water bowl. This showdown was not going to be pretty. The cats were mean and thirsty, and the palm was not giving an inch. I put one cat by the bowl, defusing the situation when they all saw he could drink without interference. But it was touch and go for a while there.

Sylvester Who?

Now that we’ve survived Hanukkah and the grease-fest of jelly donuts and potato latkes we might expect an enjoyable, uncomplicated New Year’s Eve. I mean, at this time who couldn’t use a drink? But no. In Israel it’s officially forbidden and unofficially celebrated and herein lies the rub.

New Year’s Eve is called Sylvester in Israel as it supposedly is somewhere in central or eastern Europe. This story is spread by word of mouth: the reason it’s forbidden is that it’s named after a Christian saint who may or may not have also been Pope and therefore the rabbis will not allow the celebration. My solution is simple…rename it! Call it New Year’s like everywhere else and problem solved.

Before I came to Israel I had only heard of two Sylvesters, Stallone and the cartoon-cat nemesis of Tweetie Pie. Beyond the name issue, the real problem is that the holiday is unofficial. That means you still have to work on New Year’s Day which for people like me means there’ll be no ringing-in the New Year at midnight. Of course, most people just take the day off. Whole departments are gone from the kibbutz enterprises leaving only a smattering of kibbutzniks here and there working like the drudges we are.

It’s unfair. More than that, Israel needs and deserves one holiday that we can celebrate with the rest of the world. The Jewish New Year is heavy with the consciousness of sin and prayers to the Almighty to be allowed to live for one more year. But the secular New Year is just fun, a party to lavish good wishes on friends and family, and celebrating it should constitute no threat to the Jewish soul or the rabbis. One secular holiday should not be too much to ask.

Wishing everyone a happy and prosperous 2009!

All Candles and No Tinsel

Hanukkah is almost over, the seventh candle will be lit tonight. It’s a very different holiday in Israel than in the US. In Israel it’s a minor one, meaning no days off work. There are a few parties – on the kibbutz one for the children and another one for everybody else. There are jelly donuts, chocolate truffles, potato latkes and, let us not forget, the ritual lighting of the candles. But that’s pretty much it, and it’s pretty drab.

In the US Hanukkah is the Jewish Christmas and actually piggy-backs (you should pardon the expression) on the Christian holiday. Houses are decorated with lights inside and out. There are sparkly decorations everywhere. And parties, let’s not forget the parties with all the fare listed above plus eggnog and fruitcake, my personal favorites. Carolers roam the neighborhoods singing for Jews and Christians alike and while they don’t usually know the dreidel song, “Jingle Bells” is ecumenical enough.

In general Israeli holidays could use some zhuzhing up. I miss the glitzy winter blow-out and the warm, fuzzy euphoria that went with it. As joyful as it was, it also had a jubilant denouement: New Year’s Eve. But that’s another story.

The Planting of the Bulbs

Last week I finished planting all the bulbs. I had gone wild in a fit of horticultural frenzy and ordered all sorts of flower bulbs from the garden guy. I was longing for a splash of color in a garden that was too, I’m having trouble finding the word, modest – austere – minimal – boring. You get the picture.

So I planted gladiolas, irises and narcissi (these were a present from the garden guy, bless him!) along the rocks in the back. In the front, hyacinths and tulips. The thing I like about bulbs is you stick them in the ground once and they keep coming up year after year with no intervention required from me. It fits my laziest-gardener-on-the-planet persona. I love plants and seeing them grow and thrive, but whenever I try to garden I just seem to get into trouble. Witness: the calla lilies.

I had this huge terracotta pot that would be perfect for callas, I thought. It’s a great plant – huge green leaves and architectural white flowers. Last year I asked the garden guy to bring me one, but just to be sure he brought me two packages, a total of five bulbs. Like an idiot, I planted them all. They grew beautifully, fantastically, and then alarmingly! They ultimately split the pot and continued to grow. The only reason the pot is not in pieces on the ground is that the roots will not let it go. So now a whole team of gardeners is going to have to come to transfer the callas to a spot in the garden which is probably where they should have been all along.

I’ll be happy if the bulbs I’ve planted will grow and flower the way they’re supposed to, but not more than that. I don’t want to have to machete my way to the front door. Even so, at least that garden wouldn't be boring.

Take Me to the Fair

The kibbutz as an organization tries its best to make life convenient and commodious. One way it does this is to bring in suppliers of goods and services for the members to buy at discount prices. This saves the need to shlep to town and pay full market price while making it possible to survive on a meager kibbutz budget. Every couple of months the dining hall becomes the scene of a clothing or shoe fair, and sometimes there’s something like jewelry or Tupperware.

They usually give you enough advanced warning to consider your options. Do I really need another pair of purple Crocs? But this Thursday I was caught unawares. I walked in to visit my mailbox and there was a display of big-ticket items: refrigerators, dishwashers, microwaves, LCD televisions. I was stunned. You mean we can buy this stuff?

As it happens, my tv is not so old. Why do I say that? Because I can remember buying it. So it can’t be more than 11 or 12, but it has been showing signs of fatigue. A year and a half ago I actually had to send it away for repair, leaving me to cope with separation anxiety for a full week. Now it shows symptoms of jaundice when I turn it on although this usually disappears after an hour or so. Given this and the fact that beautiful flat-screens have lately achieved affordability, I had decided to buy one probably next summer.

What should I do? Wait as I had planned and hunt around the stores until I find the best tv and negotiate the price/installation/delivery fees by myself, or take the kibbutz-negotiated deal now? Of course I opted for now. I don’t yet know when it will be delivered, but I am already anticipating the hours of couch-potato heaven in front of my new, big LCD. I just hope there’ll be something worth watching.

Hamsin Hair

The weather has been glorious for the past week, although I don't think most of my compatriots would agree. Israel's prevailing winds are usually from the west and the sea, meaning mild temperatures and considerable humidity. But every once in a while the winds shift bringing hot, dry air from the desert in the east. This sharav, hamsin in Arabic, inspires fear and loathing in most inhabitants of the region. I, however, think it's fabulous.

I like it hot, as I've mentioned before, and the warm, bone dry air is pleasant enough, but it also carries one big advantage as far as I'm concerned. My hair is naturally curly. I've never liked it. I always wanted it smooth and straight with maybe a hint of flip at the very end, not the frizz-fest I've been cursed with. Every morning I straighten it out with the dryer, but it's an exercise in futility. After a few minutes at normal humidity, the curls are back. During a sharav what I straighten stays straight. How could I not love this weather anomaly?

It's December, all the windows are open and it's no struggle to stay warm. Rain is on the way, that much is certain. But for the time being all this gorgeousness must be savored. At the same time I confess I'm kicking myself in the head. Why, oh why didn't I settle in Eilat?