Trepidation inevitably courses through my veins as I open a blank Word file and save it to disk with the title “Newsletter”. Why? Because the chances of a draft newsletter reaching your email inboxes are roughly equal to the chances of a salmon leaping up-river reaching its spawning ground. It happens, but don’t take it for granted. My computer hard disk is a veritable cemetery of aborted newsletters with tombstone filenames like “INCOMPLETE”, “FRAGMENT”, or simply “BORING”. Trepidation, and excitement. Here goes.
She’s basketball crazy, She’s basketball mad
As you all know, I love my wife dearly. She is my soul-mate, my “beschert”. And the last thing I should do is tell stories out of school. But sometimes you have to tell it the way it is. And the way it is – is –she’s gone bonkers. Absolutely, unequivocally and incontrovertibly, stark raving Bonkers (with a capital “B”). I don’t call my wife “bonkers” lightly. And she wasn’t always bonkers. It’s a recent thing…ever since she started basketball. She is Basketball Bonkers. It may be foul to blow the whistle on her, and no doubt it will rebound against me, but, no offense intended, she’s lost it.
Judy now lives basketball. She’s on the phone all day to her new basketball mates – most of whom are the age of our children - discussing who’s coming to practice, what lesson was taught by their basketball rebbe – I mean trainer, who gave 110%...
Judy plays twice a week in Elkana – which is reasonable, even admirable and certainly not bonkers. But in addition, after teaching all evening in Tel Aviv, she drives at 9pm to Kfar Saba to play a third game – this time with a different club - arriving home at 11.30pm. That’s already borderline behaviour. On top of that, she has started her own basketball class in Elkana, teaching a group of 12 kids – including Abigail and Elisheva. Fortunately we are religious. Because every Saturday she pines for a game she can’t play in –a “basketball marathon” at Wingate.
We cheer Judy in her home games. Remember Muhammad Ali’s signature shuffle? Or footballer Alon האווירון Mizrachi trademark aeroplane? Judy has a signature too - two pretty but very noisy little girls in the home stand chanting “Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!”.
Judy’s rapid progress has earned her a regular position on her team. She runs up and down the court like a teenager, defends like a guard dog, and shoots like a sniper.
And there are few sights in this world as lovely to me as Judy entering the house after a good game, all red-faced, sweaty and … happy.
Ari – Leaping Ahead of his Father’s Footsteps
My writing career (of blessed memory) tells the story of the last three decades. I started in the 80’s writing 200-page technical manuals. In the 90’s, demand was for 10 page user guides and later pocket size quick reference cards. Today I have to crystallize the unique value proposition of 100 months of software development into a four-word slogan. So when Ari (24) asked me to write a book with him, I knew I was out of practice and out of my depth.
However there are very few things on this planet that are beyond Ari. I would love to share with you just one paragraph of his writing. It’s superb. His characters – fascinating; the plot – gripping; his psychological insights – inspired; his style - magnificent; his vocabulary – stupendous (and he writes in English which is not his mother tongue). IMHO, my father who dabbled in geriatrics wasted his life. Had he chosen to write, he would have put Dickens and Shakespeare on the back shelf. Well, maybe Ari will do the job in his place (but please get your Law degree first).
The Price of a Beret
Last Thursday Naphtali (20) earned his beret – a pale grey one (they call it silver) at the cost of four months rigorous basic training; four months of sweat, exhaustion, sleeplessness, aches, pains, bangs, scratches and… giggling.
You see, despite its difficulties, Naphtali considers basic training a big joke. He’s forever getting into trouble for laughing. Bossed around by sergeant majors who find joy in making you miserable, I ask, where’s the hilarity? I guess for Naphtali the army, with all its posturing, is surrealistically comic? Charades with sweat? [Editor’s note: last week was not surreal]. His officers are not amused and he has run many additional sprints to wipe that smirk off his face. When they want to boost morale, though, there is a new protocol:
כנסו למצב נפתלי (army slang for something like “Do the Naphtali”).
כנסו למצב נפתלי (army slang for something like “Do the Naphtali”).
Nearly Finished Business
Elon (22) is tickling distance from completing his three-year army service. He started counting down the days at around 70. The last two years and nine months had been thankfully uneventful, up until the machinations around Gaza last week. Over Shabbat he told us some of the stories that don’t make it to the press. Let me assure you the army was NOT bluffing about launching an offensive. It was close. Very close. Today he has 5 and 50 days left which is 7 weeks and 6 days.
Grave Concerns for Abigail’s Financial Welfare
I am worried about Abigail (11). It’s time for her to learn the realities of life, the cost of living, micro and macroeconomics, global impacts of the western debt crisis, and the need for a nest egg for a rainy day. My concerns are not groundless. Recently, while helping tidy up, Abigail picked up some coins that had fallen behind the sofa. In a moment of uncharacteristic generosity, I told her to keep them. Abigail promptly gave all the money to a joyful Elisheva. “Why did you do that?” I asked annoyed. Abigail’s response: “אני לא אוספת (I don’t collect money).
I am not Orly’s favourite person right now
We bought our first (second hand) car in 1989; our second in 2005 and our third last week (which I plan to sell in 2020. Any buyers?). The boys are gleeful, but Orly (18) is fuming. I failed in a test of love. With less than one year’s driving experience, to insure Orly to drive the car would have cost 4,000 shekels! So I didn’t.
What would you have done? Can you blame me? Should I feel guilty about treating kids unequally? Have I scarred her gentle soul? Deep down am I just a male chauvinist Daddy? A sexist caveman? Have I sold my soul to the devil for a shekel of flesh? Is this Scottish miserliness? How terrible is her wrath? Will she ever forgive me? Am I fated to hear the accusing words: “You don’t love me”?
Just joking. Made all this up. Orly didn’t say a word. And she has our old banger to herself, till we sell it.
Elisheva, the brunette
Most of you guys aren’t cool. Don’t take that personally. But admit it. It’s true. The proof is, that if you have the patience to read two pages of my family news, the chances are you are old, and old people aren’t cool. QED).
Today, fame is measured in hits and the new American dream is to go viral. There are two Israeli guys who believe their YouTube clip has made it with 331,000 hits (pretty amazing for a Hebrew clip). What they don’t know is that 311,235 of these hits came from Elisheva (8). She has been driving us barmy for weeks playing this blooming clip all day every day. It is a catchy and humourous but vicious diatribe against red-heads (carrot-tops, ginger heads). Some of its more acceptable lines are “ginger-heads shine at night” and “carrot tops get a discount from Orange”.
Here’s the link, but the management is not responsible for the content nor for explaining Elisheva’s attraction to the song. She doesn’t even know many red-heads. One comes to mind, though. Our dentist.J
Chanuka sameach
