The
Brownsteins in the Land of Israel
Chapter
18:
Lag
B'Omer: Child Development
May
18,
2004
Dear
Friends,
My
children's surrogate grandmother, Marcia Machol from Los Angeles (who just
visited us here last month), wrote to me about the Blazers: "Can't believe
you are in the newspaper again. But it was fun reading about your schtik.
To think I saw the stuff myself!"
I
received my first piece of fan mail last week: "Hi, My name is Sarah,
I'm 22 and I am British. I read a lot of world news and I found the link to your
site on Haaretz. I admit to being fascinated by the politics and history of
Israel! I just wanted to write and tell you how much I have enjoyed reading your
blogs, and to wish you good luck in settling into your new life in Israel. Keep
them coming! It's so interesting to read first hand what everyday life is like
there. I'm not Jewish, but I would love to visit Israel one day. Feel free to
write back, I have many questions! All the best, Sarah"
Thank you, Sarah.
My
dear friends Jeff and Marla Schechter have started a service for religious women
between the ages of 16 and 21 who want to learn about careers that complement --
not contradict -- their religious upbringings.
Click here to read more
about it.
I
don't like to dabble in American politics.
As a Jew, it's very difficult for me to deal with the choices in the
upcoming American collection. And I won't take sides -- if for no other reason that, as a
lifelong Democrat, I am torn. Nevertheless,
I have been trying to get a fix on exactly where presidential candidate John
Kerry really stands vis-à-vis Israel. Here
is what I found.
Oh,
and also I had a premonition this week. I
remembered that we owned a few Israeli bonds and thought I would see if I could
redeem them as an immigrant. As it
turns out, if you wait until you are here for over a year to redeem them, you
will be subject to a 25% tax! So
dear friends from July's Nefesh B'Nefesh, start digging them up now.
Oh,
oh, and speaking of technology, we got this really cool, newfangled phone line
that uses the Internet to avoid traditional (for pay) phone lines.
Best of all, you can call us for free on the following L.A.
number (310) 597-4230. Please remember, of course, that we are 10 hours later
here than on "the coast". (To
do the math, subtract 2 from your time and switch the AM/PM.) If you are
interested in how we did this, click here.
Thankfully,
nothing from Billy Baynu this week. I'm
sure he will be back next time. (See
if you can figure out why.)
And,
finally, my beloved wife Sara has written her Chronicle 13, her first chronicle
in exactly three months. It was
worth the wait. Click here.
Lag
B'Omer: Child Development
My favorite holiday when 
when
growing up in Portland,
Oregon, -- without any doubt -- was always the Fourth of July. And my love for the Fourth
had nothing whatsoever to do with patriotism.
My fervor could be summed up in one word: fireworks.
Each
year the nuclear Brownsteins would load up the old Plymouth Satellite station
wagon (383 HP!) and roar off to dear Uncle Fred and sweet Aunt Jane's house.
After hugs and kisses, we were treated to a swimming pool, barbecued
hot-dogs, and a beautiful view of the nearby official fireworks.
Since I was a somewhat
indulged child, my father would have already taken me to one of the nearby
fireworks stands to purchase a modest pyrotechnic set of my own.
This usually included smoke bombs, sparklers, and black pellets that,
when lit, would swell into a smoky, fiery snake.
One
year a catastrophe worse than rain befell my little fire show: I ran out of
matches! (As we would say in
Hebrew, "chaval".) Vowing
never again to allow such poor planning to endanger my fun, I set out the next
day upon my first collection: matches. Over
the next year, not caring even if they were plain white matchbooks, I hoarded
grocery sacks full of potential flame.
As I grew older, especially after
trips to San Francisco's Chinatown, my cute smoke bombs were replaced by far
more potent and explosive fun. Indeed,
some of these toys of mine not only exploded, but also flew at high speed toward
anything they were pointed at, be it the sky or someone's head.
It's a miracle that I survived my gunpowder phase with all my fingers,
eyes, and hearing, and without burning down the entire Rose City.
The holiday of Lag
B'Omer marks the 33rd day after the first day of Passover.
We learn that 24,000 of Rabbi
Akiva's best students died in a plague during the first 32 days after
Passover because they were disrespectful toward each other.
Kind of makes you think, huh? Anyway,
the plague ended 33 days after the first night of Passover, which is Lag B'Omer.
This
year, as Lag B'Omer approached, my neighbors here in Jerusalem cautioned me to
keep our windows and doors shut tight. This
is because Lag B'Omer in Israel features serious and plentiful bonfires.
In America, it's rare to see a Lag B'Omer bonfire; barbecues serve as
tasty substitutes. Yet, according
to my neighbors, in Israel every piece of wood that is not nailed down becomes
part of the celebration of Lag B'Omer.
So,
just after sunset, as Lag B'Omer began, my eight-year-old daughter Batya begged
me
to take her to see one of
the fabled bonfires. Before we
departed, we glanced out from our third-floor balcony and could already see
Jerusalem heating up. Out the
door we went, hand in hand, and found the nearest celebration.
Thirty people were in a neighbor's backyard with a
makeshift pit that was
easily 5 ft. by 10 ft. and was ablaze. They
were throwing everything in it they could find to burn: old doors, broken
crates, Ringo Starr's albums. Anything
that was worth burning, burned.
We
watched for a few minutes. Occasionally,
with no particular need, a little girl about Batya's age also tossed scraps of
wood onto the conflagration, sending plumes of sparks to rush about.
Here and there she would then pull a poker from her belt and rearrange
her creation. I could tell that my
somewhat sheltered Batya wished to be tossing and poking, too.
Some
food seemed to be cooking in the flames. Batya
asked what it was. I wasn't sure,
but I pointed out that food cooked on this kind of fire was probably not the
most healthful since the fire was fueled largely by old paint on treated boards.
Nonetheless, our neighbors were obviously eating and enjoying the
celebration.
At
one point one of the men approached us, speaking in Hebrew through his overgrown
fence. He offered us some
especially charred potatoes broiled on a wire-hanger skewer. Gracefully accepting the lead-laced orb, much as one might
smile when handed Rocky
Mountain Oysters by the Sultan of Denver, I carefully opened it and sampled
their bounty. Batya, who never
misses a trick, questioned why I would eat something that might be hazardous to
my health. Not being an expert on
the subject, I tried to explain the concept of the importance of not being rude;
she seemed to buy into the idea of being a gracious guest -- somewhat.
Soon we were invited into their backyard, where we were offered more of
their feast. After I politely
declined, my daughter suggested that I could have been more polite and accepted
more of their offering. I thanked her for her suggestion, yet still declined.
Soon after we left, profusely thanking our generous neighbors for their
ad hoc hospitality.
Back on the street, walking
around the neighborhood, we spotted familiar parents loading up their expensive
minivans with heaps of nail-spiked shards of lumber removed from remodeled
homes. I couldn't even begin to
explain to Batya my fears of tetanus and inch-long slivers ripping through
upholstery and limbs. Having
learned my lesson from the oil-based-barbecue explanation, I kept this one to
myself.
At
the nearby abandoned railroad track, we encountered three high-school girls who
were delicately creating a pit by placing fist-sized rocks in a circle on some
nearby cement. The girls were well
equipped with boards, newspaper, a lighter and cell phones holstered to their
hips. As they continued to prepare,
we approached and chatted a bit. I
delicately mentioned to the girls that highly flammable trees stood about 10
meters away. Also, they might have
wanted to consider that it was a very windy night.
They agreed, having seen the trees.
Thank you very much. I
inquired of them, as their friends dragged piles of rotted wood near the circle,
whether any adults would be supervising them.
They chuckled. Really?
Huh. Well, how many years
have you been doing this by yourselves? Since
they were 12. Shocked, I harkened
back to the homemade grenades that I once loved to fashion, some of which
detonated a bit too early. Nonetheless,
still amazed by their apparent independence, I finished my interrogation by
asking how late they planned to celebrate.
They suggested that sunrise was normally a pretty good time to go to bed.
Batya
and I stayed around just long enough for them to giggle at my seemingly
pointless safety concerns and to watch them ignite their annual inferno.
The
next morning, Jerusalem smelled like the inside of a burn barrel.
Before lunch, my wife and two kids and I walked along the Sherover
Promenade that overlooks the southern end of the Old City.
We passed through several
crowds of female army recruits who were being given a tour of the Old City
topography via the view. These girls
-- these soldiers in the Israeli Defense Forces -- walked along with their
M-16's slung over their shoulders and their cell phones strapped to their hips.
None of them seemed even remotely intimidating; they just looked like
Barbies in G.I. Joe's clothes with Rambo's pistol.
Toward the end of the tour, a few of them even ran up to the ice cream
truck to sneak a Popsicle.
As
we were about to leave, four of the girls rushed to a rail, stood next to each
other in formation, and pointed their machineguns skyward. They proceeded to methodically clear the chambers, ensuring
that no ammunition was poised for launch. The girls were then instructed
to insert their ammo clips into their weapons, readying them for use.
Some of the soldiers did their task a little too meekly for their
sergeant's taste. After a few helpless
tries, she (the sergeant) went briskly to the meekest to show her how to jam her
clip into place. Lesson learned,
mission accomplished, they all ran giggling onto the bus.
Before
sundown, more bonfires appeared. Having
gotten used to the smell, we opened our windows. We could hear the lilting strains of neighbors singing
classic Israeli folk songs, the kind that would be considered sappy anywhere but
here. It was hard to believe that
the songs we used to sing at camp -- thinking that they were way too hokey for
the real world -- were actually part of the reality, not the myth, of Israel.
I
contemplated the likelihood that the teenaged girls near the railroad tracks
sang the same songs. I considered
that those same fun-loving teenagers, in only two years, would likely be jamming
clips into their firearms. And I
realized that they all know what's in store for them; they know the score.
However, until they must shed their innocence, they are going to sing and
enjoy every minute.
Lag B'Omer is now on my list of favorite holidays.
Anyway, thanks for reading between the lines this far.
I
appreciate and look forward to your comments and greetings.
(And now I can say that in Hebrew!)
As
you know, we are in the middle of a membership drive, so please get me the
e-mail addresses of people whom you want to add. (Let them know ahead of
time, so I don't get in trouble with the spam police).
Please
stay tuned for Chapter 19: “The Dentist.”
All
the best,
Rich
Brownstein
PO
Box 8130
91081
Jerusalem
ISRAEL
Phone:
(310) 597-4230 (Free From America)
Phone:
011-972-2-6733-491
CURRENT
DISTRIBUTION: 470 worldwide
NOTE:
No
bonfires were harmed in this story.
All
characters and events are purely fictional.
If
you want to add someone to this list, or remove yourself, just e-mail rich@brownsteins.net
and let him know. He's cool about
it.
Please
freely distribute to those with too much time on their hands.