Ezi has been going through the boxes of his family’s pictures – he’s never seen some of them. Last week he discovered this photo – which I immediately grabbed and placed on my desk. I can’t take my eyes off it and decided to share it with you.
Where is the embroidery from? Who is this beautiful woman? What is this jewelry? It was customary for young women to dress up as Rebecca at the Well, but I can’t imagine what amazing photograph took this picture – It says on the back that the studio was in Jerusalem and the woman is a friend of Ezi’s grandmothers.
We never really had a close private conversation, so I am not the absolute judge of his character. And I really didn’t want to get into the subject of his second daughter’s book about her father’s abuse of her. My own experience of parenting when I was a child was that physical violence was a legitimate means of punishment. In one of the families who lived with us when I was a child ear pulling and twisting was common and not the most extreme. Kids going to emergency because their shoulder was dislocated was also not unusual. But that was then, and the parents were survivors of camps with numbers on their arms…
I was probably ‘patched’ once or twice. But I don’t remember because that wasn’t part of the atmosphere.
For Galia Oz, that WAS part of her atmosphere. I gather that as the middle child she had the standard behavior problems and was treated differently. And I wouldn’t be surprised if she wanted to sleep at her parents’ home and her father roughly ejected her and sent her to her kibbutz home. And it was probably too harsh, but not outside the norm of behavior for the kibbutz.
It sounds like she interpreted his every move afterward as aggressive and violent, even when it was conciliatory and friendly.
But from her obvious enjoyment at all the attention she is getting at the unmasking of our literary hero, it is clear she also has another agenda than just clearing her conscience about her past.
And she’s gotten more attention from me than I would have liked to give
since yesterday the streets have been crowded with revelers, people who have been vaccinated or believe they’re immune and are celebrating the end of the plague.
At the same time, there are still people who believe that the next round is on its way, and the vaccine won’t work on the new mutants. They are still going mad at home.
we’ve been getting an inordinate amount of variants lately – most likely from the people who were allowed special entry into the country even though the borders are, theoretically closed. It has been said that the airport is the entry point for the new mutants. And who are these people? those who have been given special permission because they will be voting for the parties of the right? I don’t know how true this is. But I know of a few people who can’t seem to get back home to Israel, and some of them are fearful that they won’t be able to return to vote. It’s an interesting way to win an election.
we were going to meet the kids before the lockdown tonight at 8:30. yesterday morning I bought chicken breasts to make for their dinner, something very unlike Ezi’s taste, but standard favorite fare for Ezi. And Challahs. And hamentaschen – something very unlike my taste – but standard fare for Purim. And we made hummus and all kinds of salads. And we planned for sushi take-out too, because our granddaughter has a big competition in artistic gymnastics tomorrow and she’s freaking out. So now we’re stuck at home alone with no room in the fridge.
In a normal time, I would have invited a whole bunch of friends for a party instead – but no one can go out. the kids are next door. maybe we’ll just dump all the food on them.
In the end they showed up for tea. And we found a place in the freezer. And of course, we talked politics.
Every time I see grandparents with their children, my heart goes out. I’d love nothing more than to listen to the megilla in costume with little children. Not in a dry reading, but the humorous version of someone like Mendy Kahan, who reveals a different costume as the story focuses on a different character. Or perhaps a Purim Shpiel – my role as haman as a child left a mark on me. I so enjoyed being part of the story that every aspect of the tale is burned in my character. What is evil? What is good? When does Good become evil? What is fate? What is fated? How can fate be changed? How can we know what should be done?
in any case, my kids won’t be exposed to the entire spectrum of human heroism, hatred, and deception. They know the story, they have acted in the plays, but it has been softened severely – these kids have suffered enough.
and we can’t celebrate with them. They have to meet other children, with and sometimes without masks, and anyway, they have forgotten our significance in their lives and won’t run to us to show us their costumes, or tell stories about their successes or failures at the parties.
On our biweekly walks on the Israel Trail we go through a route determined in advance by the guide. This is our fourth year, walking from the northern most point of Israel to the southern tip, so we have to cover a certain amount of space each time. This means we have to walk at a certain pace. And we have to miss a lot of things. And I’m so exhausted afterward I barely function the next day.
Why do I do it, then? Yesterday we were in fields of the most beautiful flowers in the world – black irises, tel-aviv garlic (yes – only in the coastal area of this county). and all I could do was snap hurried pictures.
But now I know where to go back to see the flowers – near Ramat Poleg.
And to know where I want to return is the important thing. I don’t care about going back to the crusader castle ruins, or the battle sites and memorials for lost soldiers, and I’m glad we went through them quickly.
Suddenly I’m feeling like Joseph Addison, or maybe Samuel Johnson. Like an old fogie giving advice and trying to teach the young generation how to behave.
But slow walking is for amazing beauty, for smelling flowers.