Every year at the end of October I remember our noble black cat Lucifer, our fallen angel, the legendary daredevil of our backwater community in the Jerusalem Hills. Our precious friend mysteriously vanished one autumn day without a single meow, never to be fed, cuddled or admired again, leaving us with the sad feeling of loss and uncertainty. Of course we always hoped that another day, after wining and dining with distant oriental noblesse during his extensive odyssey, he will, out of the blue of his royal blood, remember our cozy place and make his way back to our doorstep, with us, his most devoted allegiance in waiting for His Highness’ purring return.
I still see him enthroned on the armrest of our scratched, grazed leather couch, his erect silhouette resembling a smooth paper cut, his ark-shaped emperor’s nose sprinkled with orange flower pollen from sniffing the delicious scents in our backyard. In this position the red afternoon sun was reflected on his shiny fur like fiery flames, while his sparkling emerald eyes took account of the surrounding kingdom and his loyal followership. Here he towered in his full glory, handsome Prince Ali Ababwah, King of the Trash, Ruler of the Alleys and thorn in the flesh of all dogs waiting to tear up feline trespassers in their yards with deadly fangs!
Our adventurer’s most glorious moments were when he suddenly emerged in his black velvet cloak and Zorro mask, after a suspenseful rustle in the backyard undergrowth, chivalrously darting up unto the narrow garden fence, where he continued his highfaluting prance all along the ridge of the green partition, casting dismissive glances down at the canines, who dashed at him from all corners of the neighboring yards.
Instantly all hell broke loose at the rascal’s sight. A fanfare of vicious growls and ear-battering barks announced the arrival of the wolfish pack’s arch enemy to the entire neighborhood! There, high up above the frantic rumpus of yapping monsters, Lucifer, master of the fiery pits of Hades, performed his tight rope act in front of their angry snouts and bared teeth, the menacing creatures nearly mauling his velvet boots! The hullaballoo would cause us immediately to jump up and devotedly fill the silver dish of our homecoming hero to the brim with a generous portion of Friskies. His Majesty devoured his ration with ravenous gulps, leaving crumbs scattered all over the kitchen floor that suggested a straight lineage to Henry VIII's eating habits.
He even extended his repertoire of sensational, nerve racking scenes to the lofty rooftops of neighboring houses, not without first paying an occasional visit to kitchen counters for a good look at the deliciously smelling lunch ingredients. All these inviting aliments simply asked to be licked and nibbled on by our unabashed gourmand, as he was feeding at home on ordinary cat food alone and his palates always yearned for a more exquisite cuisine.
The enticing roasts, soups and deserts prepared in kitchens with open windows naturally draw the attention of Lucifer’s trained nose and sharp claws and his frivolous thefts created against him an angry coalition of desperate housewives and alarmed watchdogs. They all wanted to see the culprit either dangling from the highest lamp post on the main road or hoped to swallow him alive in one vicious mouthful to end his menacing excursions. With such an army of human and bestial opponents it was only a question of time until Lutz met his unexplained fate.
On the other hand, since we once presented Lucifer on his Halloween birthday with a red bandanna, we always suspected he would one day fill it with some items of his prey, tie it to a walking stick and leave us and our dull restaurant for exotic adventures. We were even prepared to hear in the news that he had been spotted in a hot Greenwich Village jazz cellar playing the double bass or sighted lying outstretched on a silk pillow in a Chinese opium den, flirting with the feline hostesses of Shanghai. These amazing stories have happened to other cat holders, so why not to us?
On October 31 I returned home late. On the dark path between the gate and our entrance door I met the usual commotion of feral cats dining at the dishes we fill for them twice daily. Most of the homeless creatures darted like black shadows out of my way, whereas a few were less afraid but remained at secure distance. Some of the kittens were born in our yard and often sneaked into open doors or windows to steal some of the 'superior' food reserved for our house cats.
After a short while of taking stock of the family and their activities, I had my coffee in a daze and fell asleep exhausted on the couch. When I suddenly woke up it was past midnight. All had gone to sleep. The windows and doors were locked and the lounge felt hot and stuffy. October had brought heat waves instead of the desired rains.
Our cat Pandora meowed to be let outside for a nightly stroll. I rolled up the shutters in front of the sliding glass door and slid one wing open, exactly enough to let her pass. While Pandora as usual still had to make up her mind whether to leave or not, a tiny furry something darted into the room and headed straight for the feeding dishes in the kitchen. I chased after the trespasser, leaving a tiny slot open for the culprit to escape my chase to the outside. But before I could corner it into the right direction another little shadow darted in straight to the kitchen, following the example of the first intruder. After I got rid of the first one, I went chasing after the second, again moving away from the open door, so the whirlwind could make his escape freely without banging into the glass or other breakable appliances. This turned out to be bad tactic and I soon realized that I was in trouble. Each time I had cunningly shooed away one of the fur balls, another invader had already taken to the kitchen. Here each would rapidly snatch some Friskies and run franticly back to the narrow escape. First they would return to safety straight away, but after a while they thought it to be more tickling excitement to hide in corners and under tables, while I was rushing around trying to catch them. Now the rascals even started to enter in pairs, splitting into different directions, while I was busily mopping the others from underneath the furniture. They would in turn get a chance to snag some Friskies and hide, me in the middle of the upheaval hollering and waving in exasperation. These little devils were playing Trick ’r Treat with me!
Meanwhile my clumsy movements and choked curses had wakened the household's other inhabitants. When the family, one after the other, staggered downstairs wiping their sleepy eyes in surprised disbelief, they seemed immediately quite amused by the wild spectacle that presented itself in the dim living room. Each time I tried to chivy some cats out through the door slit, others would enter helter-skelter by jumping straight over the fugitives' heads!
I must have looked like the legendary sorcerer's apprentice, trying to take control over endlessly multiplying water buckets I had conjured by an ignorant mistake!
But now, with all onlookers present in suspense, we were in for the spectacular climax of this hilarious racket: All of a sudden a mysterious bolt of lightning struck down into the garden, its bluish rays mysteriously shining through the glass door into our dark salon. An Eastern melody accompanied by oriental drums, first muffled from afar but louder and louder as it approached brought with it a colorful parade of dancing creatures resembling the illustrious characters of the musical "Cats". They gathered on the terrace in front of our living room and began boisterously taking places around our garden table! In their middle towered a very familiar looking tall black cat clad in a turquoise toga, sporting a red bandanna over one of his ears. His other ear was pierced by a diamond studded hoop, which gave him a somewhat lopsided, nonchalant aura. He was flanked by agile feline belly dancers, their many tits heaving in sequined brassieres, their hips rhythmically shimmying from side to side in tune with the ecstatic music. The enchanted crowd around the elegant moorish centerpiece mysteriously whipped up a glittering table cloth, on top of which emerged the most appetizing delicatessen displayed on exquisite China. Red wine flew into sparkling crystal glasses and huge pumpkins brimmed lavishly from golden vessels. This magically conjured banquet was opened by none other than Lucifer, his meticulous profile crowned by a ghostly halo. He imperiously swung his glass in an inviting movement that immediately caused all cats inside our house to jump out on the terrace and join the attractive feast. Stunned by this unbelievable supernatural activity we plunged under our coffee table and watched the shadow play through the panoramic glass door. None of us dared to breathe; it all seemed too real for a hallucination. All assembled cats toasted to Lucifer the Prince on his traditional birthday celebration. He waved benevolently at his faithful court in the relaxed manner of true royalty, defying with reassured manner the noisy barks and snarls of the neighbor's dogs, who had of course at once acknowledged his victorious return. Trapped behind fences, their angry comments could not drown out the exuberance of the intoxicating, otherworldly festival we were hosting in our garden this night! After the jolly company had wined, dined and even played a friendly game of pumpkin ball, they all continued strolling animatedly along the lawn back into oblivion from where they had come, dissolving like a magic illusion and leaving us with our mouths open in awe!
As the fancy procession had swept with it all annoying intruders that had previously visited our kitchen and living quarters, the house was again plunged in peaceful silence. Totally disoriented by the incredibly strange vision we tried to totter back to our bedrooms. Only Pandora meowed to be let out on her nightly stroll, as during all the uproar she had not been able to make up her mind whether to leave or stay. This time I did give in to her unnerving whims and drunkenly crept unto my secure mattress, pondering over the strange show we had just witnessed.
How could a turbulent round of Trick 'r Treat with obnoxious kittens on October 31 get out of hand and lure us into a bedazzling encounter with our long lost demon friend Lucifer? In a rare paranormal adventure we were given a reassuring glimpse of his soundness and glamorous current life style, dispelling all precarious scenarios we had imagined happened to him! Certainly October 31 wasn't any ordinary night after all!
First Rain
(water desperately needed!)
Report of my lion-hearted struggle against the forces of light
Let me introduce myself: I’m a dull, insignificant, totally common grey office mouse inhabiting a dreary, shadowy cubicle, a perfectly square space, whose huge modern window is barred from vulgar daylight by the powerful, awe-inspiring wall of an adjoining building.
The sun is stubbornly prevented from entering my cell and only if I glue my whiskers close to the sash pane at a narrow angle am I able to catch a glimpse of the sky. I found this blinding experience hurtful to my sensitive eyes and now I prefer to not endanger my dwindling sight with this kind of frivolous adventure.
In time I have become quite adept at guessing the hours of the day and changes of the seasons by interpreting the various stages of gloomy twilight hanging heavily in the room and I entertain myself by observing my shamelessly colorful coffee cup being plunged into various shades of gray and black. I am able to loose myself for humdrum hours staring into the muddy coffee grounds collected during my long-winded working days.
Whenever I have to emerge from my dungeon to communicate with rodents from other offices, I grab a pair of sunglasses, since my eyes cannot take any sudden, unnerving spurts of unobstructed light and illumination: I’m used to the dark.
Under starlit heavens in the small hours before dawn, my employers come to collect me at my dusky street corner in a van with curtains drawn, filled with other sleepy, cheerless creatures sharing a similar fate. After a bumpy ride over the many pot holes ornamenting the road to the industrial district, where our offices are located, I am securely deposited into the obscurity of my darkroom, where I immediately put on a wretched expression to start my mirthless day.
For my own good I am brought back to my street corner late after sunset so that I shouldn’t suffer any unexpected exposure to sunlight and vitamin D.
I already started the transition from a mouse to a mole and our social worker promised me a pair of smart black eye patches at the company’s expense, should I become as blind as a bat.
However, I am surprisingly twinkle-toed as I navigate around the office furniture within my dreary four walls. Having endless hours of practice at my command, I have no problem finding diverse files on the obscure shelves by running my fingers over the holes in their cardboard backs, counting and identifying the right ones according to my vague memory of brighter days.
Operating the phone isn’t a problem, since I obey the motto “Don’t call us, we’ll call you”. This saves me in general from looking up and dialing other people’s numbers. To make my strategy even more accident-proof, I usually forward the calls to one of my twinkle–eyed companions in misfortune, imprisoned in another adjoining cubicle.
Only when I try to water my brave and struggling potted plants, who against all odds still hope for photosynthesis, I sometimes accidentally hit the electric plug with a jet of water, whereupon I am thrown to the ground into the secure darkness underneath my desk. This interlude always fills me with a feeling of relief by temporarily sheltering me from the only glaring spot in my somber surroundings, the notorious computer screen.
Although this irritating device is my existential connection to the outer world and I depend on it for bits of information and contact to other forsaken creatures like me, I would prefer to have it dimmed and adjusted to the bleak atmosphere I have learned to treasure as my natural, most uninspiring surroundings. Also the red stand-by led bulbs of the air conditioner and other appliances are a thorn in my flesh. The memory of their lurking presence regularly haunts me during my frequent nightmares, in which the victory of enlightenment is conjured in fluorescent colors!
In my halfcrazed nights I dream of reckless, desperate missions, during which I furiously demolish all neon bulbs in the elevators and corridors of our high-tech grave, only to find them mysteriously reassembled and grouped in juvenile delinquent gangs, awaiting me with their brazen grin again at the exit! The cheeky red bulbs marking the light switches on the walls join the scene with their high pitched, malicious giggle and I crouch into a lusterless grey fur ball, clutching my paws over my hurting eyes and stammering between my prominent front teeth: "I am a proud, unexciting office mouse and I refuse to lighten up!"
I started to form a support group for tortured soul mates, who likewise feel upset by such shameless illumination at their work place. We seek to put an end to any blinding activity disrupting our bland daily routine. By developing effective defenses against the forces of light, we will not allow bright intruders to conquer our grounds. You can sympathize with our struggle by kindly signing our petition asking for security controls at the entrance to our building, detecting people carrying torches, candles, matches, mobiles and lit cigarettes. All these insolent devices should become a thing of the past and sink into oblivion and lustreless doom!
The sun is stubbornly prevented from entering my cell and only if I glue my whiskers close to the sash pane at a narrow angle am I able to catch a glimpse of the sky. I found this blinding experience hurtful to my sensitive eyes and now I prefer to not endanger my dwindling sight with this kind of frivolous adventure.
In time I have become quite adept at guessing the hours of the day and changes of the seasons by interpreting the various stages of gloomy twilight hanging heavily in the room and I entertain myself by observing my shamelessly colorful coffee cup being plunged into various shades of gray and black. I am able to loose myself for humdrum hours staring into the muddy coffee grounds collected during my long-winded working days.
Whenever I have to emerge from my dungeon to communicate with rodents from other offices, I grab a pair of sunglasses, since my eyes cannot take any sudden, unnerving spurts of unobstructed light and illumination: I’m used to the dark.
Under starlit heavens in the small hours before dawn, my employers come to collect me at my dusky street corner in a van with curtains drawn, filled with other sleepy, cheerless creatures sharing a similar fate. After a bumpy ride over the many pot holes ornamenting the road to the industrial district, where our offices are located, I am securely deposited into the obscurity of my darkroom, where I immediately put on a wretched expression to start my mirthless day.
For my own good I am brought back to my street corner late after sunset so that I shouldn’t suffer any unexpected exposure to sunlight and vitamin D.
I already started the transition from a mouse to a mole and our social worker promised me a pair of smart black eye patches at the company’s expense, should I become as blind as a bat.
However, I am surprisingly twinkle-toed as I navigate around the office furniture within my dreary four walls. Having endless hours of practice at my command, I have no problem finding diverse files on the obscure shelves by running my fingers over the holes in their cardboard backs, counting and identifying the right ones according to my vague memory of brighter days.
Operating the phone isn’t a problem, since I obey the motto “Don’t call us, we’ll call you”. This saves me in general from looking up and dialing other people’s numbers. To make my strategy even more accident-proof, I usually forward the calls to one of my twinkle–eyed companions in misfortune, imprisoned in another adjoining cubicle.
Only when I try to water my brave and struggling potted plants, who against all odds still hope for photosynthesis, I sometimes accidentally hit the electric plug with a jet of water, whereupon I am thrown to the ground into the secure darkness underneath my desk. This interlude always fills me with a feeling of relief by temporarily sheltering me from the only glaring spot in my somber surroundings, the notorious computer screen.
Although this irritating device is my existential connection to the outer world and I depend on it for bits of information and contact to other forsaken creatures like me, I would prefer to have it dimmed and adjusted to the bleak atmosphere I have learned to treasure as my natural, most uninspiring surroundings. Also the red stand-by led bulbs of the air conditioner and other appliances are a thorn in my flesh. The memory of their lurking presence regularly haunts me during my frequent nightmares, in which the victory of enlightenment is conjured in fluorescent colors!
In my halfcrazed nights I dream of reckless, desperate missions, during which I furiously demolish all neon bulbs in the elevators and corridors of our high-tech grave, only to find them mysteriously reassembled and grouped in juvenile delinquent gangs, awaiting me with their brazen grin again at the exit! The cheeky red bulbs marking the light switches on the walls join the scene with their high pitched, malicious giggle and I crouch into a lusterless grey fur ball, clutching my paws over my hurting eyes and stammering between my prominent front teeth: "I am a proud, unexciting office mouse and I refuse to lighten up!"
I started to form a support group for tortured soul mates, who likewise feel upset by such shameless illumination at their work place. We seek to put an end to any blinding activity disrupting our bland daily routine. By developing effective defenses against the forces of light, we will not allow bright intruders to conquer our grounds. You can sympathize with our struggle by kindly signing our petition asking for security controls at the entrance to our building, detecting people carrying torches, candles, matches, mobiles and lit cigarettes. All these insolent devices should become a thing of the past and sink into oblivion and lustreless doom!
Guns and Roses
A few weeks ago Yedidia returned from his basic army training, exhilarated about impersonating action hero ‘Rambo’ in the sand dunes adjoining the Northern Gaza Strip.Like many other adventurous Israeli youngsters watching the 'Survival' reality show, he enormously enjoyed camping in the droopy, rotten tents, where all new recruits are accommodated to get a flavor of desert 'joie de vivre' sprinkled with a whiff of authentic dust carried here from Saudi Arabia. Continually in danger of being blown over to enemy territory with all their wet belongings during a 3- day raging winter storm, all trainees were eventually forced into evacuation to the secure dining room. They ended up bunking down in a chaotic heap of damp mattresses, cheesy socks and muddy boots, mingled with half eaten provisions from the camp mini market.He elated in disassembling and cleaning his machine gun, firing bullets at paper-mache opponents and posing for the notorious heroic photographs with his manly co-fighters, looking extremely fierce when holding up the deadly weapons in imaginary victory. These digital ‘trophies’ are uploaded to the thousands into young Israeli’s Facebook accounts.However, the boys in his course neither possessed the physical stamina nor the desire to serve as combat soldiers. Most of these wannabe militants were equipped with medical attests, or, as in Yedidia’s case, were granted special status as ‘outstanding musician’, entitling them to alleviated terms during their 3 years of army service, enabling them to pursue their musical training while ‘fulfilling their duty to their country’ as so called ‘jobnicks’.But given a sandy exercise playground and a hot weapon, male creatures gladly transform into suntanned, sweaty die-hards, screaming hoarsely while storming the spiky concrete barricades, crawling on their stomachs, guns at hand through the mud like guerilla fighters through a jungle of old tires, rocks and building trash.The sirens giving 15- second- warnings of Cartouche rockets from Gaza fired by Hamas terrorists unto southern Israeli territory, the adrenaline produced while rushing towards the shrapnel shelters, the sandy Mediterranean scenery with rolling waves behind mysteriously moonlit dunes, all these created the ideal backdrop for my son’s fictional and unhesitant self sacrifice, when fervently ‘defending’ his fatherland.To completely knock us out with worry, he deliberately called home from the shooting stands to the ringing sounds of bullets or at night shivering on a forlorn watchtower guarding the border to our Islamist adversaries. He explained to us the different steps of warning to be followed, if a suspicious shadow would approach the twilight zone between the fence and the camp. From his lengthy account it seemed that before he would have had a chance to complete this whole series of shouts and shots into the air, he‘d be already dead and done with, if the intruder really came with malicious intentions. After all his sleepless nights under the Mediterranean stars, Goofeef was always happy to return for lazy weekends to our pastoral civilization, mostly sleeping like a log and occasionally tantalizing his orphaned violin with a few frantic bow strokes.These intermissions from warfare were also a great opportunity for us to admire his good looks in olive green uniform and Ray Ban sunglasses. Values like a non-violent approach to conflict, which we previously tried to implant in our offspring and a critical attitude towards militarism were hopelessly fading into oblivion. Following Goufeef’s call to arms, our family became suddenly infected by an ardent spirit of national pride, escalating in memorizing the names and symbols of the different ranks in army hierarchy up to the Commander in Chief and raising the flag every time he returned home bringing in his loads for the domestic washing machine.After basic training Goufeef was sorted into the army’s Educational Division and is now stationed high up on Har Gilo, a 15-minute drive from his mother’s kitchen stove, a well-kept base, which looks like a comfortable guest house embellished by geranium and fragrant pine trees. His job consists of organizing and evaluating different courses and seminars offered to officers as well as upgrading the library. He’s entitled to lots of free days in between duties to devote himself to the study of musical theory and the secrets of the ‘devil’s instrument’.Gone are the days of imaginary hard-bitten war games opposite the enemy’s lines and meanwhile my son turned into a desperado with guilt feelings of ‘not doing enough in the army’. Suddenly his privileges seem to him as an undeserved luxury and he sees himself as a parasite eating army meals and traveling for free on public transport. The army does not hold musicians in high esteem and their seemingly ‘lazy days’ are envied by the ones ‘doing the real thing’.It doesn’t matter how much we sweated bringing up young Mozart to enjoy his present Shangri-La, when he, instead of strumming the guitar on the beach with his gang, endured endless hours at lessons, accompanied by our efforts to supply him with fresh strings even during paralyzing snow storms in order to keep him motivated and prepared for the caprices of his demanding East European ‘torturers’.But when it comes to army service and national security Israelis are convinced that we can do without raising crazed artists and vain athletes. Even higher education can wait for much later. Everything has to jerk to a halt for 3 years of as much combat training as possible. Yedidia feels he's not ‘doing the real thing’ playing the violin for the troops or for bereaved parents at their son’s funerals, pursuing his musical ambitions while others are holding the Arabs at bay.I admit dreaming of saving my precious son from active combat by becoming a musician in the army since his childhood. We never encouraged our children to romance warfare as an adrenaline producing cliffhanger. Music was also one of the ways to keep us from falling into depression over the ongoing hostilities over territories, from getting sucked into the dead water of chauvinism and religious zeal.
Unfortunately, Israel without its army would not exist. The gap between us and our Palestinian neighbors deepens with each new act of reprisal and we experience the renaissance of animosity fueled by fundamentalist leaders. Both conflicting sides trust in solving the conflict with guns and the peaceful serenity of rose gardens we hoped to plant here for coming generations seams Paradise Lost.
As long as we will not finally cultivate and nourish a different belief, we will fill the trenches intended for roses with more and more victims of these hostilities.
On Memorial Days lamented to the sounds of a ‘surplus’ outstanding musician's instrument, more children will be cut off from their dreams like roses cut from their stems that dry up in graveyards instead of populating the Garden of Eden.
Unfortunately, Israel without its army would not exist. The gap between us and our Palestinian neighbors deepens with each new act of reprisal and we experience the renaissance of animosity fueled by fundamentalist leaders. Both conflicting sides trust in solving the conflict with guns and the peaceful serenity of rose gardens we hoped to plant here for coming generations seams Paradise Lost.
As long as we will not finally cultivate and nourish a different belief, we will fill the trenches intended for roses with more and more victims of these hostilities.
On Memorial Days lamented to the sounds of a ‘surplus’ outstanding musician's instrument, more children will be cut off from their dreams like roses cut from their stems that dry up in graveyards instead of populating the Garden of Eden.
Not all those who wander are lost: Little lamb’s family reunion in Middle Earth
Rachel, in Hebrew “little lamb” and also the lovely matriarch of two biblical tribes, journeyed as far as one can go on this globe without eventually taking off into space.
She chose the legendary ‘Lord of the Rings’- country New Zealand as the destination for her ‘after the army’-getaway, inevitable for most Israeli youngsters after 3 years in a tight, un-personal and demanding military set up.
Free at last and far away from our complex Middle Eastern afflictions she sought to rid her mind of unfavorable impressions and find fresh dimensions and inspirations on foreign ground before settling again into a steady framework of studies and survival.
In early January she took off to catch the summer season in Oceania, with a backpack sporting a few clothes and utensils, a forlorn sleeping bag attached by a shoe-string, hiking boots and her credit card backed up by substantial savings from her army years, first stopping over in Hong Kong and then continuing the jet leg prone tours de force to the remote former British colonies.
In Wellington she reunited with her childhood girlfriend Tal and the two best buddies, after initially checking out the local bus system, soon nonchalantly opted for renting a sleek Mazdah limousine for invading the wildlife as motorized 21st-century ‘backpackers’, carrying their load on four wheels and unfolding their tent somewhere in the heartland of Middle Earth.
Presently our communication pipelines are e-mail, Facebook and the occasional phone call, when our lambs are brushing up their furs in the vicinity of modern civilization.
But if they blissfully graze on the fenceless, sweeping green pastures amongst their wooly brethren, joining the flock of thousands of their kind by roaming the meticulously protected New Zealand outdoors, releasing in a mischievous joined effort some powerful gastric blasts to widen the ozone hole to unprecedented dimensions, we can only imagine their detached, intoxicating adventures in the Shire of Hobbiton, in Elf- populated Rivendell and in the glorious Kingdom of Rohan. Pony-tailed Legolas Greenleaf might utter his enchanting, memorable lines of poetic verbiage and make our lambs' innocent hearts flutter and Shadowfax, the whitewashed sorcerer's horse will volunteer to take our sheepish tourists for a rocky ride.
They will be tempted by Gandalf to immerge into the strange world of medical herbs and pagan magic, absorb the picturesque culture and folklore of the native Maori and we breathe a sigh of relief, if they return with feathers alone adorning their furry scalp and not have their faces elaborately tattooed in colored ornaments.
And if our lambs wander on more challenging trails, balancing their little hoofs on dangerous bold mountain tops, dangling from ropes while crossing a sparkling glacier named "Franz Josef", who surely is an Austro-Hungarian invader to Middle Earth, picking their way through the eternal ice, we might not even want to know about the gruesome risks, to which our little lambs are exposed when attempting to destroy the evil Ring in a sooty Mordor crater, before Gollum gets there.
And when the nightmarish task is done and Aragorn still hasn't washed his greasy hair, will they accompany him for a makeover to a bathtub and Laundromat or will they prefer to roll and rub themselves on the velvet lawns of their Kiwi hosts, nuzzling the feline and canine members of the households?
How is it possible that our notorious black sheep Rachel, born on Friday 13th on Purim 22 years ago and nearly strangled in a dramatic twist of fate by her own umbilical cord, seems such a lucky little bugger amongst the furry population of this environmental island?
Here all of her most favorite things are present under one heavenly roof: women’s rights, a rather restrained male population, vast unspoiled outdoors, legends of subtle elves, soft-spoken horses, princesses with an attitude, Shawn the sheep and his bashful relatives and never a doomed stray cat in the clean-swept small towns along the coastline.
Here she is pampered by friendly, laid back people with a distinct British slant, surrounded by the global, easygoing community of environmental tourists in shorts and bandannas, and clouds, lots of lofty lambs , mirrored from the impressive sky onto the lush grassland crowned with snow covered mountains, forming flocks of thousands of bulgy, wool-laden sheep, whose coats give such a primal texture to a hand knitted sweater.
'My precious' Rachel, defender of animal rights, veterinarian and animal whisperer to be, will emerge from Middle Earth with the ingredients of her dreams rolled up into balls of wool and will try to weave these into a soft cloudy carpet lining her future path.
Hopefully she will team up with people of her own gentle kind and make the world into a place, where animals, trees and waterfalls, the sky and the earth are allowed to tell their intimate stories and sing their soothing songs to open eyed and open mouthed children, who might elate their parents and grandparents into opening their hearts as well towards such powerful messages and connect their souls to these eternal images and be satisfied with just listening, watching and wondering about it all.
She chose the legendary ‘Lord of the Rings’- country New Zealand as the destination for her ‘after the army’-getaway, inevitable for most Israeli youngsters after 3 years in a tight, un-personal and demanding military set up.
Free at last and far away from our complex Middle Eastern afflictions she sought to rid her mind of unfavorable impressions and find fresh dimensions and inspirations on foreign ground before settling again into a steady framework of studies and survival.
In early January she took off to catch the summer season in Oceania, with a backpack sporting a few clothes and utensils, a forlorn sleeping bag attached by a shoe-string, hiking boots and her credit card backed up by substantial savings from her army years, first stopping over in Hong Kong and then continuing the jet leg prone tours de force to the remote former British colonies.
In Wellington she reunited with her childhood girlfriend Tal and the two best buddies, after initially checking out the local bus system, soon nonchalantly opted for renting a sleek Mazdah limousine for invading the wildlife as motorized 21st-century ‘backpackers’, carrying their load on four wheels and unfolding their tent somewhere in the heartland of Middle Earth.
Presently our communication pipelines are e-mail, Facebook and the occasional phone call, when our lambs are brushing up their furs in the vicinity of modern civilization.
But if they blissfully graze on the fenceless, sweeping green pastures amongst their wooly brethren, joining the flock of thousands of their kind by roaming the meticulously protected New Zealand outdoors, releasing in a mischievous joined effort some powerful gastric blasts to widen the ozone hole to unprecedented dimensions, we can only imagine their detached, intoxicating adventures in the Shire of Hobbiton, in Elf- populated Rivendell and in the glorious Kingdom of Rohan. Pony-tailed Legolas Greenleaf might utter his enchanting, memorable lines of poetic verbiage and make our lambs' innocent hearts flutter and Shadowfax, the whitewashed sorcerer's horse will volunteer to take our sheepish tourists for a rocky ride.
They will be tempted by Gandalf to immerge into the strange world of medical herbs and pagan magic, absorb the picturesque culture and folklore of the native Maori and we breathe a sigh of relief, if they return with feathers alone adorning their furry scalp and not have their faces elaborately tattooed in colored ornaments.
And if our lambs wander on more challenging trails, balancing their little hoofs on dangerous bold mountain tops, dangling from ropes while crossing a sparkling glacier named "Franz Josef", who surely is an Austro-Hungarian invader to Middle Earth, picking their way through the eternal ice, we might not even want to know about the gruesome risks, to which our little lambs are exposed when attempting to destroy the evil Ring in a sooty Mordor crater, before Gollum gets there.
And when the nightmarish task is done and Aragorn still hasn't washed his greasy hair, will they accompany him for a makeover to a bathtub and Laundromat or will they prefer to roll and rub themselves on the velvet lawns of their Kiwi hosts, nuzzling the feline and canine members of the households?
How is it possible that our notorious black sheep Rachel, born on Friday 13th on Purim 22 years ago and nearly strangled in a dramatic twist of fate by her own umbilical cord, seems such a lucky little bugger amongst the furry population of this environmental island?
Here all of her most favorite things are present under one heavenly roof: women’s rights, a rather restrained male population, vast unspoiled outdoors, legends of subtle elves, soft-spoken horses, princesses with an attitude, Shawn the sheep and his bashful relatives and never a doomed stray cat in the clean-swept small towns along the coastline.
Here she is pampered by friendly, laid back people with a distinct British slant, surrounded by the global, easygoing community of environmental tourists in shorts and bandannas, and clouds, lots of lofty lambs , mirrored from the impressive sky onto the lush grassland crowned with snow covered mountains, forming flocks of thousands of bulgy, wool-laden sheep, whose coats give such a primal texture to a hand knitted sweater.
'My precious' Rachel, defender of animal rights, veterinarian and animal whisperer to be, will emerge from Middle Earth with the ingredients of her dreams rolled up into balls of wool and will try to weave these into a soft cloudy carpet lining her future path.
Hopefully she will team up with people of her own gentle kind and make the world into a place, where animals, trees and waterfalls, the sky and the earth are allowed to tell their intimate stories and sing their soothing songs to open eyed and open mouthed children, who might elate their parents and grandparents into opening their hearts as well towards such powerful messages and connect their souls to these eternal images and be satisfied with just listening, watching and wondering about it all.
Best Buddy Goofeef
Here we go: Another child has grown up and is ready to get his first adult passport.
Yedidia, Hebrew for 'God's Best Buddy', who is also known as Didi and, within our family's closest circle of trust as "Goofeef", completed his 18th year of being favorably connected to his heavenly creator via an exclusive hot line enabling him after nerve racking incubation periods to suddenly surprise us by mastering impossible quests we long thought lost.
On the evening before this significant birthday Yedidia still had second thoughts about growing up. He wanted to remain forever in Neverland as his infantile alter-ego Goofeef, bumbling about the salon in his unique diaper-slayed walk, two gawky arms balancing like plane wings on both sides, smiling his most radiant, wide-eyed smile (which he sports under his red cap on a picture as a three year old) and babbling happily in a high-pitched toddler's voice. This routine is to mimic the same historical walk he displayed on his first birthday, when he suddenly let go of all supportive furniture and came tumbling recklessly towards me in a heroic sprint across the living room carpet.
Now this charade is regularly performed to amuse us and to elegantly distract me from my rage about scattered clothes, food rotting in his room and smelly socks standing upright in even smellier sneakers left in various locations around the house.
Didi's 'schizophrenic' touch is a strict family secret which only once escaped to the public, when he called me at work as Goofeef and someone else answered my mobile in my absence. "We didn't know your son is so little?" I was notified upon my return. "We told him his mommy will be back in a second". "He's 16 now and suffers from some mysterious chronic Dissociative Identity Disorder" was my stoic reply and everybody fell silent upon my resigned revelation.
After this juicy embarrassment, Didi's goofy alter-ego came to life strictly within the privacy of our home, chasing and patting clumsily the frightened cats, innocently irritating his 'big' brother Daniel and constantly being on the loose in a careless state of merry incompetence. You wouldn't seriously burden such a light-hearted three year old with washing dishes, scrubbing the bathroom or mowing the lawn.
Besides Goofeef there is Didi's better half 'Yedidushka', so called by his miraculous violin teacher Motti, who tirelessly suffered through all of Didi's lazy high-school years in order to gloriously produce, thanks to a prolonged teacher strike and the above mentioned hot line to God Almighty, a talented and achieved musician.
Transcended are the days when his first instructor in her Russsian fury compared the intimidated sounds he released on the "Devil's Intrument' to scratching a limed wall with a rusty nail.
Yedidushka now studies at the Jerusalem Music Academy while simultaneously very soon serving his country in army uniform.
With a little help of his celestial friend and Motti's unshaken stamina and optimistic nature, Julliard will be the next stop straight up the road.
And what will happen to Goofeef?
Hopefully he will continue to stumble joyfully along this road with Yedidushka, make us laugh and remind us of the little baby-faced boy with the red cap, looking up bright-eyed from his tiny faded portrait, laughing jauntily into an equally bright future.
Yedidia, Hebrew for 'God's Best Buddy', who is also known as Didi and, within our family's closest circle of trust as "Goofeef", completed his 18th year of being favorably connected to his heavenly creator via an exclusive hot line enabling him after nerve racking incubation periods to suddenly surprise us by mastering impossible quests we long thought lost.
On the evening before this significant birthday Yedidia still had second thoughts about growing up. He wanted to remain forever in Neverland as his infantile alter-ego Goofeef, bumbling about the salon in his unique diaper-slayed walk, two gawky arms balancing like plane wings on both sides, smiling his most radiant, wide-eyed smile (which he sports under his red cap on a picture as a three year old) and babbling happily in a high-pitched toddler's voice. This routine is to mimic the same historical walk he displayed on his first birthday, when he suddenly let go of all supportive furniture and came tumbling recklessly towards me in a heroic sprint across the living room carpet.
Now this charade is regularly performed to amuse us and to elegantly distract me from my rage about scattered clothes, food rotting in his room and smelly socks standing upright in even smellier sneakers left in various locations around the house.
Didi's 'schizophrenic' touch is a strict family secret which only once escaped to the public, when he called me at work as Goofeef and someone else answered my mobile in my absence. "We didn't know your son is so little?" I was notified upon my return. "We told him his mommy will be back in a second". "He's 16 now and suffers from some mysterious chronic Dissociative Identity Disorder" was my stoic reply and everybody fell silent upon my resigned revelation.
After this juicy embarrassment, Didi's goofy alter-ego came to life strictly within the privacy of our home, chasing and patting clumsily the frightened cats, innocently irritating his 'big' brother Daniel and constantly being on the loose in a careless state of merry incompetence. You wouldn't seriously burden such a light-hearted three year old with washing dishes, scrubbing the bathroom or mowing the lawn.
Besides Goofeef there is Didi's better half 'Yedidushka', so called by his miraculous violin teacher Motti, who tirelessly suffered through all of Didi's lazy high-school years in order to gloriously produce, thanks to a prolonged teacher strike and the above mentioned hot line to God Almighty, a talented and achieved musician.
Transcended are the days when his first instructor in her Russsian fury compared the intimidated sounds he released on the "Devil's Intrument' to scratching a limed wall with a rusty nail.
Yedidushka now studies at the Jerusalem Music Academy while simultaneously very soon serving his country in army uniform.
With a little help of his celestial friend and Motti's unshaken stamina and optimistic nature, Julliard will be the next stop straight up the road.
And what will happen to Goofeef?
Hopefully he will continue to stumble joyfully along this road with Yedidushka, make us laugh and remind us of the little baby-faced boy with the red cap, looking up bright-eyed from his tiny faded portrait, laughing jauntily into an equally bright future.
Our musical cat
When we carried our cat to the vet this evening, we knew we would not bring her home alive.
Bilbi would no longer accompany us around Tzur Hadassah, sit in anticipation in the front row of our house concerts to listen to Yedidia's violin, regularly hiss at her feline 'competitors' and inspire Rachel's scientific essays about "Animals and Music". She would never again sit heavily on our lap, scatter her litter and food in the guest’s toilet and come happily running towards us at the gate.
With a heavy heart Rachel, Daniel and I took her for a last stroll down to the corner... to Vivi, who was busy with some other pets when we arrived.
Vivi doesn't believe in putting down animals. In her surgery you are not allowed to touch a bug on the floor or a fly on the wall. "You mustn't kill these small creatures' she once told Yedidia, when he stepped on a roach on her tiles.
In the past she attended to our ailing budgie Yoyo for free, because "it's an honor for me to treat such an old bird" and "he doesn't want to die yet". Since then we know that Vivi will do anything to keep an animal alive.
When Bilbi fell sick and was diagnosed with a chronic gum infection due to feline AIDS, the bills for treatment became too heavy. Being a fatal disease anyway, we stopped visiting Vivi and suffered through a long year of keeping Bilbi alive on fluids. Then she stopped eating altogether and we decided to end it all on that same evening.
Rachel wants to become a vet herself. She already assisted in an operation on one of our younger cats and was therefore put in charge for leading the procedures.
The time waiting for our turn seamed like eternity. Looking out from the blanket, thin with big astonished eyes, unsuspecting, purring and rhythmically moving her paws against the warm wooly wrap in which Rachel held her in the tiny waiting area, my 'musical cat' made me choke. With tears long held back I had to flee into the yard for some air followed by Daniel. Only Rachel was now left to claim the deadly injection and cope with the notorious discussion 'whether Bilbi wants to die'. Through the window we watched her bravely standing her ground: Yes, she had a nice long life and now she shouldn't suffer any longer. But after a while even Rachel started to loose her initial composure and it was time to return, now all of us in tears encouraging Vivi to do what she hates doing.
Daniel later insisted on digging the grave in our garden and we buried her in relieved silence.
Bilbi joined us as a little kitten 12 years ago at Hanukkah when Daniel was just two. She grew quickly and he was worried that ‘she will soon outgrow her fur’. Then we still lived in a tiny flat in the center of Jerusalem and Bilbi was our only cat, our faithful companion and intrigued by everybody playing an instrument. She endured three other kittens we took in, raised and later lost. Soon it will be Hanukkah again, but with her buried besides Yoyo in the garden. We will always remember her as our extraordinary ‘musical cat’!
Bilbi would no longer accompany us around Tzur Hadassah, sit in anticipation in the front row of our house concerts to listen to Yedidia's violin, regularly hiss at her feline 'competitors' and inspire Rachel's scientific essays about "Animals and Music". She would never again sit heavily on our lap, scatter her litter and food in the guest’s toilet and come happily running towards us at the gate.
With a heavy heart Rachel, Daniel and I took her for a last stroll down to the corner... to Vivi, who was busy with some other pets when we arrived.
Vivi doesn't believe in putting down animals. In her surgery you are not allowed to touch a bug on the floor or a fly on the wall. "You mustn't kill these small creatures' she once told Yedidia, when he stepped on a roach on her tiles.
In the past she attended to our ailing budgie Yoyo for free, because "it's an honor for me to treat such an old bird" and "he doesn't want to die yet". Since then we know that Vivi will do anything to keep an animal alive.
When Bilbi fell sick and was diagnosed with a chronic gum infection due to feline AIDS, the bills for treatment became too heavy. Being a fatal disease anyway, we stopped visiting Vivi and suffered through a long year of keeping Bilbi alive on fluids. Then she stopped eating altogether and we decided to end it all on that same evening.
Rachel wants to become a vet herself. She already assisted in an operation on one of our younger cats and was therefore put in charge for leading the procedures.
The time waiting for our turn seamed like eternity. Looking out from the blanket, thin with big astonished eyes, unsuspecting, purring and rhythmically moving her paws against the warm wooly wrap in which Rachel held her in the tiny waiting area, my 'musical cat' made me choke. With tears long held back I had to flee into the yard for some air followed by Daniel. Only Rachel was now left to claim the deadly injection and cope with the notorious discussion 'whether Bilbi wants to die'. Through the window we watched her bravely standing her ground: Yes, she had a nice long life and now she shouldn't suffer any longer. But after a while even Rachel started to loose her initial composure and it was time to return, now all of us in tears encouraging Vivi to do what she hates doing.
Daniel later insisted on digging the grave in our garden and we buried her in relieved silence.
Bilbi joined us as a little kitten 12 years ago at Hanukkah when Daniel was just two. She grew quickly and he was worried that ‘she will soon outgrow her fur’. Then we still lived in a tiny flat in the center of Jerusalem and Bilbi was our only cat, our faithful companion and intrigued by everybody playing an instrument. She endured three other kittens we took in, raised and later lost. Soon it will be Hanukkah again, but with her buried besides Yoyo in the garden. We will always remember her as our extraordinary ‘musical cat’!
Lord of the Strings
Today Daniel is 14. Since last summer he is my height, wears shoes big as boats and answers the phone in a manly voice.
He hates getting up and he detests investing time into math and other school matters , which leaves us in daily despair regarding his waisted future in astro-physics and makes our efforts to lead him towards scientific enlightenment as strenuous as knocking down a brick wall with toothpicks. It is superfluous to mention the contents of his notorious schoolbag, which is mainly composed of a nonchalant collection of nagged items you would otherwise expect at your neighborhood' s recycling dump.
Spot, his white pet rat is damned to a forlorn fate of smelly neglect, merely sometimes highlighted by his master's sudden spurts of remembrance and remorse when he takes the poor thing out of its cage for a one-handed cuddle, while patting the computer mouse with the other hand . Only our repeated threats of relocating the unlucky rodent at the nearest zoo induce our son to engage in a long-winded 'purification' action of the desolate creature' s living quarters. The odorous remains of this elaborate ceremony are unfailingly left in a sad leaky plastic bag at our front door, probably for final disposal by volunteers from outer space.
When he is not bickering with Yedidia about time at the computer or the same place on the couch, he can be the most obliging and clever partner for an intelligent conversation. His otherwise rather patchy memory for logarithms and class assignments will suddenly surprise with the brilliant recollection of complicated historical circumstances, vast English vocabulary and the wisdom from various books he loves to loose himself in before going to sleep.
Occasional evening strolls along the scenic main promenade of our quiet backwater in the Judean Hills are my rare opportunity to grasp this or that useful bit of information about my son before he disappeares again upon our return into the virtual world provided by his digital friend the computer. His other daily pastime is endlessly twisting the arms and legs of some innocent little Playmobile people, fighting each other in bloody duels and ending up slain and scattered lifeless all over the coffee table and sofas. I always imagine hearing frowning comments of child psychologists or smart 'super nannies' about these distressing obsessions that preoccupy our child's mind.
Daniel takes cello lessons, which are to channel his youthful aggressions into the lofty spheres of artistic expression while simultaniously developing superior listening skills and appreciation for the great works of human kind. Equipped with these faculties I thought he would withstand the adverse influences of our violent and destructive peripherals.
And indead, when his cello is finally released from the darkness of its case for practicing a new tune (upon his teacher 's menacing accounts on the use of leather belts on idle students in his native Romania) the sounds produced on the battered instrument are mostly of natural musicality and touching warmth and promise to yield for him a glorious future as 'Lord of the Strings'.
To sum it all up: there is still a 'long and winding road' in front, but with enough imagination and clairvoyance I can see it eventually all falling into place for our dear, adorable, disorderly, devoted, dreamy and divine Daniel!
Happy Birthday!
He hates getting up and he detests investing time into math and other school matters , which leaves us in daily despair regarding his waisted future in astro-physics and makes our efforts to lead him towards scientific enlightenment as strenuous as knocking down a brick wall with toothpicks. It is superfluous to mention the contents of his notorious schoolbag, which is mainly composed of a nonchalant collection of nagged items you would otherwise expect at your neighborhood' s recycling dump.
Spot, his white pet rat is damned to a forlorn fate of smelly neglect, merely sometimes highlighted by his master's sudden spurts of remembrance and remorse when he takes the poor thing out of its cage for a one-handed cuddle, while patting the computer mouse with the other hand . Only our repeated threats of relocating the unlucky rodent at the nearest zoo induce our son to engage in a long-winded 'purification' action of the desolate creature' s living quarters. The odorous remains of this elaborate ceremony are unfailingly left in a sad leaky plastic bag at our front door, probably for final disposal by volunteers from outer space.
When he is not bickering with Yedidia about time at the computer or the same place on the couch, he can be the most obliging and clever partner for an intelligent conversation. His otherwise rather patchy memory for logarithms and class assignments will suddenly surprise with the brilliant recollection of complicated historical circumstances, vast English vocabulary and the wisdom from various books he loves to loose himself in before going to sleep.
Occasional evening strolls along the scenic main promenade of our quiet backwater in the Judean Hills are my rare opportunity to grasp this or that useful bit of information about my son before he disappeares again upon our return into the virtual world provided by his digital friend the computer. His other daily pastime is endlessly twisting the arms and legs of some innocent little Playmobile people, fighting each other in bloody duels and ending up slain and scattered lifeless all over the coffee table and sofas. I always imagine hearing frowning comments of child psychologists or smart 'super nannies' about these distressing obsessions that preoccupy our child's mind.
Daniel takes cello lessons, which are to channel his youthful aggressions into the lofty spheres of artistic expression while simultaniously developing superior listening skills and appreciation for the great works of human kind. Equipped with these faculties I thought he would withstand the adverse influences of our violent and destructive peripherals.
And indead, when his cello is finally released from the darkness of its case for practicing a new tune (upon his teacher 's menacing accounts on the use of leather belts on idle students in his native Romania) the sounds produced on the battered instrument are mostly of natural musicality and touching warmth and promise to yield for him a glorious future as 'Lord of the Strings'.
To sum it all up: there is still a 'long and winding road' in front, but with enough imagination and clairvoyance I can see it eventually all falling into place for our dear, adorable, disorderly, devoted, dreamy and divine Daniel!
Happy Birthday!
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