Dog Days

"Dog Days" are the hottest, most sultry days of summer...usually fall[ing] between early July and early September... Dog Days can also define a time period or event that is very hot or stagnant...

[In ancient Rome] Dog Days were popularly believed to be an evil time "when the seas boiled, wine turned sour, Quinto raged in anger, dogs grew mad, and all creatures became languid, causing to man burning fevers, hysterics, and phrensies" according to Brady’s Clavis Calendarium, 1813. (Wikipedia)

These are days of tragedy and grief. Syria is in chaos, as the government ravages its people. Floods continue to pound Southern Africa, while in the East children are dying of draught. The Greek economic crisis threatens all of Europe, and fills its own citizens with despair. Growing unemployment, inconsistent health care coverage and budgetary wars threaten the health, and the homes, of millions of Americans. Our own nation's ongoing anger at inaccessible housing has erupted into demonstrations and tent cities. And this morning I awoke to learn that Y, the sweet, strong and healthy 25-year-old son of friends from my teen years, collapsed yesterday -- inexplicably -- of a heart attack. In a few hours from now he will be buried in a Southern California cemetery.

It must be human nature, that among the unfathomable grief on faceless human beings around the world, one young man's death has hit me so hard.

I haven't seen Y since he was a child, but throughout my teenage years, his parents taught me a formative lesson in true hospitality. Time and geography have led me to lose immediate touch with the family for the past few years, though I've thought of them often. I remember his deep dark eyes, his energy, and his siblings. S, his older sister, is a talented writer while younger sister E was always a bright and energetic spark. Together, they were three of the most beautiful, talented, well-rounded and mature children I have encountered. Now they are only two. They did not have to say goodbye.

* * * * *

A few days ago, I thought I was having a bad week. Our beautiful and affectionate cat, barely out of kittenhood, was cruelly mauled to death in the street by neighborhood dogs, most likely ones owned by irresponsible neighbors. In the fallout, the neighborly high following our family's celebration from last month collapsed like a blown-out mine of precious metals; sadness and anger took its place. Much thought, and a carefully-worded neighborhood email followed, whereby I took our dog-owning neighbors to task -- not by name -- and was rewarded with both words of support, and the inevitable rejoinders of denial.

For a few days, the stressful burden of ill will and mutual suspicion pretty much outstripped the sorrow of losing our lovely little feline. But, I thought, Ahhh, such are The Nine Days. "כפרה עליך" (kaPAra aLAyich) as they say. An atonement for past errors, and a gentle reminder to treasure the good things. Our fate is not in our hands.

Now I imagine the family, waking to a morning with no Y, and another, and another. I picture them gathered together, enveloped by their community, crying out in despair, with shock and disbelief filling every corner of the house.

* * * * *

A few months back I was in class on a minor fast day -- Asara b'Tevet -- and my teacher, a convert to Judaism, remarked,

You know, this religion is so fixed on depression. Why do we need so many fast days? Why can't we be adding more holidays and celebrations instead? It's not good for us...

I imagine he knows a thing or two about depressed peoplehood, having both African- and Native American roots. When I think of two nations with more than their share of calamity and maltreatment, these two come to mind.

Thing is, I was kind of torn. On the one hand, he's right. Why do we insist on indulging in sorrow, guilt and mourning, year after year, four times a year, commemorating events some of which are so historically obsolete as to be almost ridiculous. Why, in fact, should we keep Asara b'Tevet on the books, when it commemorates [the beginning of] the destruction of a Temple -- the First Temple -- that has since been both rebuilt and re-destroyed?!

It is easy, even natural, to side with the thinking that suggests this type of mourning is no longer in step with our national timeline. Maybe such harping on the negative even weakens our collective conscience, at a time when we need to be investing all our emotional energies into increasing our sense of resilience. Can wallowing in our collective sorrow really help us?

On the other hand, we've harbor a tendency to hang on to our traditions, obsolete as they might seem, and for the most part this does us more good than harm.

* * * * *

Either way, Tisha b'Av stands apart from the four minor fasts. We don't just grab one day, midyear, and assign it historical importance, long since superseded by subsequent national events. We enter a process of reverse-mourning, and we give ourselves nearly a month to do it, scraping away, little by little, at our every-day comforts until we come to feel some sense of loss.

And yet, despite all these collective efforts, I know I am not alone in saying that most years, it's a real challenge to really make the loss feel tangible. No Temple? No big deal. We've gone without that for nearly two millennia. As for the victims -- the previous generations who died at the hands of the Assyrians, the Greeks, the Romans -- they'd all be long gone by now in any event. How can I learn to feel that loss deeply and personally?

We don't fool ourselves either -- as mourning goes, this is not exactly the Real Deal. Unlike individual mourners, physically demarcated and emotionally isolated from their visitors, on Tisha b'Av we all sit together on the floor, reading out Lamentations for all to hear. When Tisha b'Av ends, we don't isolate ourselves, avoiding haircuts and new clothes and parties. We resume our lives, since we have not, in fact, just lost a mother, a child, a brother.

Unless, G-d forbid, we have.

This Tisha b'Av I will continue struggle, as I do every year, to make our ancient national losses feel personal. But this year, I know, this personally-felt loss will echo the national tragedy it truly is.

May the family be comforted among the mourners of Tzion and Jerusalem.

Keep the balance,

ALN

See a previous post on prophets & the Three Weeks.

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

Now I Can Laugh, Too

A Mentsh Tracht un Gott Lacht* א מענטש טראַכט, און גאָט לאַכט

Friday morning, and the to-do list is pretty long.  Shabbat comes in late in the Spring, so that list can include the usual preparations (cooking, cleaning, etc.), plus a lot of the spillover from the week -- several work projects, in this case.  I would just get the kids on their ways and get down to work.

As usual, Blondini Boy pulled his wake-up-early-and-refuse-to-go-back-to-sleep number.  But something was up. When I gave him his morning squeeze, he pulled away with,  No!  My tummy hurts.   

Since he has been known to neglect that certain daily ritual, I wasn't too worried.  I would encourage him to sit on the toilet for a few minutes, and all would be well.

Within ten minutes he was writhing on the sofa.  He wouldn't let me touch him.  He wanted his bed.  He refused to walk upright.  His face was pale.  I took his temperature -- normal.  I tried to feel his abdomen.  He screamed in pain and then kept moaning.

Quick internal debate:  Do I call ER this second, or first consult a friendly neighborhood physician to confirm I'm not overreacting?  

The latter won out.  I discovered that our friend G was on call at the hospital (I'd been afraid to call because I didn't want to wake him up after a night shift).  He asked a few questions -- Is he walking with difficulty? (Yes).  Is he willing to jump up and down?  (No) -- and told me not to waste time, bring BB into ER right away.  He would meet us there.  I threw some clothes and favorite toy vehicles into a bag with my wallet, phone, and hospital ID, and put BB in the car. 

On the road, I tried to keep my focus, a vast selection of scary scenarios competing with a the beautiful winding road I know so well from my morning commute.  Appendicitis.  Peritonitis.  I imagined my little boy being called in for emergency surgery after being diagnosed with one of these. 

Or worse:  Neuroblastoma.  Wilm's Tumor.  Burkitt's.  All those exceedingly rare childhood diseases that my work experience has long since deceived me into believing are common.  (They are not).

Back in his car seat, Blondini Boy was looking paler and paler, his eyes nearly closed.  The trucks and bicycles that normally grab his attention passed by without remark.   My tummy hurts, Mommy, he groaned over and over. 

Seven minutes from the hospital, he wanted to stop.  Mommy, I have a pee-pee.  

You're wearing a diaper, I told him.  You can make your pee-pee right now.  I hadn't taken the time this morning to change him out of pajamas, and now there was no safe place to stop along the road.  

I have a pee-pee, and I want to make my pee-pee in the toilet.

He was insistent;  he knew what he needed.  We stopped in a parking lot at the entrance to a hiking trail along the road, where I offered a pee-pee in nature as the next-best option to a toilet.  

Two liters poured out of him, and that was it.  I peered into his strained little face and watched the tension drain away.  Does your tummy still hurt?  No.  

Unconvinced, I pressed his stomach.  Here? Here? What about here?  (Not a grimace).  Jump up and down.  (Three jumps).  Run over to that tree and look at the birds.   (But I don't want to scare them!)

Soon, the color had returned to his face, and we were heading towards home.   

Next week we'll be visiting our regular pediatrician to ask whether some organic problem might have gotten BB into this state in the first place.  I suspect he'll tell me it's nothing.  For now, I am relieved, thankful, and acutely aware of being safe and relaxed at home, as opposed to where we could have been, and still would be, now.  

And if something like this every happens again, I'll try to keep some things in mind:   Use caution, but try to stay relaxed and focused enough to check the obvious.  

* * *

ALN:  So tell me, what did we do this morning?

Blondini Boy:  This morning?.. We were going to the doctor, and then I made a pee-pee!

* * *

Yah, that pretty much sums it up. 

Shabbat Shalom.

ALN

___

* From the Yiddish:  A man plans and G-d laughs.

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

Basic Facts

Our neighbor Y has asked me to update his wife S's story (back here).  He writes as follows:

S's Paris-based boss, the CFO of her company, was shocked to find out yesterday, while speaking with her on the phone, that missiles and rockets actually fall on Be'er Sheva!

After having been upset with him (and the rest of her French colleagues) for not calling over the past two weeks to ask how are they getting along in Be'er-Sheva, he called yesterday to talk about work.  Suddenly, the siren went off, and S apologized politely, saying she has to go to the Mamad (bomb shelter).  

He replied with a very loud WHAT???? and was shocked to learn that Be'er-Sheva, along with all the other nearby Israeli towns, was under fire. 

Now, we are not talking about a peasant from Provence who couldn't care less about foreign news;   this is an intelligent person, working in the field of mass-media, watching the news.  The only information he receives through TV is that Israel is flattening Gaza and its citizens.  

He apologized and said he feels terrible for being so ignorant, but is there a better example for the combination of bad hasbara (PR) and simple anti-Israelism? (I think I just made that word up).

S and Y, thanks for the update.   And I believe the term you're looking for is anti-semitism.  'Nuff said.  

Keep the balance,

ALN

___

Addendum:  Here's one of the more balanced articles on offer c/o the New York Times.

Live: Parlor Meeting with a Candidate for Head of Our Regional Council

Here's democracy in action.  

I'm sitting in my neighbor's living room, and about 30 additional neighbors have joined us here to meet with Moshe Dadon, a candidate for our local Regional Council (mo'etza).  Unlike the major cities, where voting took place a few weeks ago, our area goes to the polls in January to choose its new Regional Council members.

Moshe grew up in the area (Moshav Luzit) and has served as the Regional Council secretary for the past four years, so he knows the system from the inside.  He described growing up among the chicken coops, and seeing the agriculture lifestyle fall by the wayside as the years went by. The area's needs now are completely different; he noted that much of the moshav property formerly used for agriculture is now factories.

Moshe describes himself as "very green - not in terms of money, but the environment" (It wasn't clear what he means by this, as some of his later statements indicated that he has a poor understanding of certain environmental issues).  He understands that many people are flocking to the moshav expansions for the quality of life, and are not agriculturally minded. He realizes that municipality taxes have been rising, but are not nearly at Jerusalem levels, and that all the local illegal building is only hurting all the citizens because they cannot benefit from improvements if local tax money is not being put back into the system.  

Moshe pledges the following:

1.  Taxes collected locally, stay local.  All tax monies collected for the moshav expansions (of which there are many) will go directly back into moshav coffers.

2.  Sliding scale taxation.  Everyone should pay arnona, including residential buildings, local businesses, quarries and other industrial properties, according to their ability.  Anyone who qualified for a discount will receive one accordingly.  The Arab sector, which has been neglected until now, will also receive the amount entitled by law.  

3.  Financial independence.  The general dependence on the system for financial support is unjustified and has to be changed.  Every community can then become independent and make its own decisions according to its needs.

4.  Infrastructure.  By law, 5% of tax money collected by the Regional Council is designated for internal development;  that means 12 million shekels has to be distributed every year to the local municipal governments, for use as they see fit.

5.  Primary Education.   The local educational system should be run locally, by a professional with a doctorate in education.  Most of the local population is religious, and any new local school would have to be religious and include all the children in the surrounding local moshavim.   Until now, our religious school system has not provided a good education, period, and many families send their kids to a different school district.  

6.  Secondary Education.  High schools in the area have been closing, but the local population is growing and we'll need to develop a series of local high schools here in the area. Competition is good for education, as it is for everything else.  By law, only the head of the Regional Council is entitled to choose where kids go to school.  At this time we have 4000 high school students, and the system doesn't have room for new students, even if it were a good system and people were willing to send their kids.

7.  Transportation to School.  For now, funding from other budgets, such as the building budget, to fund school buses for local kids.  There is no governmentally funded option for transportation for high school-age pupils.   Children need to go to good schools, locally, such that there won't be a need for transportation.  School buses are a temporary measure until we have good schools in the area.  Pupils can't succeed if they spend hours on buses, and there's no equal opportunities for all citizens until we have quality local schools for everyone.  We don't have time to wait.

When it was pointed out that building all these schools will take time, he didn't have a clear answer, except to improve the existing schools.  One neighbor offered a temporary solution of not having kids for the next few years, which got a few laughs but underlined the seriousness of the issue.  Moshe grew up in the system, continued to be involved in the local education system after his high school graduation, and sends his kids to the local schools, so he is aware, from the inside, of just how bad it is.

When asked about the decision making powers of the local municipality versus the Council regarding expansion issues, he spoke in favor of allowing the municipal council to receive tax monies and make most local decisions.  Regarding division of properties, especially public and moshav properties, he cited a local example of a town within the region that wanted to build a swimming pool with public develop monies, and the Regional Council refused to grant permission.   

A participant described one local conflict regarding the use and upkeep of moshav property, an issue which has put residents of our Moshav extension at odds with the decision-makers of the moshav's municipal council, with no legal redress... As this neighborbor pointed out, this type of conflict usually stays on a minor and limited level, but the same problems tend to repeat themselves, and our current expansion has only brought the issue to the fore.  Moshe did not provide a clear answer regarding this issue.

Regarding the protection of nature conservancies, Moshe supports expanding into parts of those ares for the benefit of the local populations.  He cited the building of a new school as one example.

Moshe has pledged to bring educated, reliable and honest workers into the Regional Council, and here he was asked regarding the type of people he would, indeed, bring with him.  (It has been said that our local government has become bulky and corrupt over the years, and I can testify to the number and quality of shiny cars in the parking lot).  

Moshe responded by pointing out that there is one person in the regional government overseeing all 180 local kindergartens in the region, with a similar situation for the primary schools...  "No one person is a workhorse."  A neighbor responded with cynicism, that the only department in the council that returns phone calls is the Collection Department.  Generally, those present at the meeting did not express satisfaction with the so-called reforms he claims to have made until now.

Moshe referred to a total rearrangement of the governing system, especially the educational system, and that in his view this includes, among other things, encouraging older workers to retire, and having others transfer to departments where they are needed.  "If one doctor is no good, do you blame all the doctors?"

He continued to refer to poor air quality, although he offered no clear solutions.  Prior to this, he claimed not to understand the connection between electricity and the quality of the environment.   Regarding a specific road in the area which has been declared unsafe and whose legal status has remained unclear for years (the road remains open but the police sometimes distributes tickets to those who travel on it), he offered no clear answer, except to point out that the Regional Council has been trying to resolve the issue.

Moshe's closing statement (summary):  We have the opportunity to develop the area, to give everyone an opportunity and quality of life.  The problem is not as other candidates will tell you, that this or that individual bureaucrat is responsible.  The money is the issue.  If we want to develop the area, our money has to go to the right places;  quality education for everyone, and local development.

* * * * *

On Wednesday, another candidate will be coming to impress us.... stay tuned.

Keep the balance,

ALN

FIRE!!

As I write, over forty thousand people in Southern California have been evacuated from their homes, as fires rage through neighborhoods, homes and schools.  Pictures are here, c/o the Los Angeles Times.  

My parents, thank G-d, live about fifteen miles away from the nearest fire.  For now, people in their area are not being ordered to evacuate.  But I remember fifteen years ago, being far away at college, eyes glued to the TV -- as the fires advanced toward my home.  Meanwhile my parents and their neighbors were gathering up pets and photos, loading their cars and heading to a designated school-shelter, a few miles away.

To see the news, you might think that the movement of a fire that large is hard to miss and easy to predict.  This isn't the case.  A fire can tear across a city at about two miles an hour, especially when strong winds are involved.  Last year a similar fire made its way through large sections of California, including both residential and forested areas.  My mother's friend had a daughter living in a suburban town, far from any forest.  The fire was forty miles away, and she and her family went to sleep, feeling far away from it all.

They awoke the next morning to a phone call from their neighbor.  The fire is closing in. Run for your lives.  They ran.

Their house burned to the ground.  They lost everything.

In my parents' area, when a fire approaches the local emergency services enact what is called a "Reverse 911," that is, everyone in the area receives a recorded phone call from 911 instructing them when to evacuate and where to go.  My mother's friend's daughter received no such call. Her neighbor took action and called her.  She did not assume that her neighbor had heard about the fire from another source.  

Like most others in Israel, our neighborhood has a phone list (what's known in Israel as a daf kesher), which is probably the most wrinkled paper on the refrigerator.   We have used this list for day-to-day events, such as kids' sleepover invitations, recipe swaps and meeting arrangements.  We have also used it to share tragic news, like the time three years ago that two of us took it upon ourselves to call every household, one after the other, in order to personally deliver the terrible news that our neighbor had just been killed in a car crash.  

That should be the last time we use the list for such a thing.

But if there's ever a question, a doubt, whether someone you know has already adjusted the car seat straps, checked that wailing house alarm, pulled over to the car on the side of the road, or passed along the latest news update -- assume you are the only one.  Take action. Make the call. 

Keep the balance,

ALN

Passion Runneth Over

The passionfruit are growing like crazy.  Our neighbors' vine is dripping with fruit -- over fifty, by our latest estimate.... and counting.

(And a big thank-you to That Guy I Married, who recommended altering the gamma on this photo, which, as he subsequently explained to me, has something to do with accentuating light and dark areas, which did indeed enhance the photo).  Yet another way to...

...keep the balance,

ALN

Six Days to Go: The Secret Scoreboard

This very second, Always the Imp is dribbling cookie crumbs and chocolate bits all over my MacBook as she desperately informs me, at the top of her well-developed lungs, that Blondini Boy JUST TOOK ANOTHER COOKIE AND I ONLY GOT ONE!!!   

Blondini Boy:  I didn't.

Always (calmly, "innocently,"):  Excuse me, Mommy, he got TWO THINGS.

Elder Princeski leans over my shoulder as I post, enjoying her mostly-unique literate status by narrating the others' exploits back at them.  She continues to read out loud as I write.  

(I think it's time for a remote Five-Minute Bedtime Challenge, so they'll go upstairs and "surprise" me by getting ready for bed while I get a written word in edgewise).

Flashback to dinner, the first night of Rosh haShana.  The neighbors are over with their motley crew, and together with ours, the resulting ruckus makes it almost impossible to hold a conversation.  But we're making the effort, when suddenly...

THAT'S NOT FAIR! yells Always.  SHE GOT SECONDS ON CAKE AND I DIDN'T!  

(Pause for thought).

Ah, I reply, but earlier today you got a candy and she didn't... doesn't that make it even?  

She's not convinced, so I continue.  You know that not everything is fair all the time. 

I see from her expression that it's time for a tactical change.  You know, up in Abba's and my room there's a big secret scoreboard that folds out of the wall when you're not looking.  That's how we, and all the other parents, keep track of who gets however many treats.  Right?  

I turn to our neighbor for confirmation.  She nods.  

Furthermore, I add, all the homes in the neighborhood are linked through the internet, so when you eat junk food at your friend's house, his parents can look up on our scoreboard whether you've had a treat recently, and if they do give you a candy, they we'll know you don't need dessert at home that night.

She looks skeptical.  

Smart kid.  But she does stop complaining about the cake discrepancy.

Still, something echoes inside me.  Here we are, on Rosh haShana, discussing a secret scoreboard.  What a metaphor.  

I mean, how many times have I looked over in envy at my neighbor's car (specifically, I'll readily admit, their lovely Mazda 5).  And oh, how I justify my desires:  If I had a car like that, I could fit the whole carpool in one trip.  The kids would have plenty of room and stop fighting all the time.

More aptly, what about all those "Why Bad Things Happen to Good People?" questions that can plague a person after a decade of working with sick kids in the hospital, or maybe as a result of our regularly scheduled lives and their accompanying losses:  A relative who dies before his time, a loved one who lose his job, her marriage, their home.  

No wonder we're so tempted to ask, Where's the "God of Justice and Mercy" we keep mentioning throughout Yom Kippur?  Experience has shown us, time and again:  No one's promised us anything.   

Still, we ask, pray, beg, cajole.  Our Father, Our King.  Save us, protect us, heal us,  forgive us. We imagine that somewhere, Up There, there must be a Big Secret Scoreboard.

Maybe it doesn't come out even in the end.  Or maybe it all comes out even in The End.  Meanwhile, we live in hope and wonder.

גמר חתימה טובה.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Imagine the Alternatives

When I was only 75, it didn't occur to me to think of myself as old... 

But I'm 94 years old and you know, I'm starting to feel my age.

For the past few days my grandmother has been staying here at my parents' house, to see her great-grandchildren and to check out potential "retirement homes."  (Ahh, what a nice euphemism.  My grandmother has been retired from her career as a school speech therapist for what, thirty-five years?)  For the past 24 of of them she's lived completely on her own in a beautiful "retirement community" -- there's that word again -- in the rolling hills of Northern California, where all residents are over 50, most own their homes, many drive,* and more than a few continue to lead active lives into their eighties and nineties.

Residents keep busy, with social and political groups, hobbies and parties.  The community hosts a variety of clubs and resident boards, so even the most mobility-challenged can find a way to participate. As they progress in age, their world narrows geographically like a target, until, like my grandmother, they find themselves living closer to the bulls-eye, and dependent on other, younger residents -- or the local dial-a-bus -- to transport them to the supermarket, the hair salon, the dentist.  

A couple days ago, I asked my grandmother how she sees the whole thing.  Could she imagine herself picking up her whole life, leaving her community and all her friends, to move into a "retirement complex" where she would live in a much smaller apartment (more of a deluxe hotel room, really, albeit with half- or full-size kitchen)?

She isn't sure.  Retirement homes are for old people, she tells me, completely serious.  I'm not old.

That sounds strange coming from a woman halfway into her hundredth decade.  Unless you know my grandmother.  

She lived through the Depression, got a scholarship to college, and graduated with a teaching degree, at a time when few women -- or men, for that matter -- had a chance at higher education.  She persevered through the kind of marriage later generations of women would have ditched, and loyally took care of her husband through a serious, drawn-out illness.  She was (and remains) an advocate of non-fluoridated water, vegetarian eating, and healthy living, during an era when that kind of lifestyle was commonly derided.  When her husband died, she didn't miss a beat, traveling the world while she was young and healthy enough to do so.  She purchased her own home, collected art and music to fill it, and continued her travels well into her eighties.

During our conversation, my grandmother described in detail all of her current available human resources, (and which she had called into action two days before her trip, when she leaned down, thought she cracked a rib, and finally agreed for her friend drive her to the emergency room.  Only a dislocation, it turns out: You know, something just snapped out of place.  This morning I pushed it back in, and now it's fine. 

I asked what she thought about the potential benefits of transitioning to this type of living arrangement, and she mentioned her difficulties fixing herself dinner every evening.  Breakfast and lunch, you know, they're small meals, I can handle that.  But dinner is another story.  She still does her own weekly grocery shopping;   her friend and neighbor, 82-years-old, drives her every week.  But not all of her neighbors are feeling capable any more.  Some of my friends, they're getting older.  Not old, you know -- only eighty, eighty-five -- but they're starting to feel older, and wonder where to put themselves, what to do with their bodies.

And the drawbacks?  For one, the price.  Places like these cost about $4000 a month, not including the phone bill.  Currently, she pays $250 a month in fees for some utilities and upkeep of the grounds, a few hundred for additional utilities, and about $400 a month for food. She now owns her house and so does not pay a mortgage.  My grandmother has savings in the bank and budgets carefully.  She allows herself some luxuries (she is a very stylish dresser), and can't help but worry, with good reason, over the financial commitment this move would entail.  Her unspoken worry:   What will happen if the money runs out before I do? 

Another drawback?  The feeling of losing her independence, feeling isolated, starting all over in an unfamiliar place.  She stated some of these factors out loud while implying others.

Today we joined my grandmother for lunch in one facility, run by and for Jewish people, and located about 20 minutes from my parents' house.  The grounds were well groomed, the living units hospitable but small.  The day's activities were posted on all the bulletin boards.  (This got me hoping these types of place adapt with the times.  If not, I'd better learn to play mahjong and Bridge).  They have a computer room and offer lessons in e-mail and Websurfing.  Residents are served three meals a day in the dining room, but may order room service, or cook for themselves in their apartments.  As we approached the dining hall, I noticed tens of walkers parked hodge-podge outside.  Inside, the hall was calm as a hundred older people chatted quietly while eating a four-course lunch.

Toward the end of lunch I asked my grandmother what she thought.  She said she hasn't decided anything, she'll have to think about it.

In a few minutes, my grandmother will board a plan taking her back to her town, where a social worker will pick her up and drive her home to continue the independent life of a ninety-four-year-old woman.  My parents have given her a kind of ultimatum:  If you choose not to move to one of the retirement residences we visited this week, that's you're choice, but then you must hire someone to help you around the house.   

For my grandmother, the latter option is actually worse of the two.  Having help in the house would mean she's old, when in fact, she's only ninety-four.

Keep the balance,

ALN

______

* All of us were exceedingly relieved when my grandmother finally gave up her car, at the age of 85.  I tried to identify with the symbolic and physical loss of independence this step would bring her, but having ridden with her over the last decade prior, I was scared to death for her and every driver and pedestrian around her.

(And thanks to Me-ander for a beautiful visual reminder of the limitations of old age).

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

Receiving is Giving

When we first moved into our little community, some eight years ago, I spent quite a few weeks feeling really lonely.  We knew only one family in the neighborhood.   Our first-born was a year old, and so that natural, time-proven way of meeting the neighbors (that is, through your kids), was not such an option.  It was the height of summer, and even Shabbat was not the greatest opportunity to get to know people, since so many of them were away.  I began to feel like a real outsider.

When did I feel it the most?  It doesn't sound nearly half as ironic now as it did then, but here it is:  Nobody ever came over asking to borrow something.  No one knocked on our door for a cup of flour, an egg, a bag of milk.  Nothing.   For weeks.  

I felt so out of it.  So, well, useless.  People were coming to meet us, offering us help, even inviting us for meals, and that was certainly nice, and appreciated.

But who wants to be on the receiving end every time?

And then, one day.... one of our neighbors came over, apologizing.  Could she borrow a cup of flour?  

Are you kidding?!?!  

I was so excited, I could've hugged her.  (I know, that would have completely confused her).  She had no idea what a huge thing she was doing for me, asking to borrow something, because it wasn't the asking that mattered, it was the giving.  She was giving me, a new person on the block, the chance to be on the giving end, to feel like I (finally) had a role in the community.  A small role, but it meant everything to me.

I work in the hospital with really sick kids.  I wish there was something I could do to make them well, or better yet, to have kept them from getting sick in the first place.  But I know I can't.  I can only try to help them get through their illness with as much strength and love as possible.  And I can do this with the complete awareness that their existence as sick children is the very thing that allows me to do my job, and to give to them.  Their act of receiving my help is, in essence, a very great act of giving.  

No one wants to feel like they are constantly on the receiving end, even (especially?) children. Maybe this type of work has really driven that point home for me... so much so, that I'm constantly reminding the kids I work with, how much they give me, how much I appreciate their willingness to share with me, to learn, to express themselves honestly, even when the subject matter is often painful, frightening, and threatening.

RivkA, I know that you -- and everyone who loves you -- would never, ever choose the circumstances surrounding your "new" role, of helping people to give.  But it is one of the most important roles in this world, and I wish you courage and strength of every sort as you continue to cross all the challenging bridges that come your way.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Life in the Village II: The Rocky Rose Garden

Life around here often takes place in the garden... but it's not always a rose garden.  

It certainly can be.  Last week our neighbor N., who runs after-school art classes for the neighborhood kids, hosted a lovely open studio evening, featuring artwork from all her young pupils from the past year.  (She built her studio is built out of a renovated tin shed - complete with A/C - off the side of her garden, which is open to a lovely view of the surrounding hills).

The gathering was informal, with drinks, pretzels and fruit laid out under the olive tree, crafts and sculptures arranged on the ping-pong table, and drawings hung all around.  Parents strolled around admiring the work, and kids drew and colored in the studio.  N.'s calm presence filled the garden, as she repositioned the artwork and offered compliments to the artists' parents.  Neighbors who hadn't seen each other in a few days (amazing how often that happens) sat chatting in the grass.

What has always given me pause for thought is that beyond a few specific cases, most people here agrees to disagree, and leave it at that.  It's a "I won't trample your boundaries if you don't trample mine" sort of set-up.  

Of course, not all is rosy in our village.   Over-all, there are feelings of closeness and community.  Yet there are always those stuck in some form of social exile, whether external or self-imposed.  Over time, disagreements crop up.  People can feel mistreated, resentful, and angry, and get stuck with a grudge for eons.  Others find themselves in the position of go-between. Still others stay completely out of the loop.

The most common form of dilemma usually involves kids.  What do you do when your neighbors' kids are bullying on one of yours?   How do you feel when your son's best friend likes to watch violent movies you'd rather not expose him to?  What's your reaction when your friends' daughter when she purposely pours water all over your newly cleaned rabbit cage, just to see your reaction?  (Yes, that one actually happened).

Beyond that, the most common areas of agree-to-disagreement:  junk piling up in the driveway, neighborhood dues collections, and whether certain kinds of [women's] outfits are suitable for beit knesset.    Other issues involve the personal, or maybe, personality.   Still others are, well... I don't want to know.  In a small community, you learn that when in doubt, keeping your mouth shut might be the best option.

Like all others, our community has had its share of sorrows.  Also of celebrations.  And all of them have felt like community sorrows, and community celebrations.   Since regardless of everything, if you really need something, you know that these people will always be there for you, as you've been - and will be - for them.  

Maybe some of the strongest ties are not necessarily based on agreeing, but rather, on agreeing to disagree.  I imagine we're not the only ones...

Keep the balance,

ALN