Last and least, the overdue picture of the author, himself
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Nov 08 Judy's diet and the runs or "A bee in her bonnet"
After 15 years of newsletters, it’s about time to devote an edition to the wife.
The bee in Judy’s bonnet
A bee in her bonnet or an obsession– call it whatever you want. Judy has it. One thing to know about Judy-when she puts her mind to a task, it’s going to get done. Hell, high water and any other impediments are swept aside powerless in the face of Judy’s will. There are no obstacles. Why do I say this? Well...
Previously in an Isaacs newsletter…
Despairing at the stagnation of the digital ‘needle’ of the weighing scales, despite her devout adherence to a mean weight-watchers diet, at the beginning of the summer, Judy embraced a walking regime to burn the calories necessary to return her cuddly dimensions to Twiggy proportions. Every night she walked for sixty minutes, completing six circuits of the slightly hilly one-kilometer “inner ring road” of our neighbourhood. However, the digital needle of the weighing scales didn’t budge.
Two weeks later, Judy upped the stakes - 12 kilometers (two hours) a night. Still the needle didn’t budge.
Two weeks later, Judy thought, “This is getting boring and not taking me anywhere. I might as well jog the down-hills”. Was that my imagination or did I hear an electronic needle creak?
Two weeks later, with some not so gently prodding from Ari, Judy started running the up-hills. The needle veritably quivered.
Two weeks later, after adopting contradictory advice from different Internet sources, Judy went back to walking the up-hills but started running parts of the flat. The needle moved.
Last night Judy completed an amazing 18 kilometers in less than 2 hours 23 minutes, running well over half the distance. The needle on the scales is down 6 kilo (over 13 pounds). Judy looks terrific (although she is quick to point out that she still has a tummy) and feels energized and vital.
Runs in the family
Judy’s runs are family occasions. All of us, from Ari down to four-year old Elisheva, accompany her when we can. In the 20 years since Ari was born, Judy and I have never spent so much time together (we’ve also never shared a pastime).
I think I-con I think I-con
Judy has become an inspirational icon in Elkana. She paints a pretty figure running around the yishuv of an evening, with one hand clutching her hat to prevent it flying off in the wind, and with the other hand grabbing her now-droopy skirts that threaten to drop to her knees.
Say Yes
I asked Judy to run a half-marathon (21.1 kilometers), taking place on December 11th in Bet Shean and I hope she says Yes. She says she’s not coming, but I know my wife. When she really doesn’t want to do something, she has a way of making it absolutely clear to you. Now, she’s making excuses about how will she get the children to school in the morning and who will look after them in the afternoon or what if she doesn’t finish before the roads are opened. These are excuses, things that have to be solved, not real objections.
If I haven’t burnt myself by daring to make this prediction in public, I hope, in my next post, to tell you about Judy’s first half marathon. Because, as I knew, on that evening in January 1987, I know now, she’s going to say “Yes”.
The bee in Judy’s bonnet
A bee in her bonnet or an obsession– call it whatever you want. Judy has it. One thing to know about Judy-when she puts her mind to a task, it’s going to get done. Hell, high water and any other impediments are swept aside powerless in the face of Judy’s will. There are no obstacles. Why do I say this? Well...
Previously in an Isaacs newsletter…
Despairing at the stagnation of the digital ‘needle’ of the weighing scales, despite her devout adherence to a mean weight-watchers diet, at the beginning of the summer, Judy embraced a walking regime to burn the calories necessary to return her cuddly dimensions to Twiggy proportions. Every night she walked for sixty minutes, completing six circuits of the slightly hilly one-kilometer “inner ring road” of our neighbourhood. However, the digital needle of the weighing scales didn’t budge.
Two weeks later, Judy upped the stakes - 12 kilometers (two hours) a night. Still the needle didn’t budge.
Two weeks later, Judy thought, “This is getting boring and not taking me anywhere. I might as well jog the down-hills”. Was that my imagination or did I hear an electronic needle creak?
Two weeks later, with some not so gently prodding from Ari, Judy started running the up-hills. The needle veritably quivered.
Two weeks later, after adopting contradictory advice from different Internet sources, Judy went back to walking the up-hills but started running parts of the flat. The needle moved.
Last night Judy completed an amazing 18 kilometers in less than 2 hours 23 minutes, running well over half the distance. The needle on the scales is down 6 kilo (over 13 pounds). Judy looks terrific (although she is quick to point out that she still has a tummy) and feels energized and vital.
Runs in the family
Judy’s runs are family occasions. All of us, from Ari down to four-year old Elisheva, accompany her when we can. In the 20 years since Ari was born, Judy and I have never spent so much time together (we’ve also never shared a pastime).
I think I-con I think I-con
Judy has become an inspirational icon in Elkana. She paints a pretty figure running around the yishuv of an evening, with one hand clutching her hat to prevent it flying off in the wind, and with the other hand grabbing her now-droopy skirts that threaten to drop to her knees.
Say Yes
I asked Judy to run a half-marathon (21.1 kilometers), taking place on December 11th in Bet Shean and I hope she says Yes. She says she’s not coming, but I know my wife. When she really doesn’t want to do something, she has a way of making it absolutely clear to you. Now, she’s making excuses about how will she get the children to school in the morning and who will look after them in the afternoon or what if she doesn’t finish before the roads are opened. These are excuses, things that have to be solved, not real objections.
If I haven’t burnt myself by daring to make this prediction in public, I hope, in my next post, to tell you about Judy’s first half marathon. Because, as I knew, on that evening in January 1987, I know now, she’s going to say “Yes”.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Abigail
For readers who know our children only via the newsletters, here are some pictures that will put faces to the names.This is Abigail who looks as if she enjoys having her picture taken. Below you'll find the rest of us.
Orly
Orly is quite a young lady now, with a lovely smile and enviable long straight auburn hair. In the picture there is something strange about her shirt. One short sleeve and one long sleeve. Orly. How did that happen?
Elisheva
Elisheva is a doll, as you can all see. She has this way of dominating things - the computer, the sofa, the TV, the Barbie dolls. Whatever she is at.
I wish I had sound on this picture, but I don't, so just imagine her singing.
Elon
Here is a picture of Elon skiing in the Hermon. Not the best picture, and as Elon would be the first to tell you, he has grown since (in height, width and hair-length). I will look for a more recent picture that does him justice.
Dorothy (my Mother)
Here's a picture of my mother, taken in her old age home. Sometimes I look at her face and see the same visage and gestures I remember from years ago. For a second I feel that maybe she hasn't changed. But the harsh truth is her Alzheimer's is very advanced and we come away from our weekly visits either greatly thrilled by sadly small rewards such as a smile of recognition or sorely dejected if there is not recognition. Very sad.
Naphtali
Many newsletters have mentioned the length of my son's hair. This picture gives an indication of what Naphtali looks like today. Please ignore the low neck-line. For some reason, my boys seem to think that their pectorals are of more interest to the casual reader than the pattern on theiir T-shirts.
Ari
Ari our soldier, sporting his lovely beard.
The quality of the picture does not do justice to this very good looking young seargent.
Judy
Judy skiing on Mt. Hermon, winter, 2007/8
Skiing is Judy's favourite pastime. Please see newsletters from February 2007 and December 2007
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
October 2008 (crocs newsletter)
[Editor's note. The original newsletter had pictures of 8 pairs of crocs beside each of the 8 members of the family, each in their own colour. By order of age (not order of newsletter) the crocs are dark blue, purple, acqua blue, black, orange, dark pink, light purple, light pink]
Some read tea leaves, others decipher handwriting. I wonder what insights you can derive from people's shoes?
Judy's shoes are wearing thin in the sole these days, as she walks – wait for it – 12 kilometers a night! That's what I call putting your best foot forward. I hope it's not putting my foot in it to reveal that Judy's motivation is weight loss. When months of toe-ing the line of the weight-watcher's 20-point diet failed to get Judy snuggly into a narrower fit, Judy took to exercising. Big time. 2 hours walking a day and two hours swimming twice or three times a week. As she walks Judy listens to her favourite music - Elton John and The Carpenters, (her husband prefers Shoebert).
Ari (20), the soldier, is treading new territory as he approaches the end of his tank commander course and promises to become the first Isaacs with military stripes. The family is agreed that Ari chose the nicest shade of Crocs. Ari's crocs lie mostly unused, although his army boots make tracks aplenty, often at a rapid pace as the army bashes him into robust health.
After completing bagrut Elon's (18) next step was to follow in his brother's footsteps in attending a pre-army "torani" academy situated in Maale Ephraim. Eloni steps out the academy a few times a week to lace up his basketball shoes having achieved the marvelous feet of being accepted to a local basketball team which plays in Israel's B league. Elon is a great shoe-ter. Matches begin after Succot. We'll update you on his progress.
Naftali (15) is an "orange" "na'ar gevaot". He has the long curly locks, an ear-to-ear kipa and tsitsit that would brush the floor were he not so tall. Although politics is forbidden in newsletters, the croc colour is politically correct (if not the opinions). Naftali takes pride in sporting the most tattered and torn Crocs in the family.
Orli (13) is, as you know, like all Isaacs girls, in the pink. I don’t want to be accused of blowing my daughter’s horn but Orli is walking through her studies again this year, with great results to boot. Her crocs are richly decorated with jibbitz (http://www.jibbitz.com/) – a fun and inexpensive gift, if ever you are looking to reward a child.
Abigail (6) has started first grade "on her right leg", as they say in Hebrew, and has taken her first steps in school in her stride. Her lovely teacher, the mother of a good friend of Elon, is a Yemenite. Abigail has been chanting "Adon Haselichot" all month.
Fortunately there are multiple shades in the Croc's catalog so that Elisheva (3) – with the smallest footprint - can also have a pair without throwing a pink fit. Elisheva was emotionally tied to her crocs before her sole-less kindergarten teacher, who eshoes Crocs, stamped them out of kindergarten by knot permitting slip-ons.
Some read tea leaves, others decipher handwriting. I wonder what insights you can derive from people's shoes?
Judy's shoes are wearing thin in the sole these days, as she walks – wait for it – 12 kilometers a night! That's what I call putting your best foot forward. I hope it's not putting my foot in it to reveal that Judy's motivation is weight loss. When months of toe-ing the line of the weight-watcher's 20-point diet failed to get Judy snuggly into a narrower fit, Judy took to exercising. Big time. 2 hours walking a day and two hours swimming twice or three times a week. As she walks Judy listens to her favourite music - Elton John and The Carpenters, (her husband prefers Shoebert).
Ari (20), the soldier, is treading new territory as he approaches the end of his tank commander course and promises to become the first Isaacs with military stripes. The family is agreed that Ari chose the nicest shade of Crocs. Ari's crocs lie mostly unused, although his army boots make tracks aplenty, often at a rapid pace as the army bashes him into robust health.
After completing bagrut Elon's (18) next step was to follow in his brother's footsteps in attending a pre-army "torani" academy situated in Maale Ephraim. Eloni steps out the academy a few times a week to lace up his basketball shoes having achieved the marvelous feet of being accepted to a local basketball team which plays in Israel's B league. Elon is a great shoe-ter. Matches begin after Succot. We'll update you on his progress.
Naftali (15) is an "orange" "na'ar gevaot". He has the long curly locks, an ear-to-ear kipa and tsitsit that would brush the floor were he not so tall. Although politics is forbidden in newsletters, the croc colour is politically correct (if not the opinions). Naftali takes pride in sporting the most tattered and torn Crocs in the family.
Orli (13) is, as you know, like all Isaacs girls, in the pink. I don’t want to be accused of blowing my daughter’s horn but Orli is walking through her studies again this year, with great results to boot. Her crocs are richly decorated with jibbitz (http://www.jibbitz.com/) – a fun and inexpensive gift, if ever you are looking to reward a child.
Abigail (6) has started first grade "on her right leg", as they say in Hebrew, and has taken her first steps in school in her stride. Her lovely teacher, the mother of a good friend of Elon, is a Yemenite. Abigail has been chanting "Adon Haselichot" all month.
Fortunately there are multiple shades in the Croc's catalog so that Elisheva (3) – with the smallest footprint - can also have a pair without throwing a pink fit. Elisheva was emotionally tied to her crocs before her sole-less kindergarten teacher, who eshoes Crocs, stamped them out of kindergarten by knot permitting slip-ons.
August 2008
In the Isaacs abode, erev Shabbat is Thursday night. Shopping, cooking and (sometimes) cleaning are completed by midnight and, exhausted, we laze in front of a midnight movie, wolfing down Shabbat chicken, rice and kugel, piping hot straight from the oven. Where do we find a midnight move? Thus begins the story of this summer.
We are proud not to have cable TV. Some five years ago we exorcised this evil from our midst, and with this single act increased hours slept per person per night, reduced bickering, and started getting the kids to school on time (more or less).
Judy and I have conflicting versions of the cable TV story. She claims it was my idea to get cable TV, just for the summer, to watch the Olympics. I recall it being Judy’s idea to get cable TV, just for the summer, to reward the children for their excellent exam results.
In either case, with cable TV – of which we strongly disapprove - we can now sit down, on Thursday nights, after an arduous week’s work and a hot evening’s cooking, to a midnight movie. But to be absolutely honest with you, it’s not solely on Thursdays that we have been known to watch the midnight movie. And some of us have seen the movie before the midnight movie (as well as the one after, on the odd occasion). And although cable TV is lousy – we are all agreed on that - there is always at least one film on worth watching. And frequently you can find a good game of basketball or football or baseball or golf or darts. And the Olympics are on three channels simultaneously, which does give you “zapability”, which you don’t have with just Israel’s Channel 1. Let’s just say that we’re getting good mileage out of our 200 shekel cable TV subscription. Until September 1. But then it goes. And that’s final. Because as we all know, cable TV is absolutely lousy.
After our late Thursday nights, our Friday morning agenda starts around mid-day (by which time I have been to Jerusalem and back to visit my Mother), when the children traipse tired and hungry out of their beds. We invariably drive to Barbara’s for some grub, and a swim (and a run on the beach for me). Today, the 7th of Av, swimming is forbidden so we have stayed at home. Thrown off routine, eight Isaacs’s wander the house, like beached Galapagos turtles, whiling away the languid hours till the last-minute pre-shabbat panic. Judy, whose boosts of energy seem to coincide with my bouts of laziness, is painting the garden furniture, with Orly’s help and Elisheva’s interference. Ari, home from the army for Shabbat, has his head in Wikipedia and Youtube. Elon, on the ICQ, chats to exotic-looking friends, whom I hope will remain in the world of virtual reality. Abigail plays Snap. Naphtali sleeps. Until you hear Naphtali’s morning drum roll, he ain’t awake. And Michael, writes a newsletter.
Elisheva (3) is forever plastered - not with alcohol or construction materials, but with band-aids. She is not accident prone; she is accident-seeking. Every slip, trip or tumble is an opportunity for her to bandage arms and legs with band-aids of all shapes, sizes and colours. The imagined scratches and scrapes are instantly healed by the magical power of the band-aids - especially the ones with pictures of Dora the Explorer.
Ari (20) just started tank commander’s course, from which he will graduate, all being well, in three months. A wonderful son, he calls home every night when he goes off duty, which is often after 1am, just to tell us all is well and he loves us. This fills us with such joy and gratitude that when he comes home for Shabbat lugging a greasy, smelly, sweaty sack of stinking clothes, and underwear fit only for incineration, we wash, dry, iron and fold his clothes with love and devotion.
One night when Ari called particularly late – it was after 2am – he informed me, as I grunted a drowsy and wholly unaffectionate recognition of the caller: “I know you prefer me to wake you up at any time of night, rather than not call at all”. I confessed he was right, but only the next morning.
After achieving excellent bagrut results Elon (just 18) planned a lengthy break from any activity that even vaguely resembled study. His plans were rapidly dashed when his brothers bought him a Rubik’s cube for his birthday, which has not left his side for two weeks. Next month Elon starts the pre-military academy in Maale Ephraim. Of the dozens of these academies around the country why did Elon choose this one? Well, it has a basketball pitch, a gym, a table-tennis table and access to a swimming pool. So what else matters?
I always dry up when it comes to Abigail (6). She rarely does anything naughty (and therefore interesting) to report. However, she recently came to the (accurate) understanding that her father’s soul needs saved - urgently. This is to be achieved by chalking up extra mitzvot for me, specifically kissing mezuzot. Please understand. I am not opposed to kissing mezuzot; I am not ashamed to say that I have kissed quite a few mezuzot in my time. And some of them were pretty hot. But I never developed the habit of kissing every single mezuzah whose lintel I crossed. Abigail is out to fix this. As I pass each threshold she half-reminds half-reprimands: “Daddy. Did you kiss the mezuzah?”.
Naphtali (15), our long-haired musician (Elon is also long-haired; just not musical), has had a fun summer so far with a few days in Eilat, some bicycling trips, some Bnei Akiva commitments and late-night or all-night hanging out with friends. Naphtali is the only one in the household without ten thumbs. I don’t even try fixing anything alone any more. I wait for Naphtali to do it and stand supportive at his side making insightful comments about hammer-holding techniques and the like to make it sound as if I know what the hell I’m talking about, while he gets on with the job. Everything that is going to break in the next six months, must do so in the next three weeks, before Naphtali returns to school.
Orly (14) is often bored. Why? Because no one wants to play with her. Why? Because she is the hands-down, undisputed, undefeatable champion and Queen of Set. Do you know the game “Set”? If not, you should. It’s a fast-flowing card game which tests your numerical, spatial and taxonomial cognitive skills. The aim is to be first to identify sets of three from 12 cards laid on the table. Each card has four characteristics – colour, shape, texture and number. A set consists of three cards that have either all common or all different characteristics. Clear? If not, buy the game. It’s just a pack of cards. Great for all ages, 3 (yes, even Elisheva plays, sort of) to 44. A typical score against Orly - Daddy 2: Orly 18. The others don’t fare much better. Now see why no one wants to play with Orly?
I’d love to tell you more about our summer holidays with the Mellicks and Eitans and about Judy’s summer dieting and walking, but two pages is as much as I can ask of you to read at a time. So till next time.
Lots of love from Michael, Judy, Ari, Elon, Naphtali, Orly, Abigail and Elisheva Isaacs (Elkana).
We are proud not to have cable TV. Some five years ago we exorcised this evil from our midst, and with this single act increased hours slept per person per night, reduced bickering, and started getting the kids to school on time (more or less).
Judy and I have conflicting versions of the cable TV story. She claims it was my idea to get cable TV, just for the summer, to watch the Olympics. I recall it being Judy’s idea to get cable TV, just for the summer, to reward the children for their excellent exam results.
In either case, with cable TV – of which we strongly disapprove - we can now sit down, on Thursday nights, after an arduous week’s work and a hot evening’s cooking, to a midnight movie. But to be absolutely honest with you, it’s not solely on Thursdays that we have been known to watch the midnight movie. And some of us have seen the movie before the midnight movie (as well as the one after, on the odd occasion). And although cable TV is lousy – we are all agreed on that - there is always at least one film on worth watching. And frequently you can find a good game of basketball or football or baseball or golf or darts. And the Olympics are on three channels simultaneously, which does give you “zapability”, which you don’t have with just Israel’s Channel 1. Let’s just say that we’re getting good mileage out of our 200 shekel cable TV subscription. Until September 1. But then it goes. And that’s final. Because as we all know, cable TV is absolutely lousy.
After our late Thursday nights, our Friday morning agenda starts around mid-day (by which time I have been to Jerusalem and back to visit my Mother), when the children traipse tired and hungry out of their beds. We invariably drive to Barbara’s for some grub, and a swim (and a run on the beach for me). Today, the 7th of Av, swimming is forbidden so we have stayed at home. Thrown off routine, eight Isaacs’s wander the house, like beached Galapagos turtles, whiling away the languid hours till the last-minute pre-shabbat panic. Judy, whose boosts of energy seem to coincide with my bouts of laziness, is painting the garden furniture, with Orly’s help and Elisheva’s interference. Ari, home from the army for Shabbat, has his head in Wikipedia and Youtube. Elon, on the ICQ, chats to exotic-looking friends, whom I hope will remain in the world of virtual reality. Abigail plays Snap. Naphtali sleeps. Until you hear Naphtali’s morning drum roll, he ain’t awake. And Michael, writes a newsletter.
Elisheva (3) is forever plastered - not with alcohol or construction materials, but with band-aids. She is not accident prone; she is accident-seeking. Every slip, trip or tumble is an opportunity for her to bandage arms and legs with band-aids of all shapes, sizes and colours. The imagined scratches and scrapes are instantly healed by the magical power of the band-aids - especially the ones with pictures of Dora the Explorer.
Ari (20) just started tank commander’s course, from which he will graduate, all being well, in three months. A wonderful son, he calls home every night when he goes off duty, which is often after 1am, just to tell us all is well and he loves us. This fills us with such joy and gratitude that when he comes home for Shabbat lugging a greasy, smelly, sweaty sack of stinking clothes, and underwear fit only for incineration, we wash, dry, iron and fold his clothes with love and devotion.
One night when Ari called particularly late – it was after 2am – he informed me, as I grunted a drowsy and wholly unaffectionate recognition of the caller: “I know you prefer me to wake you up at any time of night, rather than not call at all”. I confessed he was right, but only the next morning.
After achieving excellent bagrut results Elon (just 18) planned a lengthy break from any activity that even vaguely resembled study. His plans were rapidly dashed when his brothers bought him a Rubik’s cube for his birthday, which has not left his side for two weeks. Next month Elon starts the pre-military academy in Maale Ephraim. Of the dozens of these academies around the country why did Elon choose this one? Well, it has a basketball pitch, a gym, a table-tennis table and access to a swimming pool. So what else matters?
I always dry up when it comes to Abigail (6). She rarely does anything naughty (and therefore interesting) to report. However, she recently came to the (accurate) understanding that her father’s soul needs saved - urgently. This is to be achieved by chalking up extra mitzvot for me, specifically kissing mezuzot. Please understand. I am not opposed to kissing mezuzot; I am not ashamed to say that I have kissed quite a few mezuzot in my time. And some of them were pretty hot. But I never developed the habit of kissing every single mezuzah whose lintel I crossed. Abigail is out to fix this. As I pass each threshold she half-reminds half-reprimands: “Daddy. Did you kiss the mezuzah?”.
Naphtali (15), our long-haired musician (Elon is also long-haired; just not musical), has had a fun summer so far with a few days in Eilat, some bicycling trips, some Bnei Akiva commitments and late-night or all-night hanging out with friends. Naphtali is the only one in the household without ten thumbs. I don’t even try fixing anything alone any more. I wait for Naphtali to do it and stand supportive at his side making insightful comments about hammer-holding techniques and the like to make it sound as if I know what the hell I’m talking about, while he gets on with the job. Everything that is going to break in the next six months, must do so in the next three weeks, before Naphtali returns to school.
Orly (14) is often bored. Why? Because no one wants to play with her. Why? Because she is the hands-down, undisputed, undefeatable champion and Queen of Set. Do you know the game “Set”? If not, you should. It’s a fast-flowing card game which tests your numerical, spatial and taxonomial cognitive skills. The aim is to be first to identify sets of three from 12 cards laid on the table. Each card has four characteristics – colour, shape, texture and number. A set consists of three cards that have either all common or all different characteristics. Clear? If not, buy the game. It’s just a pack of cards. Great for all ages, 3 (yes, even Elisheva plays, sort of) to 44. A typical score against Orly - Daddy 2: Orly 18. The others don’t fare much better. Now see why no one wants to play with Orly?
I’d love to tell you more about our summer holidays with the Mellicks and Eitans and about Judy’s summer dieting and walking, but two pages is as much as I can ask of you to read at a time. So till next time.
Lots of love from Michael, Judy, Ari, Elon, Naphtali, Orly, Abigail and Elisheva Isaacs (Elkana).
April 2008
I’ve noticed that family updates tend to be either “vertical” - by which I mean they comprise story snippets of the children one by one from youngest to oldest (a direction sometimes called, distastefully, “bottom up”) - or “horizontal” - by which I mean recountings of antics in which all participate as a family. As the children grow older and more independent (O! that double-edge sword – independence) the “horizontal” experiences grow sparser. How often does a family of eight hang out together, especially when two are in boarding school and one in the army? A learned sociologist could doubtless pen a landmark paper on this phenomenon to be called “Verticality and dehorizontalisation – etiology of the family cell”. The symptoms of verticalization are apparent as, to be honest, I have little horizontal news to share with you. So without further ado, as the parachutist once said, let’s go vertical.
Ari (20) is now two thirds a tankist. Physiotherapy, persistence and orthotics pulled him through the first two parts of basic training. After six months of the outdoor life, he looks healthy, tanned and lean, and sports, if I might say so myself, a quite becoming trim beard.
Ari returns home every two or three weeks, and his arrivals are cause for celebration. You have to understand that Ari is the lynch-pin of the family. He’s the oldest, the wise one. Everyone looks up to him; everyone loves him. He’s sweet and kind to all his brothers and sisters. Like parents, siblings don’t have favourites, but if they did, let’s say Ari would be a leading candidate for the title.
When Ari stumbles across the threshold weighed down by his huge kitbag, Abigail and Elisheva go wild with excitement and won’t leave him for a minute. Even Naphtali, who is cool, will give Ari a (very manly) hug. Over the weekend Elon and Ari will talk for hours. Even Daddy does his bit and in a rare act of affection, places the car-keys at Ari’s disposal. Judy fills the fridge and freezer with his favourite foods (ice-cream, all flavours). I ask Judy, what will you do when all three boys are in the army? Easy, she says, buy another fridge-freezer.
Ari spent seder in the army. This was the first time that any child of ours had missed a family seder. Gathered round our beautiful seder table at Barbara’s, where we are holidaying this year, we all stared sadly at the empty places set for Gilad Shalit and the other soldiers missing in action, but our hearts also went out to our own missing soldier (להבדיל), away without (his Mum’s) leave on guard duty.
Elon (17) is also close to the military. He recently participated in the “gibush” (training camp) for “Commando yami” (marine commandos). Several hundred hand-picked cadets compete for the “privilege” to begin training for this crack unit. For four days they were driven to the extremes of their physical and mental strength, running repeated sprints and long distances in deep soft sand, often carrying heavy weights or open stretchers, crawling through sand and mud and swimming in the freezing cold sea. Elon estimated he was in and out the sea, fully dressed, more than 100 times! Elon is one of the minority that completed the course, and although he will not be joining this unit, he has come back with enough tall stories to impress the girls for a long long time.
Naphtali (15) was selected, also from a long list of candidates, to be a madrich of Bnei Akiva for 13-year olds in Elkana. We hear from second- hand sources that the children adore him. This doesn’t surprise me. We’ve watched Naphtali for years play with his younger sisters and he certainly has a natural way with littl’uns. The group Naphtali takes is known to be the largest, wildest and toughest. If he can cope with them, he can cope with any rowdy unruly disobedient crowd. Sounds like perfect qualifications to become Speaker of the Knesset.
Naphtali continues to flourish at school. His teachers’ reports are glowing. His music teacher complains Naphtali is too musical to play just drums and insists he take up another instrument. Naphtali’s thinking of the bass guitar. Always practical I suggested adding a harmonica. A father needs to think about his son’s future, right? Drums, guitar, harmonica – the necessary ingredients for qualifying as a busker.
Music has given me and Naphtali a new common language. We share discussions on minims and rhythms, which is gibberish to the rest. I am always amazed at Naphtali’s ability to beat different rhythms at varying tempos with both arms and legs flying simultaneously in all directions, like an ambidextrous octopus (or quadropus, I suppose).
Orli (13) is one of the highest paid members of the Isaacs family. Daddy stays late at work – less due to long hours than to waking up late in the morning - and Judy is teaching three evenings a week this semester. So Orli often babysits for her two little sisters. Daddy, the Scotsman, takes comfort in knowing that at least the baby-sitter’s wages stay in the family. Orli continues to excel at school, considerately keeping her average just below 100 so as not to put all her friends to shame.
As Orli is now a very adult girl, she has already decided who she wants to marry. It doesn’t matter so much who he is as long as he is Dutch and Sepharadic, so that, once married, she can both eat kitniyot on Pesach and wait just one hour between milk and meat. No time to waste, so please forward contact information for appropriately-qualified candidates, by return mail.
Abigail (6) has a heart of gold, and several suitors in kindergarten who are trying to win it. Good luck to the boys. Who wouldn’t fall for this lovely playful laughing bunch of fun.
Knowing my chances of “winning” the afikoman were poor, in advance of the seder, I bought two little afikoman presents for Abigail - a logic puzzle that I knew she really wanted and another game. When I presented Abigail with her two prizes, she opened the logical puzzle with glee, but wouldn’t accept the other prize. She was content with the logical puzzle, and didn’t need anything else, thank you.
Elisheva (3) is a rascally bundle of endless energy. She has what they call “character”, knows what she wants and will do what it takes to get it. She worships Abigail and enjoys nothing more than playing with Abigail and Abigail’s friends. Three is the age where we teach our babies to swim (without armbands and floats). The sun is shining and Boobie’s pool is enticing. I’ll wager she’s swimming by Friday (today’s Monday).
Wishing you all a Happy Pesach.
Judy, Michael, Ari, Elon, Naphtali, Orli, Abigail and Elisheva Isaacs
P.S. By the way, Elisheva was swimming by Wednesday.
Ari (20) is now two thirds a tankist. Physiotherapy, persistence and orthotics pulled him through the first two parts of basic training. After six months of the outdoor life, he looks healthy, tanned and lean, and sports, if I might say so myself, a quite becoming trim beard.
Ari returns home every two or three weeks, and his arrivals are cause for celebration. You have to understand that Ari is the lynch-pin of the family. He’s the oldest, the wise one. Everyone looks up to him; everyone loves him. He’s sweet and kind to all his brothers and sisters. Like parents, siblings don’t have favourites, but if they did, let’s say Ari would be a leading candidate for the title.
When Ari stumbles across the threshold weighed down by his huge kitbag, Abigail and Elisheva go wild with excitement and won’t leave him for a minute. Even Naphtali, who is cool, will give Ari a (very manly) hug. Over the weekend Elon and Ari will talk for hours. Even Daddy does his bit and in a rare act of affection, places the car-keys at Ari’s disposal. Judy fills the fridge and freezer with his favourite foods (ice-cream, all flavours). I ask Judy, what will you do when all three boys are in the army? Easy, she says, buy another fridge-freezer.
Ari spent seder in the army. This was the first time that any child of ours had missed a family seder. Gathered round our beautiful seder table at Barbara’s, where we are holidaying this year, we all stared sadly at the empty places set for Gilad Shalit and the other soldiers missing in action, but our hearts also went out to our own missing soldier (להבדיל), away without (his Mum’s) leave on guard duty.
Elon (17) is also close to the military. He recently participated in the “gibush” (training camp) for “Commando yami” (marine commandos). Several hundred hand-picked cadets compete for the “privilege” to begin training for this crack unit. For four days they were driven to the extremes of their physical and mental strength, running repeated sprints and long distances in deep soft sand, often carrying heavy weights or open stretchers, crawling through sand and mud and swimming in the freezing cold sea. Elon estimated he was in and out the sea, fully dressed, more than 100 times! Elon is one of the minority that completed the course, and although he will not be joining this unit, he has come back with enough tall stories to impress the girls for a long long time.
Naphtali (15) was selected, also from a long list of candidates, to be a madrich of Bnei Akiva for 13-year olds in Elkana. We hear from second- hand sources that the children adore him. This doesn’t surprise me. We’ve watched Naphtali for years play with his younger sisters and he certainly has a natural way with littl’uns. The group Naphtali takes is known to be the largest, wildest and toughest. If he can cope with them, he can cope with any rowdy unruly disobedient crowd. Sounds like perfect qualifications to become Speaker of the Knesset.
Naphtali continues to flourish at school. His teachers’ reports are glowing. His music teacher complains Naphtali is too musical to play just drums and insists he take up another instrument. Naphtali’s thinking of the bass guitar. Always practical I suggested adding a harmonica. A father needs to think about his son’s future, right? Drums, guitar, harmonica – the necessary ingredients for qualifying as a busker.
Music has given me and Naphtali a new common language. We share discussions on minims and rhythms, which is gibberish to the rest. I am always amazed at Naphtali’s ability to beat different rhythms at varying tempos with both arms and legs flying simultaneously in all directions, like an ambidextrous octopus (or quadropus, I suppose).
Orli (13) is one of the highest paid members of the Isaacs family. Daddy stays late at work – less due to long hours than to waking up late in the morning - and Judy is teaching three evenings a week this semester. So Orli often babysits for her two little sisters. Daddy, the Scotsman, takes comfort in knowing that at least the baby-sitter’s wages stay in the family. Orli continues to excel at school, considerately keeping her average just below 100 so as not to put all her friends to shame.
As Orli is now a very adult girl, she has already decided who she wants to marry. It doesn’t matter so much who he is as long as he is Dutch and Sepharadic, so that, once married, she can both eat kitniyot on Pesach and wait just one hour between milk and meat. No time to waste, so please forward contact information for appropriately-qualified candidates, by return mail.
Abigail (6) has a heart of gold, and several suitors in kindergarten who are trying to win it. Good luck to the boys. Who wouldn’t fall for this lovely playful laughing bunch of fun.
Knowing my chances of “winning” the afikoman were poor, in advance of the seder, I bought two little afikoman presents for Abigail - a logic puzzle that I knew she really wanted and another game. When I presented Abigail with her two prizes, she opened the logical puzzle with glee, but wouldn’t accept the other prize. She was content with the logical puzzle, and didn’t need anything else, thank you.
Elisheva (3) is a rascally bundle of endless energy. She has what they call “character”, knows what she wants and will do what it takes to get it. She worships Abigail and enjoys nothing more than playing with Abigail and Abigail’s friends. Three is the age where we teach our babies to swim (without armbands and floats). The sun is shining and Boobie’s pool is enticing. I’ll wager she’s swimming by Friday (today’s Monday).
Wishing you all a Happy Pesach.
Judy, Michael, Ari, Elon, Naphtali, Orli, Abigail and Elisheva Isaacs
P.S. By the way, Elisheva was swimming by Wednesday.
December 2007
In a Hanukka newsletter, should one following the ruling of Beit Shamai and start with the oldest and work down, or follow the ruling of Beit Hillel, and start with the smallest and work up. To keep away from arguments, the order of this family report is random.
Looting the lute
As a child, I played classical guitar reaching Grade 7 of the English music Board exams – quite an achievement for one tone deaf and devoid of ability. I took a liking to Elizabethan music, originally written for the lute but transposed for guitar. When my father discovered this penchant, and also that my guitar teacher was a performing, record-cutting lutenist, he started scouring the local papers' "For Sale" columns. Not surprisingly, no ads in newspapers for loot.
Someone who heard of our search, chanced on a scribbled ad pinned to a notice board in the Birmingham Cannon Hill Arts Center offering , unbelievably, a second-hand lute.
I will never forget our excitement as we drove, me and my Dad, in search of the loot, deep into Staffordshire following directions which involved a left turn left at an unlikely-named pub called "The Bull and Spectacles". To prove that this name is not an example of newsletter license please see the picture below, courtesy of Google, in which you can clearly make out the name of the pub but not quite make out the picture, near the top left, of a docile almost paternal bull eyeing passers-by through half-moon specs.
Hardly a Stradivarios, the lute was a first-time effort of a woodwork teacher and had been constructed from a kit. Following my father's futile attempts at bargaining down the price from 100 pounds, the deal was cut and we bagged the loot. The happy turnaround came when my teacher examined it. It was superb – he said, with poorly-disguised envy – worth four times what we paid!
So I lovingly played lute music until school, Bnei Akiva and bumming around exacted such a price on my precious time that one day, the music died. For nigh on 30 years since, I schlepped a guitar and lute with me from dorm to house, hoping that one day, one of my children would ask to learn to play.
That day hath come.
Naphtali (15), our rhythmical child, frustrated perhaps at being just one of many drummers in his music school, has asked to learn to play the lute.
How often are 30-year old dreams achieved?
This is the appointed day… let us rejoice and be happy.
The aleph bet of Abigail
Abigail (6) is learning to read, which, I can say with the wisdom of a Daddy, is no easy task. Two years ago in gan, she learnt the letters; last year she added the vowels. This year, she is really reading, building fluency and accuracy. And enjoying it. For her next birthday present, I’ve ordered a Hebrew translation of Anna Karenina.
Licensed to Drive
Elon (17) just passed his driving test, the fourth in an unbroken family tradition of passing second time. Elon is a lad who feels no pain, has no fear and shirks no challenge. I had suspected he would drive in the same vein (sp?) - fearlessly. Yet again, Daddy was proved wrong. Elon is as careful as a woman (I'll be in trouble for that comparison). He drives slowly, holds the wheel with two hands and indicates when maneuvering in a parking lot. Long may this last.
Timeliness is next to studiousness
Orly (13) is so busy the days are just too short. Or rather the nights are. Somehow, her evenings are not rushed; it's in the mornings that time is lacking, when the school bell tolls and she is still abed. Orly challenges her Maker's wisdom in designing a 24-hour day. She needs 28 hours, with the extra four falling between 1 and 7am.
For some inexplicable reason, Orly is the first Isaacs child to take studies seriously. Orly does her homework (when she remembers to bring her books home) and studies for tests (except Arabic) – something none of her brothers ever did – and her efforts are bearing fruit. Attending a recent parent's evening, for once I didn't feel on the defensive. Hope her sisters learn from her. And her brothers. (Not too late yet, boys).
Private Isaacs, the foot soldier, name, rank and number
Last Sunday, Ari (19) joined the army serving in the tanks corps. Within a week, before acquiring even the basics of basic training, he sprained an ankle and is now at home convalescing. He intends to get back to basics and give the military another shot. And with his motivation and ankle supports, We hope he’ll do it. Ari has recently found a lovely girl-friend (no soldier's kit is complete without a girl-friend).
Elisheva on the move
Elisheva (3) is a handful. Like today's Internet connections, she is "always on". A female Elon, we call her. Never a quiet moment, never a dull moment, never a tidy moment, rarely a dry moment. She has no evil intent, G-d forbid. It's just that most of her creative and imaginative games tend to involve things, such as water, milk, apple juice, raw eggs and chicken gravy, ending up all over the floor.
Elisheva recites her shema before going to sleep, beautifully. She has improvised a few of the words notably בכל לבבך ובכל מכשפה which always sets both of us off laughing – I laugh at the words and she laughs at my laughing.
Wishing you all a happy Hannuka.
Michael, Judy
Ari, Elon, Naphtali, Orly, Abigail and Elisheva
Elkana
Looting the lute
As a child, I played classical guitar reaching Grade 7 of the English music Board exams – quite an achievement for one tone deaf and devoid of ability. I took a liking to Elizabethan music, originally written for the lute but transposed for guitar. When my father discovered this penchant, and also that my guitar teacher was a performing, record-cutting lutenist, he started scouring the local papers' "For Sale" columns. Not surprisingly, no ads in newspapers for loot.
Someone who heard of our search, chanced on a scribbled ad pinned to a notice board in the Birmingham Cannon Hill Arts Center offering , unbelievably, a second-hand lute.
I will never forget our excitement as we drove, me and my Dad, in search of the loot, deep into Staffordshire following directions which involved a left turn left at an unlikely-named pub called "The Bull and Spectacles". To prove that this name is not an example of newsletter license please see the picture below, courtesy of Google, in which you can clearly make out the name of the pub but not quite make out the picture, near the top left, of a docile almost paternal bull eyeing passers-by through half-moon specs.
Hardly a Stradivarios, the lute was a first-time effort of a woodwork teacher and had been constructed from a kit. Following my father's futile attempts at bargaining down the price from 100 pounds, the deal was cut and we bagged the loot. The happy turnaround came when my teacher examined it. It was superb – he said, with poorly-disguised envy – worth four times what we paid!
So I lovingly played lute music until school, Bnei Akiva and bumming around exacted such a price on my precious time that one day, the music died. For nigh on 30 years since, I schlepped a guitar and lute with me from dorm to house, hoping that one day, one of my children would ask to learn to play.
That day hath come.
Naphtali (15), our rhythmical child, frustrated perhaps at being just one of many drummers in his music school, has asked to learn to play the lute.
How often are 30-year old dreams achieved?
This is the appointed day… let us rejoice and be happy.
The aleph bet of Abigail
Abigail (6) is learning to read, which, I can say with the wisdom of a Daddy, is no easy task. Two years ago in gan, she learnt the letters; last year she added the vowels. This year, she is really reading, building fluency and accuracy. And enjoying it. For her next birthday present, I’ve ordered a Hebrew translation of Anna Karenina.
Licensed to Drive
Elon (17) just passed his driving test, the fourth in an unbroken family tradition of passing second time. Elon is a lad who feels no pain, has no fear and shirks no challenge. I had suspected he would drive in the same vein (sp?) - fearlessly. Yet again, Daddy was proved wrong. Elon is as careful as a woman (I'll be in trouble for that comparison). He drives slowly, holds the wheel with two hands and indicates when maneuvering in a parking lot. Long may this last.
Timeliness is next to studiousness
Orly (13) is so busy the days are just too short. Or rather the nights are. Somehow, her evenings are not rushed; it's in the mornings that time is lacking, when the school bell tolls and she is still abed. Orly challenges her Maker's wisdom in designing a 24-hour day. She needs 28 hours, with the extra four falling between 1 and 7am.
For some inexplicable reason, Orly is the first Isaacs child to take studies seriously. Orly does her homework (when she remembers to bring her books home) and studies for tests (except Arabic) – something none of her brothers ever did – and her efforts are bearing fruit. Attending a recent parent's evening, for once I didn't feel on the defensive. Hope her sisters learn from her. And her brothers. (Not too late yet, boys).
Private Isaacs, the foot soldier, name, rank and number
Last Sunday, Ari (19) joined the army serving in the tanks corps. Within a week, before acquiring even the basics of basic training, he sprained an ankle and is now at home convalescing. He intends to get back to basics and give the military another shot. And with his motivation and ankle supports, We hope he’ll do it. Ari has recently found a lovely girl-friend (no soldier's kit is complete without a girl-friend).
Elisheva on the move
Elisheva (3) is a handful. Like today's Internet connections, she is "always on". A female Elon, we call her. Never a quiet moment, never a dull moment, never a tidy moment, rarely a dry moment. She has no evil intent, G-d forbid. It's just that most of her creative and imaginative games tend to involve things, such as water, milk, apple juice, raw eggs and chicken gravy, ending up all over the floor.
Elisheva recites her shema before going to sleep, beautifully. She has improvised a few of the words notably בכל לבבך ובכל מכשפה which always sets both of us off laughing – I laugh at the words and she laughs at my laughing.
Wishing you all a happy Hannuka.
Michael, Judy
Ari, Elon, Naphtali, Orly, Abigail and Elisheva
Elkana
May 2007 (poem)
Accustomed as we are to prose
It might be novel, I suppose
To recast the odd newsletter
Into a form suited better
For the light and jovial tone
We have adopted as our own
Best of all it will be shorter
And, just to be obtuse, the last lines won't rhyme
Ari (aged nineteen), believe it or not
Is spending time in Sderot
With volunteers righteous and bold
Who play with the young and care for the old
They help in schools and do their best
To calm people's worries and lessen their stress
And every evening they lead a parade
Dancing and singing through the streets of the city
Elon is proving that hard work pays
Revising for tests on his way to straight A's
Mathematics and English and Jewish philosophy
And more maths and more maths with dashings of History
Yet somehow, and I still have not found out at all
He always finds time to play basketball
He joined a team - Elitzur Netanya
So while doing bagrut, he's always wearing basketball boots.
Naphtali plays drums, as mentioned before
We hear muffled thuds through an always-closed door
If he exits his room it's for dinner or lunch
(With his teenager appetite, there's also breakfast and brunch)
Next year for 10th grade he's changing his school
From the current nerd's place to somewhere more cool
It's a yeshiva special for musical kids
Called Kinor David, in the middle of nowhere
I'm giving Naphtali a bonanza
A well-deserved second stanza
The one thing that stops Naphtali's drum roll
Is work he does that is good for the soul
For hours a day he helps out at "Keren Or"
A fund that delivers food to the poor
Naphtali schleps and tidies and even paints walls
And we are very proud of him.
Orly is Orly, stable as rock
Moved on from Jazz dancing and now does Hip-Hop
She performs on stage for sisters and Mothers
(They don't let in the Daddies and brothers)
Her life is spiced with trips to the malls
Bnei Akiva and friends and telephone calls
No boys to check out yet (thank goodness for that)
We'll cross that bridge when we come to it
Abigail knows her letters from aleph to tav
As for the vowels, she's learnt about half
She likes dancing and singing and wearing pink dresses
And with Elisheva dressing up as princesses
She loves her gan and loves her ganenet
(The first of our children about whom we can say that)
Her go-easy nature endears her to all
Especially to Elisheva who is crazy about her
To describe Elisheva would require an epic
She's lovely and loving but makes our life hectic
She turns order to mayhem in a matter of minutes
If something is messy, be sure her hand's in it
She drops and she breaks and she spills, and we say
'If there's two minutes of quiet, there'll be a price to pay'
But we say, far more often, 'A little disorder
Is a small price to pay for such a delicious fun-loving baby'
This term Judy's teaching a course called Java A
(A logical tongue we may all speak one day)
She helps all the children with their lessons for school
And runs our big household and trips to the pool
'Multi-tasking' should be her middle name
(But we'll stick with Gail, if that's okay, all the same)
One unconquered challenge relates to her vice
How to stop eating Maltesers
Writing good poems is not something I sneeze on
I hate reading stuff with no rhyme and no rea-son
So I promised myself after one hour to stop
And just send it
(To be honest, it took more than an hour…)
Lots of love from
Judy, Michael,
Ari (19), Elon (16), Naphtali (14), Orly (12), Abigail (5) and Elisheva (2)
Isaacs
Elkana
Translation of Hebrew words
Bagrut = School graduation exams (like O- and A-levels)
Gan = Nursery school
Ganenet = nursery school teacher
It might be novel, I suppose
To recast the odd newsletter
Into a form suited better
For the light and jovial tone
We have adopted as our own
Best of all it will be shorter
And, just to be obtuse, the last lines won't rhyme
Ari (aged nineteen), believe it or not
Is spending time in Sderot
With volunteers righteous and bold
Who play with the young and care for the old
They help in schools and do their best
To calm people's worries and lessen their stress
And every evening they lead a parade
Dancing and singing through the streets of the city
Elon is proving that hard work pays
Revising for tests on his way to straight A's
Mathematics and English and Jewish philosophy
And more maths and more maths with dashings of History
Yet somehow, and I still have not found out at all
He always finds time to play basketball
He joined a team - Elitzur Netanya
So while doing bagrut, he's always wearing basketball boots.
Naphtali plays drums, as mentioned before
We hear muffled thuds through an always-closed door
If he exits his room it's for dinner or lunch
(With his teenager appetite, there's also breakfast and brunch)
Next year for 10th grade he's changing his school
From the current nerd's place to somewhere more cool
It's a yeshiva special for musical kids
Called Kinor David, in the middle of nowhere
I'm giving Naphtali a bonanza
A well-deserved second stanza
The one thing that stops Naphtali's drum roll
Is work he does that is good for the soul
For hours a day he helps out at "Keren Or"
A fund that delivers food to the poor
Naphtali schleps and tidies and even paints walls
And we are very proud of him.
Orly is Orly, stable as rock
Moved on from Jazz dancing and now does Hip-Hop
She performs on stage for sisters and Mothers
(They don't let in the Daddies and brothers)
Her life is spiced with trips to the malls
Bnei Akiva and friends and telephone calls
No boys to check out yet (thank goodness for that)
We'll cross that bridge when we come to it
Abigail knows her letters from aleph to tav
As for the vowels, she's learnt about half
She likes dancing and singing and wearing pink dresses
And with Elisheva dressing up as princesses
She loves her gan and loves her ganenet
(The first of our children about whom we can say that)
Her go-easy nature endears her to all
Especially to Elisheva who is crazy about her
To describe Elisheva would require an epic
She's lovely and loving but makes our life hectic
She turns order to mayhem in a matter of minutes
If something is messy, be sure her hand's in it
She drops and she breaks and she spills, and we say
'If there's two minutes of quiet, there'll be a price to pay'
But we say, far more often, 'A little disorder
Is a small price to pay for such a delicious fun-loving baby'
This term Judy's teaching a course called Java A
(A logical tongue we may all speak one day)
She helps all the children with their lessons for school
And runs our big household and trips to the pool
'Multi-tasking' should be her middle name
(But we'll stick with Gail, if that's okay, all the same)
One unconquered challenge relates to her vice
How to stop eating Maltesers
Writing good poems is not something I sneeze on
I hate reading stuff with no rhyme and no rea-son
So I promised myself after one hour to stop
And just send it
(To be honest, it took more than an hour…)
Lots of love from
Judy, Michael,
Ari (19), Elon (16), Naphtali (14), Orly (12), Abigail (5) and Elisheva (2)
Isaacs
Elkana
Translation of Hebrew words
Bagrut = School graduation exams (like O- and A-levels)
Gan = Nursery school
Ganenet = nursery school teacher
February 2007 (Part 1)
Little Women first. But see the big surprise about Judy and Michael at the end
Elisheva (2) is adorable. On my return from work, daily she grabs my trouser leg and shouts "Toilet! Toilet". At first I thought she wanted me to change her nappy, conferring on me the dubious privilege of preferred parent in this sphere. (By the way, when Elisheva needs a nappy change she smiles a wicked smile and announces to us "eechsa peechsa" – an onomatopoeic phrase that requires no explanation). Next I thought she might be recommending that I pay a visit to the smallest room, perhaps based on some unpleasant odour that accompanied my entry into the house. It took several days till I realized that "toilet" was her rendition of the Hebrew word "makolet" (grocery store). She wanted to go to the makolet.
Abigail (5, and very proud of it), Elisheva and I are regular and warmly-welcomed guests in the store. My girls' antics bring cackles of light relief to the bored cashiers. They boisterously roam the makolet like scavengers, piling into my cart every product they can reach, and toppling the ones they can't. Occasionally, they suddenly appear giggling and dusty. How? Don’t tell Judy, but they have this game of crossing from isle to isle scrambling underneath the shelves on their bellies.
Abigail is rightly proud to be 5. Christopher Robin had it wrong when he tutted dismissively "When I was five I was just alive". According to Abigail, the reason she draws nicely is because she is five. The reason she sings nicely is because she is five. The reason that she brushes her teeth is because she is five. The reason she likes meat is because she is five. In short, an update to the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, the Answer to Life, the Universe and Everything is not 42; it's 5 (at least for the next twelve months).
Orly, now 12, has attained her religious majority. With the perspective of a few months, how has this influenced her? Well, she grows taller by the day. She spends more time on the ICQ than before, and more of her correspondents are male. She met up with several of them, and judging from what we hear, she'll be fighting the boys off. (Not sure how to swallow this piece of information.) Her dancing lessons and visits to the shuk and shopping malls are her compensations for the monotony of school.
Naphtali (14) drums. I think that comprehensively rounds up everything of significance about Naphtali that has happened in the last few months. The rest is details - how many hours a day, how many lessons a week, when to use the hi-hat, snare, tam-tam or bass drums. A drummer in the house is not quite as melodious as a pianist. Our comfort is that the non-ending noise is at least rhythmical.
Naphtali has also drummed his way into the role of chief motivator of the Elitzur Elkana fan club. Elitzur Elkana is the local basketball team that is managed by the one and only Ralph Klein, who 30 years put Maccabi Tel Aviv on the map with their first European basketball title. Under his expert eye, the team has won all 21 games played so far this season, due at least in part to the active fan club whose cheering for Elkana, and distractionary tactics for opponents, all beat to Naphtali's drum. Elitzur Elkana and Naphtali will be progressing to the A league next year.
Elon (16) woke up with me and my brother in law David on January 4th, and without any training whatsoever, ran a sub 5-hour marathon. His father, (the sucker) ran 3,000 kilometers over the last two years, and drove his family mad, to successfully run a sub 4-hour marathon. 3,000 kilometers is approximately 300 hours sweat, to save one hour on the big day. I think Eloni has the right order of preferences. And next year he'll probably beat me.
Ari (almost 19), as previously announced is attending an Academy for Jewish Leadership in Ein Prat, near Maale Adumin. It is a fantastic place and Ari has grown and learnt a lot over the year. In addition to studies of Israel, Zionism, Judaism and topical issues, the students do volunteer work. One day a week is fully devoted to working with underprivileged and handicapped children. They also have special extra-curricular activities. For example, during the worst of the shelling from Gaza, they spent a week in Sderot helping to occupy the children in the bomb shelters. They initiated an apolitical protest march from Sderot to Jerusalem that was widely covered in the press. Following the second Lebanese war they volunteered in the north for a week to help clean up the destruction. They organized a Chanukah camp for 200 Ethiopian children in Mevasseret Zion Absorption center and more. Beats the army, right? Or at least, delays it for a year.
On his sadly infrequent sorties home, Ari is torn between wanting to spend time with his younger brothers and especially his younger sisters on the one hand, and the need to run up as much mileage as possible on Daddy's car. (Thank the Good L-ord above and Amdocs for the "pazomat").
Chick Chack Czech
Judy and I are within sniffing distance of our 20th wedding anniversary, an occasion I had been looking forward to marking with an extravagant outing to Sbarro for a super-sized pizza with all the extras. Then two weeks ago, something snapped. Can’t explain what or why, but after 19 years of physical devotion to her offspring, during which time Judy has kept her children at umbilical distance from the home, Judy expressed a desire to sever the cord for up to six (but preferably four) days and take a break, so long as it was for a skiing holiday in Europe.
Long-term acquaintances and readers know that when Judy gets an idea into her head, it's going to happen. In a characteristically Judyish whirlwind of Internet surfing and low-tech phone calls Judy found the only skiing package deal in the world that is for less than seven days. So, early Sunday morning (Feb 8th) Judy and I are off for four days skiing, to Volendorf in the Czech Republic. It's both our 20th anniversary and the honeymoon we never had (Judy's Dad was ill). Many well-wishers have thoughtfully wished us "break a leg". We took out insurance.
I don't actually believe this is going to happen. But if it does, PG I'll update you in the next newsletter.
Lots of love from us all
Judy, Michael, Ari, Elon, Naphtali, Orly, Abigail and Elisheva Isaacs
Elisheva (2) is adorable. On my return from work, daily she grabs my trouser leg and shouts "Toilet! Toilet". At first I thought she wanted me to change her nappy, conferring on me the dubious privilege of preferred parent in this sphere. (By the way, when Elisheva needs a nappy change she smiles a wicked smile and announces to us "eechsa peechsa" – an onomatopoeic phrase that requires no explanation). Next I thought she might be recommending that I pay a visit to the smallest room, perhaps based on some unpleasant odour that accompanied my entry into the house. It took several days till I realized that "toilet" was her rendition of the Hebrew word "makolet" (grocery store). She wanted to go to the makolet.
Abigail (5, and very proud of it), Elisheva and I are regular and warmly-welcomed guests in the store. My girls' antics bring cackles of light relief to the bored cashiers. They boisterously roam the makolet like scavengers, piling into my cart every product they can reach, and toppling the ones they can't. Occasionally, they suddenly appear giggling and dusty. How? Don’t tell Judy, but they have this game of crossing from isle to isle scrambling underneath the shelves on their bellies.
Abigail is rightly proud to be 5. Christopher Robin had it wrong when he tutted dismissively "When I was five I was just alive". According to Abigail, the reason she draws nicely is because she is five. The reason she sings nicely is because she is five. The reason that she brushes her teeth is because she is five. The reason she likes meat is because she is five. In short, an update to the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, the Answer to Life, the Universe and Everything is not 42; it's 5 (at least for the next twelve months).
Orly, now 12, has attained her religious majority. With the perspective of a few months, how has this influenced her? Well, she grows taller by the day. She spends more time on the ICQ than before, and more of her correspondents are male. She met up with several of them, and judging from what we hear, she'll be fighting the boys off. (Not sure how to swallow this piece of information.) Her dancing lessons and visits to the shuk and shopping malls are her compensations for the monotony of school.
Naphtali (14) drums. I think that comprehensively rounds up everything of significance about Naphtali that has happened in the last few months. The rest is details - how many hours a day, how many lessons a week, when to use the hi-hat, snare, tam-tam or bass drums. A drummer in the house is not quite as melodious as a pianist. Our comfort is that the non-ending noise is at least rhythmical.
Naphtali has also drummed his way into the role of chief motivator of the Elitzur Elkana fan club. Elitzur Elkana is the local basketball team that is managed by the one and only Ralph Klein, who 30 years put Maccabi Tel Aviv on the map with their first European basketball title. Under his expert eye, the team has won all 21 games played so far this season, due at least in part to the active fan club whose cheering for Elkana, and distractionary tactics for opponents, all beat to Naphtali's drum. Elitzur Elkana and Naphtali will be progressing to the A league next year.
Elon (16) woke up with me and my brother in law David on January 4th, and without any training whatsoever, ran a sub 5-hour marathon. His father, (the sucker) ran 3,000 kilometers over the last two years, and drove his family mad, to successfully run a sub 4-hour marathon. 3,000 kilometers is approximately 300 hours sweat, to save one hour on the big day. I think Eloni has the right order of preferences. And next year he'll probably beat me.
Ari (almost 19), as previously announced is attending an Academy for Jewish Leadership in Ein Prat, near Maale Adumin. It is a fantastic place and Ari has grown and learnt a lot over the year. In addition to studies of Israel, Zionism, Judaism and topical issues, the students do volunteer work. One day a week is fully devoted to working with underprivileged and handicapped children. They also have special extra-curricular activities. For example, during the worst of the shelling from Gaza, they spent a week in Sderot helping to occupy the children in the bomb shelters. They initiated an apolitical protest march from Sderot to Jerusalem that was widely covered in the press. Following the second Lebanese war they volunteered in the north for a week to help clean up the destruction. They organized a Chanukah camp for 200 Ethiopian children in Mevasseret Zion Absorption center and more. Beats the army, right? Or at least, delays it for a year.
On his sadly infrequent sorties home, Ari is torn between wanting to spend time with his younger brothers and especially his younger sisters on the one hand, and the need to run up as much mileage as possible on Daddy's car. (Thank the Good L-ord above and Amdocs for the "pazomat").
Chick Chack Czech
Judy and I are within sniffing distance of our 20th wedding anniversary, an occasion I had been looking forward to marking with an extravagant outing to Sbarro for a super-sized pizza with all the extras. Then two weeks ago, something snapped. Can’t explain what or why, but after 19 years of physical devotion to her offspring, during which time Judy has kept her children at umbilical distance from the home, Judy expressed a desire to sever the cord for up to six (but preferably four) days and take a break, so long as it was for a skiing holiday in Europe.
Long-term acquaintances and readers know that when Judy gets an idea into her head, it's going to happen. In a characteristically Judyish whirlwind of Internet surfing and low-tech phone calls Judy found the only skiing package deal in the world that is for less than seven days. So, early Sunday morning (Feb 8th) Judy and I are off for four days skiing, to Volendorf in the Czech Republic. It's both our 20th anniversary and the honeymoon we never had (Judy's Dad was ill). Many well-wishers have thoughtfully wished us "break a leg". We took out insurance.
I don't actually believe this is going to happen. But if it does, PG I'll update you in the next newsletter.
Lots of love from us all
Judy, Michael, Ari, Elon, Naphtali, Orly, Abigail and Elisheva Isaacs
February 2007 (Part 2) - skiing
So, we proved them all wrong - all those fair-weather friends who wished us, before our skiing trip, with a twinkle in their eye, "break a leg". Neither of us broke any legs. I did, however, dislocate a shoulder.
We arrived Sunday mid-afternoon at our hotel in the village of Verchlaby near the skiing resort of Spindel Mlyn in the Krakonos mountain range on the Czech-Poland border. It was too late to ski but early enough to explore so as a "warm-up", we indulged in two tourist rides. First, "abuvim on ice" – slipping down an icy obstacle course in inflated rubber tubes; and secondly and memorably, we tobogganed four kilometers downhill at breakneck pace through blowing snow and thick fog with near zero visibility. That was fun.
The next morning, our first skiing day, we practised rudimentary maneuvers on a 20 metre practice slope. Suitably impressed by our progress, already that afternoon our trainer took us up in the cable car to test our mettle on the real thing - a trifling teeny tiny itsy bitsy descent of 2,700 metres.
Judy was not ready for this challenge. She would ski a few meters, build up speed, lose control, and plonk herself down, as instructed, on her rear-end to prevent herself slamming into the trees that lined the slope. At first, playing the role of attentive caring husband, I hung around offering encouragement and help after each fall to get her standing on her own two skis. But I tired of that quickly so, I skied a few meters downhill myself, built up speed, lost control, and instead of plonking myself down on my well-padded back-side, tripped up and rolled head over heels, dislocating my left shoulder.
Thus ended our skiing.
Judy got such a shock from my injury, she abandoned her skis and sticks and descended the remaining 2,000+ meters of the slope on her back-side (possibly breaking a course record, in the process). I, on the other hand, was chauffeured down the mountain in a snow-mobile, transferred to an ambulance that took me to a clinic where a very professional, gentle and considerate medical staff restored my left shoulder to its rightful position.
I'll save you the "it wasn't my fault" whining and the vituperations muttered under my breath about the irresponsible trainer. Judy and I had agreed in advance that in case one of us is injured (fully expecting it to be Judy), we would both hang up our skis and find alternative activities. Together. How romantic.
We spent five hours the next day walking the beautiful snowy mountain paths of Svaty Peter. The day after we clambered aboard the cable cars, treacherously balancing rented toboggans on our knees. From the top we coasted down the mountain on the toboggans following the peaceful, picturesque paths preferred by cross-country skiers. On our final day we travelled to the stunning city of Prague where we visited the Jewish quarter with its Middle Age shuls, the grave of the Maharal, the famous castle and astronomical clock and many many gift stores with their Bohemian glass figurines, ornaments and toys carved in wood, Pinocchio-like string puppets and brightly-painted eggs. None of which we would have experienced sans the shoulder dislocation.
So we still had a lovely holiday. We returned to Israel happy, with one injury too many and not enough bruises.
Why am I writing this bulletin? Because today, less than a week after our return, Judy took Elon and Naphtali up to the Hermon. As we strongly expected, the boys are natural skiers, born, as it were, with two eyes, two ears, two hands and two skis. Within minutes they had mastered the basics and within an hour were ready for the mountains. But my first pride is reserved for Judy, who, perhaps emboldened by the presence of her sons, overcame her fears and skied down the *blue slope on the Hermon no less than three times with hardly a tumble.
Skiing has got under Judy's skin. I've never before seen her so enthused about anything. Mark my words. This isn't the last you'll hear of Judy and skiing in these newsletters. She's hooked.
* "Blue" does not reflect the colour of the snow but the level of difficulty. Skiing slopes progress from green (easy-peasy), to blue to red and finally to black (death-defying).
We arrived Sunday mid-afternoon at our hotel in the village of Verchlaby near the skiing resort of Spindel Mlyn in the Krakonos mountain range on the Czech-Poland border. It was too late to ski but early enough to explore so as a "warm-up", we indulged in two tourist rides. First, "abuvim on ice" – slipping down an icy obstacle course in inflated rubber tubes; and secondly and memorably, we tobogganed four kilometers downhill at breakneck pace through blowing snow and thick fog with near zero visibility. That was fun.
The next morning, our first skiing day, we practised rudimentary maneuvers on a 20 metre practice slope. Suitably impressed by our progress, already that afternoon our trainer took us up in the cable car to test our mettle on the real thing - a trifling teeny tiny itsy bitsy descent of 2,700 metres.
Judy was not ready for this challenge. She would ski a few meters, build up speed, lose control, and plonk herself down, as instructed, on her rear-end to prevent herself slamming into the trees that lined the slope. At first, playing the role of attentive caring husband, I hung around offering encouragement and help after each fall to get her standing on her own two skis. But I tired of that quickly so, I skied a few meters downhill myself, built up speed, lost control, and instead of plonking myself down on my well-padded back-side, tripped up and rolled head over heels, dislocating my left shoulder.
Thus ended our skiing.
Judy got such a shock from my injury, she abandoned her skis and sticks and descended the remaining 2,000+ meters of the slope on her back-side (possibly breaking a course record, in the process). I, on the other hand, was chauffeured down the mountain in a snow-mobile, transferred to an ambulance that took me to a clinic where a very professional, gentle and considerate medical staff restored my left shoulder to its rightful position.
I'll save you the "it wasn't my fault" whining and the vituperations muttered under my breath about the irresponsible trainer. Judy and I had agreed in advance that in case one of us is injured (fully expecting it to be Judy), we would both hang up our skis and find alternative activities. Together. How romantic.
We spent five hours the next day walking the beautiful snowy mountain paths of Svaty Peter. The day after we clambered aboard the cable cars, treacherously balancing rented toboggans on our knees. From the top we coasted down the mountain on the toboggans following the peaceful, picturesque paths preferred by cross-country skiers. On our final day we travelled to the stunning city of Prague where we visited the Jewish quarter with its Middle Age shuls, the grave of the Maharal, the famous castle and astronomical clock and many many gift stores with their Bohemian glass figurines, ornaments and toys carved in wood, Pinocchio-like string puppets and brightly-painted eggs. None of which we would have experienced sans the shoulder dislocation.
So we still had a lovely holiday. We returned to Israel happy, with one injury too many and not enough bruises.
Why am I writing this bulletin? Because today, less than a week after our return, Judy took Elon and Naphtali up to the Hermon. As we strongly expected, the boys are natural skiers, born, as it were, with two eyes, two ears, two hands and two skis. Within minutes they had mastered the basics and within an hour were ready for the mountains. But my first pride is reserved for Judy, who, perhaps emboldened by the presence of her sons, overcame her fears and skied down the *blue slope on the Hermon no less than three times with hardly a tumble.
Skiing has got under Judy's skin. I've never before seen her so enthused about anything. Mark my words. This isn't the last you'll hear of Judy and skiing in these newsletters. She's hooked.
* "Blue" does not reflect the colour of the snow but the level of difficulty. Skiing slopes progress from green (easy-peasy), to blue to red and finally to black (death-defying).
September 2006
What a perfect opportunity to wish you all a wonderful New Year and a joyful Succot. (I'm skipping the asking for forgiveness bit. I missed Yom Kippur for this year; maybe next year).
How often are you asked "ma chadash?" and respond invariably with a non-committal meaningless "beseder". In this newsletter, we'll make "beseder" into a mini soap telenovella of drama and suspense. Best news of the last two months was of course Alick's safe return – in body and in soul – from Lebanon. Next best news was Orli's batmitzva celebration, which was great fun.
The difference between "R" and "T"
For three barmitzvas I felt no guilt (though much gratitude) that Judy prepared everything herself since, hour for hour, I and the barmitzva boys invested our fair share in learning the leyning and divrei torah to justify getting off Scot (spelling?) free with other barmitzva chores. Orli is not a feminist when it comes to leyning (most girls aren't). So, for her batmitzva, with no leyning to prepare, it would only have been fair and just for me to split the work 50-50 with Judy. However, I conveniently forgot /overlooked/purposely ignored this minor difference between the previous 3 "Bars" and the current "Bat" mitzvah and basically left everything to Judy, while I watched TV and scratched my chest.
Judy did everything. She chose the venue – a most exquisite garden, near Elkana. (We've booked it again, for Abigail in October 2014, weather permitting). She chose the clothes (all the girls were dressed in pink, surprise surprise). She designed and built the invitations herself, just for the fun of it. She printed out newsletter cuttings about Orli. She found the musician, the caterer, the photographer, the benschers. It was her idea to buy confectionary and have our guests wrap it up as Rosh Hashana gifts for injured soldiers, and her idea to choreograph the memorable patented Isaacs family Batmitzva dance. So, thank you, my wonderful Judy, for organizing a fun batmitzva, from Michael, the lazy, lousy lay-about, with the well-scratched chest.
A word about a thousand pictures
Since going digital, photographers don't count numbers. My barmitzva album has 15 photographs in it, all posed, all selected by the photographer. Bruno our French paparacci supplied us with a DVD brimming with nigh on 500 gorgeous spontaneous batmitzva snapshots and placed the burden of choosing the top 200 squarely on our rounded shoulders.
As you all know, there is no such thing as a perfect photograph. There's always someone looking the wrong way, someone with fiery red eyes, someone with an artificial smile, someone frozen in frame changing gear in speech, with a facial expression reminiscent of a chortling camel. Or - and this is a family favourite - the photo is shot from an angle that captures my protruding ears or Judy's big nose.
So Judy and I spent a pleasant but very long evening sifting through near-identical near-perfect photos to choose the best. Should we prefer the family group with Elon's vacant expression or the one in which Naphtali's hair is pronouncedly unbrushed? I felt like a judge on Miss World who has to pick "The One" out of 200 stunningly beautiful dream-girls, discarding one with a freckle and another with a droopy earlobe.
Happy Birthday Four You
Four of our offspring were born within three weeks, between October 20 and November 10 (למנינם); not, I should point out, in the same year. Our children get the best deal – four birthday parties a year. You see, first of all, we celebrate their Jewish birthdays. But we can't ignore their secular birthday, so we have a little family-only thing for that, because to be honest, for our sins (and I mention this with worrying proximity to Yom Kippur), we remember their secular birthdays a lot better than their Jewish ones. In addition, we have a quaint tradition with two neighbouring families from Elkana that on the Friday night preceding any of the children's birthdays we gather together for "Afters" and a birthday cake. That's three parties already. And just in case the children feel neglected, Barbara always likes to take us out for a special birthday treat. At least this somewhat tiresome process fulfils one of Judy's parenting epithets – "Give them a good childhood". Hope it's a replacement or counter-weight to bad parenting.
Ari, eat your heart out
Faithful readers will recall that Ari turned vegetarian a few years ago. Well, the worm turned. The week he started his new pre-army academy, he asked some friends to force-feed him some chicken, and, ever since, he's been chomping his way through meat, steak, lamb, schnitzel and anything else that used to move. So once again I am the sole veggie in the family, the sole target for ridicule. Many fathers suffer disappointments with their children. I never knew it could happen over eating habits.
Elon and the age of mobility
Elon, as I mentioned last time, is attending a new school and is very very happy, making, as is his way, fast friends fast. His cellular rings all day and night and a journey from school in Netanya home often involves stop-off points in Raanana, Kfar Saba or Rosh Ha-Ayin to meet up with friends. Walk the streets of any town in Israel and Elon will bump into a friend. (Not that I suggest you take up street-walking.)
Naphtali – Drumming the truth out of Daddy
Naphtali got his wish – a full drum set in his bedroom. Reluctantly, I have to confess that his drumming isn't nearly as bad as I expected. It's not exactly Mozart, but it is regular and rhythmical, and so long as his door is closed, deci-bearable. I am amazed at his coordination. His two arms and two legs work in different directions and at different rates, keeping metronomic time. Yet another son outdoes his father with a hands-on feat.
I'm skipping Orli. She got front page coverage with her batmitzva.
Abigail, bless her, continues to bring us nachas. She's a real sweetie pie – loving, affectionate and once in a while, briefly beroygez. She draws, sings, dances. She is a wonderful baby-sitter for Elisheva and the only payment she asks for is a hug.
Elisheva is like a clockwork bunny that never runs down. Since Elon, we have not had a child so mischievous or restless. I could fill pages with her antics, but by now your attention span and my lunch-break have been stretched. As an aggregate, just believe me that she has torn more pages out of books, poured more water on the floor, toppled more yoghurts and brought in more mud from the garden than her three predecessors (Napthali, Orli and Abigail).
Would love to hear from all you too. Please forward this newsletter to other family and friends if you think they might be interested and see they're not on the distribution list.
Hag Sameach to you all.
Judy, Michael, Ari, Elon, Naphtali, Orli, Abigail, Elisheva Isaacs
Elkana
How often are you asked "ma chadash?" and respond invariably with a non-committal meaningless "beseder". In this newsletter, we'll make "beseder" into a mini soap telenovella of drama and suspense. Best news of the last two months was of course Alick's safe return – in body and in soul – from Lebanon. Next best news was Orli's batmitzva celebration, which was great fun.
The difference between "R" and "T"
For three barmitzvas I felt no guilt (though much gratitude) that Judy prepared everything herself since, hour for hour, I and the barmitzva boys invested our fair share in learning the leyning and divrei torah to justify getting off Scot (spelling?) free with other barmitzva chores. Orli is not a feminist when it comes to leyning (most girls aren't). So, for her batmitzva, with no leyning to prepare, it would only have been fair and just for me to split the work 50-50 with Judy. However, I conveniently forgot /overlooked/purposely ignored this minor difference between the previous 3 "Bars" and the current "Bat" mitzvah and basically left everything to Judy, while I watched TV and scratched my chest.
Judy did everything. She chose the venue – a most exquisite garden, near Elkana. (We've booked it again, for Abigail in October 2014, weather permitting). She chose the clothes (all the girls were dressed in pink, surprise surprise). She designed and built the invitations herself, just for the fun of it. She printed out newsletter cuttings about Orli. She found the musician, the caterer, the photographer, the benschers. It was her idea to buy confectionary and have our guests wrap it up as Rosh Hashana gifts for injured soldiers, and her idea to choreograph the memorable patented Isaacs family Batmitzva dance. So, thank you, my wonderful Judy, for organizing a fun batmitzva, from Michael, the lazy, lousy lay-about, with the well-scratched chest.
A word about a thousand pictures
Since going digital, photographers don't count numbers. My barmitzva album has 15 photographs in it, all posed, all selected by the photographer. Bruno our French paparacci supplied us with a DVD brimming with nigh on 500 gorgeous spontaneous batmitzva snapshots and placed the burden of choosing the top 200 squarely on our rounded shoulders.
As you all know, there is no such thing as a perfect photograph. There's always someone looking the wrong way, someone with fiery red eyes, someone with an artificial smile, someone frozen in frame changing gear in speech, with a facial expression reminiscent of a chortling camel. Or - and this is a family favourite - the photo is shot from an angle that captures my protruding ears or Judy's big nose.
So Judy and I spent a pleasant but very long evening sifting through near-identical near-perfect photos to choose the best. Should we prefer the family group with Elon's vacant expression or the one in which Naphtali's hair is pronouncedly unbrushed? I felt like a judge on Miss World who has to pick "The One" out of 200 stunningly beautiful dream-girls, discarding one with a freckle and another with a droopy earlobe.
Happy Birthday Four You
Four of our offspring were born within three weeks, between October 20 and November 10 (למנינם); not, I should point out, in the same year. Our children get the best deal – four birthday parties a year. You see, first of all, we celebrate their Jewish birthdays. But we can't ignore their secular birthday, so we have a little family-only thing for that, because to be honest, for our sins (and I mention this with worrying proximity to Yom Kippur), we remember their secular birthdays a lot better than their Jewish ones. In addition, we have a quaint tradition with two neighbouring families from Elkana that on the Friday night preceding any of the children's birthdays we gather together for "Afters" and a birthday cake. That's three parties already. And just in case the children feel neglected, Barbara always likes to take us out for a special birthday treat. At least this somewhat tiresome process fulfils one of Judy's parenting epithets – "Give them a good childhood". Hope it's a replacement or counter-weight to bad parenting.
Ari, eat your heart out
Faithful readers will recall that Ari turned vegetarian a few years ago. Well, the worm turned. The week he started his new pre-army academy, he asked some friends to force-feed him some chicken, and, ever since, he's been chomping his way through meat, steak, lamb, schnitzel and anything else that used to move. So once again I am the sole veggie in the family, the sole target for ridicule. Many fathers suffer disappointments with their children. I never knew it could happen over eating habits.
Elon and the age of mobility
Elon, as I mentioned last time, is attending a new school and is very very happy, making, as is his way, fast friends fast. His cellular rings all day and night and a journey from school in Netanya home often involves stop-off points in Raanana, Kfar Saba or Rosh Ha-Ayin to meet up with friends. Walk the streets of any town in Israel and Elon will bump into a friend. (Not that I suggest you take up street-walking.)
Naphtali – Drumming the truth out of Daddy
Naphtali got his wish – a full drum set in his bedroom. Reluctantly, I have to confess that his drumming isn't nearly as bad as I expected. It's not exactly Mozart, but it is regular and rhythmical, and so long as his door is closed, deci-bearable. I am amazed at his coordination. His two arms and two legs work in different directions and at different rates, keeping metronomic time. Yet another son outdoes his father with a hands-on feat.
I'm skipping Orli. She got front page coverage with her batmitzva.
Abigail, bless her, continues to bring us nachas. She's a real sweetie pie – loving, affectionate and once in a while, briefly beroygez. She draws, sings, dances. She is a wonderful baby-sitter for Elisheva and the only payment she asks for is a hug.
Elisheva is like a clockwork bunny that never runs down. Since Elon, we have not had a child so mischievous or restless. I could fill pages with her antics, but by now your attention span and my lunch-break have been stretched. As an aggregate, just believe me that she has torn more pages out of books, poured more water on the floor, toppled more yoghurts and brought in more mud from the garden than her three predecessors (Napthali, Orli and Abigail).
Would love to hear from all you too. Please forward this newsletter to other family and friends if you think they might be interested and see they're not on the distribution list.
Hag Sameach to you all.
Judy, Michael, Ari, Elon, Naphtali, Orli, Abigail, Elisheva Isaacs
Elkana
July 2006
Note that I wrote this newsletter before the recent escalation in the North, otherwise – hence the jovial tone, which is very out of place at the time of sending.
Let’s get straight down to business. It's just a quicky today.
Clothes Elisheva knows
Elisheva (19 months) is a useful lass. With 3 male teenagers and 3 daughters our house requires full-time outsourced washeteria staff - but instead, Judy and I do it all. We wash and fold shacharit, mincha and maariv. Although all children are very different; their clothes aren’t, at least to the untrained I (sic). One pair of socks or shorts is much like another. What was once Orli’s is now Abigail’s, and who knows if a particular horrendous heavy metal sleeves-ripped-off T-shirt, proudly brought, after extended haggling, in the shuk for 12 sheks (down from 15), was the wild acquisition of Ari or Elon?
At this juncture, Elisheva, our damsel in shining armour, cometh to the rescue. She knows. She immediately and accurately identifies the owner of any garment: “Boom-Boom” (that’s Ari); “Noni” (Elon); “Wo-Wo” (Naphtali, or “water”, depending on the context); Arla (Orli); Ba-ba (Abigail) and, a recent addition to her expanding vocabulary “Me” (i.e. Elisheva). Abigail (4) is a great folder, especially of tea-towels. I wish there were more of them in the wash basket.
Born to Dance – 1, 2, 3
Of Orli’s (11) dancing career I have written in the past, and of her understudy Abigail (4). Orli’s portfolio thickens and her achievements pile up. Last week she was the star soloist in her troupe’s end of year performance – a moving story of the death of an Israeli soldier that left few dry eyes in the audience – performed in the presence of the bereaved parents. The third “born to dance” candidate is Ari (18), who, perhaps as a reaction to an over-booky two years, is taking some first steps in Salsa - a style that I think of, inaccurately, as a Brazilian form of the hora. He’s taught Orli and Abigail some of the moves, and they waddle and twist around the improvised dance floors of our abode with much enthusiasm and counting.
Well ain’t that the truth?
I made my living for many years from my way with words. Business writing and copywriting are both about manipulating meaning and embellishing or imprisoning truth to influence people to think a certain way. So who am I to complain about the lexical window-dressers who coined the term “percussion” to mean drums.
Music to his ears
You see, Naphtali (13) is learning “percussion”. The word percussion resonates of gentle xylophones, sonorous glockenspiels, shrill triangles and maybe the occasional finale of a cymbal crash. Ladies and gentlemen. Allow me to remove the blinders. “Percussion” means “drums”. Yes. Drums. Those whopping great big things that people bang on viciously and continuously to make ear-busting noise. Our beloved ‘percussionist”, Naphtali, has strong arms, and when those are tired, some very very hard wooden sticks that he uses to beat the hell out of his “tarbuka” drum. According to his teacher, Naphtali is a natural. He wants Naphtali to buy a full drum set so that he can “maximize his potential”. One day I may take pride in my son the lead drummer of a world-famous rock band; right now, give me ear-plugs.
Surprisingly, though, the drum drumming on the drum is the least of my problems. Drumming isn’t just a skill; it’s life-changing. Naphtali drums on his drum for maybe an hour a day; for the other 23 hours, he drums on everything else. The fridge, doors, tables, books. Whatever is in his vicinity, Naphtali drums on it. The noise of the drumming announces his presence or imminent arrival, like a cow-bell, and follows him everywhere, like the whiff of an over-applied aftershave.
We don’t need no education
Had the genius lyricist who penned the wonderfully memorable opening line of Pink Floyd’s “The Wall” lived today in the Land of Milk and Honey, he would probably have come up with “We don’t get no education”. I wonder to what extent the catch-phrase of a generation rebelling against a formalized structured educational system impacted ministry decision-makers to lead the school system to its current lows, where literacy and knowledge are reviled values, creativity is encouraged through cut and paste, and learning is a shared experience between parents and private tutors.
Sorry. Just ignore my rants and raves. All I wanted to tell you was that Ari and Elon did superbly well in their bagrut (matriculation exams) and we are very proud of them both.
Times of Change
4 of our 6 children are changing educational institutions this year. Abigail is moving to “gan chova”. Orli is graduating to secondary school, to the Ulpana here in Elkana. Elon’s school, that he has loved this year, is almost definitely closing down so he's looking for a replacement. Ari, who finished school this year will be attending “Ein Perat” in Kfar Adumim (see also the English site), which is a pre-army academy whose guiding vision is – and I didn’t make this up - “to catalyze a change in perception, behavior, and culture at all levels of Israeli society and the Jewish community in the Diaspora”. What exactly that means, I will communicate, PG, in future newsletters, if I ever find out.
It's late, so I have to go. l wish you all whatever one wishes when the nearest festivals in sight are the fast of Tammuz and the fast of Av.
Looking forward to hearing from you guys too, some day.
Michael, Judy,
Ari, Elon, Naphtali, Orly (with an “i” or a “y”?), Abigail and Elisheva
Isaacs.
Let’s get straight down to business. It's just a quicky today.
Clothes Elisheva knows
Elisheva (19 months) is a useful lass. With 3 male teenagers and 3 daughters our house requires full-time outsourced washeteria staff - but instead, Judy and I do it all. We wash and fold shacharit, mincha and maariv. Although all children are very different; their clothes aren’t, at least to the untrained I (sic). One pair of socks or shorts is much like another. What was once Orli’s is now Abigail’s, and who knows if a particular horrendous heavy metal sleeves-ripped-off T-shirt, proudly brought, after extended haggling, in the shuk for 12 sheks (down from 15), was the wild acquisition of Ari or Elon?
At this juncture, Elisheva, our damsel in shining armour, cometh to the rescue. She knows. She immediately and accurately identifies the owner of any garment: “Boom-Boom” (that’s Ari); “Noni” (Elon); “Wo-Wo” (Naphtali, or “water”, depending on the context); Arla (Orli); Ba-ba (Abigail) and, a recent addition to her expanding vocabulary “Me” (i.e. Elisheva). Abigail (4) is a great folder, especially of tea-towels. I wish there were more of them in the wash basket.
Born to Dance – 1, 2, 3
Of Orli’s (11) dancing career I have written in the past, and of her understudy Abigail (4). Orli’s portfolio thickens and her achievements pile up. Last week she was the star soloist in her troupe’s end of year performance – a moving story of the death of an Israeli soldier that left few dry eyes in the audience – performed in the presence of the bereaved parents. The third “born to dance” candidate is Ari (18), who, perhaps as a reaction to an over-booky two years, is taking some first steps in Salsa - a style that I think of, inaccurately, as a Brazilian form of the hora. He’s taught Orli and Abigail some of the moves, and they waddle and twist around the improvised dance floors of our abode with much enthusiasm and counting.
Well ain’t that the truth?
I made my living for many years from my way with words. Business writing and copywriting are both about manipulating meaning and embellishing or imprisoning truth to influence people to think a certain way. So who am I to complain about the lexical window-dressers who coined the term “percussion” to mean drums.
Music to his ears
You see, Naphtali (13) is learning “percussion”. The word percussion resonates of gentle xylophones, sonorous glockenspiels, shrill triangles and maybe the occasional finale of a cymbal crash. Ladies and gentlemen. Allow me to remove the blinders. “Percussion” means “drums”. Yes. Drums. Those whopping great big things that people bang on viciously and continuously to make ear-busting noise. Our beloved ‘percussionist”, Naphtali, has strong arms, and when those are tired, some very very hard wooden sticks that he uses to beat the hell out of his “tarbuka” drum. According to his teacher, Naphtali is a natural. He wants Naphtali to buy a full drum set so that he can “maximize his potential”. One day I may take pride in my son the lead drummer of a world-famous rock band; right now, give me ear-plugs.
Surprisingly, though, the drum drumming on the drum is the least of my problems. Drumming isn’t just a skill; it’s life-changing. Naphtali drums on his drum for maybe an hour a day; for the other 23 hours, he drums on everything else. The fridge, doors, tables, books. Whatever is in his vicinity, Naphtali drums on it. The noise of the drumming announces his presence or imminent arrival, like a cow-bell, and follows him everywhere, like the whiff of an over-applied aftershave.
We don’t need no education
Had the genius lyricist who penned the wonderfully memorable opening line of Pink Floyd’s “The Wall” lived today in the Land of Milk and Honey, he would probably have come up with “We don’t get no education”. I wonder to what extent the catch-phrase of a generation rebelling against a formalized structured educational system impacted ministry decision-makers to lead the school system to its current lows, where literacy and knowledge are reviled values, creativity is encouraged through cut and paste, and learning is a shared experience between parents and private tutors.
Sorry. Just ignore my rants and raves. All I wanted to tell you was that Ari and Elon did superbly well in their bagrut (matriculation exams) and we are very proud of them both.
Times of Change
4 of our 6 children are changing educational institutions this year. Abigail is moving to “gan chova”. Orli is graduating to secondary school, to the Ulpana here in Elkana. Elon’s school, that he has loved this year, is almost definitely closing down so he's looking for a replacement. Ari, who finished school this year will be attending “Ein Perat” in Kfar Adumim (see also the English site), which is a pre-army academy whose guiding vision is – and I didn’t make this up - “to catalyze a change in perception, behavior, and culture at all levels of Israeli society and the Jewish community in the Diaspora”. What exactly that means, I will communicate, PG, in future newsletters, if I ever find out.
It's late, so I have to go. l wish you all whatever one wishes when the nearest festivals in sight are the fast of Tammuz and the fast of Av.
Looking forward to hearing from you guys too, some day.
Michael, Judy,
Ari, Elon, Naphtali, Orly (with an “i” or a “y”?), Abigail and Elisheva
Isaacs.
January 2006
I have an itch. It starts quietly, almost unnoticeable, develops into a sort of gnaw, and when it needs scratched all day every day, it’s time to put out another newsletter. This time, once again, Ari, in response to popular request, has added his distinctive view on the family annals, at the end.
Confessions of a brother of three and a father of four
Idling away one Shabbat afternoon with more time on my hands than desire to do something useful, I chanced across an old newsletter in which I described Orly (now 11) as a baby. In my defense, I was reared in a male-dominated family of four brothers, romanced with a Tom-boy and begat three sons before Orly surfaced. My knowledge of the female species was even more limited than most men’s. Rereading this newsletter after almost ten years was an embarrassment. My descriptions of Orly’s childhood female antics were comic in their naiveté. Since then, I have produced two more daughters and am now a world-leading expert on all matters female (at least up till the age of 11). So, if you remember what I wrote in 1996 or thereabouts and thought it was silly, please be understanding.
Now to the updates on the lights of our lives - our children – in reverse order.
Sock it to me baby
Elisheva (14 months) is a paradox – a great believer at one and the same time in Order and Disorder. For our children, Disorder is a natural state, and maintaining it is a G-d-given religious duty. In fulfilling this mitzvah, Elisheva, daily, empties the kitchen cupboards of pots and pans, denudes our shelves of their books, disperses freshly folded washing etc. etc. This is normal behaviour. What is strange to us is her belief in Order, expressed, for example, via shoes. Elisheva believes fervently that shoes belong on feet. Logical enough, but Elisheva believes fervently shoes ALWAYS belong on feet. If ever you remove your shoes, within seconds, she’ll pick them up and rush them over to you. Should you dare wander still unshod from one room to the other, Elisheva is after you like a dumpling bullet, with your forgotten shoes. Such expressions of Order are alien to the Isaacs family lifestyle. We’ll have to train Elisheva to walk in the footsteps of the rest of the family.
Life begins at “L”
Abigail (4 years – which is one tenth of the way to 40) is into letters. Every week at Gan she learns a new letter. We’re up to Yod now. Her favorite game is guessing what letter words begin with. So “Bayit” begins with Bet, as does “Booba”. Just when we think she’s really getting the hang of it, she’s liable to say something like “Telephone” begins with “chet”, so we’re not really sure yet.
Orly and the performing arts
Orly (11) is the star and solo performer of her dance ‘chug’. She has taught Abigail one of her dances and the two perform for all who will pause to watch. Orly and Abigail are excellently synchronized in choreography, however chronology is not as kind. With the gap in age and size they would be billed as a David and Goliath dancing duo.
Orly loves TV. She and Naphtali are the main victims of their parents frequent and poorly enforced disciplinary campaigns that always begin with the threat “From now on…”. “From now on – only one TV program a day” , “From now on - the TV goes off at nine o’clock” and so on. TV hours have been greatly reduced in recent times, at the price of a dive in Mummy and Daddy’s popularity ratings with the children. Of course, once we get the kids eyes off the goggle box and up to bed, first thing I do is curl up, with a nice cup of tea, in front of the telly.
Getting an angle on fishing
Has our goal-oriented society tampered with our philosophical definitions? Does a poet have to publish to be a poet? Or is it sufficient that he writes poetry, pens some expressive bon mots, or even toys with a poetic strain in his head? Why these questions? Because we have to decide if Naphtali (13) is a fisherman. He owns a rod, line, hooks and bait. He has the angler’s passion, a stylish cast and a story of “the one that got away”. However, so far his net is empty. I say, Life is a journey, a quest, not a result. So for me, he has the soul of a fisherman, if not the catch.
A time and place for everything
Since going to boarding school, Elon (15) comes home for weekends and washing. As I’ve mentioned, he believes school is no place for studying. He prefers playing at school and studying at home, which reminds me of my neighbour in shul – a lover of Jewish choral liturgy – who complained, in all sincerity, when a baal tefilla dawdled too much with the davening, that “shul is no place for hazanut”. Elon has a ton of bagruyot later this year, poor darling. I still suffer a recurring nightmare of turning up to my A-Levels (in 1982) without having revised properly. Elon is a lot smarter than his Dad. Never seen him sweating over exams he took 24 years ago.
Don’t teenagers drive you up the wall?
Just in time for the newsletter itch deadline, Ari (17), has set off a new craze – rock-climbing. The slippery thing about rock-climbing is that you don’t actually climb rocks; you climb walls. (“Climbing the wall” is hardly a new pastime for the Isaacs family; Judy and I have been doing that for 18 years). So they call it rock-climbing, without the rocks, which I suppose is rather like cow-milking without the cows or jay-walking without the jays.
The “rock” is in “Park Yehoshua” in Tel Aviv and is a 15-meter high construction with handholds and footholds molded into some 20 inner and outer surfaces. The climbers climb up, down and around these walls, following predetermined routes of varying levels of difficulty. As with Ari’s previous crazes, Elon and Naphtali have joined the fun. Rock climbing no doubt builds strength, ability and character. However, as Ari’s parents remind him frequently, it doesn’t get you bagruyot.
Ari maintains a Blog. A blog (which I believe is a shortened form of Web Log) is a personal diary posted on the Internet for all to see. It’s OK. I also don’t understand why personal diaries are posted on the Internet for all to see. It’s something to do with the young generation and things we old fogies don’t understand.
If you visit Ari’s blog you will discover he has a wonderful way with words. When the muse takes him, he can churn out prosetry” (a term I just coined to describe Ari’s favourite genre that breaks all the rules of both prose and poetry). Ari is creative, imaginative, honest, and well worth a read. If only he weren’t such a blooming genius in maths and science, maybe I could get him to study a real subject in university, such as literature.
My itch has been well and truly scratched. Time to bid farewell. But first, Ari’s Corner.
Ari’s corner
One might speculate, upon seeing this ridiculous discrimination, that teenagers only drive their parents up the wall when cornered. Yet someone must speak for the oppressed part of the family, even if only out of a corner...The winners write the history, but that doesn’t necessarily mean the perpetrators write the newsletter.
The climbing craze is not the only one changing age-old family customs. My dear father forgot to mention that music is now a dominant part of the Isaacs household culture. A unanimous agreement that music is important in life has formed amongst the kids; sadly the parents are a little behind. Teenage music is now almost constantly playing in the background, or as my parents would say, blaring in the foreground. Perhaps the reason Dad forgot to mention it is that he is fighting it down with an iron fist. The irony of the fact that the noise created by his “turn off that bloody noise” shouts is tenfold louder and much less harmonic than the music, has obviously been overseen by Dad. Of course we wouldn’t have given up unless upon Dad’s entrance to the house all rockers, rollers and innocent piano fans must move swiftly to the closest bomb proof shelter, lest they be caught in the crossfire as dad shoots fire and brimstone at anything with notes.
I would like to use this stage to declare my love for my parents, perhaps even my admiration. I believe they give us a free hand, allow us and even give us the means to do a lot of things I’d never allow myself really... The perpetrators/oppressed theme was only about the music, and quiet inaccurate at that. I want everyone to know that they are amazing. Admittedly I only consent to this fact from time to time, so I’m counting on the receivers of this letter to remind them when I’m in a typical teenage mood.
Lots of love
Michael, Judy
Ari, Elon, Naphtali, Orly, Abigail and Elisheva
Confessions of a brother of three and a father of four
Idling away one Shabbat afternoon with more time on my hands than desire to do something useful, I chanced across an old newsletter in which I described Orly (now 11) as a baby. In my defense, I was reared in a male-dominated family of four brothers, romanced with a Tom-boy and begat three sons before Orly surfaced. My knowledge of the female species was even more limited than most men’s. Rereading this newsletter after almost ten years was an embarrassment. My descriptions of Orly’s childhood female antics were comic in their naiveté. Since then, I have produced two more daughters and am now a world-leading expert on all matters female (at least up till the age of 11). So, if you remember what I wrote in 1996 or thereabouts and thought it was silly, please be understanding.
Now to the updates on the lights of our lives - our children – in reverse order.
Sock it to me baby
Elisheva (14 months) is a paradox – a great believer at one and the same time in Order and Disorder. For our children, Disorder is a natural state, and maintaining it is a G-d-given religious duty. In fulfilling this mitzvah, Elisheva, daily, empties the kitchen cupboards of pots and pans, denudes our shelves of their books, disperses freshly folded washing etc. etc. This is normal behaviour. What is strange to us is her belief in Order, expressed, for example, via shoes. Elisheva believes fervently that shoes belong on feet. Logical enough, but Elisheva believes fervently shoes ALWAYS belong on feet. If ever you remove your shoes, within seconds, she’ll pick them up and rush them over to you. Should you dare wander still unshod from one room to the other, Elisheva is after you like a dumpling bullet, with your forgotten shoes. Such expressions of Order are alien to the Isaacs family lifestyle. We’ll have to train Elisheva to walk in the footsteps of the rest of the family.
Life begins at “L”
Abigail (4 years – which is one tenth of the way to 40) is into letters. Every week at Gan she learns a new letter. We’re up to Yod now. Her favorite game is guessing what letter words begin with. So “Bayit” begins with Bet, as does “Booba”. Just when we think she’s really getting the hang of it, she’s liable to say something like “Telephone” begins with “chet”, so we’re not really sure yet.
Orly and the performing arts
Orly (11) is the star and solo performer of her dance ‘chug’. She has taught Abigail one of her dances and the two perform for all who will pause to watch. Orly and Abigail are excellently synchronized in choreography, however chronology is not as kind. With the gap in age and size they would be billed as a David and Goliath dancing duo.
Orly loves TV. She and Naphtali are the main victims of their parents frequent and poorly enforced disciplinary campaigns that always begin with the threat “From now on…”. “From now on – only one TV program a day” , “From now on - the TV goes off at nine o’clock” and so on. TV hours have been greatly reduced in recent times, at the price of a dive in Mummy and Daddy’s popularity ratings with the children. Of course, once we get the kids eyes off the goggle box and up to bed, first thing I do is curl up, with a nice cup of tea, in front of the telly.
Getting an angle on fishing
Has our goal-oriented society tampered with our philosophical definitions? Does a poet have to publish to be a poet? Or is it sufficient that he writes poetry, pens some expressive bon mots, or even toys with a poetic strain in his head? Why these questions? Because we have to decide if Naphtali (13) is a fisherman. He owns a rod, line, hooks and bait. He has the angler’s passion, a stylish cast and a story of “the one that got away”. However, so far his net is empty. I say, Life is a journey, a quest, not a result. So for me, he has the soul of a fisherman, if not the catch.
A time and place for everything
Since going to boarding school, Elon (15) comes home for weekends and washing. As I’ve mentioned, he believes school is no place for studying. He prefers playing at school and studying at home, which reminds me of my neighbour in shul – a lover of Jewish choral liturgy – who complained, in all sincerity, when a baal tefilla dawdled too much with the davening, that “shul is no place for hazanut”. Elon has a ton of bagruyot later this year, poor darling. I still suffer a recurring nightmare of turning up to my A-Levels (in 1982) without having revised properly. Elon is a lot smarter than his Dad. Never seen him sweating over exams he took 24 years ago.
Don’t teenagers drive you up the wall?
Just in time for the newsletter itch deadline, Ari (17), has set off a new craze – rock-climbing. The slippery thing about rock-climbing is that you don’t actually climb rocks; you climb walls. (“Climbing the wall” is hardly a new pastime for the Isaacs family; Judy and I have been doing that for 18 years). So they call it rock-climbing, without the rocks, which I suppose is rather like cow-milking without the cows or jay-walking without the jays.
The “rock” is in “Park Yehoshua” in Tel Aviv and is a 15-meter high construction with handholds and footholds molded into some 20 inner and outer surfaces. The climbers climb up, down and around these walls, following predetermined routes of varying levels of difficulty. As with Ari’s previous crazes, Elon and Naphtali have joined the fun. Rock climbing no doubt builds strength, ability and character. However, as Ari’s parents remind him frequently, it doesn’t get you bagruyot.
Ari maintains a Blog. A blog (which I believe is a shortened form of Web Log) is a personal diary posted on the Internet for all to see. It’s OK. I also don’t understand why personal diaries are posted on the Internet for all to see. It’s something to do with the young generation and things we old fogies don’t understand.
If you visit Ari’s blog you will discover he has a wonderful way with words. When the muse takes him, he can churn out prosetry” (a term I just coined to describe Ari’s favourite genre that breaks all the rules of both prose and poetry). Ari is creative, imaginative, honest, and well worth a read. If only he weren’t such a blooming genius in maths and science, maybe I could get him to study a real subject in university, such as literature.
My itch has been well and truly scratched. Time to bid farewell. But first, Ari’s Corner.
Ari’s corner
One might speculate, upon seeing this ridiculous discrimination, that teenagers only drive their parents up the wall when cornered. Yet someone must speak for the oppressed part of the family, even if only out of a corner...The winners write the history, but that doesn’t necessarily mean the perpetrators write the newsletter.
The climbing craze is not the only one changing age-old family customs. My dear father forgot to mention that music is now a dominant part of the Isaacs household culture. A unanimous agreement that music is important in life has formed amongst the kids; sadly the parents are a little behind. Teenage music is now almost constantly playing in the background, or as my parents would say, blaring in the foreground. Perhaps the reason Dad forgot to mention it is that he is fighting it down with an iron fist. The irony of the fact that the noise created by his “turn off that bloody noise” shouts is tenfold louder and much less harmonic than the music, has obviously been overseen by Dad. Of course we wouldn’t have given up unless upon Dad’s entrance to the house all rockers, rollers and innocent piano fans must move swiftly to the closest bomb proof shelter, lest they be caught in the crossfire as dad shoots fire and brimstone at anything with notes.
I would like to use this stage to declare my love for my parents, perhaps even my admiration. I believe they give us a free hand, allow us and even give us the means to do a lot of things I’d never allow myself really... The perpetrators/oppressed theme was only about the music, and quiet inaccurate at that. I want everyone to know that they are amazing. Admittedly I only consent to this fact from time to time, so I’m counting on the receivers of this letter to remind them when I’m in a typical teenage mood.
Lots of love
Michael, Judy
Ari, Elon, Naphtali, Orly, Abigail and Elisheva
September 2005
The teenage years are upon us. It seems as if in the last 12 months, at least three of our children became teenagers. What wonderful material for parent support groups sessions and for family newsletters! Does every parent ask him or herself “Was I like that when I was 15”? There are those who would say that for the last 20 years I have been swallowing a daily dose of denial and slurping a suppression suspension, because, as far as I remember, my passage from 12 to 22 was smooth; the greatest aggravation I caused my parents was a refusal to practice my guitar with sufficient frequency. Neither of my parents are in a position any more to set the record straight on that, but no doubt some readers remember my rebellious years differently.
Many children are blessed with stoic, forgetful and forgiving parents who navigate these troubled years with patience, restraint and silence. My poor kids got dumped with a father who gets a kick out of documenting his children’s antics and publishing them across the Net. Poor suckers. The following is some of what’s been happening over the summer holidays.
Teenage Years - Hair raising times
Let’s start with hair. Since they emerged from the womb, my boys never gave their hair the time of day; it was rarely washed and never brushed. Today the boys compete with the girls in hours spent in front of the mirror, number of hairbrushes in their possession, and hair-brushing frequency. Their short back and sides styles have been replaced with shaggy dog dreadlocks. Naphtali recently attended a barmitzva where his mop of hair shocked school friends whom he hadn’t seen him since July. Next day, he went to the barber.
Teenage Years - Investments in vestments
Then we have the issue of clothes. Since their babygrow years, the boys never noticed what they wore, whether it was old or new, tattered or torn. Clothes were removed only for swimming (or showering, if forced to). When we would send them to pack clothes for a week’s camping, they would come downstairs, task completed with little more than a change of socks. Thanks to their maternal grandmother, my children have no shortage of new and beautiful clothes, yet in the last few months the boys have taken to shopping for their own clothes. Naphtali even ironed a shirt for himself once. I can handle boys bickering, babbling, squabbling and cackling. I can’t handle boys ironing.
Teenage Years - Absentee children
Over this summer holiday, our house has served Ari and Elon as an excellent springboard for extra-domicile activities. At 4pm one day, Ari might roll out of bed, meander downstairs and inform us with a yawn that he’s going out with some friends, only to return three days later having spent all night at the beach, and the following two or three days wandering from city to city staying with friends in various locales. Elon is the same. The boys are actually very good; they call us the whole time and let us know where they are where they’re going. But if they didn’t, and we needed to look for them, we’d just pitch up at the beach at Herzliya. Somehow all their travels at some stage involve a visit to Herzliya beach for surfing.
Ari finds his roots
Ari has just returned from a brief holiday in England and Scotland, together with the Obermans. I am delighted to say that he seems to have fully appreciated the beauty of the Lake District, the green-ness of the grass, the views, the scenery, the hills. The space, the distance, the serenity there calm the soul. My one issue with him is that he thinks England is prettier than Scotland – ignorant fool.
Elon the Midrashist
Friday was one of the finest days in Elon’s life; on Friday he officially started the Midrashiya and became a ‘midrashist’. Elon has wanted nothing else for the last six months than to go to the Midrashiya – a yeshiva high-school with what I would call curious educational traditions. Uncharacteristically, I am going to reserve judgment on this school, till we’ve seen what it’s like.
Naphtali the Nurturer
As mentioned in the last newsletter, Naphtali is a wonderful carer for his younger sisters. He is the first to volunteer to hold Abigail or the baby, and can play with either for hours at a time. Holding his younger sisters, Naphtali simply glows
Orly
TBD
Abigail
Judy has recently taken to walking round the yishuv, pushing Elisheva in her buggy.
Elisheva - Daddy’s girl for a day
It was one of the most wonderful times of my life. Judy had been working hard all semester, teaching five days a week, early mornings and late evenings. In Judy’s absence, baby-sitters, especially a doting Boobie Barbara (Judy’s Mum), tended to Elisheva (now 10 months). Then, one day, quite unexpectedly, after many weeks of reduced volumes of quality hours with her Mum, Elisheva decided she preferred her Daddy. (He may be irritable and grumpy, but at least he hadn’t cut back, inexplicably and unjustifiably, on his hours at home). Elisheva wanted only Daddy - to hold, feed and (yes,) change her. I reveled in the attention my 7-month old showered on me. Two weeks later, the university semester ended. Judy was at home all day. Elisheva twigged that Mum was back to stay and transferred her prime allegiance back to where it belongs, to her mother. My fortnight in the limelight was history. Do not think for one second that my spirits fell. To know that, after six babies, for two weeks one of them wanted me, preferred me, fills me, till today with a joy I never expected to know.
Lots of love
Michael, Judy,
Ari, Elon, Naphtali, Orly, Abigail and Elisheva Isaacs
Many children are blessed with stoic, forgetful and forgiving parents who navigate these troubled years with patience, restraint and silence. My poor kids got dumped with a father who gets a kick out of documenting his children’s antics and publishing them across the Net. Poor suckers. The following is some of what’s been happening over the summer holidays.
Teenage Years - Hair raising times
Let’s start with hair. Since they emerged from the womb, my boys never gave their hair the time of day; it was rarely washed and never brushed. Today the boys compete with the girls in hours spent in front of the mirror, number of hairbrushes in their possession, and hair-brushing frequency. Their short back and sides styles have been replaced with shaggy dog dreadlocks. Naphtali recently attended a barmitzva where his mop of hair shocked school friends whom he hadn’t seen him since July. Next day, he went to the barber.
Teenage Years - Investments in vestments
Then we have the issue of clothes. Since their babygrow years, the boys never noticed what they wore, whether it was old or new, tattered or torn. Clothes were removed only for swimming (or showering, if forced to). When we would send them to pack clothes for a week’s camping, they would come downstairs, task completed with little more than a change of socks. Thanks to their maternal grandmother, my children have no shortage of new and beautiful clothes, yet in the last few months the boys have taken to shopping for their own clothes. Naphtali even ironed a shirt for himself once. I can handle boys bickering, babbling, squabbling and cackling. I can’t handle boys ironing.
Teenage Years - Absentee children
Over this summer holiday, our house has served Ari and Elon as an excellent springboard for extra-domicile activities. At 4pm one day, Ari might roll out of bed, meander downstairs and inform us with a yawn that he’s going out with some friends, only to return three days later having spent all night at the beach, and the following two or three days wandering from city to city staying with friends in various locales. Elon is the same. The boys are actually very good; they call us the whole time and let us know where they are where they’re going. But if they didn’t, and we needed to look for them, we’d just pitch up at the beach at Herzliya. Somehow all their travels at some stage involve a visit to Herzliya beach for surfing.
Ari finds his roots
Ari has just returned from a brief holiday in England and Scotland, together with the Obermans. I am delighted to say that he seems to have fully appreciated the beauty of the Lake District, the green-ness of the grass, the views, the scenery, the hills. The space, the distance, the serenity there calm the soul. My one issue with him is that he thinks England is prettier than Scotland – ignorant fool.
Elon the Midrashist
Friday was one of the finest days in Elon’s life; on Friday he officially started the Midrashiya and became a ‘midrashist’. Elon has wanted nothing else for the last six months than to go to the Midrashiya – a yeshiva high-school with what I would call curious educational traditions. Uncharacteristically, I am going to reserve judgment on this school, till we’ve seen what it’s like.
Naphtali the Nurturer
As mentioned in the last newsletter, Naphtali is a wonderful carer for his younger sisters. He is the first to volunteer to hold Abigail or the baby, and can play with either for hours at a time. Holding his younger sisters, Naphtali simply glows
Orly
TBD
Abigail
Judy has recently taken to walking round the yishuv, pushing Elisheva in her buggy.
Elisheva - Daddy’s girl for a day
It was one of the most wonderful times of my life. Judy had been working hard all semester, teaching five days a week, early mornings and late evenings. In Judy’s absence, baby-sitters, especially a doting Boobie Barbara (Judy’s Mum), tended to Elisheva (now 10 months). Then, one day, quite unexpectedly, after many weeks of reduced volumes of quality hours with her Mum, Elisheva decided she preferred her Daddy. (He may be irritable and grumpy, but at least he hadn’t cut back, inexplicably and unjustifiably, on his hours at home). Elisheva wanted only Daddy - to hold, feed and (yes,) change her. I reveled in the attention my 7-month old showered on me. Two weeks later, the university semester ended. Judy was at home all day. Elisheva twigged that Mum was back to stay and transferred her prime allegiance back to where it belongs, to her mother. My fortnight in the limelight was history. Do not think for one second that my spirits fell. To know that, after six babies, for two weeks one of them wanted me, preferred me, fills me, till today with a joy I never expected to know.
Lots of love
Michael, Judy,
Ari, Elon, Naphtali, Orly, Abigail and Elisheva Isaacs
March 2005 (one of my favourites)
ISAACS FAMILY NEWSLETTER – Mar 31st, 2005, 21st Adar B
A day in the life of the Isaacs Family
4:00
Groggily, Judy nudges me. “Michael”. Even more groggily, I pull myself out of bed. No words needed. The unspoken continuation is… “the dogs are barking. Elisheva (5 months) is sick; I’ve been up half the night with her. Please see what’s wrong…”. Rolling semi-conscious downstairs to discover which cat has got our dogs’ goat, I see a light left burning. What a waste. Then I hear tapping at the keyboard. Ari (17) is on the ICQ.
- Ari - No answer.
- Ari! - Still no answer.
- A R I!!!
- What? - he answers innocently, with one and three quarter eyes still on the computer screen.
- Didn’t you hear the dogs barking?”
- No - I pause. He is right. The dogs are silent.
- Aren’t you going to bed?
- I couldn’t sleep. And Daddy, you can reset your alarm clock. I’ll wake the boys for school - Elon at 5.40 and Naphtali at 6.10, right?
- Yes. Thank you darling – Not the response you’d expect from a father who caught his school-age son wide awake at 4am on a school day, but I appreciate the extra hour’s sleep I’ll get thanks to Ari's kind offer to wake his brothers. I hobble back to my inviting single bed. Abigail (3) is there. She must have been woken by the dogs. I cuddle up with Abigail. She is loving and affectionate, but now I’m going to wake up with a back-ache. I rapidly sink off to sleep. Not ten seconds later, the dogs suddenly start howling like never before.
Another dawn breaks on the Isaacs family.
7:15
The alarm rings. Today is the one day of the week that Judy gets a lie in. Trying not to wake her or Elisheva, I tiptoe around the room, lifting strewn clothes and belongings so as to dress silently on the landing, with the bedroom door closed, lest the ruffling of my shirt or the jingle of change in my pocket disturb my tired princess. As I kick my last shoe out the door, my cellular phone slips out a pocket smashing to the floor. “Sorry...”.
7:18
I peek into the bedrooms. Ari, Elon (14) and Naphtali’s (12) beds are all empty. They’re off to school. Ari kept his word. I gently nudge Orly (10) for the first time: “Daddy, five minutes more. Please”. This is the first installment of what Louis XIV called “le grand reveil” (pardon my French). I wake Orly on average four times before she emerges from bed. Each wakening is progressively louder and less gentle. At the first call, she requests five minutes more; at the second call, two minutes more; at the third call, 20 seconds. The fifth wake up call, if needed, often involves cold water.
I descend the stairs to make the small children’s sandwiches. Peering over the door of the fridge I espy a child, fully-dressed, ready for school, asleep on the couch. I make a quick calculation. 3 children woke up; 2 made it to the school bus. Not bad. There have been worse days. I spread a handy blanket over Naphtali, letting him sleep warmly for another 15 minutes.
7:54
I lift Abigail into the car still asleep. She likes to wake in her car seat. I drop Orly at school seconds before the 8 o’clock bell, drive to gan (nursery school), dress Abigail in the car (she loves that), and take her in. From the window, Abigail waves an enthusiastic though impatient goodbye, eager to get down to the serious business of gan. I drive to work. Naphtali sits half-dazed in the car, gradually getting his morning bearings. Fortunately, all three boys go to school near my work. When they miss their school bus, Daddy does the delivery instead.
16:00
The phone rings. It’s Judy. “Ari came home at 2pm today. He skipped his last three lessons. He said two of them are boring and the teachers are idiots, and the other one he knows everything anyway, and he needs to sleep. Elon called. He wants you to pick him up on the way back at 7pm after his table tennis game so that he can come home to walk and feed the dogs. Naphtali’s out on his roller-blades with his friends. Don’t let him watch “A star is born” until he’s done his history homework. Orly is playing with a friend in Shaarei Tikva. Please pick her up on your way home. She asked if we can rent a film. Remember you have to be back by 7.30 today. I’m teaching. Abigail has a runny nose again. Don’t let her anywhere near the baby. I’ve made a soup and a salad for supper. Don’t worry about the washing. Just look after the baby. Must go now. Love you. Bye.”
And the only thought going through my head is “Will I get my run in the gym today?”
17:30
I reschedule one meeting, send a representative in my place to a second, call in sick for a third, and make a vague excuse about a parents’ meeting for a fourth. I get my gear together, lock the office door and slip out silently. Just beside the lift, another obstacle. The VP of Marketing, visiting from England, spots me. No choice. Have to chat him up. 12 minutes wasted. I’ll run for half an hour, instead of three quarters.
20:00
The Isaacs taxi arrives home with Elon and Orly aboard (no film). Judy won’t be back till 10:30. Till then, it’s me and Barbara. Barbara looks after Elisheva, I have the rest. None of the children want soup. OK. So cook your own supper. For the most part, they do – Ari (who has just woken up from his afternoon sleep) makes rice and tofu; Elon fries six egg whites; Naphtali wants nothing. I have no idea what or when or whether he eats; pasta or toasted sandwiches for Orly; and Abigail - she scoops the creamy part off all the milky yoghurts in the fridge. I settle into what Judy prepared plus all the leftovers. I’m stuffed.
21:00
Naphtali won’t do his homework. Orly won’t go to bed. “A star is born” has started. No point even nagging now. Parents need to recognize defeat well in advance. Abigail falls asleep on the couch. I cover her with that handy blanket I used this morning to cover Naphtali.
22:30
Judy arrives home from work and the whole household glows. The children embrace her. She talks to each one, listening patiently to their petty problems and catty complaints. She quizzes them about their day. Judy knows for each child which lessons they had today, the names of their teachers, what homework had to be done, when their next tests are, and their grades. The older children answer her - during the commercial breaks.
23:00
We start telling the children to go to bed. They don’t even pretend to listen. When they sense we’re getting serious, all of a sudden Ari remembers he needs a bath, Elon has to take the dogs for a walk, Orly has homework to do that totally slipped her mind, and Naphtali…well…it’s just too early for Naphtali to go to bed.
01:00
Bed-time for Mummy and Daddy. The house is quiet; the children asleep. I curl up under the covers. There is a faint tap tap tapping on the computer keyboard. The dogs prowl restlessly.
Michael, Judy,
Ari, Elon, Naphtali, Orly, Abigail and Elisheva Isaacs
A day in the life of the Isaacs Family
4:00
Groggily, Judy nudges me. “Michael”. Even more groggily, I pull myself out of bed. No words needed. The unspoken continuation is… “the dogs are barking. Elisheva (5 months) is sick; I’ve been up half the night with her. Please see what’s wrong…”. Rolling semi-conscious downstairs to discover which cat has got our dogs’ goat, I see a light left burning. What a waste. Then I hear tapping at the keyboard. Ari (17) is on the ICQ.
- Ari - No answer.
- Ari! - Still no answer.
- A R I!!!
- What? - he answers innocently, with one and three quarter eyes still on the computer screen.
- Didn’t you hear the dogs barking?”
- No - I pause. He is right. The dogs are silent.
- Aren’t you going to bed?
- I couldn’t sleep. And Daddy, you can reset your alarm clock. I’ll wake the boys for school - Elon at 5.40 and Naphtali at 6.10, right?
- Yes. Thank you darling – Not the response you’d expect from a father who caught his school-age son wide awake at 4am on a school day, but I appreciate the extra hour’s sleep I’ll get thanks to Ari's kind offer to wake his brothers. I hobble back to my inviting single bed. Abigail (3) is there. She must have been woken by the dogs. I cuddle up with Abigail. She is loving and affectionate, but now I’m going to wake up with a back-ache. I rapidly sink off to sleep. Not ten seconds later, the dogs suddenly start howling like never before.
Another dawn breaks on the Isaacs family.
7:15
The alarm rings. Today is the one day of the week that Judy gets a lie in. Trying not to wake her or Elisheva, I tiptoe around the room, lifting strewn clothes and belongings so as to dress silently on the landing, with the bedroom door closed, lest the ruffling of my shirt or the jingle of change in my pocket disturb my tired princess. As I kick my last shoe out the door, my cellular phone slips out a pocket smashing to the floor. “Sorry...”.
7:18
I peek into the bedrooms. Ari, Elon (14) and Naphtali’s (12) beds are all empty. They’re off to school. Ari kept his word. I gently nudge Orly (10) for the first time: “Daddy, five minutes more. Please”. This is the first installment of what Louis XIV called “le grand reveil” (pardon my French). I wake Orly on average four times before she emerges from bed. Each wakening is progressively louder and less gentle. At the first call, she requests five minutes more; at the second call, two minutes more; at the third call, 20 seconds. The fifth wake up call, if needed, often involves cold water.
I descend the stairs to make the small children’s sandwiches. Peering over the door of the fridge I espy a child, fully-dressed, ready for school, asleep on the couch. I make a quick calculation. 3 children woke up; 2 made it to the school bus. Not bad. There have been worse days. I spread a handy blanket over Naphtali, letting him sleep warmly for another 15 minutes.
7:54
I lift Abigail into the car still asleep. She likes to wake in her car seat. I drop Orly at school seconds before the 8 o’clock bell, drive to gan (nursery school), dress Abigail in the car (she loves that), and take her in. From the window, Abigail waves an enthusiastic though impatient goodbye, eager to get down to the serious business of gan. I drive to work. Naphtali sits half-dazed in the car, gradually getting his morning bearings. Fortunately, all three boys go to school near my work. When they miss their school bus, Daddy does the delivery instead.
16:00
The phone rings. It’s Judy. “Ari came home at 2pm today. He skipped his last three lessons. He said two of them are boring and the teachers are idiots, and the other one he knows everything anyway, and he needs to sleep. Elon called. He wants you to pick him up on the way back at 7pm after his table tennis game so that he can come home to walk and feed the dogs. Naphtali’s out on his roller-blades with his friends. Don’t let him watch “A star is born” until he’s done his history homework. Orly is playing with a friend in Shaarei Tikva. Please pick her up on your way home. She asked if we can rent a film. Remember you have to be back by 7.30 today. I’m teaching. Abigail has a runny nose again. Don’t let her anywhere near the baby. I’ve made a soup and a salad for supper. Don’t worry about the washing. Just look after the baby. Must go now. Love you. Bye.”
And the only thought going through my head is “Will I get my run in the gym today?”
17:30
I reschedule one meeting, send a representative in my place to a second, call in sick for a third, and make a vague excuse about a parents’ meeting for a fourth. I get my gear together, lock the office door and slip out silently. Just beside the lift, another obstacle. The VP of Marketing, visiting from England, spots me. No choice. Have to chat him up. 12 minutes wasted. I’ll run for half an hour, instead of three quarters.
20:00
The Isaacs taxi arrives home with Elon and Orly aboard (no film). Judy won’t be back till 10:30. Till then, it’s me and Barbara. Barbara looks after Elisheva, I have the rest. None of the children want soup. OK. So cook your own supper. For the most part, they do – Ari (who has just woken up from his afternoon sleep) makes rice and tofu; Elon fries six egg whites; Naphtali wants nothing. I have no idea what or when or whether he eats; pasta or toasted sandwiches for Orly; and Abigail - she scoops the creamy part off all the milky yoghurts in the fridge. I settle into what Judy prepared plus all the leftovers. I’m stuffed.
21:00
Naphtali won’t do his homework. Orly won’t go to bed. “A star is born” has started. No point even nagging now. Parents need to recognize defeat well in advance. Abigail falls asleep on the couch. I cover her with that handy blanket I used this morning to cover Naphtali.
22:30
Judy arrives home from work and the whole household glows. The children embrace her. She talks to each one, listening patiently to their petty problems and catty complaints. She quizzes them about their day. Judy knows for each child which lessons they had today, the names of their teachers, what homework had to be done, when their next tests are, and their grades. The older children answer her - during the commercial breaks.
23:00
We start telling the children to go to bed. They don’t even pretend to listen. When they sense we’re getting serious, all of a sudden Ari remembers he needs a bath, Elon has to take the dogs for a walk, Orly has homework to do that totally slipped her mind, and Naphtali…well…it’s just too early for Naphtali to go to bed.
01:00
Bed-time for Mummy and Daddy. The house is quiet; the children asleep. I curl up under the covers. There is a faint tap tap tapping on the computer keyboard. The dogs prowl restlessly.
Michael, Judy,
Ari, Elon, Naphtali, Orly, Abigail and Elisheva Isaacs
January 2005
Visitors to the Isaacs Elkana manor are accustomed to a warm, if somewhat disorganized welcome. But no more. After bubbling under the surface for months like a puffing volcano, two weeks ago, a new reign of terror erupted, led by the explosive tyrant, Judy. With a passion formerly reserved only for her children and tennis, Judy set about sorting out the house once and for all.
The first target was the kitchen. Cupboard by cupboard, she heartlessly discarded crockery and cutlery, with no sentiment or compunction. The cups and mugs took a bad hit. In cold-blooded fashion, all mugs with broken ears and chipped shoulders were liquidated. Next came a two-pronged assault on the medicine cabinet. We disposed of some near antique medicines. Have you ever seen anti-biotic syrup seven years after its expiry date?
Phase 2 of the battle plan was the children’s wardrobes. Each garment was evaluated and either returned to the cupboard, given to charity or dumped. Hidden microphones picked up murmurs such as “This shirt is torn in four places”; “These trousers don’t reach Elon’s knees”; “You could drive a tank through the holes in this sock”.
Next, Judy called up the reserves and ordered me to fix the cupboard doors and hang pictures, or – and here comes the ultimate threat against a Scotsman - she would call in somebody and pay him to do it. Did I have a choice?
And so it goes. Every day I come home from work to discover overflowing bin-bags blocking the driveway. Inside the house, something else has gone – unwatched videos, unread books, unwanted knick knacks, and the house looks cleaner and brighter and tidier and most important of all, emptier. It’s a pleasure having a house full of only the things you want.
And to our darling offspring
I don’t want to be caught 10 years down the line in a false prophecy, but, if personalities don’t change from birth, as some academics would have us believe, we have something special in Elisheva (3 months). She is sweet, tranquil and funny, and only cries when there is a very good reason (such as when Maccabi Tel Aviv loses in the basketball Euro league). I don’t recall at what age babies start doing all the things that babies do, and I doubt many sixth-time parents leaf through the child development text books whose pages we memorized when Ari was a tiny tot, but I do think it is remarkable that a three-month old baby actually giggles. Yes, giggles. It’s the funniest thing in the world to hear a three-month old giggle. She sets the whole family off with infectious laughter.
Abigail (3) contributes greatly to the colour of the house, metaphorically and, unfortunately literally. Despite Judy’s spring cleaning, our walls, tables and floor-tiles are brightly decorated – at least until the maid comes on Thursdays - with artistic splashes of colour, hand-painted by Abigail and a particularly roguish friend. But you can’t be angry with Abigail. She too has a wonderful warm winning open and loving character, and a smile and laugh that melt icebergs.
Orly (10) has earrings. This may not seem a big thing, but believe me it is. Orly has been begging for earrings since before she could talk. We brushed her off for years with “when you’re batmitzva”, but a few months ago, along came Orly’s 10th birthday party, and Mummy and Daddy didn’t know what to buy her. So, we gave her her dream present; we got a guy with a gun to rip holes in the tender flesh of her earlobes. She was delighted, but since then, we have heard of little else. I come home from work and she says to me “Daddy” in an elongated and expressive voice, which I am supposed to understand. Over time I have learnt to recognize that what lurks behind this single word is: “Daddy. There is something different about me? Haven’t you noticed yet? Look again. Can’t you see? Boy you must be blind. Look. Here. That’s right, where I am swishing my hair to the side. Now can you see? Goodness! Men are hopeless”. At this point, she raises her shoulder length hair, and underneath I espy another new pair of hideous 5-shekel earrings. “Oh! New earrings”, I say, and earn a smile of gratitude that flies her straight to seventh heaven.
Naphtali (12) joined the spring-cleaning fury with Judy. We did some bed-swapping and now Naphtali has a room to himself. Did I say “room”? I meant museum. Naphtali’s room is spotless. Beware the wrath of Naphtali if you cross the lintel with food in your hands.
Naphtali dotes on Elisheva. He’s always ready to hold her and play with her, and gets annoyed with me if I don’t give Elisheva enough attention. If this weren’t such a sexist society, I would say he has a great future as a “ganenet”, but since it is, I’ll assume he’ll become a pediatrician.
Naphtali has also started the long haul towards his barmitzva. It’s interesting teaching Naphtali his parsha. Unlike his two elder brothers, Naphtali is musical, which makes the noisy learning process, somewhat more palatable for the rest of the family.
Elon (14) is our first child to leave home. He sleeps three nights a week at his half-boarding school. This is terrible. Judy and I are distraught. When Elon is away, the house, with just five children, seems empty, deserted, lacking life and vitality. Elon loves his new school with its sports facilities – basketball (at about 1.78 meters Elon is now the tallest member of the Israel Isaacs clan), football, table-tennis, and a gym where Elon builds his muscles. The one drawback of the school is a requirement to attend lessons. Elon tries to keep that part of the curriculum to a minimum, dropping by for the occasional lesson, in his spare time.
Ari (17 this month) has discovered the telephone. He has adopted a near permanent presence on the couch, supine, feet in the air, balancing a cushion on his knees, whispering into the mouthpiece. If you want an appointment with him, he frees up around 3am. Before and after talking on the phone, Ari amuses himself by getting on the Internet and chatting with his phone pals electronically. 17, it seems, is the age of communications (just not with parents).
Least and last, me, Michael, at the tender age of 41, I did it. I ran my first (and probably last) marathon. It was wonderful. Elon ran along for the first 19 kms, and would have run more if I hadn’t forbid him. Everyone is sick of hearing me talk about it, so we’ll leave that story for my next period of writer’s drought.
Love to all, from all
Michael, Judy,
Ari, Elon, Naphtali, Orly, Abigail and Elisheva
Isaacs
The first target was the kitchen. Cupboard by cupboard, she heartlessly discarded crockery and cutlery, with no sentiment or compunction. The cups and mugs took a bad hit. In cold-blooded fashion, all mugs with broken ears and chipped shoulders were liquidated. Next came a two-pronged assault on the medicine cabinet. We disposed of some near antique medicines. Have you ever seen anti-biotic syrup seven years after its expiry date?
Phase 2 of the battle plan was the children’s wardrobes. Each garment was evaluated and either returned to the cupboard, given to charity or dumped. Hidden microphones picked up murmurs such as “This shirt is torn in four places”; “These trousers don’t reach Elon’s knees”; “You could drive a tank through the holes in this sock”.
Next, Judy called up the reserves and ordered me to fix the cupboard doors and hang pictures, or – and here comes the ultimate threat against a Scotsman - she would call in somebody and pay him to do it. Did I have a choice?
And so it goes. Every day I come home from work to discover overflowing bin-bags blocking the driveway. Inside the house, something else has gone – unwatched videos, unread books, unwanted knick knacks, and the house looks cleaner and brighter and tidier and most important of all, emptier. It’s a pleasure having a house full of only the things you want.
And to our darling offspring
I don’t want to be caught 10 years down the line in a false prophecy, but, if personalities don’t change from birth, as some academics would have us believe, we have something special in Elisheva (3 months). She is sweet, tranquil and funny, and only cries when there is a very good reason (such as when Maccabi Tel Aviv loses in the basketball Euro league). I don’t recall at what age babies start doing all the things that babies do, and I doubt many sixth-time parents leaf through the child development text books whose pages we memorized when Ari was a tiny tot, but I do think it is remarkable that a three-month old baby actually giggles. Yes, giggles. It’s the funniest thing in the world to hear a three-month old giggle. She sets the whole family off with infectious laughter.
Abigail (3) contributes greatly to the colour of the house, metaphorically and, unfortunately literally. Despite Judy’s spring cleaning, our walls, tables and floor-tiles are brightly decorated – at least until the maid comes on Thursdays - with artistic splashes of colour, hand-painted by Abigail and a particularly roguish friend. But you can’t be angry with Abigail. She too has a wonderful warm winning open and loving character, and a smile and laugh that melt icebergs.
Orly (10) has earrings. This may not seem a big thing, but believe me it is. Orly has been begging for earrings since before she could talk. We brushed her off for years with “when you’re batmitzva”, but a few months ago, along came Orly’s 10th birthday party, and Mummy and Daddy didn’t know what to buy her. So, we gave her her dream present; we got a guy with a gun to rip holes in the tender flesh of her earlobes. She was delighted, but since then, we have heard of little else. I come home from work and she says to me “Daddy” in an elongated and expressive voice, which I am supposed to understand. Over time I have learnt to recognize that what lurks behind this single word is: “Daddy. There is something different about me? Haven’t you noticed yet? Look again. Can’t you see? Boy you must be blind. Look. Here. That’s right, where I am swishing my hair to the side. Now can you see? Goodness! Men are hopeless”. At this point, she raises her shoulder length hair, and underneath I espy another new pair of hideous 5-shekel earrings. “Oh! New earrings”, I say, and earn a smile of gratitude that flies her straight to seventh heaven.
Naphtali (12) joined the spring-cleaning fury with Judy. We did some bed-swapping and now Naphtali has a room to himself. Did I say “room”? I meant museum. Naphtali’s room is spotless. Beware the wrath of Naphtali if you cross the lintel with food in your hands.
Naphtali dotes on Elisheva. He’s always ready to hold her and play with her, and gets annoyed with me if I don’t give Elisheva enough attention. If this weren’t such a sexist society, I would say he has a great future as a “ganenet”, but since it is, I’ll assume he’ll become a pediatrician.
Naphtali has also started the long haul towards his barmitzva. It’s interesting teaching Naphtali his parsha. Unlike his two elder brothers, Naphtali is musical, which makes the noisy learning process, somewhat more palatable for the rest of the family.
Elon (14) is our first child to leave home. He sleeps three nights a week at his half-boarding school. This is terrible. Judy and I are distraught. When Elon is away, the house, with just five children, seems empty, deserted, lacking life and vitality. Elon loves his new school with its sports facilities – basketball (at about 1.78 meters Elon is now the tallest member of the Israel Isaacs clan), football, table-tennis, and a gym where Elon builds his muscles. The one drawback of the school is a requirement to attend lessons. Elon tries to keep that part of the curriculum to a minimum, dropping by for the occasional lesson, in his spare time.
Ari (17 this month) has discovered the telephone. He has adopted a near permanent presence on the couch, supine, feet in the air, balancing a cushion on his knees, whispering into the mouthpiece. If you want an appointment with him, he frees up around 3am. Before and after talking on the phone, Ari amuses himself by getting on the Internet and chatting with his phone pals electronically. 17, it seems, is the age of communications (just not with parents).
Least and last, me, Michael, at the tender age of 41, I did it. I ran my first (and probably last) marathon. It was wonderful. Elon ran along for the first 19 kms, and would have run more if I hadn’t forbid him. Everyone is sick of hearing me talk about it, so we’ll leave that story for my next period of writer’s drought.
Love to all, from all
Michael, Judy,
Ari, Elon, Naphtali, Orly, Abigail and Elisheva
Isaacs
October 2004
And Elisheva makes it 3-3
On the eve of the 6th of Cheshvan – October 20 – justice was finally seen, with the birth of Elisheva. The Isaacs boys, who got off to a 3-0 lead with Ari (16), Elon (14) and Naphtali (12), suffered a late equalizer from Elisheva (11 days) following two earlier second half “goals” from Orly (almost 10) and Abigail (almost 3). Orly’s joy at having a new baby is at least trebled by Elisheva being a girl. So, after more than 16 years, the Isaacs family is evenly composed of 3 boys and 3 girls. Equality, balance, harmony, B”H. (In that case, why is the house so blooming noisy all the time?)
Elisheva is a lovely and, so far, a very good baby. Most of you already received the picture Judy emailed a few days ago. Elisheva doesn’t have all that much to say for herself yet, but with the current frequency of newsletters, no doubt the next missive will tell all about her boyfriends.
Beach Bochurim
“Beach Bochurim” are those who split their time between beach and Bet Midrash; between school and sand; between ספר and surfer. My boys started surfing this summer and, it transpires, it ain’t easy. But with perseverance the boys are gradually learning to ride the waves, especially Elon for whom minor factors such as torrential rain, biting cold and flat seas cannot douse his determination to get into the water.
During a recent interview for a yeshiva high school, the hoary-headed rosh yeshiva enquired of Elon about his pastimes. Honest as always, Elon answered “surfing”. Judging from the Rosh Yeshiva’s reaction – the accurate medical description is “hyperventilation” – this was not the expected response from a yeshiva high school hopeful. Attribute it to Elon’s courage or honesty or the school’s integrity as you will, but Elon was accepted.
Grainarianism (sic)
Two years ago, I became a lacto-something or other vegetarian (meat, fish, bad; eggs, milk, good). For two years I have been ceaselessly and heartlessly mocked, derided and ridiculed by my family, at every opportunity and frequently in public for being a veggie. Then, four months ago, Ari too became vegetarian.
Ari loves (loved) meat. He dined on schnitzels twice a day and thrice on Shabbat. His greatest joy was barbecuing. But Ari is a man of principle. After a school-friend vegetarian evangelist dragged Ari (philosophically speaking) to the moral conclusion that animals should not die for him to eat he turned his back on his favourite food – you gotta respect him for that.
As with so many other projects, vegetarianism ignited Ari’s imagination. After a brief primer on the food pyramid, full proteins, simple and complex carbohydrates etc. Ari launched into shopping and cooking frenzies to prepare protein-packed high-fibre dishes based on appropriate balances of grains, lentils and pulses. Our fridge and pantry filled up with wheat, buckwheat, lentils, beans (of all shapes and descriptions), wheat germ, barley, oats, spelt, burgle, genoa, amaranth and more. (BTW, you can feed a family of 6 for 4 NIS on these grains). Most of the grains are naturally tasteless; Ari gets a kick out of experimenting with spices to make them palatable as well as healthy. He’s in the midst or a rather original “maple syrup and Indian spice” phase right now. You won’t find these recipes in the literature, but Ari was never one to live by other people’s books.
One interesting point to note. Ari’s enthusiasm for vegetarian cuisine stops with grains. He is, I am sure, the first and only vegetarian who never ever eats vegetables. Perhaps we should call him a grainarian.
The selfishness of the long distance runner
Until recently, I considered myself a reasonably decent sort of guy, moderately laid back, easy-going for the most part, honest (when there was no reason not to be), and generally nice. All this has changed. Now I know selfishness and deceit. I have ridden roughshod over others with no care, concern or compunction. You see, I need to run. I just have to run. I just have to.
Here’s the deceit. When I leave for what is supposed to be a half hour jog, I invariably “lose track of time” and return only an hour later (“Goodness. Is that the time?”; “Sorry, dear, I think my watch must have stopped”; “Silly me. I was looking at the stopwatch thinking that was the real time”). I spend my runs thinking up good excuses for coming back late. If I arrive late home from work, it’s always because of the unexpected traffic, and never because of the 45-minute sprint on the treadmill that I slipped in between locking my office and entering the car.
Judy claims I’ve become addicted - to the endorphins released by the brain after extended periods of exercise. These same endorphins are released, so I am told, by marijuana. Maybe I am addicted. I don’t know. Bit if I don’t get a good long run every couple of days, I become irritable and argumentative (normally I am sweet and submissive). Pretty soon Judy kicks me out the house: “Go run for an hour and come back a mensch!”
I try not to take my irritability out on the children, and they leave me alone so long as I don’t tell them to do homework, don’t send them to bed and let them eat as many burekas and toasted cheese sandwiches as they like. That’s a good deal for me. Let them grow fat, fail in school, never sleep. Who cares? Just so long as I get my run.
“Life begins at …” Birthdays
Judy and I have both hit 40 (it’s been a long time since the previous newsletter). Judy made me an unforgettable sumptuous surprise 40th birthday to which she invited, after months of scheming behind my back, almost every relation and friend I have in Israel. Having entered our fifth decades, the adage “life begins at 40” remains a mystery. I suspect it’s one of those meaningless phrases that catches on for no real reason (like “Peace Now”), or maybe I’m just a late developer.
Lots of love
Michael, Judy,
Ari, Elon, Naphtali, Orly, Abigail – and for the first time - Elisheva
Isaacs
On the eve of the 6th of Cheshvan – October 20 – justice was finally seen, with the birth of Elisheva. The Isaacs boys, who got off to a 3-0 lead with Ari (16), Elon (14) and Naphtali (12), suffered a late equalizer from Elisheva (11 days) following two earlier second half “goals” from Orly (almost 10) and Abigail (almost 3). Orly’s joy at having a new baby is at least trebled by Elisheva being a girl. So, after more than 16 years, the Isaacs family is evenly composed of 3 boys and 3 girls. Equality, balance, harmony, B”H. (In that case, why is the house so blooming noisy all the time?)
Elisheva is a lovely and, so far, a very good baby. Most of you already received the picture Judy emailed a few days ago. Elisheva doesn’t have all that much to say for herself yet, but with the current frequency of newsletters, no doubt the next missive will tell all about her boyfriends.
Beach Bochurim
“Beach Bochurim” are those who split their time between beach and Bet Midrash; between school and sand; between ספר and surfer. My boys started surfing this summer and, it transpires, it ain’t easy. But with perseverance the boys are gradually learning to ride the waves, especially Elon for whom minor factors such as torrential rain, biting cold and flat seas cannot douse his determination to get into the water.
During a recent interview for a yeshiva high school, the hoary-headed rosh yeshiva enquired of Elon about his pastimes. Honest as always, Elon answered “surfing”. Judging from the Rosh Yeshiva’s reaction – the accurate medical description is “hyperventilation” – this was not the expected response from a yeshiva high school hopeful. Attribute it to Elon’s courage or honesty or the school’s integrity as you will, but Elon was accepted.
Grainarianism (sic)
Two years ago, I became a lacto-something or other vegetarian (meat, fish, bad; eggs, milk, good). For two years I have been ceaselessly and heartlessly mocked, derided and ridiculed by my family, at every opportunity and frequently in public for being a veggie. Then, four months ago, Ari too became vegetarian.
Ari loves (loved) meat. He dined on schnitzels twice a day and thrice on Shabbat. His greatest joy was barbecuing. But Ari is a man of principle. After a school-friend vegetarian evangelist dragged Ari (philosophically speaking) to the moral conclusion that animals should not die for him to eat he turned his back on his favourite food – you gotta respect him for that.
As with so many other projects, vegetarianism ignited Ari’s imagination. After a brief primer on the food pyramid, full proteins, simple and complex carbohydrates etc. Ari launched into shopping and cooking frenzies to prepare protein-packed high-fibre dishes based on appropriate balances of grains, lentils and pulses. Our fridge and pantry filled up with wheat, buckwheat, lentils, beans (of all shapes and descriptions), wheat germ, barley, oats, spelt, burgle, genoa, amaranth and more. (BTW, you can feed a family of 6 for 4 NIS on these grains). Most of the grains are naturally tasteless; Ari gets a kick out of experimenting with spices to make them palatable as well as healthy. He’s in the midst or a rather original “maple syrup and Indian spice” phase right now. You won’t find these recipes in the literature, but Ari was never one to live by other people’s books.
One interesting point to note. Ari’s enthusiasm for vegetarian cuisine stops with grains. He is, I am sure, the first and only vegetarian who never ever eats vegetables. Perhaps we should call him a grainarian.
The selfishness of the long distance runner
Until recently, I considered myself a reasonably decent sort of guy, moderately laid back, easy-going for the most part, honest (when there was no reason not to be), and generally nice. All this has changed. Now I know selfishness and deceit. I have ridden roughshod over others with no care, concern or compunction. You see, I need to run. I just have to run. I just have to.
Here’s the deceit. When I leave for what is supposed to be a half hour jog, I invariably “lose track of time” and return only an hour later (“Goodness. Is that the time?”; “Sorry, dear, I think my watch must have stopped”; “Silly me. I was looking at the stopwatch thinking that was the real time”). I spend my runs thinking up good excuses for coming back late. If I arrive late home from work, it’s always because of the unexpected traffic, and never because of the 45-minute sprint on the treadmill that I slipped in between locking my office and entering the car.
Judy claims I’ve become addicted - to the endorphins released by the brain after extended periods of exercise. These same endorphins are released, so I am told, by marijuana. Maybe I am addicted. I don’t know. Bit if I don’t get a good long run every couple of days, I become irritable and argumentative (normally I am sweet and submissive). Pretty soon Judy kicks me out the house: “Go run for an hour and come back a mensch!”
I try not to take my irritability out on the children, and they leave me alone so long as I don’t tell them to do homework, don’t send them to bed and let them eat as many burekas and toasted cheese sandwiches as they like. That’s a good deal for me. Let them grow fat, fail in school, never sleep. Who cares? Just so long as I get my run.
“Life begins at …” Birthdays
Judy and I have both hit 40 (it’s been a long time since the previous newsletter). Judy made me an unforgettable sumptuous surprise 40th birthday to which she invited, after months of scheming behind my back, almost every relation and friend I have in Israel. Having entered our fifth decades, the adage “life begins at 40” remains a mystery. I suspect it’s one of those meaningless phrases that catches on for no real reason (like “Peace Now”), or maybe I’m just a late developer.
Lots of love
Michael, Judy,
Ari, Elon, Naphtali, Orly, Abigail – and for the first time - Elisheva
Isaacs
January 2004
Why rise at 4.55am?
Let’s do this backwards.
I missed the news on the car radio. Why? Because at 3pm I was in the middle of an interesting conversation with Elon that I did not want to interrupt. So I said to myself, “What the heck! I’ll hear the news at 4pm”. But by 4pm, I was already home. Why? Because on our way back from Tiberias we took Route 6. What used to be a tiresome 2.5-hour journey between Elkana and Tiberias is now a 1 hour 40 minute drive - with traffic - and just 1 hour 25 minutes (if you don’t necessarily stick to the speed limit the whole way) when you leave Elkana at 5.22am - as we had done this morning despite torrential rainfall that threatened to ruin our day.
Elon and I had been discussing the National Park of Hamat in Tiberias. You see, since the roads in Tiberias had been closed we couldn’t leave. With a couple of hours to kill, we easily sauntered the 3kms from the Tiberias Sheraton Crown Plaza Hotel to the Hamat national park to visit the remains of the ancient village and fortress, tour the ancient synagogues from the Roman and Byzantine periods and admire the very impressive, if Hellenistic, floor mosaic. Interesting as this was, the highlight of this visit was undoubtedly the soothing effect on our aching feet of the scalding hot sulphurous spring water channeled through the Park.
Although Elon and I crossed the finishing line of the “Tresarion” - a 12 km fun run along the banks of Lake Kinneret - in the very respectable time of 1hour, 3 minutes and 45 seconds, our position was slightly less respectable - joint 506th. Nevertheless, history was made. You see, Elon, at 13.5, was the youngest participant in this run by two years. And since the minimum age for participating is officially 15 (Elon received special permission to run this year), he may well be the youngest participant ever. Click this link to see a picture of us running side by side (Elon is just visible behind the old guy with the red shirt).
Our strongest challenge in the run was not the distance (12 kms is an afternoon stroll for me and Elon), nor the clock (we can’t compete with people who run a kilometer in 3 minutes) but the weather. It poured cats and dogs for the 48 hours preceding the run. We davened shacharit outside the hotel bedecked in hats and coats to protect our tefillin from the rain and prepared plastic bin bag coats to keep us dry while waiting for the starter’s gun. In the end, running conditions were near perfect - cold, and dry most of the way.
For the fun-run, the Olympic lie holds true - it’s not about winning, it’s about participating. It’s a carnival. Over 900 runners started the “Dozenathon” (suddenly joint 521st doesn’t sound so bad) and over 400 completed the full 42.4 km marathon. Hundreds packed into the foyer of the Plaza hotel, where sports vendors hawked their wares - power drinks, energy bars, protein-packed yogurts, shirts and shorts that make you whizz and shoes that make you fly. Before the marathon a school of physiotherapists gave hundreds of runners a 3-minute full-body massage - 4 masseurs at a time. The starting line is like a Bnei Akiva reunion with seasoned competitors bumping into old friends and foes, exchanging performances like football card dealers and promising great records today.
The runners come in all shapes and sizes. As you would expect, many are lanky and spindly, but there were also a few unexpected less shapely ones including a woman in her 70’s who propped herself up through the 12 km course with a walking stick. Another participant could only be described as obese; and my favourite character - an 80 year old man who gave up marathons 6 or 7 years ago but still does the “short” courses just for the fun.
After completing the 12 kms, Elon and I watched the real marathon runners as they reached the end. Many of the early finishers looked like they could easily handle another 42.2kms; others were propelled along only by willpower, physically broken, barely able to walk, hobbling painfully through the last several kilometers. It is a humbling sight. At that point, being young and healthy, but running just 12 kms seemed like cheating.
The next milestone is a half marathon (21.1kms). But I have a spell of reserve duty coming up which will destroy my training schedule and diet, and I think medical advice is against 13.5 year olds running that far. So maybe we’ll get there, and maybe we won’t. (Or more likely, my knees will pack in on me before).
My son the King
Actually, Ari (15) has the title of “Monarch” which is a sex-less Politically Correct compromise between King and Queen, but “My son the Monarch” doesn’t have the same ring as “My son the King”. In Utopia - the Internet game that Ari is addicted to, as detailed in our previous newsletter - the position of Monarch is not hereditary, but democratically elected. After the previous Monarch retired, the 20 or so citizens of his realm unanimously chose Ari as their Monarch. I have no idea what his responsibilities include and what methods of checks and balances are in place in his dominion, but I do know that recently his kingdom came under vicious attack and suffered some severe losses. So the young king still has much to learn, although I am informed that the Kingdom is growing again. The light is visible at the end of the tunnel, the economy is just about to turn the corner and all election promises I am assured, will be met.
It’s all about “dough” - some have fun with it, others have to work for it
Abigail (2) is now at that delicious age of transition from babbling to speech. Her sentences are mixed but her meaning is clear. Her brothers and sister still dote on her and she on them. I hope nothing changes there for the next several decades.
Her current joy is “batsek” which is the Hebrew for playdough. For some reason that still befuddles me despite my linguistic training, Abigail insists on pronouncing the ten or so words she knows in Hebrew with the emphasis on the first syllable (מלעיל). Thus we have BAtsek, instead of batsEK. Anyway, playdough is a wonderful toy for children and a nightmare for parents. After she has her fun, Mum and Dad spend hours trying to re-divide the playdough back into its original colours. It’s a Sysiphian task. Despite our heroic efforts, within a few short days, the original six-pack of distinct bright primary colours are mixed into an autumnal greyish-brown.
Email, the second generation
Naphtali (11) is finishing off Junior school this year and will probably join Ari next year in the religious technology school in Kfar Batya in Raanana. Naphtali, together with Elon and Orly has discovered email. All the children love sending and receiving it. So add their addresses to your personal directories and feel free to send them silly pictures and things.
Orly: Orlyi9@walla.co.il
Naphtalti: fafai@walla.co.il
Elon: elony@walla.co.il
Ari: ariisaacs@hotmail.com
Orly (9) is just fine and sends her love. I would write some more about her, but she’s busy watching TV, playing on the computer, counting her emails, and doing “chugim” in dancing and art, so she doesn’t have time to talk right now. She did pass on the message that she’ll be available to tell me what she’s up to, in a couple of years or so, if nothing special crops up between now and then.
That’s about it for now, from me. Sorry for taking up so much of your time.
Lots of love from all the Elkana Isaacs
Judy, Michael, Ari, Elon, Naphtali, Orly and Abigail
Let’s do this backwards.
I missed the news on the car radio. Why? Because at 3pm I was in the middle of an interesting conversation with Elon that I did not want to interrupt. So I said to myself, “What the heck! I’ll hear the news at 4pm”. But by 4pm, I was already home. Why? Because on our way back from Tiberias we took Route 6. What used to be a tiresome 2.5-hour journey between Elkana and Tiberias is now a 1 hour 40 minute drive - with traffic - and just 1 hour 25 minutes (if you don’t necessarily stick to the speed limit the whole way) when you leave Elkana at 5.22am - as we had done this morning despite torrential rainfall that threatened to ruin our day.
Elon and I had been discussing the National Park of Hamat in Tiberias. You see, since the roads in Tiberias had been closed we couldn’t leave. With a couple of hours to kill, we easily sauntered the 3kms from the Tiberias Sheraton Crown Plaza Hotel to the Hamat national park to visit the remains of the ancient village and fortress, tour the ancient synagogues from the Roman and Byzantine periods and admire the very impressive, if Hellenistic, floor mosaic. Interesting as this was, the highlight of this visit was undoubtedly the soothing effect on our aching feet of the scalding hot sulphurous spring water channeled through the Park.
Although Elon and I crossed the finishing line of the “Tresarion” - a 12 km fun run along the banks of Lake Kinneret - in the very respectable time of 1hour, 3 minutes and 45 seconds, our position was slightly less respectable - joint 506th. Nevertheless, history was made. You see, Elon, at 13.5, was the youngest participant in this run by two years. And since the minimum age for participating is officially 15 (Elon received special permission to run this year), he may well be the youngest participant ever. Click this link to see a picture of us running side by side (Elon is just visible behind the old guy with the red shirt).
Our strongest challenge in the run was not the distance (12 kms is an afternoon stroll for me and Elon), nor the clock (we can’t compete with people who run a kilometer in 3 minutes) but the weather. It poured cats and dogs for the 48 hours preceding the run. We davened shacharit outside the hotel bedecked in hats and coats to protect our tefillin from the rain and prepared plastic bin bag coats to keep us dry while waiting for the starter’s gun. In the end, running conditions were near perfect - cold, and dry most of the way.
For the fun-run, the Olympic lie holds true - it’s not about winning, it’s about participating. It’s a carnival. Over 900 runners started the “Dozenathon” (suddenly joint 521st doesn’t sound so bad) and over 400 completed the full 42.4 km marathon. Hundreds packed into the foyer of the Plaza hotel, where sports vendors hawked their wares - power drinks, energy bars, protein-packed yogurts, shirts and shorts that make you whizz and shoes that make you fly. Before the marathon a school of physiotherapists gave hundreds of runners a 3-minute full-body massage - 4 masseurs at a time. The starting line is like a Bnei Akiva reunion with seasoned competitors bumping into old friends and foes, exchanging performances like football card dealers and promising great records today.
The runners come in all shapes and sizes. As you would expect, many are lanky and spindly, but there were also a few unexpected less shapely ones including a woman in her 70’s who propped herself up through the 12 km course with a walking stick. Another participant could only be described as obese; and my favourite character - an 80 year old man who gave up marathons 6 or 7 years ago but still does the “short” courses just for the fun.
After completing the 12 kms, Elon and I watched the real marathon runners as they reached the end. Many of the early finishers looked like they could easily handle another 42.2kms; others were propelled along only by willpower, physically broken, barely able to walk, hobbling painfully through the last several kilometers. It is a humbling sight. At that point, being young and healthy, but running just 12 kms seemed like cheating.
The next milestone is a half marathon (21.1kms). But I have a spell of reserve duty coming up which will destroy my training schedule and diet, and I think medical advice is against 13.5 year olds running that far. So maybe we’ll get there, and maybe we won’t. (Or more likely, my knees will pack in on me before).
My son the King
Actually, Ari (15) has the title of “Monarch” which is a sex-less Politically Correct compromise between King and Queen, but “My son the Monarch” doesn’t have the same ring as “My son the King”. In Utopia - the Internet game that Ari is addicted to, as detailed in our previous newsletter - the position of Monarch is not hereditary, but democratically elected. After the previous Monarch retired, the 20 or so citizens of his realm unanimously chose Ari as their Monarch. I have no idea what his responsibilities include and what methods of checks and balances are in place in his dominion, but I do know that recently his kingdom came under vicious attack and suffered some severe losses. So the young king still has much to learn, although I am informed that the Kingdom is growing again. The light is visible at the end of the tunnel, the economy is just about to turn the corner and all election promises I am assured, will be met.
It’s all about “dough” - some have fun with it, others have to work for it
Abigail (2) is now at that delicious age of transition from babbling to speech. Her sentences are mixed but her meaning is clear. Her brothers and sister still dote on her and she on them. I hope nothing changes there for the next several decades.
Her current joy is “batsek” which is the Hebrew for playdough. For some reason that still befuddles me despite my linguistic training, Abigail insists on pronouncing the ten or so words she knows in Hebrew with the emphasis on the first syllable (מלעיל). Thus we have BAtsek, instead of batsEK. Anyway, playdough is a wonderful toy for children and a nightmare for parents. After she has her fun, Mum and Dad spend hours trying to re-divide the playdough back into its original colours. It’s a Sysiphian task. Despite our heroic efforts, within a few short days, the original six-pack of distinct bright primary colours are mixed into an autumnal greyish-brown.
Email, the second generation
Naphtali (11) is finishing off Junior school this year and will probably join Ari next year in the religious technology school in Kfar Batya in Raanana. Naphtali, together with Elon and Orly has discovered email. All the children love sending and receiving it. So add their addresses to your personal directories and feel free to send them silly pictures and things.
Orly: Orlyi9@walla.co.il
Naphtalti: fafai@walla.co.il
Elon: elony@walla.co.il
Ari: ariisaacs@hotmail.com
Orly (9) is just fine and sends her love. I would write some more about her, but she’s busy watching TV, playing on the computer, counting her emails, and doing “chugim” in dancing and art, so she doesn’t have time to talk right now. She did pass on the message that she’ll be available to tell me what she’s up to, in a couple of years or so, if nothing special crops up between now and then.
That’s about it for now, from me. Sorry for taking up so much of your time.
Lots of love from all the Elkana Isaacs
Judy, Michael, Ari, Elon, Naphtali, Orly and Abigail
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