My father, Ralph Sternfeld Jaskow, passed away peacefully at 9:45 this morning, after a long illness, with his wife and two daughters by his side.
Burial will be in New York sometime on Tuesday afternoon.
May the memory of my father, a gentle and sweet man of the highest ethics, be for a blessing.
Posting will resume after shiva (the week of mourning).
When I visited my neighbor recently, Catschka took a run across the room, leaped onto my lap, and ended up like this in seconds:
Purr... zzz.
I guess that’s what happens when you run around the yard and climb trees all day.
The Friday Ark. The Carnival of the Cats.
When I was a kid, my favorite performing artist was Billy Joel. I loved to hear his piano work, which was so strongly influenced by classical music, and his lyrics, too—I knew the words to every one of his solo pieces from Cold Spring Harbor right up through Glass Houses by heart. His 1981 album of live versions of his lesser-known works, Songs in the Attic, was not new to me, except for the fact that these were live performances. I already knew the songs and still listened to them frequently. And Billy Joel was a real New Yorker, just like I wanted to be (my family moved upstate when I was still very young).
My parents knew how much I liked Billy Joel’s music. (There was no way they couldn’t know; I had it playing on the stereo in my room all the time, though at low volume.) When he performed in Madison Square Garden in 1980, my father bought tickets from a scalper so that I could go, and my mother took me there and sat with me through the entire concert. Heroes, both of them.
Before I go any further, I should make it clear that I’m not much of a fan type. I don’t follow celebrities. I don’t think that a person is great or even good just because he can sing, play an instrument and write good lyrics.
But shortly before the Berlin Wall fell, I saw Billy Joel acting like a mensch, if not a tzaddik.
During one of his concerts in the Soviet Union in 1987, a film crew was lighting the audience. Billy Joel asked them several times to stop, and when they didn’t, he stopped the song in the middle and proceeded to throw a tantrum onstage, during which he overturned a grand piano.
Here is how my thought processes went as I watched the events unfold on television. At first:
Good grief! The man just overturned a grand piano, and all because the film crew didn’t obey him! Ugh, disgusting! What a prima donn—
And then, a flash of a fraction of a second later:
No, this man is no prima donna. No way. This is still the Soviet Union, still the repressive Communist regime. He deflected the authorities’ attention from the audience to himself in the best way possible: by throwing a fit onstage. He would rather have millions of people think he’s a jerk than risk exposing his audience to harm. That’s pretty amazing. This guy is a real mensch.
There was also a scene in which a Russian man, a lifelong fan of his (Victor of the incredibly moving song “Leningrad,” I believe), met Billy Joel for the first time and showed unrestrained admiration for him. Billy Joel’s response showed, immediately and unequivocally, that he was completely down to earth.
I have no idea what Billy Joel is like in real life. And really, it’s none of my business. But for me, the collapse of the Iron Curtain and the fall of the Berlin Wall are bound up in those moments from his trip to the Soviet Union: his attempt to protect his audience at the expense of his own image, and his insistence that a long-time admirer treat him not as a celebrity idol but as an ordinary human being.
If he ever comes to play here, I’ll go and see him just for that.
(Here is Billy Joel’s recounting of the episode during the concert in his own words. Scroll to the bottom of the page.)
Yesterday, I worked as an extra for a film that is currently in production. Here are pictures (and just in case anyone is wondering, I asked for and received permission to take and post them).
We filmed at the former location of the Schneller Orphanage in Jerusalem’s Geula neighborhood, which served as an army base from 1948 to 2008, when it was closed down.
The view of the set from the courtyard:
The mock-up of the vegetable stand, with real fruits and vegetables (I wonder what happened to them after the day of filming):
Portable tracks for the camera dolly. Here, the whole setup is being tested prior to filming:
Two gentlemen who also worked as extras record the moment for posterity:
One of the crew members wore a particularly interesting t-shirt. I thought that some army units were so secret that no one was allowed to know that they existed!
A view of the tower at the front of the building complex framed by high clouds:
A view of the rear tower:
Wow, 1856! During a lull in the filming (there were quite a few of them, at least for us extras), I did a bit of exploring in the old complex. Here are some of the things I found:
A narrow corridor leading from the courtyard to the outside world:
Bits of ceramic used to reinforce construction:
A board on which tools were kept:
Beyond the main courtyard, an overgrown back yard:
Heading back to the main area, pausing for a moment on cobblestones that are more than a century old:
Back on the set, various items:
An extra waits (we all did quite a lot of waiting!):
Now, just so that nobody gets the idea that filming is glamorous: the Schneller compound had been abandoned for some time and had no running water. Therefore, we had these:
There was an outdoor sink nearby with liquid soap. There was also some grumbling, including by high-level personnel on the set, but there was nothing to be done.
Now comes the part that is a bit less pleasant to write about: the food. Actually, it wasn’t so much the food itself as it was a matter of being made to feel included, part of the team. Food is an important part of that... and here, someone evidently missed the boat.
The woman who was in charge of us extras knew that most if not all of us would be religiously observant people from Bet Shemesh and Jerusalem. She warned me beforehand that while there would be catered food on the set, it would not be kosher, since the studio had a contract with a company that did not keep the Jewish dietary laws. In practice, this meant that in the morning, most of the people there had a lovely breakfast that included hot dishes. Those of us who kept kosher had to make do with cold omelette sandwiches.
In the evening, after filming, dinner was served to the cast and crew. It looked like this...
... and it was served here:
The extras from Jerusalem and Bet Shemesh who kept kosher—most if not all of us—got this...
... served indoors at room temperature.
This is the kind of thing that I would have expected to deal with abroad, not in Israel. I have to admit that I was disappointed—and not because of the food or its serving temperature. For me, it has to do with making everyone in the work environment feel included, like we’re part of the team, even for the brief time that we were there. The fact that we were served the food that we were served in the manner that we were served it—at room temperature and separate from the rest of the cast and crew—gave me a feeling that was, shall we say, less than pleasant. It was almost as if we were being told: OK, we’re the cool people, and you’re just the religious, small-town provincials. We had to do something for you, and here it is. Be grateful.
I wasn’t the only one who felt this way. One of the other extras called his wife during dinner and offhandedly described the food we’d been given as “hazerei”—Yiddish for junk. Sure, I would have preferred a hot meal and a fresh salad. But more than that, I wonder: would it have been so difficult to hire a catering company that kept kosher if only in order to allow everyone who had put in a long day of work on the set to be, and feel, included?
Nevertheless, all things considered, it was a good day and I had a lot of fun. I even received personal direction from the director! Lots of us extras did, and it made me feel like a real live actor instead of just a piece of breathing scenery. Here is a photo of myself in Haredi garb—specifically, the cape and turban. The clothes underneath are my own.
The rest of my photos from the day of filming are here.
(Men, be warned. This is strictly a Girl Talk post. If you disregard this warning and continue to read and become embarrassed, don’t blame me. I warned you.)
I’ve never been much into current fashion (except, I confess, for a brief bout of silliness during my teenage years). When I was in elementary and middle school, my teachers—products of the 1960s almost to a man and woman—taught us to question what we were told. Part of that involved learning about the techniques that advertisers used to influence potential customers. We spent several weeks bringing in advertisements from magazines and analyzing them in class, and dissecting popular ads on the radio and on TV. We learned how to use grownup terms like “subliminal advertising” and “snob appeal.” It was fascinating stuff, and I enjoyed it.
But it was more than fun, more than the excitement of kids about to enter adolescence feeling like they were being initiated into the secrets of Madison Avenue. It was valuable teaching. I learned to look beyond the slogans, photos and trends and choose products that I liked, not what someone else was being paid a lot of money to tell me I ought to like. Some years ago, when a saleslady at my eye doctor’s office tried to sell me an expensive pair of frames on the grounds that they were the latest style, I told her: “That’s not how to sell me frames. You have to tell me that they’re pretty, practical and will last me for years, not that they’re trendy.”
Which brings me to the point of this post. Guys, if any of you are still here, I warn you once again: you probably want to stop reading now.
I’ve tried, and used, much of what’s been available in feminine hygiene over the past thirty years. (Good Lord. Thirty years. Now I really feel old!) When I was still fairly young, I settled on applicator-less tampons, feeling that they were the most convenient option. In my view, they were better for the environment because they generated the least amount of trash. For the same reason, they were also more modest, since I had less trash to worry about disposing of discreetly.
And then I found these... and I haven’t looked back since.
I won’t go into detail about how to use and care for them here. There’s plenty of information about that on the Internet (see the Wikipedia article and the individual sites that sell them). I will say that they’re the best option I’ve ever found and that I wish I’d known about them when I was much younger. When I think of all the money I could have saved and all the hassle I could have avoided... well, done is done.
Going the reusable route also gave me a practical use for my sewing hobby. I made my own reusable cloth pads according to a pattern that I downloaded from the Internet. There are dozens, probably hundreds, of good patterns out there. I simply chose the one that I liked best, bought some inexpensive cotton fabric at a local fabric store, took out my machine and went to work.
Since then, I haven’t had to spend one red cent on monthly supplies. The cup does most of the work, the cloth pads are there for extra insurance, and all is well. There’s also the comfort factor, which is pretty important in a hot climate. True, sometimes it happens that the pads don’t look as fresh and new as they did the moment I lifted them off the sewing machine and snipped the thread. So I have to spend a bit more time washing them—big deal! They need to be washed anyway. When they get worn out from years of washing, I take out my bag of cloth scraps and make new ones.
Some years ago, a well-known feminine hygiene company adopted the slogan “It’s all about you.” Every time I see one of the company’s trucks with that slogan on it—yes, we do see them here, with the slogan in English—I can’t resist a smile. Yes, I think to myself, it is all about me... because I get to use products that are safe, comfortable and reusable, and that paid for themselves long ago. My money’s not going to this firm’s advertising execs. As far as this part of my budget is concerned, my money is staying right where I want it: in my wallet.
It’s official, or at least as official as it’s going to get. I’ve got the flu.
I felt a bit more tired than usual last Friday night, but that didn’t seem out of the ordinary. I figured it was simply because I’d been at work at 6:00 a.m. I’d also felt a bit out of sorts for a few days before, but I figured that it was simply anticipation of the approaching weekend with its chance to rest.
On Saturday morning, I led services for my women’s prayer group, Shirat Sara. As the service progressed, I felt weaker and weaker, and when my part was done, I did something that I’ve never done the entire time I’ve been with the group: I went to the couch in the main room and lay down.
That’s when I realized that something was wrong.
I dozed off a bit, then woke up when services were over and the women came into the main room for kiddush. Then I spent some time gathering strength for the walk home. It was slow going. Later on, I took my temperature. It was 101.3.
Grrrr. Expletive deleted.
It goes without saying that I didn’t go to work yesterday (but I’m saying it anyway). I called the doctor, but the earliest appointment I could get was this morning. (To be fair, the doctor said that I should have asked to speak directly with her or insisted on an earlier appointment. But my judgment’s not too great when I have fever.) I spent the day at home, drinking tea and soup and resting, grateful to be living in a time and place where we have such a thing as sick leave.
After my doctor examined me this morning, she said, “You have a flu-like virus. It could be regular flu, or it could be swine flu.” She gave me instructions to call her tomorrow with an update, to go immediately to the emergency clinic if I should feel worse, and a prescription for Tamiflu. “You’ll have to go to the main pharmacy downtown for it,” she told me. “They only have it there. And you don’t have to pay for it; it’s free.” The wind was picking up outside, but so far there was no rain. Off I went.
When I got to the pharmacy, I saw a sign on the door stating that people who had a prescription for Tamiflu could receive it right away, without waiting in line. I went inside, walked straight to the counter and presented my prescription. I had my Tamiflu in hand and was out the door within seconds. It felt a bit weird to receive VIP treatment, but then, it had nothing to do with my own status and everything to do with protecting the other people there as much as possible.
So now I’m back home, drinking tea, having soup and taking my Tamiflu. For once in my life, I’m keeping up with current trends, and have a virus that’s all the rage.
Well, possibly, anyway. If I start rooting around for truffles and acorns, I guess I’ll know for sure.
Haveil Havalim #241 is up at Simply Jews. Happy fourth blogoversary, Snoopy the Goon!
Over the past several months, I have attended two demonstrations against segregation on Jerusalem’s buses. (See my photos here and here.)
Last Tuesday morning, a special 11-member committee appointed by the Israeli Ministry of Transport determined that sex segregation on buses must be voluntary, not coerced.
A special committee appointed by the Transportation Ministry recommended on Tuesday conducting a yearlong trial during which passengers on "mehadrin" public bus lines would be allowed to enter from either the front or the rear doors, so those who wished to maintain gender separation could do so.
However, the committee stressed that the separation of the genders must be solely on a voluntary basis, that the passengers riding on these buses may not impose it coercively and that bus drivers would be responsible for intervening to prevent coercion if it arose.
While I was at yesterday’s demonstration, I suddenly found myself recalling a verse from the Book of Lamentations (1:8): “... She herself also sighs, and turns backward.”
The original Hebrew phrase that is translated as “turning backward” is va-tashov ahor. On Tuesday morning, I remembered it with a slight error, thinking that the word was va-teshev—“she sits in the back.”
When I got home, I looked up the text and realized my mistake. But then, I remembered that the Jewish sages engaged in a great deal of word play in order to illustrate various homiletical points. I decided to follow their example, and this is what I came up with:
איכה 1:8: ”גם היא נאנחה ותשב אחור“: אל תקרי תשב (בקמץ) אלא תשב (בצירה), שהאשה נאלצת לשבת מאחור לא מתוך רצון ולא מתוך בחירה או סתם מקריות, אלא מתוך כפייה ופחד, השפלה והשמצות כגון שעצם נוכחותה ברבים מהווה מכשול גם כאשר היא לבושה בצניעות הראויה, וכל זה מנוגד לדעת תורה ידועה. ולאשה אסור לתת קולה נגד מנהג מוטעה זה או להביע את צערה שמא יתנפלו עליה קנאים וירביצוה, אז אין לה אלא לשתוק ולהאנח....
Lamentations 1:8: “She also sighs, and turns backward.” Do not read tashov (she turns backward) but rather teshev (she sits in the rear), since the woman is being forced to sit in the rear not out of desire or choice or even by chance, but out of coercion and fear, humiliation and false accusations that her mere presence in the public sphere constitutes a stumbling block even when she is modestly and properly dressed. Even though all this violates well-known religious rulings, the woman cannot raise her voice against this misguided custom or express her sorrow over it for fear of physical attack by fanatics. So she can do nothing but remain silent and sigh.
I suspect that we haven’t heard the end of the matter.
No, not the character from the book or the film. I’ve written about Pinocchio here before. She’s a shop cat who lives at a frame store in Jerusalem.
The shopping center where Pinocchio lives is on the other side of town from where I live and work. I don’t get there often these days, but whenever I do, I always like to call on Pinocchio, who was adopted about seven years ago by one of the shopkeepers. When I went there this morning, I dropped by his store only to be told by her near-distraught owner that she had disappeared the day before.
“She’s done this only once before in all the seven years I’ve known her, and she came back the next day,” he told me. “I worry about her. Once, about six years ago, she was hit by a car. She somehow made it up the stairs and came to me, and fainted at my feet. Somehow she knew I’d help her. I picked her up, put her in a box and ran with her to the vet on the corner—he’s gone now but his clinic is still there—and he told me that her injuries were so bad that it might be better to euthanize her. I wouldn’t hear of it and told him to treat her. Even after all the discounts that he gave me, the bill still came to three thousand shekels. Pinocchio’s got a lot of metal in three of her legs now and she walks with a slight limp, but she’s fine. You know, I have metal in my leg, too,” he said. “From the army.”
He pointed out Pinocchio’s usual sleeping place: the highest shelf in the store. “She sleeps up there every night,” he said. “She’s got everything she needs here—wet and dry food, fresh water, a litter box that I clean every day. My daughter’s a vet, and she comes to examine her every few months and gives her her shots every year. And you have no idea how many people come to see her!”
“I can imagine,” I said. “I visited her here once and had to stand in line to pet her. And once I had a cat who lived in a park for most of her life and had lots of fans.”
“Last night I waited for Pinocchio until late, but she didn’t come back,” he said. “When I finally went home, I left food and water outside the door for her, and I came in early this morning just in case she’d shown up. I didn’t sleep all night. I’ve asked every shop owner here to keep an eye out for her, just in case.”
“I hope she comes back soon,” I told him. “I’ll keep good thoughts in my heart for both of you.”
I did my errands with a heavy heart, thinking of Pinocchio and her worried owner. When I was done, I decided to go back to the shop to see whether she’d come back. As I approached, I could feel my heart lift. There she was, walking out of the store into the hall, followed by her much-relieved owner. She had come back only a few minutes before. As I watched, she jumped up on a stool. I managed to give her some skritches as I took this photo:
The cat came back the very next day. Thank goodness.
Standing in for this week’s host—to whom we wish a swift and complete recovery—heeeeeeere’s Catschka!
Ummm... Catschka? Where are you?
“Up here. Can’t you see me?”
Oh, now I see you! Hey, sweetie, come down out of the tree for a bit. You’ve got a carnival to host!
“What—me? You want me to host the Carnival of the Cats? Let me check my calendar. Hmmm, let’s see... climbing trees first thing in the morning, then eating, sleeping, grooming, bothering Her Ladyship, getting skritches and cuddles, playing and eating again, then turning in for the night with Her Ladyship and my mommy.... Nothing here about a carnival. Sorry! I’m going back up the tree now. See you later!”
Oh, come on, Catschka, it’ll be fun! Don’t you want to greet your fans all over the world and let them admire you?
“Oh, well, if you put it that way, I don’t mind if I do. Ahem.... So here, without further ado, is the 293rd edition of the Carnival of the Cats!”
Thank you, Catschka! I’m so proud of you, hosting a carnival like a big kitty! Who’s first?
“Here’s Ted the imperious in soft focus at The Poor Mouth. Doesn’t he look like he rules the roost? He ought to. I rule mine. Or at least I try to. And I must say, Ted’s very handsome.”
Oh, yes, that he definitely is! What a gorgeous tuxxie... look how fluffy....
“Hey, stop staring at him, Rahel! Look at me!”
Oh, right. Sorry. Here, have a skritch....
“That’s better. Now, here’s a cat who knows what she wants—and she’s a gorgeous Siamese, just like me! Go right ahead, Hakuna—demand that skritch! I’d sure love to meet you over at Blog d’Elisson. I’d jump out at you and invite you to play, just like I do with Her Ladyship....”
Oh, yes, Catschka, and we all know how fond she is of that....
“It’s Caturday at Mind of Mog! There’s Meowza, looking so sweet! What does Mog mean when she says that he looks adorable, but if we only knew?”
I think Mog means that Meowza gets into mischief sometimes.
“Oh, good! I like mischief. And speaking of mischief, Rosie’s sharing news of some with Arthur over at My Cats and Funny Stories. Trouble is, Arthur just keeps nodding off.”
Humans do that too sometimes, you know.
“Wow, really? Oh, this is nice: Maddie’s celebrating her eighth Gotcha Day at StrangeRanger! Congratulations, Maddie. My first Gotcha Day was just a few months ago. I send you and your people my best tail-swishes and happy purrs from here!”
That’s sweet of you, Catschka. I send my congratulations, too! Who’s next?
“Luna’s on the patio at CatSynth. I think her patio is very pretty, but it’s even prettier with Luna on it!”
I agree.
“Oh, look, another beautiful Meezer! Cheysuli is grateful that she survived the Male’s birthday. Maybe I should subscribe to the The Cat Post Intelligencer to get the latest Meezer news over there. What do you think?”
I don’t think they sell subscriptions, but we can certainly go and visit.
“That was the last post. Now it’s my turn! Do I get to show my picture now? I’ve waited so long!”
Of course, Catschka. You’ve been a very patient kittycat and an excellent host. So here, on this very blog, is Catschka gazing at me while she rests on the terrace of my friend’s apartment.
“One more! One more! I’m the host, right? So I get one more picture!”
Catschka, you’ve already got two.
“Come on! You said I was a very patient kittycat and an excellent host, right? So I get one more picture!”
Sigh.... Kittens! All right, Catschka, how about the one I took of you in the garden last week, with your tail curving so gracefully?
“Oh, yes, that one’s nice. I do great tail-swishes. Go ahead and post it!”
What’s the magic word, Catschka?
“Now! Just kidding. Please.”
Now what do we say, Catschka? Do you remember?
“Ummm... the next Carnival will be at... oh, Rahel, I forgot! Can you help me?”
Sure. The next Carnival of the Cats will be hosted at Kashim, Othello and Salome’s place, Three Tabby Cats in Vienna.
“Wow! They come all the way from Vienna? Isn’t that really far?”
Yes, Catschka, it’s pretty far.
“Oh. Well, I’m going back up the tree now. Is that OK?”
Sure, sweetie. But say goodbye to our guests first.
“Bye! Thank you all for coming! Come back again soon!”
Also, here is a video that someone shared with me recently. It was filmed in 1996, and is very suitable for those of us who love music and cats:
The Friday Ark. The Carnival of the Cats.
Earlier this evening, I went to visit a friend of mine at Hadassah Ein Kerem Hospital. (It was a fairly routine procedure, and she’s fine, thank God.)
Since I hadn’t been to Hadassah Ein Kerem in quite some time, I decided to take a look at the new shopping center for a few minutes before I went to see my friend. I walked down the hallway, looking at the stores and restaurants and browsing. Suddenly, I smelled cigarette smoke. When I looked to see where it was coming from, I saw a woman sitting and smoking at a table at the end of the hall. A no-smoking sign was on the wall behind her just a few feet away.
I approached her and asked her either to smoke elsewhere or put out her cigarette. “This is a hospital complex,” I told her. “Smoking isn’t allowed here.”
She answered, “This isn’t a hospital. It’s a mall.”
“Smoking isn’t allowed in malls either,” I told her. “Besides, there’s a sign right behind you. I have to walk through here on my way into the hospital, and your smoke is making it hard for me to breathe.”
Her response: “Then don’t stand here.”
I shrugged and nodded, then slowly took out my cellphone. In these parts, a cellphone means a camera. When the woman saw what I was doing, she did a rapid disappearing act.
(I still intend to report the incident to the municipal inspection department—which, I am happy to report, now has inspectors in civilian clothes instead of in uniform. In any case, just a few moments after the woman fled my camera, a boy in a wheelchair who looked quite ill and was connected to an IV was wheeled through the area where she had been smoking seconds before.)
After my visit, I went back into the mall on my way outside and decided to stop in at another shop. As I browsed, I smelled cigarette smoke once again. When I looked to see where it was coming from, I saw a young man leaning over the counter, talking to the saleswoman. His right hand was at his side, almost behind his back, where the saleswoman couldn’t see it. Between two of his fingers was a lit cigarette.
I approached him and said, “Would you mind putting your cigarette out or going outside? The smoke is really bothering me.”
The saleswoman, a young Israeli woman, stared at the young man with whom she had been having a pleasant conversation just a moment before. “What?!” she shouted at him. “You’re standing here with a lit cigarette in your hand? What’s wrong with you? Get that cigarette out of here right now!”
And he fled.
Throughout the almost eighteen years that I have lived in Israel, when I’ve asked people to put out their cigarettes or smoke elsewhere, I’ve received responses that range from understanding to grudging cooperation to outright mockery. On occasion, one smoker has said to another, laughing, “Asur la’ashen! Smoking isn’t allowed here!” as they kept on smoking. Or they’ve turned to me in annoyance and said, “Look, lady, this isn’t America!”
But there was no mockery whatsoever in this young woman’s reaction. She was genuinely upset, angry, outraged. I think that this was the first time I had ever seen an Israeli react so strongly against smoking. For one utterly bizarre moment, I wondered whether I was looking at a younger, blonde, native-born Israeli version of myself.
As these thoughts went through my mind, the saleswoman turned to her companion, another saleswoman in the shop, and said, “Can you believe that? The nerve! Unbelievable! He was smoking, right here in the store!”
Then she turned to me and said, “Thank you for noticing that he had a lit cigarette in his hand.”
“No problem,” I said, and made my purchase, still pleasantly surprised by the reaction I’d seen.
It’s nice to see that opposition to smoking in public places isn’t just for Americans anymore.
(For anyone who may be interested, here is a link to the website of Avir Naki [clean air], an Israeli anti-tobacco group. One of its goals is to enable citizens to take legal action against violations of the laws against smoking in public places and workplaces. The site, which is in Hebrew, includes the texts of the relevant laws and a great deal of pertinent advice. It also includes a form that one may use to report violations, as well as up-to-date lists of the relevant officials at the national and local levels. I have found Avir Naki extremely helpful.)
Once again, my voice features in a short promotional film about the Israeli city of Haifa entitled: Haifa Welcomes New Immigrants.
Click on the link and you’ll hear the narrator: me!
“Hmmm... how can I get up that tree fast enough to grab the bird before it flies away?”
Don’t let her seemingly restful pose fool you. She can move at almost the speed of light when she wants to.
The Friday Ark. The Carnival of the Cats.
So what happened, Your Ladyship?
“Well, there I was in the garden, relaxing, minding my own business...”
“... when I suddenly had the feeling that it was too quiet. Something was wrong. Something was about to happen. I looked up...”
“... and bam! There she was. Before I could get my legs under me, she pounced on me out of the blue, the little imp.”
“See how she puts on her Little Miss Innocent act? Looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, she does... but don’t believe it for a moment! She’s evil! Awful! Diabolical!”
Your Ladyship, you were a kitten once. Don’t you remember what it was like?
“What, me? I never behaved like that, honest! I was a perfect kitten in every way!”
Sure, Your Ladyship. Whatever you say.
“Grrr. Kittens! I wish this one would go climb a tree.”
The Friday Ark. The Carnival of the Cats.
I just found a delightful Hebrew translation of the American baseball classic poem “Casey at the Bat” by Ernest Lawrence Thayer.
I particularly like the reference to the Yom Kippur prayers in the penultimate stanza. Wonderfully on target!
Has anyone told the Israel Baseball League about this? (Oh, wait—I just did!)
