Rich's Chronicle Index

E-Mail Rich

Rich & Sara's Family Page

 

The Brownsteins in the Land of Israel

Chapter 18:

Lag B'Omer: Child Development

May 18, 2004

 Dear Friends,

 

As luck would have it, it seems that the Israeli press is far more interested in my modest hobby of collecting Portland Trailblazer memorabilia than is the American press.  Indeed, last Friday a feature about my somewhat embarrassing little habit was published in Haaretz.  Click here to see what Haaretz had to say about this wacky guy from Portland.

 

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.

 

Feature Presentation

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.

    NEXT CHRONICLE

Rich's Chronicle Index

E-Mail Rich

Rich & Sara's Family Page