One year ago today, I had to say goodbye to my cat-friend of more than a decade, the Lady in Red.
Here is my first post about her.
On my lap, when she still lived in the park:
On the couch, getting a bellyrub (Lady loved bellyrubs):
A portrait:
Lady was special. I’m glad that we had the time together that we did, and I miss her.
No, not among the humans in the region. Among Her Ladyship and Catschka.
They begin their dinners under the watchful eye of their human mom, my friend:
They pause to look at each other...
... and go back to eating, without incident.
All hail to the great peacemaker: food!
The Friday Ark. The Carnival of the Cats.
At 5:00 p.m. on Friday (Israel time), an interview with two members of Women of the Wall will be broadcast on an Israeli Net-based radio station, Essence of Life. Music from my CD, “Day of Rest,” will be played during the interview.
In order to hear the live broadcast, click on the large, rectangular magenta-colored button on the left side of the screen.
(Since I wasn’t at the interview, its contents will be as new to me as they will be to anyone else.)
I just sold my first photo!
Here it is:
Taken during Hanukkah several years ago, this photo shows the hanukkiyyah (menorah) at the Western Wall behind two dividers: the new one at the back, and the older one, perpendicular to the Kotel, that divides the prayer area into separate (and unequal) sides for men and women.
This photo reminds me of some lyrics from the musical The Fantasticks: “Plant a radish, get a radish.”
Gotta be careful brushing those cat hairs off my clothing. There’s no telling where they might end up, or what they might turn into....
(originally written last week)
I should be in bed. I had a performance today and I have another one tomorrow. But one of the songs I sing on stage in this current production is “Look to the Rainbow” from the musical Finian’s Rainbow. And whenever I sing it, I can’t help thinking about Dr. B.
Dr. B. was a physician in the town where I grew up. While he wasn't our family doctor, from what I heard later, he was good and caring. He was also an actor in his spare time, and a very talented one at that. When my sister and I were in grade school, my sister acted the part of a leprechaun in a production of Finian’s Rainbow in which Dr. B. appeared in a leading role. Later on, when I was in high school, I played the part of the timid Catholic nurse, Miss Flinn, in a production of One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest in which Dr. B. played McMurphy. There are hardly two more different roles in theater than Og the leprechaun and Randle Patrick McMurphy, but Dr. B. played them both superbly.
Something seems to have happened as Dr. B. got older. His obituary stated that he had been murdered.
I can’t know what Dr. B.’s life was like, what struggles he had, or what pushed him so close to the edge that last day. When I read the story of how he was murdered, I found myself wondering whether, having gotten into as much trouble as he had and lost so much, he had perhaps courted death, even unconsciously.
Today, when I sing “Look to the Rainbow,” I can’t help remembering Dr. B. as he was years ago, when I was a little girl: onstage as Og (one obituary even mentioned that performance, even so many years later), with his Irish accent and the little staging trick that he used so that he would be able to sing the reprise of “Something Sort of Grandish” from a written text, since he had trouble memorizing the lyrics.
I remember Dr. B. as he was then, and I hope that he is at peace at last.
I feel like I’m meeting myself coming and going (with red-shift and blue-shift as appropriate). We’ve had two performances of Broadway Showstoppers so far, in Zikhron Ya’akov and in Ra’anana. Tomorrow we play on my home turf: Jerusalem! I can’t wait.
Yet, as busy as I am, I still would like to make time for some cat pictures:
Catschka does rest sometimes, as this rare photo attests. That is, she rests when she’s not busy tearing around the place, chasing Her Ladyship, being played with or cuddled, and so on....
The wise Catschka knows the importance of good hygiene and exercise. Here, she combines a bath with some kitten yoga:
Once more at her bath:
Nevertheless, she also knows how to have a good time. Here, she handily turns a paper bag into a chew-toy:
On my lap, receiving her due of kittyworship:
Even though I’ve posted all these pictures of Catschka the kitten, please don’t think that Her Ladyship is being neglected. She gets plenty of love and attention, and is slowly acclimating to the kitten’s presence in her home. (I should note that she came to her home years ago as a new kitten herself.)
The Friday Ark. The Carnival of the Cats.
When I told some friends of mine that I was now using Ubuntu instead of Windows, they warned me that it might not be easy. “There’s a learning curve,” they said.
“Learning curves used to scare me, but they don’t anymore,” I answered. “I got all my computer literacy over the past twenty years by just jumping in and doing it. I can handle learning curves just fine. They’re part of the job.”
I’ve already managed to solve quite a few problems in customizing my new computer. It hasn’t always been easy—or, to be more honest, it hasn’t always felt easy. For example, when I downloaded jUploadr (an open-source tool that uploads photographs to Flickr), I found that it doesn’t create its own launcher. I had to do it myself— and I had a problem. I couldn’t get the command line to work. And let me tell you, I felt so dumb! This is supposed to be a simple thing, right? So why couldn’t I do it? Finally, I right-clicked on the launcher for another program in the task bar, a launcher that the program itself had made, and took a good look at its command line. Oh, that was what I needed to do! OK, slight modification, copy and paste. Problem solved.
Then there was the fact that Picasa (2.7, for Linux) wasn’t sending photos through Thunderbird, my email client. A search for “Picasa not sending emails through Thunderbird on Linux” yielded quite a few results. Apparently, this was a known problem. A post on the Ubuntu forums provided a solution. Again, copy and paste, with slight changes to the command line. Another problem solved. Thank you, Ubuntu forum members!
All this is not to brag about what a great problem-solver I am. I know next to nothing about programming and could not have written these solutions to save my life. For me, it’s about being willing to try something new and learn as I go, and knowing that I’m not alone. There’s plenty of help out there, and lots of wonderful people who are willing to lend a hand.
So if you’re thinking of trying Ubuntu, I’m here to tell you that there’s nothing to worry about. Sure, there’s a learning curve. So what? Don’t most things in life come with learning curves? Come on, jump in. The water’s fine.
First of all: rehearsals! Lots of ’em. For what, you may ask?
For this! We open in Zikhron Yaakov on Monday. (Warning: link contains sound clip)
The kitten is doing fine, though I haven’t seen her in a few days. But Her Ladyship is still upset. I guess that things will improve with time.
Finally, check out this article by Drs. Mark Clarfield and Ora Paltiel on the folly of taxing fruits and vegetables in Israel. Right on!
The Friday Ark is up at The Modulator.
The next Carnival of the Cats will be at CatSynth on Sunday.
My friend, the human mom of Her Ladyship and the late Missy, who passed away suddenly last March, brought a new kitten home this morning. Until she gets her official name, I am calling her Little Babe.
Her Ladyship sniffs out the new arrival:
She gets a good look...
And now we can see her, too. Hello, Little Babe. Welcome to your new home.
UPDATE: The kitten has been named! Her name in Israel shall be Catschka, and may she live a life of blessing, companionship and good deeds.
is here. (Click on the image for a full-size version, and enjoy.)
In my opinion, you don’t even have to like cats to appreciate it. It’s just delightfully well done.
Last week, after seven years of steady, reliable service, my computer finally went the way of all silicon. After a few hiccups that demonstrated its situation, it simply stopped working. It was time to get a new one whether I wanted to or not.
After consulting with D., my fantastic computer technician (who works here; I recommend the company highly), we decided that instead of putting the Windows 7 pre-release version on my new machine, we’d go with Ubuntu. Since I’d been wanting to try Ubuntu for a long time, I was quite pleased.
I still am. Indeed, D. said that out of the sixty-odd people for whom he’s installed Ubuntu over the years, none of them has asked to have it removed. So I guess I have joined the ranks of satisfied Ubuntu users.
I’ve been learning a lot through trial and error—mostly error. But that’s how I’ve acquired almost every computer-related skill I’ve learned since I graduated college, just when personal computers were starting to become popular. I remember the first Macs that required startup discs, and back when 100K was a large amount of storage space. And I remember how, when I worked in secretarial jobs for a temp firm, I picked up programs like Einstein, WordPerfect, WordMill, QText and other similar ones on the job, because I had to.
And here’s the funny thing. Back then, I was a complete technophobe, a Luddite if there ever was one. I still have traces of that—I make my own soap and laundry soap, for example, and go with handmade, reusable items wherever possible.
Still, I cherish the computer skills that I have, and hope to increase them. (GIMP, here I come!)
Thank you, D. the Fantastic Computer Guy. Long live Ubuntu!
First, Haveil Havalim is up at What War Zone???
Second, after nearly two weeks, my camera is back from the shop. Can someone please explain to me why it takes that much time to clean a bit of dust out of the sensor, especially when it only took a few days the last time? Also, can someone please explain why, only a day or two after I’d given in my camera for repairs, the lab called me with an offer to “upgrade” it (which I rejected; the so-called “upgrade” that they were offering is as old as mine, with pretty much the same features, plus I’d have had to pay an additional NIS 300 for it), but it still took almost two weeks to get my camera back?
When I visited my friend a while back, Her Ladyship was in the bedroom, dozing and looking irresistible. She woke up when I came in, and then gave me a look that seemed to say: All right, you woke me up. Now you must worship me.
So I did, petting her till she purred and then some.
Then I took her picture.
“Hey, you’re not done yet. Come back and pet me some more.”
In this country, even an ordinary music rehearsal can turn out not to be ordinary at all.
Last week, I was rehearsing for a gig in a practice room at the music academy on Hebrew University’s Givat Ram campus. One of the two accompanists played the harp. (The other played the flute.) I noticed that of the three harps in the practice room, the harpist was playing the one that was the most visually interesting. Its sound post was beautifully carved, and it had intricate designs in gold paint. Its tone was rich and sweet.
After we had rehearsed for about an hour, the harpist gestured toward the harp she had been playing and asked me, “Do you know whose harp this was?”
“No,” I said.
“It belonged to Harpo Marx,” she said. “He donated it to the academy long ago.”
And indeed, here it is in his Wikipedia entry:
In his will, he donated his trademark harp to the nation of Israel.
I had seen Harpo Marx’s harp solos in Marx Brothers films when I was a child, and I remembered what a fantastic musician he was. And here I’d been singing to the accompaniment of his harp for a whole hour!
Two thoughts raced through my mind then. One was: I need to pick my jaw up off the floor. The other was: Of all the days for my camera to be in the shop!
Wow. Only in Israel.
A fountain on a local campus:
The Gettysburg Address on a t-shirt:
A man works at one of the phone company’s new outdoor workstations. Note the shelf with the phone on the left and the shelf with the laptop on the right.
Three Israeli flags overlooking a building with blue shutters in downtown Jerusalem:
(The sign below the center flag reads “No parking. Vehicles will be towed.”)
I give you Sleeping Beauty, otherwise known as Her Ladyship:
The Friday Ark. The Carnival of the Cats.
“Poseidon, what a downpour!” Antigonos closed the door and hung his dripping cloak near the hearth. “The water level’s rising like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Don’t swear, dear,” Daphne said. “Thank the gods the drought is over.”
“You’re right,” he said, giving her a hug. “We lost the old boat, though.”
“The one that’s been in your family for generations? The one we courted in?”
“Yes. First it sank in the mud, and then the water rose. It’s gone, love.”
“I’m sorry our grandchildren will never see it,” Daphne sighed, “but let’s hope that the sea never sinks that low again.”
When I saw the big red smear on my terrace window this morning, I thought that a bird had crashed into my window and died a grisly death on the terrace below. I gathered up some plastic bags to remove it, took a deep breath, opened the door, stepped out, and found... nothing.
I looked all around. Still nothing. Then I looked again at the red smear on the window and realized that up close, it didn’t look like blood at all—more like digested fruit. Smelled like it, too. Other smears nearby indicated that what I had to clean up was evidence of life, in the guise of normal, healthy bodily functions, not death.
Whew. What a relief.
I never thought I’d be grateful to clean up bird poop. But I am.
The Happy Birthday, Jack Edition of Haveil Havalim is now live.
Happy birthday, Jack!
Last Pessah, I went on two tours in the City of David and enjoyed them very much. (Pictures and explanations available here.) The first tour ended after dark. I walked back up to the main road just outside the Old City, caught a bus downtown and went home.
I returned to the City of David the following morning to take another tour... and was not at all prepared for what happened afterwards.
The buses ran almost continuously in order to accommodate the huge crowds, as well as the fact that private vehicles are not allowed in or around the Old City during the intermediate days of Pessah and Sukkot. As I waited, together with a woman tourist whom I had volunteered to guide on part of her journey to the northern part of the city, several buses pulled up. When the doors opened, uniformed Egged employees stepped outside, some with bullhorns, directing men to board from the front and women from the back.
During the year, these particular bus lines do not have separate seating, despite the vigorous efforts of some elements to obtain it. When I asked the guard at the door who had ordered the current separation, he replied, “The modesty patrol.” I said, “Since when does the Egged bus company take orders from the modesty patrol?” “Since always,” he answered. “Not true,” I said. “I’ve been living here for a long time, and this is the first I’ve seen of it.”
I forgot to ask him why separate seating had not been enforced the evening before, but I think I know the answer: money. I imagine that it costs quite a bit to employ the guards at night as well as during the day. I find that ironic, since according to Jewish law, the rules about modest behavior between men and women become more stringent at night.
Here, a Haredi woman (wearing a black and white blouse, sitting near the open door with her back to the window) is scolded for refusing to move to the back of the bus. As the bus pulls away, several people at the bus stop can be heard expressing their support for her.
On the sex-segregated bus lines, a hole-puncher is placed at the rear door so that the women passengers can punch their own ride cards. But what happens if a woman should need to buy something, such as a transfer ticket, directly from the driver at the front of the bus, where only men may board? Apparently, nothing. The woman whom I guided part of the way to her destination needed a transfer ticket because she intended to take more than one bus, but was prevented from buying one because she couldn’t reach the driver. So she rode for free—not because she wanted to, but because she was given no choice.
The hole-puncher for women at the rear of the bus. Women who need to buy a ride card or a transfer ticket up front, from the driver, are apparently out of luck.
As one might imagine, the segregation is not enforced fairly. As I watched, an elderly man made his way to the rear of the bus and stood in the doorway, in what was supposed to be the section reserved for women. (To me, this is disturbingly familiar. If I remember the race-segregation rules on buses in the southern United States of half a century ago correctly, African-American people had to sit in the back, but had to give up even those seats to white passengers if the bus became crowded.)
Another example of a “male invasion” of the women’s section. (Imagine what would happen if the women’s section were to be more crowded and the women were forced to stand in the men’s section to accommodate the overflow.)
Peggy Cidor of the Jerusalem Post writes about the latest on the issue here. Although the newspaper chose to give her article the title “The Road to Purity,” as I have said many times, I believe that this issue has nothing to do with purity or modesty, and everything to do with power and control.
Here are the rest of the photos I took at the bus stop that day. Here is another video that shows the segregation more clearly. I have written about this issue on this blog in the past, here and here.
As I was walking down the street several days ago, I saw a gorgeous long-haired silver cat, wearing a collar, who looked intent on some serious business. When I stopped to look, I saw that things were very serious indeed... for a lizard who had been unlucky enough to cross this cat’s path.
After that brief respite, the chase was on again:
Desperate to flee the feline terror, the lizard hid in the grass...
... prompting our hunter-cat to hunker down for a moment and look out as if to say, “Wait! Where’d he go?”
Finally, during a prolonged lull in the chase (perhaps the lizard had lost permanently by this time, though I couldn’t tell), I was able to get something close to a portrait shot of our intrepid hunter. Check out that gorgeous ruff.
He let me approach and sniffed my hand when I held it out, but didn’t offer his head for petting. Considering that he was in the middle of a hunt, I didn’t push my luck.
(On second thought, the cat was wearing a pink collar. Maybe he’s a she.)
The Friday Ark. The Carnival of the Cats.
(The Hebrew word le-hitra’ot means “until we meet again.” I think of it as the Hebrew equivalent of au revoir.)
Simba, my cat-sittee, went back to his family a few days ago. Here are some pictures I took of him before he went back home:
Dozing on the sofa:
Receiving kittyworship in the form of a bellyrub:
After his daily combing:
With the blue toy doggie:
Le-hitra’ot, Simba. It was lovely having you here.
The Friday Ark. The Carnival of the Cats.
It was a day almost like any other. I got up, went to work, did all the things that I usually do... with one important difference.
It’s my birthday!
So during my travels, I stopped at the Brooklyn Bake Shop in the Geula neighborhood and picked up one of these:
A black and white cookie, just like they make in New York. Nectar and ambrosia! The perfect birthday treat. Ah, there’s nothing like a black and white cookie!
I’m not sure, but I believe that the Brooklyn Bake Shop is the only bakery in Israel where one can get black and white cookies.
The day continued to go smoothly. More work, and then it was off to Bradley Fish’s recording studio to lay down some vocal tracks for a singer-songwriter from down south who is about to release her first CD. (When it’s released, I’ll post about it here.) We worked quickly and efficiently, and I had a blast. Bradley is a joy to work with.
One of my very favorite places to be: in front of a microphone at the recording studio. (Photo credit: Bradley Fish)
Another thing that made today special was the sheer number of birthday greetings that I got from friends, including people whom I haven’t seen in decades. The Internet surely is a miracle!
In other news, Simba’s family returned from their trip last night and came to pick him up. He was so happy to see them! I gave him a few leaves of fresh catnip as a going-away present, and I also gave his family some catnip seeds. I hope they’ll plant them for him. It was wonderful to have Simba here, and I admit I miss him. But judging from the way my allergies kicked in while he was here, it will be a long time before I can adopt a cat of my own.
But not to worry. I’m doing very well with acupuncture, so there’s hope.
And today was just lovely.
Six memorial candles at the Mizmor leDavid Synagogue’s memorial gathering for Yom ha-Shoah
My family was lucky.
All four of my grandparents either arrived in the US or were born there in the late nineteenth century. On one side, my great-grandfather came to America, like so many other people from that time and place, looking for a better life and hoping to escape persecution. Another great-grandfather, a prosperous linen merchant who had turned away from a religiously observant lifestyle while still a young man, came to America in order to expand his business. Eventually he married the forelady of his factory.
During World War II, those members of the extended families still in Europe who did not manage to get out in time were murdered in the Holocaust. To this day, my mother remembers the moment when she and her family learned what had happened to the family that her grandmother had left behind: they had been marched out of town together with the rest of the community and shot, all murdered in a single day.
Let us not forget, let us never forget, that they, and all the Six Million, were murdered for one reason and one reason only: for being Jews. That was crime enough for our enemies.
It still is. Just ask the president of Iran, or the rest of the haters at Durban II.
Approximately twenty years ago, I got into a heated argument with an acquaintance who worked in the news business. He maintained that anti-Semitism was dead. I maintained that it was not.
I wonder what he thinks now.
* * *
Last night, I sang two songs at the Yom ha-Shoah memorial gathering held at Mizmor leDavid, a local synagogue. One was an original composition by Mindy Kornberg, a member of the community who is an accomplished musician and songwriter. The other was “Reyzele,” a love song by Mordechai Gebirtig. I wanted very much to sing it because while it does not deal with the terrible suffering and loss of the Holocaust, it describes the life and beauty that were taken away. Gebirtig himself, who was described later as “the Yiddish Bob Dylan” for his songs that addressed the important topics of the day, was murdered in the Krakow Ghetto in 1942.
A prayer book open to the Kaddish at Mizmor leDavid’s memorial gathering for Yom ha-Shoah
Some links pertaining to the day, and to current events:
An optimistic post at Treppenwitz
