Gray is Beautiful

Getting a haircut on the kibbutz is a scary experience. This is mainly because the cutter in question tends to get a little drunk with power. Instead of the light trim you asked for, you are likely to find half your hair suddenly on the floor. Not only that but every single time I go she discovers to her surprise how much gray I have.

It’s not a surprise to me. I’m well aware that the clock does not go backward. More to the point, the gray in my hair is appropriate to my age and I feel no need to cover it up. I’m actually happy to be getting old because it’s so much better than the alternative.

Of course, this all can be attributed to my background. I grew up in a very conservative city. Divorce was unheard-of, women always wore skirts and never trousers, and they never, ever dyed their hair. I rarely speak of this now. People will think I grew up on a different planet.

Perhaps I did. In any event, I take my graying head as a survivor’s merit badge. I earned every gray hair, and most importantly, I’m still here.

Hearts and Flowers

I didn’t post last week, never quite got around to it. It was my birthday as it happens and my step-daughter came to visit. It was the first time she saw me in my new natural habitat and we had a nice visit, lunching at The House of Wine.

Having my birthday on Valentine’s Day was always something of a mixed blessing. My parents played the heart theme to the hilt. I had hearts on my pajamas, heart-shaped pillows on my bed, heart-shaped rings on my fingers. After a while, corresponding with my progression into adolescence, it got to be a bit much. Then there were the strangers’ reactions whenever I had to give my birth date. “Your birthday is on Valentine’s Day? Aw, that’s so sweet!” With typical adolescent grouchiness I vowed that someday I would live somewhere where Valentine’s Day did not exist.

That of course came to pass when I moved to Israel. Nothing connected, however tangentially, with any Christian saint is officially sanctioned here. Under the chapter heading of Be Careful What You Wish For, I found I missed the sweet Valentine birthday specialness. I missed the ownership, the feeling that Valentine’s Day belonged to me in a way that it didn’t to most other people. I missed the chocolate hearts.

Not to worry, Valentine’s Day has been making a grassroots appearance over the last decade or so. This has been spurred I think by the vast marketing opportunity the holiday represents. Flowers, chocolates, romantic restaurant dinners, pieces of jewelry – the potential is too good to pass up. So if the trend continues, I may find myself back where I started. But this time without the grouchiness.

Love is Forever

There’s nothing like a good wedding to give you a rosy glow for an entire week. Two young people, bonded in love, joyous and radiant – nothing is better than this. Then there’s the added bonus of schmoozing with people you haven’t seen for far too long. G-d, I love weddings.

My step-granddaughter was married on Sunday in a ceremony that was understated and elegant. There was no phony opulence. The bride was not drowning in masses of white tulle and did not arrive in a horse-drawn baroque carriage. No doves were released. Instead, she wore a gown that was gorgeous in its simplicity. The hall was decorated with white lilies. All was simple and tasteful.

Her grandfather would have been so proud. I drank a whiskey in his honor. Ok, two. He really didn’t drink a lot, but there was nothing that man liked more than a shot of scotch, a trait he shared with my own dad who taught me how to drink it.

I’m a romantic. I admit it. I believe that everyone has a soul mate. I believe that some things are just meant to be. Most of all, I believe that love is forever.

Bagel Bagel

Back home in America there was no nicer way to spend a lazy Sunday morning than by reading the paper while munching freshly baked bagels bought from the neighborhood bakery. Bagels are the quintessential Jewish food and one of oddest things about Israel is how rare they are here in the Jewish homeland. It’s counter-intuitive.

Of course, there’s no end of round bread. But dense, chewy bagels are as rare as water in a desert. I’ve heard that there are a couple of places in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem where they can be had, but that’s too far to shlep. Once upon a time a local baker delivered lots of them to the kibbutz shop. These were golden days for me. There were plain bagels, onion bagels, garlic bagels, raisin bagels and – my personal favorite – blueberry bagels. But they stopped making them, no demand. I’ve been bereft since.

Then along came “The Jerusalem Post” with a bagel recipe which of course I had to try. I spent most of this afternoon kneading, shaping, boiling, glazing, baking and hoping for the best. Shaping them was the hardest part. After bagel number 8 I started getting the hang of it. 9 through 12 are ok, but the others are the ugliest things ever baked by man. How do they taste? Reasonable, but still not chewy enough. Maybe I’ll try again, but intensity of the labor is a little off-putting. Laziness after all is my weekend objective. I think I’ll go lie down.

January Blahs

I am struggling with a fit of January gloom and doom. I blame the weather: I woke this morning to find the air heavy with – what is that? – it looks like fog but I think it’s dust. The promised rain has not arrived and there’s nothing to clear the air of this stuff.

January is the hardest month. Long, bleak days. Sunless, doomy skies. Nothing to do but wait for spring. At least, that’s how it’s supposed to be. But this year is different. Not so cold, plenty of sunshine which sometimes also gives off heat. As Januarys go, this one is not the worst.

Complaining about the weather is my winter ritual. I can gripe about the Siberian temperatures and the rainwater in my shoes and always find a willing ear among my fellow sufferers. Then at the appointed hour spring appears, sort of. The odd thing about spring and fall in Israel is that they consist mainly of alternations between winter and summer. A few days of each back and forth until one day somebody pushes a button and it stays summer. Or winter.

But this year’s mild temperatures and virtual rainlessness – worrisome in itself – have not saved me from the January blahs. Just one week to go until February arrives with its promise of better days ahead. There, I think I’ve almost cheered myself up.

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.