If you’ve ever tried to navigate in Boston you know what a nightmare it is. Streets wind around, merge and diverge without so much as a by-your-leave and street names repeat themselves in every neighborhood without any connection to each other. Navigating around the kibbutz is kind of like that in miniature except without any street names.
You can wander around for quite a while, depending on the dependability of the directions you got, until you stumble upon your destination. Not only are the roads unnamed, the buildings are more or less unmarked. I always pity the visitors who ask me for directions and explain to them as exactly as I can what the dining hall looks like. I still remember the directions I got to the laundry sorting place, the Communa, when I was new – “Turn left at the first cow.”
The situation changed about 5 or so years ago when we were all given plaques with our family names hanging on poles in our front yards. This was a vast improvement. Now, assuming you can read the language, you can locate the house of the family you want to visit if you wander around enough without having to knock on a random door to ask if Pinchas lives there.
This all came to mind yesterday as I took a break over the cup of tea I’d made an hour before. Suddenly I was roused from my reverie by the sound of drilling on my house. Upon investigation I found that a number plate had been fastened on, high up next to the eaves. I’m 252. I suppose this means everyone will be locatable by number which is a good thing. But why is it placed so high? So it’ll be identifiable from the air? That’s an alarming thought. Still, it’s a cut above the former system of direction-by-landmark – especially since the cows are now elsewhere.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Jimmy Carter, Jr.
I’ve been seething for the past two weeks. I thought I’d be over my anger by now, but I’m not and so I must descend from the usual trivial topics I write about in this space into the murky netherworld of politics. I am so incensed by the phony, manufactured crisis with the American Administration and the humiliation of the Prime Minister of Israel that I must speak out.
When Obama first stopped the peace talks almost a year ago by demanding a settlement freeze, I thought it was just a rookie blunder by a man who’d been elected despite having no executive experience and no qualifications for the job. He’s now done it again, just when indirect talks were supposed to begin, by demanding that Israel stop building in Jerusalem. Jerusalem – our capital! This time I don’t think it’s a mistake. I think it’s intentional.
The Palestinians refuse to talk, for which they receive not a whisper of criticism. Instead, Israel is heaped with calumny for the stalled peace process thereby setting the stage. For what, you ask? For an imposed solution. I think Obama, a man with more hubris than any collection of Greek tragedies, wants to impose a solution on Israel including the division of Jerusalem and a return to the indefensible 1949 armistice lines. Of course, any such solution would just be an intermediate stage before our final destruction.
Let me be clear: I don’t like Obama. Never have. I don’t like his arrogance and I don’t like the way he mocks ordinary people, witness Joe the Plumber and Scott Brown and his truck. And now, like the cowardly schoolyard bully who picks on the kid who won’t fight back, he slaps Prime Minister Netanyahu around as if Israel is a banana republic and not a sovereign state. This from the man who bows before Saudi royalty, begs Ahmedinajad to sit and talk with him and has nary a cross word to say as the Russians announce their intention to keep on helping Iran build a bomb.
I don’t know what I’m worried about. Mr. Netanyahu is a smart guy who can be trusted to defend our interests. I’d be so happy, I’d swell with pride if he’d tell Obama to stick it, but of course he’d never be that blunt. In any case, with an estimated national debt of $20 trillion in the next 10 years, America won’t be a superpower for much longer. In the meantime, we will continue building housing in Jerusalem and anywhere else we see fit.
At this holiday time, let me wish everyone a happy Passover. Next year in the rebuilt Jerusalem.
When Obama first stopped the peace talks almost a year ago by demanding a settlement freeze, I thought it was just a rookie blunder by a man who’d been elected despite having no executive experience and no qualifications for the job. He’s now done it again, just when indirect talks were supposed to begin, by demanding that Israel stop building in Jerusalem. Jerusalem – our capital! This time I don’t think it’s a mistake. I think it’s intentional.
The Palestinians refuse to talk, for which they receive not a whisper of criticism. Instead, Israel is heaped with calumny for the stalled peace process thereby setting the stage. For what, you ask? For an imposed solution. I think Obama, a man with more hubris than any collection of Greek tragedies, wants to impose a solution on Israel including the division of Jerusalem and a return to the indefensible 1949 armistice lines. Of course, any such solution would just be an intermediate stage before our final destruction.
Let me be clear: I don’t like Obama. Never have. I don’t like his arrogance and I don’t like the way he mocks ordinary people, witness Joe the Plumber and Scott Brown and his truck. And now, like the cowardly schoolyard bully who picks on the kid who won’t fight back, he slaps Prime Minister Netanyahu around as if Israel is a banana republic and not a sovereign state. This from the man who bows before Saudi royalty, begs Ahmedinajad to sit and talk with him and has nary a cross word to say as the Russians announce their intention to keep on helping Iran build a bomb.
I don’t know what I’m worried about. Mr. Netanyahu is a smart guy who can be trusted to defend our interests. I’d be so happy, I’d swell with pride if he’d tell Obama to stick it, but of course he’d never be that blunt. In any case, with an estimated national debt of $20 trillion in the next 10 years, America won’t be a superpower for much longer. In the meantime, we will continue building housing in Jerusalem and anywhere else we see fit.
At this holiday time, let me wish everyone a happy Passover. Next year in the rebuilt Jerusalem.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
My Blue Heaven
“Taste this,” my American friend said as I sat down to chat in the kibbutz dining hall. I dutifully took a forkful of the yellow gelatin and fruit stuff on her plate. “Why did you do this to me?” I squealed as I frantically looked for a way to spit it out. This was my first – and last – experience of Israeli gelatin. It was vomiticious: heavy, sticky and way too sweet. It was nothing like the clean, light silkiness of real Jello.
Ah, Jello. I’ve always loved it. Sadly, it isn’t kosher. I’ve never seen it in Israel, not even in the chain of stores that specializes in treif. In my decades in this country I have actually dreamed about it – parfait glasses filled with beautiful, jewel-like colors. But I thought it would remain just that, a dream of home.
Then one day my sister, who’s an artist with birthday cakes, mentioned she was doing one decorated with a blue Jello swimming pool, causing me to wax lyrical on the gelatin of my dreams. Taking pity on me, she shipped me a crateful of the precious packages. Now I’m in Jello Heaven. It’s just as good as I remember. More miraculous still is the blue Jello. There was nothing like that back in my day. The color is simply delightful.
While I’ve dressed it up for the picture here by topping it with vanilla yogurt and chocolate pastilles, I really like it best plain. It’s a simple pleasure perhaps, but a fruity and flavorful one. And one the rabbi doesn’t need to know about. Next time: the glories of tapioca.
Ah, Jello. I’ve always loved it. Sadly, it isn’t kosher. I’ve never seen it in Israel, not even in the chain of stores that specializes in treif. In my decades in this country I have actually dreamed about it – parfait glasses filled with beautiful, jewel-like colors. But I thought it would remain just that, a dream of home.
Then one day my sister, who’s an artist with birthday cakes, mentioned she was doing one decorated with a blue Jello swimming pool, causing me to wax lyrical on the gelatin of my dreams. Taking pity on me, she shipped me a crateful of the precious packages. Now I’m in Jello Heaven. It’s just as good as I remember. More miraculous still is the blue Jello. There was nothing like that back in my day. The color is simply delightful.
While I’ve dressed it up for the picture here by topping it with vanilla yogurt and chocolate pastilles, I really like it best plain. It’s a simple pleasure perhaps, but a fruity and flavorful one. And one the rabbi doesn’t need to know about. Next time: the glories of tapioca.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Message in a Bottle
If you find this message, please let my family know I am alive and well. As I write this it is day #5 without an internet connection thanks to an electrical storm and resulting fried circuits. A parade of technicians has come on a mission of repair, each failing and passing the project on to the next in line. With each passing, futile day my despair increases.
Gather around, children, and I will tell you about communication in the olden days. You had a cylindrical object, a tube with a point at one end and filled with dark liquid. You held this in your hand with the point on a sheet of paper and moved your hand around to make marks on it. You then folded the paper, put it in an envelope with an address consisting of the recipient’s name, house number and street, and city on it and put it in a box. A person came and collected it along with all the other envelopes and took them to a depot where they were sorted and placed in some sort of conveyance – truck, boat and/or plane – that transported them to the depot in the destination city. Another person then took the envelope to the house of the person marked on it. It was a cumbersome process that took days.
It’s hard to believe that people actually communicated that way. It required no electricity, no connectivity and pretty much no smiley faces. Just lots of manual labor. And since the process was so laborious, you tended to write about the big stuff, no two-line updates about the dog playing Frisbee on the lawn. Difficult to imagine in a Twittering world.
I’m struggling hard to cope with my new-found isolation, disconnected from family, friends and weather reports. As I gulp the last few swallows of wine to empty the bottle that will carry this message, I think back to the days when penmanship had meaning. It’s nothing I want to return to. I like letting my fingers do the talking. But for the moment, my existence feels pre-industrial. I guess that means it’s time to hike to the sea and get this puppy on its way.
Gather around, children, and I will tell you about communication in the olden days. You had a cylindrical object, a tube with a point at one end and filled with dark liquid. You held this in your hand with the point on a sheet of paper and moved your hand around to make marks on it. You then folded the paper, put it in an envelope with an address consisting of the recipient’s name, house number and street, and city on it and put it in a box. A person came and collected it along with all the other envelopes and took them to a depot where they were sorted and placed in some sort of conveyance – truck, boat and/or plane – that transported them to the depot in the destination city. Another person then took the envelope to the house of the person marked on it. It was a cumbersome process that took days.
It’s hard to believe that people actually communicated that way. It required no electricity, no connectivity and pretty much no smiley faces. Just lots of manual labor. And since the process was so laborious, you tended to write about the big stuff, no two-line updates about the dog playing Frisbee on the lawn. Difficult to imagine in a Twittering world.
I’m struggling hard to cope with my new-found isolation, disconnected from family, friends and weather reports. As I gulp the last few swallows of wine to empty the bottle that will carry this message, I think back to the days when penmanship had meaning. It’s nothing I want to return to. I like letting my fingers do the talking. But for the moment, my existence feels pre-industrial. I guess that means it’s time to hike to the sea and get this puppy on its way.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Still Here
Another birthday has happily come and pleasantly gone. Like every other year, I am overjoyed to be still here, still anywhere. It’s one small victory against the myriad forces of the universe that seem bent on my destruction. No, I don’t take this personally. The universe is just doing its thing and sometimes I blunder in its way. But I’m still here.
It’s fun to collect all the greetings and good wishes from family and friends, some so very far away. In Israel, of course, everyone says, “mazal tov,” the all-purpose, congratulatory salutation. Translated into English it means simply “good luck” which would be an odd thing to say on such an occasion. I remember trying to explain to an Israeli woman why one doesn’t say that at a wedding or on the birth of a baby and I’m not sure I really got the point across.
The thing is, in English “good luck” is a phrase that carries a 1-2 punch. Good luck – you’ll need it. Disaster is one footstep away, so good luck. You say this to the proud parents of that bouncing, diaperful of joy and you’re not likely to be invited to the Bar Mitzva. Instead we have a bunch of expressions for different occasions that all translate to “mazal tov”. My mother once instructed me, as we waited in a receiving line, to say “Congratulations” to the groom and “I hope you’ll be very happy” to the bride. Rituals.
Anyway, I had a good birthday. It was miraculously warm and sunny. I’m ever so pleased with the lovely flamingo lily my stepdaughter brought me. It’s just the thing for that empty space in the corner of the bedroom. Maybe best of all were the virtual hugs and kisses from my family in California. Yeah, it was a good day – and I’m still here!
It’s fun to collect all the greetings and good wishes from family and friends, some so very far away. In Israel, of course, everyone says, “mazal tov,” the all-purpose, congratulatory salutation. Translated into English it means simply “good luck” which would be an odd thing to say on such an occasion. I remember trying to explain to an Israeli woman why one doesn’t say that at a wedding or on the birth of a baby and I’m not sure I really got the point across.
The thing is, in English “good luck” is a phrase that carries a 1-2 punch. Good luck – you’ll need it. Disaster is one footstep away, so good luck. You say this to the proud parents of that bouncing, diaperful of joy and you’re not likely to be invited to the Bar Mitzva. Instead we have a bunch of expressions for different occasions that all translate to “mazal tov”. My mother once instructed me, as we waited in a receiving line, to say “Congratulations” to the groom and “I hope you’ll be very happy” to the bride. Rituals.
Anyway, I had a good birthday. It was miraculously warm and sunny. I’m ever so pleased with the lovely flamingo lily my stepdaughter brought me. It’s just the thing for that empty space in the corner of the bedroom. Maybe best of all were the virtual hugs and kisses from my family in California. Yeah, it was a good day – and I’m still here!
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Pining for a Tree
This Saturday Israel will celebrate Tu Bishvat, the Jewish Arbor Day, signaling the beginning of spring. It’s one of the nicer holidays, symbolized by blooming almond trees. Its main activities involve eating dried fruit and planting trees. Nice.
In the spirit of the day I’ve been negotiating with the gardener to replace a dead tree near the curb with a laburnum. The laburnum is a beautiful tree with spectacular clusters of yellow flowers. While yellow is not one of my colors I’m willing to overlook this because of its sheer gorgeousness. I’m even willing to pay for it even though strictly speaking the area in question is not part of my garden.
The problem – and there always is one – is the resistance of the garden guy. For some reason I cannot seem to convince him of the beauty of my vision. We’re even having trouble agreeing on the facts. When I first raised this issue a year ago, he tried to convince me that the tree isn’t dead it’s just dormant. The conversation continued in the spirit of Monty Python’s parrot sketch (if it’s been a while since you’ve laughed at the comedy classic, it’s on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oj8RIEQH7zA) and I was only waiting for him to tell me it’s pining for the fjords. A year later the tree just keeps getting more and more dormant.
Now we cannot seem to agree on exactly which tree we’re talking about. I’m saying the tree is at the end of a line of trees and so can be replaced with a different type. The garden guy says it’s in the middle and must be the same type to preserve the unity. Thus we arrive to the crux of the matter: the tree species. This is important because the trees that are there, and I have no clue what kind they are, are definitely unlovely. They’re spindly with little foliage – the ugly stepsisters of the tree kingdom. In fact, now that I think of it, they could easily be mistaken for dead. Maybe I should re-check my facts. Tell me, where do you find a tree’s pulse?
In the spirit of the day I’ve been negotiating with the gardener to replace a dead tree near the curb with a laburnum. The laburnum is a beautiful tree with spectacular clusters of yellow flowers. While yellow is not one of my colors I’m willing to overlook this because of its sheer gorgeousness. I’m even willing to pay for it even though strictly speaking the area in question is not part of my garden.
The problem – and there always is one – is the resistance of the garden guy. For some reason I cannot seem to convince him of the beauty of my vision. We’re even having trouble agreeing on the facts. When I first raised this issue a year ago, he tried to convince me that the tree isn’t dead it’s just dormant. The conversation continued in the spirit of Monty Python’s parrot sketch (if it’s been a while since you’ve laughed at the comedy classic, it’s on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oj8RIEQH7zA) and I was only waiting for him to tell me it’s pining for the fjords. A year later the tree just keeps getting more and more dormant.
Now we cannot seem to agree on exactly which tree we’re talking about. I’m saying the tree is at the end of a line of trees and so can be replaced with a different type. The garden guy says it’s in the middle and must be the same type to preserve the unity. Thus we arrive to the crux of the matter: the tree species. This is important because the trees that are there, and I have no clue what kind they are, are definitely unlovely. They’re spindly with little foliage – the ugly stepsisters of the tree kingdom. In fact, now that I think of it, they could easily be mistaken for dead. Maybe I should re-check my facts. Tell me, where do you find a tree’s pulse?
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Resolved
I’ve never understood the thing about New Year’s resolutions. Everybody makes them, nobody keeps them and everybody is surprised. And then when the next New Year rolls around the whole process begins again. Talk about an exercise in futility.
It’s always been perfectly clear to me why no one keeps their resolutions. January is not a time to begin projects. It’s the coldest, bleakest, longest month when all you can do is hunker down with something pulled over your head and wait, no, pray for it to pass. It’s a time for over-indulging in mac and cheese and hot chocolate, anything for a bit of warmth and comfort. It is definitely not the time to start that diet.
The time to take stock and begin those improvements has got to be in the spring. The sun shines and warms the earth, flowers sprout, birds sing and it is finally possible to feel optimistic about the future. That’s when the new exercise regime actually seems possible. That’s when you have a fighting chance to make a change.
Whoever put the New Year in January and then added the resolution requirement got it horribly wrong. Timing really is everything. I suppose it’s far too late to do anything about it and we will continue to answer the obligatory questions about our resolutions with the usual stuff. And then by the week’s end, we’ve blissfully forgotten the whole thing.
It’s always been perfectly clear to me why no one keeps their resolutions. January is not a time to begin projects. It’s the coldest, bleakest, longest month when all you can do is hunker down with something pulled over your head and wait, no, pray for it to pass. It’s a time for over-indulging in mac and cheese and hot chocolate, anything for a bit of warmth and comfort. It is definitely not the time to start that diet.
The time to take stock and begin those improvements has got to be in the spring. The sun shines and warms the earth, flowers sprout, birds sing and it is finally possible to feel optimistic about the future. That’s when the new exercise regime actually seems possible. That’s when you have a fighting chance to make a change.
Whoever put the New Year in January and then added the resolution requirement got it horribly wrong. Timing really is everything. I suppose it’s far too late to do anything about it and we will continue to answer the obligatory questions about our resolutions with the usual stuff. And then by the week’s end, we’ve blissfully forgotten the whole thing.
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