Week 13:65. In the drawer is a box made of carved...

Jewelry, mostly old pieces I don’t wear anymore, and have nothing but sentimental value. They all cramped into this small wooden box that has no real value either but I still carry with me because it was given to me by my daughter years ago. She decorated it and on the top she wrote, in nicely fashioned calligraphy letters – mom. So, the box itself is more precious to me then its content.

Still as I sort through its content I come across few objects that tug at my heart. A gold pendent, shaped as Star of David that was given to me by my father, in my last visit to Israel, before his death and I am pretty sure was his indirect way to deliver a message. A green ribbon with a key attached to it, I check it for few minutes but nothing surfaces. It must have been important to be put in my box of treasured objects but I forgot why. One of these days I will have to follow this mystery but not today because the last object I find is the one grabbing a hold of me. It is a silver coin; it used to be one of my most treasured objects. 

It is not just any coin; this one is a replica of a Second Temple freedom coin, a silver half-shekel dating more than 2000 years. Second Temple Jewish officials had minted this ancient coin and others like it, in the first year of the revolt against the Romans in 66-67 AD. A branch with three pomegranates and the inscription, "Holy Jerusalem" adorns one side, the other decorated by a chalice is inscribed "Half-Shekel."

Growing up in Israel I am familiar with the relevant history of the time. The great revolt against the Romans brought in its wake enormous destruction and suffering. The issues emerging, surrender versus revolt, forever embedded in the fabric of Israeli culture and coming back to haunt the collective memory when talking about the Holocaust. “Masada will never fall again” was the motto I grew up with and referred to the last stronghold in the Judean desert, where a fistful of desperate man and women chose suicide as opposed to slavery. Rivaled by the survivalists who through the generations bent their heads and whispered “this too shall pass.”

As I am holding the coin in my hand I remember that this is ‘that’ week in Israel. The one starts with a special day set aside to remember those who were murdered during the Holocaust and those, like my father, who saved many lives, and ends with the Memorial Day to all the soldiers that lost their lives fighting.  This day will merge into the Independence Day celebrations in an impressive ceremony in Jerusalem.

 I know the spot where the ceremony will take place. It is a small hill in the middle of the national military cemetery, in front of a big black gravestone with only six engraved letters, HERZEL.  Benjamin Zeev Hertzel the man who dreamed the state of Israel and is now lying in the midst of endless lines of graves of young men and women.

 The formal ceremony that ends the saddest day and starts the happiest one always starts here. Soon two blue projected lights, signing the end of the ceremony, will shine in the sky. Two blue rays, will slowly move from side to side illuminating the city sky and then the fireworks will explode.

I look back at the coin, now warm in the palm of my hand, return it to my wooden treasure box and close the cover. Until next year…

Week 13, 63. To see a world in a grain of sand...

I love Babushka dolls for no reason that I can explain. Well, maybe because they always bring out the kid in me. The process of taking them apart, no matter how often I repeat it, is always fascinating and holding a grain of surprise. The principle is probably as old as time itself. Every time I open one doll another almost identical will show up, surprise!!! And so I go on and on until finally I get to the ‘baby’, the last and the only one that cannot be taken apart.

But this is by far not the end of the pleasures a babushka doll can offer. Now I can put it back together and piece by piece construct order into the world until the final one is done and the whole creation is lying in the palm of my hand, complete as it was the minute I started. Vibrant colors, smiling face, the wood so smooth and pleasant to the touch.

Being a retired educator I sometimes ponder the educational value of the Babushka doll as part of a wide category of stacking and nesting toys. But I know that while working on the same principle there is something innately and unexplainable different about this one.

It is possible to take the Babushka doll significance further like this sentence I found on the net;

“Called by many names, Matryoshka Dolls, Babushka Dolls, stacking Dolls, the Nesting Doll is a world renowned symbol of maternity, continuity, layers of personality, and of Russia itself.”

http://www.therussianstore.com/dolls/nesting-dolls

Or even expand further than that;

“I would like to offer an understanding of the way biblical prophecy works which is on the ‘Babushka Doll principle’ let me explain; The core of this “doll” is the initial utterance by the prophet and carries a literal meaning. He may not be aware that there is significance in his words beyond his present day...”

http://www.birthpangs.org/articles/prophetic/babushka_principle1.html

I am not sure that I can buy the deep philosophical theological approach but can’t avoid thinking about the allure of this simple wood creation that beyond pure childish pleasure gives me the satisfaction of moving from order to chaos and back again in minutes.

Week 13: 66. Loosely holding hands, not even aware of doing so, but, still, skin touching skin....

A man meets a woman. And the man says “Hi my name is…” and he thinks “I like the color of her hair and the way the sun plays in it and makes it looks like gold.

And the woman replies “Hi my name is… and she thinks, I like the shape of his mouth when he smiles.

And he says “nice to meet you…” and he thinks how beautiful are her eyes and how the color keeps changing in them turning them from blue to grey, like the ocean on a stormy day.

And the woman says “nice to meet you too…” and thinks his hair is so long, I like it like that.

And she extends her hand and he takes it in his. Her hand feels so small and smooth and he feels like holding it for a very long time. And she holds his hand, she is not even aware that she took it, and thinks, “It feels so strong and safe”.

 So little is being said, so much is already known.

Week 13, small to large, large to small

I think you know him, he might live in your own house, or you saw him next door, or in the school yard. He is only six years old and every morning he puts his heavy back pack on his back, almost as big as he is and starts his personal via-dolorosa.

Only six years old, he looks so small and fragile when he walks with the big, back breaking, back pack a little hunched with his eyes cast on the ground.

They picked the back pack together, with his mother, during summer vacation; he was happy then. He was looking forward to the start of the school year, all excited and full of anticipation. The back pack was the last of a whole long list of wonderful purchases. Colored pencils, regular pencils, fresh smelling brightly designed notebooks, a pencil holder and animal shaped erasers. They dedicated a full shopping day for the back pack. His mother was very particular about it. It had to be the right size, good quality material and a back support. They must have looked in at least five different stores before the right one was found. He got to choose the pattern from a pile of about fifteen. He took the mission very seriously and checked each one of them trying to imagine how they will look on his back, where everyone of his friends can examine it. Not an easy choice. It had to have just the right colors and designs to carry the message that he wanted to portray. “I am cool.”

He never imagined that the real battle will not be to impress his friends and the other kids in school but holding his own in the classroom.

From the beginning things did not go well.  Most of the time he couldn’t concentrate and spent the hours dreaming about all the things he will do once being outside and free again. He hated the endless time spent on trying to copy what seemed to him like shapeless forms from the blackboard. Reading made even less sense. The endless repetition of letters and sounds was tedious and boring. He did not get it. Of course he did what all the kids in his class did. He copied, he pretended to read what he copied but really just memorized the sounds that never seemed to stick together and create anything with meaning. By the end of the first month his beautiful notebooks were smeared with black lines pretending to be letters and his back pack got heavier and heavier for no apparent reason.

Education is important; he heard these words so many times. His mother kept repeating it and his father every time he came home late at night would say, “See, that’s because I never got a good education, you should look at it as a present.”

But what kind of a present it is when it is shoved down your throat. What kind of present it is when you are forced to take it and can’t politely decline and instead of it being wrapped in nice shiny paper and ribbons, it is laced with threats.

Public education, brilliant and humanistic, created so that every child, no matter how rich or poor will be exposed to the richness of human knowledge. At the basis of it the belief that if all people are created equal and have the right to pursue their happiness they should at least be equipped with the ability to read, write and think.

Indisputable, moving, awe-inspiring notion,

But also;

Public education, compulsory, highly structured, compartmentalized and punishable by law, this in itself is already alarming but the worst of all is one small devious word – equal.

Misleading because it sounds almost positive,

And yet so doubled edged,

Equal education for all, in reality robs every child of his right to be taught according to his unique needs, and qualities. Whoever thought that putting kids together according to age groups and teaching them the same stuff, at the same time, expecting the same results, was out of his mind not to say completely ignorant of how young minds work.

Ironically when equal does not work then, and only then, you ‘gain’ the right to become special, you earn the privileges of ‘special education’.  

• This kid lives in Israel where school children still carry their books to school on their backs. But I believe that he can be found anywhere with or without the backpack.

59/retake

59. The door slammed, and I never looked back.

We all have our personal idiosyncrasies and phobias, mine while maybe small, and insignificant is very real, I am afraid of revolving doors.

 Big or small, made of glass or metal, the ones you need to push by hand or even worth the one that have a life of their own and move (so quietly) on their own.

It always feels like a test devised by some cruel anonymous hand. Every time I encounter one I need to stop, take a deep breath and collect myself. I cast a quick look to each side maybe, maybe there is another way, and then, and only then, when I am convinced this is my only option, I go deeper into myself and pull at my inner strength. Like a worrier before the moment of contact I watch for the right instant and step in.

Panic,

Will I be locked inside, doomed to go around and around in this clever web, while others, on the outside watch, point, and sneer? Those few seconds when I am feeling utterly helpless and exposed seem like eternity.

And then I see the other side,

OK, I can do this, I did it before. It’s just a matter of precise timing. Pick the right moment; unglue my feet and walk away that is all. I throw a quick look back, behind my shoulder, and see the glass wing approaching, ready to close on me. Another deep breathe, maybe even a short prayer. I command my left leg to move forward as the rest of me lugs behind. I am out.

Ah, the relief.

In the last second I almost yield to the urge to send my hand and slam it but then I remember this saying; “Whoever said nothing is impossible never tried to slam a revolving door.”

So while I am still on a winning streak, I force a shaky smile, raise my head, and walk away.

Week 12/ prompt 59. The door slammed, and I never looked back.

It always feels like a test devised by some cruel anonymous hand. Every time I encounter one I need to stop, take a deep breath and collect myself. I cast a quick look to each side maybe, maybe there is another way, and then, and only then, when I am convinced this is my only option, I go deeper into myself and pull at my inner strength. Like a worrier before the moment of contact I watch for the right instant and step in.

Panic,

Will I be locked inside, doomed to go around and around in this clever web, while others, on the outside watch, point, and sneer? Those few seconds when I am feeling utterly helpless and exposed seem like eternity.

And then I see the other side,

OK, I can do this, I did it before. It’s just a matter of precise timing. Pick the right moment; unglue my feet and walk away that is all. I throw a quick look back, behind my shoulder, and see the glass wing approaching, ready to close on me. Another deep breathe, maybe even a short prayer. I command my left leg to move forward as the rest of me lugs behind. I am out.

Ah, the relief.

In the last second I almost yield to the urge to send my hand and slam it but then I remember; “Whoever said nothing is impossible never tried to slam a revolving door.”

So while I am still on a winning streak, I force a shaky smile, raise my head, and walk away.

Week 12: taking risks/ prompt 57. My summer vacation....

Summer

***

Hiring new stuff,

Retraining the old

Spring cleaning galore

Fixing and sprucing up

Restocking the supplies

Refreshing all schedules

A flood of reservations

And last minute cancelations

The toilet in room 2 is clogged

The bed in room 5 creaks

The curtain rod in 17 just broke

The Wi-Fi too slow

The mattress too soft,

The mattress too firm

The window doesn’t latch

The air-condition wouldn’t hush

It’s too dark outside

The light comes up too early

The neighbor next door so noisy

What, only twenty channels

No swimming pool

What are we to do

Maybe write a blog

Cause’ it’s rainy all day long

No brown sugar

No bananas either,

I wish there was honey

At least some peanut butter

I’m lactose intolerant

Gluten sensitive too

Where is that damn ice

Didn’t I pay a full price

Couldn’t sleep a wink

That peeping sound got me mad

Couldn’t sleep a wink

The dog next door barked

Couldn’t, yes we know…

Huddled under the blanket all night

The hyenas were laughing in the dark,

I think I saw a mice…

So much nature

Too much nature,

Give me some shopping malls

Forests and lakes and ocean

And ocean and forests

And lakes,

Something interesting for the kids

Maybe a mall

***

The leaves are turning

But it is still raining

How long will it take

Can’t find it on the GPS

Thanks for your hospitality

Motel with such quaint personality

Have to leave, bummer

Until next summer

***

Fall

Week 12 prompt 61 A. 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover!

I remember how I set the receiver in its place (real phone with a round dial) and even though I said I’ll come, I knew that I had already left.

Over thirty years have gone since and we never saw each other again.

I feel sorry now (it’s true).

I can visualize him sitting in his room, waiting, looking at the phone, poking at it, walking around the room again and again while the realization of the situation hits him.

When I picture it it’s in black and white, maybe sepia.

***

Today it will be different,

The first thing will be to change my relationships’ status on Facebook.

Then if I am really kind I’ll send him an SMS

 I might even go the extra mile and send an e-mail saying “It’s not you it’s me,”

Today it will be in color.

Week 12: taking risks--humor, exaggeration, juxtaposition

One day, last fall, when things were calming down I said to my husband:

“Let’s get a power boat and experience firsthand what seems to be a way of life for so many people around here.”

He looked at me like I was out of my mind but when he realized I was serious, tried to shake me off with all kind of excuses.

“I don’t like water,” was the first and obvious one. And I pushed it aside with ease.

“How do you know? It’s been years since you spent any time on a boat.”

I was referring to our short and almost disastrous attempt to rent a small motor boat on one of the lakes in British Colombia.  The boat had a leak we detected while already in the middle of the lake.  The day was grey with obvious hints of a looming storm, and we ‘ran’ back to shore feeling we got out of harm’s way in the neck of time.

”I know nothing about power boats, never owned one or even sailed in one, I wouldn’t know what to do,” was his second line of defense.

“Come on,” I said “You are so technically oriented, you can learn anything you put your mind to, look, you run a motel, you never did that before.” The blatant smooth talk did earn me a smile but not much more.

“I’ll tell you what,” I came few days later with a winning idea. “We will get the boat and start by docking it in the town marina; we’ll just sit in it and enjoy the sea breeze and the company of other boat owners.”

Truth be told, a short investigation on my side revealed that the idea as bizarre as it might sound is a rather common phenomenon. Quite a few people told me that the boat they own, and equipped with all type of luxuries, never left the dock.

“You mean like a houseboat or a floating condo?” I could see how the idea was catching on.

“And we will never move it?”

 “Only if you really feel up to it,” I felt a need to keep a narrow window open for unforeseen surprises.

***

It took us several months to find it. In the process we were excited to learn about different types of boats and their pro and cones.  We even adopted a whole new seamen’s vocabulary. Words like hull, depth finder, cuddy cabin, buoys, head, chart, current, outboard, stern, and so many more became part of our daily exchange. Also words like even keel, wake, and water line. Unfortunately while immersing ourselves in this new world we were also introduced to; take in water, stranded, life vest, righting and the big one capsize.

For awhile we stuck to the original plan, staying next to the dock, enjoying the light breeze, eating our lunch on the deck, peeking into our neighbors boats, and watching them pull in and out  of their docking spots sailing fearlessly into the open water.

It was just a matter of time before my husband became anxious to dare the ocean.

 Breaking our original plan turned out to be a huge mistake. With him at the helm and me frozen to my seat we were both watching horrified, in the depth finder, how we barely pass over the ominous rocks underneath or scarcely avoiding bumping into the marker buoys and the ledges.

The slight, almost soothing rocking movement of the boat, while docked and secured was replaced by much more violent movements while on the open water.

Only few attempts to get it out of the dock and it became painfully obvious to us. We were afraid, deathly afraid of the lurking dangers hiding in the icy cold water of the Union River Bay.

***

So one day, this fall, when things were calming down again, as they do every year when the last of the leaves falls to the ground, I said to my husband.

“I think we should sell it.”

By now the boat was idling in our backyard for months.

I could see from the spark in his eyes that he knew immediately what I was referring to and that he was not going to make it easy on me.

“You're sure you are not going to miss it? After all it was your idea, remember, floating condo, sea breeze, utter tranquility and the company of other seamen.”

“We should have stuck to the original plan,” I muttered gloomily but knew he was right.

 ***

It’s a beautiful boat, 23ft long, with a red and white cabin, a small sink and a table, even a toilet. It is docked in our parking lot, wrapped tight in white plastic against the winter.

 It’s yours if you want it.

Week 12: taking risks--humor, exaggeration, juxtaposition

The other day I discovered, the hard way, that a cyber family, much like a real one, develops over time and acquires unique lifelike qualities. It happened when I found in my inbox letters from people suggesting that I will update, fix, resolve duplicates and respond to birthdays. I don’t know them, I don’t believe we ever met in real life or otherwise. My carful and polite inquiries as to our relationship did not produce satisfying results, and then it dawned on me. 

It happened when so and so (whose name is completely unfamiliar) wanted to merge with me…merging with a complete stranger would seem rather hasty, and quite peculiar, to every normal person except those surfing on Geni (an online family tree creator). And so without further ado I ‘approved’ the procedure which granted me access to his tree with hundreds of new relatives.

So far so good until I noticed, few months into it, that these people I opened my heart and family tree to, are inching, ever so slowly, into my nicely organized creation contaminating it with their inaccurate information and endless requests . Franticly I tried to unmerge and almost like in real life, found that merged tree cannot be severed without destroying the whole tree.  

***

The whole thing started more than three years ago when one night, on a wild impulse, I keyed- in my name into the Google search box, pressed enter and came up with nothing.

It was a terrifying moment I do not care to relive.

I can still sense the cold chill, the feeling of deep limitless emptiness, being overcome with the pressing need to send my hand and reach out, call aloud, anything to relieve the panic.

  It was the first time I really understood the phrase ‘if you are not on the internet you do not exist’. I cursed myself for giving up to the cheap temptation, seeking fake reassurance of myself in the huge limitless cyber space, but it was already too late.

And so about three years ago, in the middle of the night, I did the only thing I could do to alleviate the situation and ‘created’ myself.

I was not as difficult as I originally feared.

All I had to do was to let go of the old notion that the mere fact that I breathe, sleep, eat, and see my reflection in the mirror, and other people eyes, is a sufficient proof of my existence. Instead I pressed on the empty rectangle box in the center of the computer screen and typed my name in –

 Ariela Levia Bilitzer Zucker, born – and for all we know still alive.

I kept typing and inserting other names; my parents, my husband, my children, and in front of my eyes like some sort of magic, my family, with me in the center, was coming alive.

Blue rectangles for the men, pink rectangles for the women (what else) many lines running horizontally and vertically connecting them all to one elaborate net, growing and growing and filling the screen.

The sense of relief was immediate and so rewarding.

When I last checked, my family tree (on Geni) had 543 people; out of which 355 blood relatives (the computer never lie) 18 ancestors and 5 decedents.

 I passed my eyes over the elaborate constellation, created mostly by me. I looked at names most of which are fourth cousins twice, trice or even four times removed. People I don’t know, will never know, and frankly don’t even care to meet.

Still in the middle of the night when the quiet disturbs my sleep and all by myself I surf, I am surrounded by my cyber family, I exist. 

Week 11 Prompts - 52

Uncle Henry’s – animals

This is my favorite  section in the booklet ,I like leafing through it trying to imagine how one day I will build myself a small petting zoo, completely for free, just by answering all the ads. In the meantime I satisfy myself savoring them, enjoying the funny ones, slightly tearing over the bitter sweet ones and every once in awhile getting mad at peoples’ stupidity and  lack of caring.

****

Here are some samples from the past week.

****

“Baby rats for sale! Born on February 29th will be ready around April   4th.”

  Ready for what I can feel the tension mounting,

“ I have 16 of them with three different kind of markings. I have Berkshire, Hooded, and I'm pretty sure all white ones. Their markings have already stared showing and soon they will be getting hair. Pets Only! not for food please.”

I hear myself exhaling with relief, not for food.

****

“FREE- We have 7 Rhode-Island Red roosters (2 are 3 years old; 5 are about 1 year old); we are planning to get rid of them next week sometime...”

Planning to get rid of them?  How?

****

“This is a Taz! I rescued him from a bad situation. When he came to me we was flea ridden and 80% of his hair missing on his back. He is allergic to fleas. He has since then made a full recovery! Everything test under the sun was performed at my vets and everything came back with flying colors. Will provide docs from vets.”

So a classic story of a Good Samaritan, but wait…

“ He is a 7 year old Maine Coon,

Good things come to good people, a real Maine Coon, but no, wait!

“ Will be best in a home with a family that has older children: 13+. But perfer single couple or older. He is a great cat, extremely loving,”

 Soon to become homeless but he has high demands,

“… and very high maintaince.”

I knew it!!!

“ Pm me if you'd like more info. Adoption Fee Applies.”

Not such a Good Samaritan after all.

****

“Central Maine Pigs. Find us on facebook! Our spring and June piglet reservation list is full. We are starting the reservation list for fall piglets.  December weaners would be perfect if you participate in farmers markets and would like to sell fresh pork as they should make butcher weight by late April. “

Ah Babe…not every pig story has a happy ending like yours.

*****

“Category: Free For The Taking

Hi my name is Madison. I'm lab/rottie/chow mixed. I'm looking for a new home cause my owners can't keep me an longer. I'm 10 years old. I love to go for rides, walks, playing with other dogs, kids, and cats. I'm a good watch dog.”

Now, here is where I get teary, the poor dog 10 years old.

 And then I get mad,

After 10 years you ditch him? What the matter with you people?

“If you have a room in your heart would you please give my owners a call.”

If I have a room in my heart….

****

And last but not least,

“I have a bunch of young Convict Cichlids. We need to rehome them. Would like $1 each and would do a package price for several. Can send pictures and will consider delivering if it's not too far. Call or email for more info. Thanks “

This one really gets me, convicts…needs to rehome.

Sure, I will rehome some convicts if they will be delivered as a package.

Week 11:54

Green and beige, there was nothing outstanding about this handbag we got as a free promotion, few years prior. There were hundreds exactly alike which must be the explanation why an anonymous traveler in Heathrow airport took it on his way to Ireland, and left us his.

Sure that the misunderstanding will be resolved in no time we left his bag in the lost and found desk and boarded our planned flight to Boston.

I believe the key word here was ‘planned,’

We landed in Boston late on September 10^th 2001 and drove to Chucks’ parents’ home in Connecticut. Pleased that the long flight, following the long-drawn-out weeks of closing our house after more than twenty years, had came to an end, we were set and eager to start the next chapter of our journey.

And then we woke up the next morning to September 11^th.

I am ashamed to say that the first immediate thought in my mind, through all that chaos, was “we’ll never see that bag again.”

But life must go on and we continued with our plans.

We purchased a car and the provisions needed for the long trip ahead, left instructions to send the bag after us, and left.

Traveling across the US, heading west – was our one and only plan.

It was exciting, every day welcomed us with new places and new faces and every evening we called to find out about the whereabouts of the lost bag just to learn that it did not show up and that no one knows when, and if, it will.

Somewhat frustrated we engaged ourselves in a new game called “and what was in the bag?”

Surprisingly each one of us remembered different items; I remembered my hiking boots and some pictures,  my husband was sure he packed some valuable papers and his hat and Keren missed one of her teddy bears. Only Tal, whom we picked already in the US, was completely indifferent to the missing bag saga and thought there were other things, more significant, to deal with, like where are we going to spend the winter, already breathing down our necks.

One week, two weeks, three, we crossed the vast plains of the Dakotas, the badlands, climbed into the high plains of Montana and still no sign of where we’re heading, where we’re going to spend our new life.

Our thoughts about embarking blindly into journeys and leaving our predictable and  well known life in Israel behind, inevitably ended with contemplating how the lost bag is going to find us if we ourselves don’t know where we’re heading?

By the end of October, one late afternoon (still no bag in sight) we stood at the Fourth of July Pass, overlooking the town of Coeur d’Alene. It could have been pure exhaustion or the fact that the setting sun illuminated the lake with its last rays that we finally saw, with new clarity that we have arrived.

It took few more months and then one day ‘out of the blue’ a green and beige bag landed on our front door. By then we had exhausted the “what’s in the bag “guessing game and got immersed in our new life.

We looked at the bag, now dusty looking and slightly torn, pulled at the many tags and stickers marking its long journey trying to follow us and felt a tug of homesickness. Will it be the hiking boots; the supposedly vital documents a smiling teddy bear? For some reason now that the moment had come, it was not important at all.

Week 11:54. Pick a prompt

He drank across the vertical stripes of his glass.

The way I see it there are basically two types of people; those who break the Passover matzo in total disrespect to its shape and then continue to attempt and spread the uneven pieces with their favorite spread cursing their brittle, fragile consistency.

Others, like me, look at these rectangles, cardboard like culinary creations, and recognize the challenge. How one can spend long satisfying hours practicing (on whole pieces of matzo) chewing carefully along the imbedded dotted lines, meticulously progressing from line to line without spraying crumbs and broken pieces all around.

So what is it going to be?

Week 11 Theme--when words mean something beyond themselves

Standing behind the elongated stained wood surface she is counting quietly as her hands move swiftly; sorting, collecting, and tossing out. The stains, all different forms and colors, are like elaborate Rorschach inkblots smudged one into the other. The heavy stench of bear adds the last piece to the surreal vision.

I stand in front of her my eyes trying to follow her flying hands, distracted by her tattoos covered arms. Several different shaped hearts, one name scribbled in between abstract colored shapes. I never thought it was going to be a woman, never pictured it like that, so business like and task oriented, but now as I watch the process it makes a lot of sense and  its’ efficiency and quick pace have some bizarre beauty.

It feels as if it is not about me at all. I am only a bystander, a pale background. It’s about the heap of tin, plastic and glass being sorted so quickly. Nothing hidden, it is all right there on the open surface naked and fully exposed.

A moving production line, my mind registers a note; I couldn’t have sketched out a better picture of the final moments. Left or right, to heaven or to hell, the mixture of anticipation and excitement heavy in the frozen air, almost touchable, like my breath, a thin white swirl.

 Fifteen cans of coke, ten cans of iced tea, few bottles of red wine, some odds and ends shaped bottles tossed to the side, misfits yet redeemable.

Four dollars and fifteen cents, she hands me the bills and with a quick movement sweeps them all into a big box.

Week 11 Theme--when words mean something beyond themselves

 An A frame by the lake at the end of Honeysuckle Ave, is where our trip ended. The street starting at the city center meandered its way to the lake. Reaching the shore it became narrower, ending with only a handful of houses and many warning signs alarming those who drive at night – beware, lake ahead.

I never lived in an A frame before. From the steep metal roof that in the spring became an instrument for the breaking ice to harmonize a symphony of cracking, and splitting ending with loud thuds, to the basement with the huge wood stove and hardly any windows. There was nothing familiar about it.

Few pieces of second hand furniture in the spacious living room occupying the middle floor, couple beds left by the land lady, realizing all we had were our suitcases (one lost on the way) and within few days we were settled in, feeling for no apparent reason very welcomed.

Across the house a narrow trail weaved touching the shore and as I walked there in the mornings, or late afternoons, herds of ducks and geese kept me company expecting handouts and breaking the quiet with their loud quacking. With the lake at our doorstep and the dark green wall of the Rocky Mountain on the opposite shore, watching over us, we were ready.

It appeared to be a logical set of events that landed us in this small town in North Idaho, and yet I  was left with a lingering feeling that destiny had a hand in directing our blind zigzagging across the state, from coast to coast.

Over time the trips’ exact details started to coalesce in my mind  (and then we decided to drive west …and then we turned south) but I can still recall the long months while still in our hometown, in Israel,  getting ready to leave, and driving west crossing the vast country with no clear vision of what is waiting for us.

Gradually the weeks of exhilaration, deriving from a sense of total freedom, turned into exhaustion. With no apparent goal it was difficult, if not impossible, to tell whether we were making progress or stepping on our own footsteps.

One day in mid October we encountered a stranger, in an abandon gas station in North Dakota. He warned us of a snow storm heading our way, and in spite of our doubts, looking at the blue skies with no cloud in sight; we changed our course and headed south. The change of route brought us blurry eyed, after the long climb, to the border between Idaho and Montana, The Fourth-of-July Pass. Standing there looking over the landscape we knew, with unexplained certainty, that this part of our journey had come to its end.

Ten days later we walked into the house by the lake and the landlady, a devout Mormon (first one I ever met) hearing that we are from Israel, was deeply moved and claimed we were sent by no less than god himself for an unknown, as yet, mission. And so an A frame by the lake at the end of Honeysuckle Ave, is where our trip finally ended.

Weird we thought few weeks later, when we realized that the reason everyone we met was slightly apologetic, was because the ‘Promised Land’ He led us to, driving sightless across the plains, was directly across the street from the area Nazi headquarters.

They say; truth is stranger than fiction and this is a true story.