Slice of Life

Winter has arrived in Israel.  There was a cold day last week and it’s also the last week of January, so we call it winter.  With Beit Shemesh reaching 73 degrees this past Friday, it’s time to bundle up.  But seriously, in our town, it usually drops into the 50s or 40s in the evenings, and this winter season has brought with it a slew of viruses: Covid, flu, stomach, and whatever else.  I, myself, have been under the weather for a week already with a runny nose, aches, and barely a remnant of my voice. I’m so sorry to have to say this but those of you who were thinking about tracking down my phone number and calling me to tell me how much you enjoy my column will now have to wait. Talking, which is usually an enjoyable activity, is not fun at all right now.  It’s not even an activity.  And the fact that nobody can hear me causes frustration for all involved: me - the unable to talker - and everyone else - the unable to hearers. But what can I do?  When I get a nasty cold, it usually goes straight for the jugular. Literally.  And my voice goes into hiding.

At the age of 19, Chavie* was in her second year of college, working hard at school, happily spending her free time with friends and family, and generally living a life typical of girls her age. A little over nine years ago, during the period of the Yamim Nora’im, Chavie’s life took an unexpected sharp turn. 

We needed a break. Close to 20 years ago, when there was a lot going on, my husband and I decided that we needed to get away just a bit. It was a last-minute thing, but we managed to locate a tzimmer (bungalow) to rent up north in a moshav in the Galil region. We farmed out our kids, packed up some food, and were off to spend a relaxing Shabbos “away from it all.” Just the two of us.

“How on earth do you work down there?” asked my daughter, who needed to do something on the family computer.   My hole “office” is the tiny vestibule at the bottom of our basement staircase which leads to our airy and spacious guest room, my husband’s spacious office, and our spacious garage. My desk is wedged into the not-so-spacious area between the bottom of our stairs and the wall.  As opposed to other rooms in the vicinity which have bookcases, large desks, and proper lighting, my office has a garbage pail and convenient access to our collection of dusty suitcases, usually located under the staircase but which were temporarily removed due to a recent flood. 

I love taking long walks down Memory Lane, and have done so often on these very pages. But having done so recently in heavy doses has made me reflect on one of my favorite pastimes.

I was always a major sports fan. In between participating in a variety of extreme sports, I would go running from stadium to stadium, cheering on my favorite teams.  If you believe that, have I got a bridge to sell you!  I can’t think of anything further than the truth.  But back in the day, I did attend a Knicks game with a friend.  My friend was somewhat of a sports fan and I had always wondered what the big fuss was about, with men running around and throwing balls into baskets.  When we left the stadium a few hours later, my friend was on a high and I was filled with the same questions I’d always had.