It Takes A Village, a Family, and A Whole Lotta Insanity

(That almost rhymes).

Won't make excuses, except for this: Took a year off.

Literally. Took the year off work, off blogging. Returned to the student life and studied something entirely different. No education, no therapy. No hospital.

Turns out, studying midlife is not studying at 19. No night-after-night-awake-until-2am. No running to the library whenever I darn feel like it. Elder Princeski, Always the Imp and

Blondini Boy (who, incidentally, has grown out of those blond curls) need me to look up from those books once in awhile. They can't be expected to understand what's so exciting about all the fine print piling up on the dining table. Even if colorful maps are sometimes involved.

And then, there was the recent Coming of Age Celebration, aka the Bat Mitzvah. (Because we all know how a twelve-year-old is, um, practically an adult. Never mind).

By now a majority of the neighbors have hosted one or more of these events, and this

is what stands out: The child's parents stand up and -- along with happily fawning over their child, and thanking everybody for coming -- praise the community at great lengths, for making the event a reality. It always sounded kind of exaggerated, and I couldn't understand what the big deal was.

Now I really do get it. Elder P & I had this vision, to celebrate at home with a kind of garden-block-party, and my neighbors did every imaginable task to make this thing a reality. An abridged list:

Helping Elder P plan a special Bat Mitzvah tefilla. Sitting with me to plan out the menu, the shopping list, the time table, the program. Hosting our family for a relaxing Shabbat lunch the week before the event. Lending hotplates and water kettles, projector lights and electricity cables. Lending two hours at night, and again the next day -- in the blazing sun --to help That Guy install those lights and electricity cables.

(Pause for breath). Approaching neighbors and asking them to lend all the above (& more), then delivering it to our doorstep. Permitting us to close off the street for the evening. Making salads and fruit plates. Translating and printing Elder P's talk into English so our family could enjoy it. Going out -- at the last minute -- to pick up the food. Taking down the signs after the event (thank you, whoever you are!). Moral support. I know there's more, but I've already forgotten.

One of my neighbors has actually opened a Gama"ch in memory of her father z"l, lending out serving dishes, tablecloths, candlesticks and more so that her neighbors can hold events at home. She came two hours beforehand and set up all the tables, too. What a huge help.

What goes around also comes around. By purchasing our drinks at the makolet (local grocery store) instead of the [less expensive] chain supermarket, we received an offer to store the drinks in his jumbo-fridge until right before the party.

We hired one neighbor to make high-end

desserts, giving her much-needed publicity (and the desserts were fantastic! If you want her number, drop me a line). Another neighbor, all of fifteen years old, is a professional-grade hair stylist who, as you can see, turned Elder P into a true Princess.

E, the son-in-law of friends and a young father raising two young kids while growing his new photography business, was hired to take pictures. We employed yet a fourth friend to provide the entertainment, including individually tailored instruction for the kids and a funny & original juggling performance for all our guests. (Elder P loves juggling, and this was a special surprise in her honor). Three neighborhood teens were hired as kitchen managers and waitresses, and they worked.

We love having such talented friends, and being able to give them our business at such a happy occasion.

And then, there were my parents. The morning of, I sent them a fourteen-item list, Which of these could you help with?, expecting them to chose two or three. They choose ten, and then ran around schlepping stuff from late afternoon until early evening when the party began.

And yes, it was worth it! Elder P had the time of her life, so did the neighbors, and I'm thankful. בשמחות!

Keep the balance,

ALN

Iodine Season

Spring is in the air... speaking of which, many thanks to Gila from My Shrapnel for a great HH #215, and that lovely Julie Andrews song!  But I digress...

Bike Season is officially here, so keep the iodine handy.    A couple weeks ago I brought what was formerly Elder Princeski's long-outgrown, hot-pink set of wheels into the local bike shop for a tire refurbish, and the guys could barely look up from their wrenches and chains, they were so busy sliming and realigning. 

(Slime is, of course, a registered trademark and the brand name of that funky stuff they smear on the inner tubes to make them self-repairing.  The bike shop has a huge tank of it sitting on the floor, next to their scattered worktable, and for a few extra shekels they'll apply it to your inner tubes, saving you much sorry later in the season).

The number of first-time bikers  on our block -- among them, our own Always the Imp --can appear greater than the total number of children around here.  The other afternoon I edged toward our driveway while noting at least a dozen (including a couple of my own) within a three-house stretch, wheeling about like scattering sparrows.   

The scene inspired me.  

A day or two later, That Guy I Married set off with Elder P to get her a new bike, accompanied by my long-neglected red frame, with its shredded seat and failing gear shifts, in the hopes that a renewed set of wheels would inspire me to re-commit myself (yet again) to some sort of reasonable, enjoyable fitness plan.

I can't speak for the future but so far, so good.  I've managed to get myself out on it two days in a row -- if only around the moshav, at this point.  Only 28 more days of this and I'll have myself a habit.  

Nothing like that burst of speed down a hill, that rush of air across the face, to remind me what every kid worth his weight in helmets already knows.  So get out the iodine, and get out there.

The hills are alive...

Keep fit, and keep the balance,

ALN

We're on a Road to...

Once in awhile Treppenwitz offers a "tremp" post;  that is, a hitchhiking experience that stands out for being unusual, humorous or just plain wacky.  I myself don't have many stories to tell since, I'll readily admit, I shy away from picking up hitchhikers.  I'm just too scared to let a total stranger into the car, and unfortunately I've heard enough worrisome stories to justify that fear.  

But in theory I think it's a lovely idea.   As an older teenager / young adult, I depended on others to transport me around this teeny tiny country, and nowadays I wish I felt safe enough to return the favor to society at large

I do feel safe picking up fellow moshav residents, which I often do on my way to work.  I leave the house early and at this time of year the sun is up but it's still chilly and these past few days -- hurray! -- rainy.   Sometimes it's a high school kid trying to get to school, or an older resident on his way to the local shuk for some shopping.  Often as not, it's someone trying to get to the hospital itself, to visit a relative or to keep a medical appointment.  

When I pull my car up to the bus stop each morning, most people come up to the window, ask where I'm going, and either reject the ride with a polite "Have a nice drive," or else they hop into the car, and off we go.   This morning, though, it was the other type of trempist (hitchhiker), that older, first-generation North-African immigrant Savta-type.  I could tell this was going to involve a process, and I stifled a groan.

I know, what's the big deal?  I feel extremely grateful to own a (mostly) reliable vehicle, and we're only talking about a few minutes of my time to help a fellow citizen get on with his life.  True, it's challenging enough, when it's still dark, to drag myself out of bed and make my way through the sleepy-crazy morning rush, out the door and onto the road, only to have someone waste precious time deciding whether to hitch a ride.  

Bottom line?  I have to admit it, I have a problem.   I hate it when people make me late to work.  

So I could see this passenger was going to be a problem.   First, standing outside the car with rain streaming in through the now-open window, she has to interview me:  Where are you going?  How are you getting there?  Are you going via the ----- route?  No?  Why not?  

Pause and grimace.  Are you sure you aren't going the ---- route?  Turns around to her companion, waiting at the bus stop two meters away.  Shouts, SHE'S NOT GOING THE ----- ROUTE.  SHOULD I GO WITH HER?  Pause for discussion.  Short argument.   Unclear resolution.  I yell out through the window, I have to go.  Are you coming or not?

Steps back toward the car.   Looks back at companion, then back at me.   OK, I'll go with you.Opens the back door.  Piles in two heavy bags.   Slams the door.  Opens the front door, sits down with a thud.  

Glances at me and remembers -- I'm that crazy woman who insists on using that silly device. Looks down, fumbles with the seat belt.   I have a wedding tonight.  My sister's daughter.  I have to get to the Central Bus Station by ten o'clock, there's a bus that leaves at ten.  I'm sleeping over there, at my sister's.

I nod.  I'm trying not to lose it, but I'm already running late, I still have to stop and fill up at the gas station, it's pouring with rain, and we've already wasted five minutes discussing route options, as if it's even up to her in the first place.  

I have to get to the Central Bus Station, she repeats.  The bus station.  To catch a bus.  To my sister's.  Maybe if we see the bus coming up the hill you can just drop me off and I'll get a ride from there to -----.    Are you sure you're not going via -----?

We have covered this material before, and so I feel obligated to clarify, more forcefully now, that yes, I'm sure we are traveling the very route I originally specified.  Maybe you could just drop me off somewhere along the way, she continues to mumble.  Maybe the bus will come by.  Meanwhile, my iPod is plugged into the car's speaker system and I am desperately trying to hear Ira Glass introduce Act One of the week's This American Life podcast.  

But my passenger does not understand English and treats the sound coming from the speakers as just that -- sound, without meaning -- so she continues this one-way conversation, competing at full volume with the podcast.  

So, you're going to work?  Oh, you speak English.  I know some people who speak English.  From England.  What do you think, the English they teach in schools, is it the American English, or the English from England. 

I force a smile and, not able to hear Ira, I pause the podcast.  

Well, I tell her, I wouldn't know.  I didn't learn English here in the school system, being that it's my mother tongue and all.   I figure maybe this comment would serve as a hint, that the noise coming out of the speakers is, to me, not some unintelligible cacophony or background noise, but rather, something I was in the middle of following, and I press play.  

North African Savta (continues the discussion, completely unfazed):  Oh, r i g h t. Well, you know, there was just this program on television, about this American couple, a twelve-year-old girl and a thirteen-year-old boy, in America, who had a baby, and they had to give it away.  Did you see that program?

ALN:  No, I didn't catch that one.  We don't actually have a television.  

NAS:  No television?  Really?  Why not?  Oh, just like my sister;  she's Haredi, she doesn't have a television.  She looks at me quizzically.  I'm clearly not Haredi, yet she just can't seem to alight on any other logical explanation.

(Short pause, to point out to our non-Israeli readers the common assumption among Israelis that if you don't have a television, it must be because you're ultra-Orthodox.  Never mind that one does not need an exceedingly conservation lifestyle to come to the conclusion that television here is, on average, a huge waste of time).

NAS:  So if you don't have a television, what do you do for fun?

ALN:  For fun?  Ummm....we read books.  Or we listen to radio programs.  You know,  just like the one I've been listening to, here in the car. 

Another subtle hint that simply does not get through, followed by one final attempt to put the program back on.  Oh, it's no use.   I sigh, shut off the radio, and glance at my passenger.

So, you say you're going to your sister's house for a wedding... 

Keep the balance,

ALN

Update: (Less) Absurdity in Equal Measures

Apparently I'm not one of those who can keep a blog up-to-date while getting a home up-to-date for the hagim.  לא נורא - lo nora, as they say -- no harm done.  Sometimes keeping the balance means dropping one side for awhile when the other side gets too heavy.

Speaking of balance, I am happy to update this post with some excellent news. Last month, the Minhal MiKarka'ay Yisrael (Israel Land Administration) reconsidered its original decision, according to which moshavim and kibbutzim would have been charged for using their land to install solar collectors, and will now allow them to place solar collector panels on up to ten percent of their property, without paying charges or penalties.  According to one of our local community publications,

... During its last meeting, the Administration board decided that there is an urgent need to encourage the establishment of alternative enterprises to produce electricity and renewable energy.  The board backed its decision by citing the rising price of fuel and electricity, and the growing awareness of the need to preserve the environment.

I see this as an important and encouraging step forward, on two fronts:  The decision itself shows foresight and stays in step with recent national developments encouraging the development of alternative energy sources, a process we, as a country, cannot afford to hinder in any way.  This link, in Hebrew, outlines the historic June 2008 decision to allow private individuals to sell electricity back to the grid.  A synopsis in English is available here, c/o Good News from Israel.

More importantly, by reversing its original, flawed decision, the Minhal is demonstrating flexibility in its willingness to support the ability of the kibbutzim and moshavim to continue to use their primary resource, land, for the good of the entire country.  

Historically, decisions akin to this one meant that to encourage agricultural production for the whole of the nation, the kibbutzim were granted large portions of a limited resource, water, at a reduced price.  As a result they were able to feed the country, as well as providing top-notch produce for export, but over the years many of them became sloppy in their water usage and wasted an embarrassing amount of it.

As I see it, the Minhal's decision now provides a correction of past wastefulness, as it allows the kibbutzim and moshavim to take full advantage of a natural resource, solar energy, that doesn't seem to be running out any time soon.  No oil, not nearly enough rain, but sun?  It's the one thing we've got plenty of...

מועדים לשמחה -- Have a wonderful Sukkot.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Whose Village Is It?

Today I saw an ad for an exclusive property somewhere in California -- the kind with "architecturally masterful residences on spectacular view lots,"  and a private country club on the grounds.  The three photos in the ad show, respectively:  a stone mansion, a family standing around a poolside dinner table, and a man looking proudly at his son as the two of them meander across a golf course.  

The ad text contains all the code words for "exclusive community."  The small print at the bottom lists all the legal mumbo-jumbo, including the following (taken here from their website, which shall not be linked, to protect the innocent):  

And what skin color do all the models have?  I'll give you one guess.  

Now jump to an article in last Sunday's Los Angeles Times (worth reading, to gain an understanding of the context).

After he bought his first home, state Assemblyman Hector De La Torre uncovered a dark chapter in its history: A covenant attached to the original deed declared that the house, like all the others in his South Gate neighborhood, could be occupied by white people only. Minorities could stay there -- but only as servants.

It is a discovery that has startled any number of California homeowners. Many of the state's vast subdivisions, particularly in Los Angeles County, were once governed by restrictive racial covenants designed to enforce segregation. Those covenants have been illegal for more than half a century, but their offensive rules remain part of some deeds. Most home buyers encounter the issue when they are asked to sign a disclosure as part of the escrow process, pledging to ignore any racist language.

Turns out that a 1948 law declared these covenants legally unenforceable;  however, Mr. De La Torre wishes to improve on the situation:

This year, he proposed a law that would require racially restrictive covenants -- it is estimated that there are hundreds of thousands statewide -- to be stricken from the public record at the time of the next sale.

The covenants were created in the 1920's, 30's and 40's, primarily to keep Blacks (as well as "Jews, Italians, Russians, Muslims, Latinos and Asians") out of housing developments.  According to one L.A. city councilman, the unequal distribution of resources from back then, is still felt today.  (And yes, there are people protesting the law, on historical and bureaucratic grounds).

Dismaying, and yet I cannot take the moral high ground.  Why not?  Because for one, I live in a place that has a covenant of its own.  In order to purchase our house, we had to be approved by a committee of moshav members and residents. We had to show that we were Shomrei Shabbat, and that we were "stable" people (hmmm....).

Now, I'm all for stability, mental and otherwise, and after having had it each way, I would definitely choose to live in a community that observes Shabbat, since Shabbat really does require a minimum level of community observance and togetherness to be fully felt.

As for the ethnicity issue, that one's a doozy.  The founders of our moshav are of North African descent, and we in the neighborhood will forever be the "Ashkenazim," with all its colorful implications.  (Now there's multiculturalism). It's not at all clear how many people on our moshav, from either cultural background, would be willing to relinquish racially-based housing covenants, were we to have them. 

Israel is made up of many types of communities.  There are cities, such as Yaffo (Jaffa) and Haifa, as well as smaller communities in the Galil, where people different cultures live together with a certain level of ease not found in, say, Jerusalem and its surroundings.  There are stories of Muslim families who have fought legal battles to live in Jewish-owned neighborhoods and apartment buildings in Tel Aviv and its environs, and stories of Jewish families staking out claims in Muslim neighborhoods.

If these examples are too intense for you, let's get back to something most of us can agree on, like all the Ethiopians we air-lifted on rescue missions, only to confine them to dead-end "development" towns like Dimona and Ofakim.  And what about "guest" workers?  They're not even on the map.  We invite them in to do our dirty work, only to chase them down and throw them out.

Bottom line:  these covenants --  both written and unwritten -- certainly exist today, within Israel and without, at all levels of society.  I think all of us can do better.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Over the cliff...

Here we go.

I know, everyone and her mother-in-law has already been keeping a blog for months, or even years.  I don't bother following many of them, with a few exceptions.

So why do I feel a little like I'm taking a running jump off a steep cliff, stark naked?

OK, maybe not stark naked, but you know what I mean.  I feel like I just joined a club, or maybe some vast social experiment being run by The Matrix.  (Prove otherwise...)

The problem is, perhaps, that I've gone so long doing and doing (and doing), that I haven't stopped to think... and if writing is thinking, and blogging is, perhaps, thinking out loud, which is something we usually associate with insanity.

I'm going to divide up my thoughts (divide, and conquer?) into three categories:  home, work, and all the other stuff.  But what to label them?  Reject:  "The Home Front" (don't like the suggested war imagery).  Reject:  "The Homestead" (way too Western).  "Back at the Ranch?"  Not quite right either, although I do live on a moshav, a ranch-like setting of sorts (see "Definitions," at right).

So for now, it'll just be, "Home," "Work," and "Other stuff."  Better ideas welcome.

Home.  What I've been thinking about recently is birthdays.  Namely, my eldest daughter's birthday.  Tz. turned nine today (Hebrew date:  4 Tammuz), and while I didn't exactly miss it, I didn't exactly wake up super early and decorate the living room with balloons, either.  She woke up early, most likely expecting to see some birthday-related display, as I had for her last year, and for her younger sister Sh. this past month.

When she saw that nothing was up, she went back to bed.  Five minutes later (6:55) I came up to say good-bye before I ran off to work, and she was smiling.

Tz:  Oh, Mommy, I'm so happy!

Me:  Why is that?   (guilt guilt...)

Tz:  Because today I'm finally nine.  I've been waiting so long to be nine.  (Another smile).

My guilt instantly transformed itself to motherly celebration -- my daughter is happy with her age, her very essence.... This is what she's been waiting for.  Not balloons strung across the room, or a big sign, or a cake with small explosives on sticks.  Just the essence of living, of growing, of reaching a milestone.  Good for her.  We should all be so enthusiastic.

(And yes, this afternoon I did get her balloons, and a present (A DVD of "Enchanted."  Yet another motherless Disney-girl "role model."  But that's for a different post).

Best... keep the balance, 

ALN