And the answer to the quiz is......

All these famous Americans changed their names. They are all Jewish and had more Jewish sounding names which were deemed inappropriate for show business.

Words words words.

A random event today; I addressed a parcel to someone who purchased my old computer keyboard.
Not peculiar in itself, except the keyboard has Arabic keys, and the parcel was addressed to someone living on a glacier.
I kid you not.
Is there anyone out there who can come up with a connection - I am baffled?

Never mind three buses in a row.

Gosh, but things come in along in groups!
The first day of the week, my beloved pranged the boot of the car, reversing out of the garage.
Then we were told that our favourite cat may have a long term illness; it is confirmed he does. Medication for the rest of his life.
Then it would appear the company I resigned from and left two weeks ago is going into receivership. A lot of people I care about will lose their jobs, and I may not be getting my last pay cheque.
Then our plumbing sprung a leak.
I’m looking forward to a hazard free Wednesday.

Early impressions - Snow at Argenteuil

Today we visited the “Monet and Impressionists” exhibition at our National Museum, Te Papa. There are over one $1 billion’s worth of paintings on display including Cezanne, Sisley, Degas, Millet and Manet. It was impressive in its scope and had been displayed very well.
When I thought really hard, I realised it was over 12 years since I looked at an Impressionist painting. In 1996, I was at the Hermitage in Russia for the second time and visited a number of museums in Vienna, as I was living in a small town close by. Since teenage years I had taken every opportunity to see them, and until my mid twenties was restricted to the National Gallery in London. Then I hit Paris with a vengeance, followed by Amsterdam.
I have come to the conclusion that I went through an Impressionist phase, but came through to the other side being hungry instead for bold lines, definition, sharp focus and less subtlety. I appreciate the genius, revel in the colours, but in short, I no longer “do” blur.
I have since progressed from Chagall and Klee to Klimt, Mondrian, Modigliani and Kandinsky.
So, whilst I enjoyed a trip down the emotional memory lane of early adulthood, I am looking forward to other 20th century artists appearing in the S. Hemisphere.

Minding your prepositions

Today, I dropped in at my favourite butcher’s shop, in the suburb where we used to live. As I walked through the door, I noticed a serious difference. The walls had all been repainted, there was a much bigger selection of meat, and generally the place looked spruced up and more modern.
Imagine my surprise when the chap who came in to serve me was my butcher from the suburb where I now live.
“Aren’t you the butcher from T?” I asked.
He laughed “That’s me – I’ve just bought the place, but Bernie is staying on as Master Butcher.”
I am pleased for Bernie, as he looked a bit strained the last time I visited. Now he can enjoy his trade, without all the hassles of running the business too.
It was only as I left that I realised how important prepositions are. I am so relieved that I didn’t accidentally use the word “of” instead of “from”. It would have converted a perfectly nice Kiwi bloke into a mass murderer.
Use the proposition “of” and you have the perpetrator of a war crime; “The Butcher of Belgrade/Belsen” etc.
Thankfully “from” easily came from my lips and the worst crime the new occupant can be accused of is making sausages containing ginger.

What's in a name

OK, a quiz. What do the following people have in common, apart from the fact that they are American:

Woody Allen
Tony Curtis
Kirk Douglas
Jerry Lewis
Lauren Bacall
Bob Dylan
Harry Houdini

Economic Woes

Of Archives and Incubators

I have been pondering the peculiarities of social networking on the web.
Take blogrolls as an example. These are becoming a bit like a pleasant Sunday afternoon stroll around a friendly neighbourhood. You start off at a friend’s house, and before you know it, you’ve had tea with a random stranger who will become the first port of call the following Sunday.
Today I was reading the blog of a very sage gentleman who used to be the Director of Archives at Yad Vashem in Jerusalem. He had a link on his page to a bloke in W. Yorkshire who writes a very entertaining blog. Today’s entry was about incubating a whole bunch of chicken eggs in a home made incubator (allthatcomeswithit.com).
I have been wracking my brains all afternoon to try and make out a connection between Yaacov Lozowick’s Ruminations and a mental health worker living on the Yorkshire Lancashire border with a passion for raising chicks. Quantam leaps in imagination are happening all over my living room. How in the world did it happen?
Just you try making that one up. Truth is generally much more entertaining than fiction.

Bits and pieces

Everyone has their own definition of luxury or extravagance. The list would be as diverse as the people: caviar, fine wine, fast sports cars, desert island holidays or the best seats at concerts.
This evening I had a childhood flashback. I decided to make a cake for my work colleagues (the rest of the evenings this week being somewhat full). I fished out a newish recipe I have made several times from a well known country magazine.
As I rooted around in my pantry for the ingredients, I found the box of glace cherries I had bought with a big grocery shop a few weeks ago. Now these little gems are my idea of luxury. As a kid, they were chopped up several times for cakes, never used whole. I distinctly remember nibbling a cup cake until only the centre piece remained, the chopped cherry perching on the top.
Tonight in a moment of wild abandon, I chopped the cherries just once, so that everyone will have the chance of a half cherry bite.
Now THAT is luxury.

Bush fires in Victoria State Australia

I have just forwarded the following email to all my Kiwi friends. Feel free to pass on to anyone who might want to help:

Dear Friends,

Will you be one in a million?

If a million of us on these wonderful islands gave up our coffee / newspaper / lollies / cigarettes for a week, we could send at least $20 million to OZ to help the victims of the bushfires.

Two very easy ways to do this are online. This morning I went to the New Zealand Red Cross site, www.redcross.org.nz and there is a facility to donate immediately by Credit Card. You receive a tax receipt within seconds into your mail box.

Or you can give to the Sallies - and we all know how great they are in a crisis.

www.salvationarmy.org.nz

If you would like to, why not forward this message to all your Kiwi friends, and let's between us open a million purses.

Apologies in advance if you get this email more than once. A group of us just decided to get moving and challenge our friends. The chances are, we have a few friends in common.

Let's show Oz how much we care and choose to be "One in a million"

Blessings,

Fires in Victoria

I find myself stunned this morning, looking at the horrific pictures of entire communities destroyed by fires. Over 90 dead in the worst natural distaster in Australia's history.

If there are any Australians reading this blog, I'd like to communicate my deepest sympathy at your terrible loss - because I know it will touch all Australians. I am going to be calling the Australian Consulate in NZ today to find out if there is a fund which can be contributed to, to assist those who have lost so much.

If any of my readers pray - please pray for the people of Victoria.

A wry look at history

Through Josh Coloured Glasses

I haven't quoted another blogger in full before, but this entry moved me to tears. Hat tip to Naomi Ragen.

Written by Joshua Eastman at www.hashkeofthedevonshire.blogspot.com

Eleven days ago today, Israel terminated an operation after having reached a state of cease-fire with a cowardly and murderous foe. We pulled out of Gaza. I pulled out of Gaza.

We were first called up on a Shabbat, right at the end of ten months of regular training and an extra two months of specialized training with the whole brigade in the Golan Heights. We were told that Israel was preparing for a possible conflict with Gaza. We were allowed to stay in phone contact at the beginning, and we listened for news from our families, always better informed than the army. We heard the bombs falling near the Strip, and readied our gear. And we waited. And waited. Every day another rumor came in.

"We're going today"

"We're going today"

We waited a week.

We were sent the following Shabbat.

The first time we came back out, after twenty four hours, our unit was under the impression that all the other units would be coming out as well. A little R & R, and then back in. But only our soldiers arrived at the base. The others were in till the very end.

The next two weeks we were deployed over and over again into neighborhoods whose names are ingrained as if from childhood memory, and we were told to ready ourselves for the final operational steps the army was preparing.

Thank God, for us, those steps never came. After fighting through less densely packed urban neighborhoods and villages, as an army, we never had to enter the tightly packed urban nightmares of the inner cities. "The world is already trying to fault Israel, telling everyone that civilians died, and Israelis murdered. But I was there. I saw the twelve year olds with missiles and RPGs strapped to their backs. We watched in anger as our bombs, so as not to fall on large civilian centers, fell on our
own troops."
A cease-fire was signed, and we pulled out with hatches open on our vehicles, waving flags and flashing the peace symbol even though no one was there to photograph it. After all, we were one of hundreds of squads returning. There was no way to record every tank and APC that came home. But it was cathartic, and made it official.

I saw many things. I heard things. While I was in Gaza.

I saw soldiers who were virulently anti-religious don tzitit under their bullet-proof armor. As one soldier said, "Why do I put it on now, if I never wore it before? When do you ask your father for help? When you need it."

I saw heroes. Boys just out of high-school, young men who should have been playing sports or starting families or going to college, loading weapons and placing armor on their fragile frames, securing helmets, and checking gear. They suppressed the fear that lurked at the edges of their minds, and as a unit swept across the fence and planted unwavering lines of boots in the
soil of Gaza. I watched them fight like grown men against evil.

The first night we went in, we were unable to wear bullet-proof armor in my unit, and had to settle for flak vests (we couldn't wear armor when we first went in because, due to the weight we were carrying, it would have hampered our movements, creating a safety hazard). My young commander, who had an easy load to carry that wouldn't interfere with his vest, still left without bulletproof armor. "If my men don't, I don't". I told him the next day, I would have followed him through the entire Arab world if need be, my respect for him was so great. I saw my brave wife, Chana, who came down to volunteer, just to be close to me, braving rockets and missiles, and watched her help soldiers by handing out desperately needed winter gear and food. I watched Chabadniks who came to us every day and inspired the soldiers with song and mitzvot. I saw heroes praying for our safety, and feeding us, and caring for us.

I saw pain. Just today, I ran into yet another friend from another unit, who tells me, when asked how he is, "I am fine from the neck down." Sixteen of his friends were injured in a blast on the first night. He lost many more before the end. He is still sweet, still charming, but his laugh is more weary, and his eyes are sadder. Another friend in a different unit lost two-thirds of his whole platoon when a bomb destroyed their house. He says he walked in, and he saw limbs moving or laying still, and bodies unattached to them, hurting, dead. He still hasn't pulled back completely. A former commander of mine died, and a friend lost his arm and use of his legs, and is still in a coma.

I saw lies. The world is already trying to fault Israel, telling everyone that civilians died, and Israelis murdered. But I was there. My feet were on the ground and I saw the truth. I saw that warnings were given, I saw the enemy that fought us. I saw the twelve year olds with missiles and RPGs strapped to their backs. I saw that it was with sadness and great anger Israeli troops recognized the need to fire on people who crossed the red line, the danger zone which meant they saw us, and knew where we were. Old people mined with bombs, children armed with detonators, tunnels that opened in the ground to swallow our soldiers. I watched my commanders passing out all of our food to the children who were taken prisoner. I received the
commands "closed to fire on the right" if our intelligence had reported civilians in the area. I watched us, more often then not, taking cover when supposed civilian positions fired on us from "the right". Yet the world thinks it can bend the truth. We were not allowed to fire on schools. We were told not to loot. We watched in anger as our bombs, so as not to fall on large civilian centers, fell on our own troops, so that we could tell the world we were attempting to scare the enemy while limiting civilian losses. Yet they won't say that in the press.
You are the reason we returned. You are the reason I am alive. I saw cowardice. We listened with concern when Hamas threatened to use snipers and bombs on us, to fight us every step of the way with their fifteen thousand man army, and we watched videos of full brigades parading, waving their weapons and threatening Israel. But as we invaded, they fled.
They would attack in small groups, hit us with missiles and sniper fire, and then flee. The 'warriors' of Hamas were brave when their rockets fell unanswered on the schools of children and the homes of elderly, but they did not stand when the enemy called them up to answer for their crimes.

I saw miracles. Rockets that blazed past our houses, bullets that scarred the outside of windows we were watching from. A unit near ours that was walking in to Gaza had RPGs pass straight between their ranks without hitting a single soldier. Mines that didn't explode, mortar rounds that landed next to friends that didn't explode. RPGs that blazed into the earthen barrier directly in front of our APC, detonating before penetration. The night walk through a neighborhood that wasn't on the map, that was full of snipers and mines according to reports, that we walked through unawares, by accident, without harm or incident. And that was just what we knew.

I felt fear. Every time I entered, every time I squeezed the trigger, every time a missile landed nearby, I was struck with fear. It is a deep fear, hard to explain. Your body shivers as if you are frozen to the core. You find yourself staring at the ground, trying to adjust to the ringing in your ears. You freeze, and unless someone slaps you, or you manage to shake yourself, your eyes stay downcast, and you lay numb on the earth, waiting without realizing. Eventually, your training pulls you out and forces you to stay alert, your gun snaps up, and adrenaline masks the fear and hurt. You roll on seemingly fearless, with adrenaline telling you that you are invincible.

I have felt weakness. I have felt my supposedly mighty muscles shudder, felt my devastatingly powerful weapon shake in my hands, felt my heart hammer against my armor, felt my soul and mind search for some way to avoid pain and the nightmares that were becoming real.

I felt strength. I would have been lost, but for the words of my Rebbe. "Ein od Milvado" There is no one but Him. The mere utterance strengthened limbs, and a surge of faith and hope carried me through the invasion, through the detonations and whistling of ricocheting rounds and falling bombs. For I knew, for once KNEW and understood absolutely that I was in the hands of the greatest general on earth. A veteran of every war and every conflict, the ultimate warrior and defender of His people. I remember the joy that swept through the lines when they said the head commander was entering the field, because of his experience and strategies, everyone felt safer. It reminded me that an even greater Commander had been there all along. I understood the words of Tehilim 147, "Not in the strength of the horse does He desire, and not in the legs of man does He favor. God favors those who fear Him, those who hope for His kindness." My strength had failed me, yet when I begged God
to allow me to be a conduit for His strength, to be His shield and a sword for His people, I was able to stand and fight. Those nights, my body was there, but God fought on that field.

I am not free of sin, and was by no means worthy of the miracles that befell me. That God aided me; that my entire battalion walked out, against all odds, while every other unit suffered losses, without serious casualty or mental scarring, was a miracle beyond any. That I was able to feel His strength replace mine, a gift for which I was undeserving.

My strength lay in the thousands of people who prayed for me, who prayed for the wellbeing of the army, who cried for the return of the fragile and precious Jewish youth who fought like lions where men twice their age would have fled. You are the reason we returned. You are the reason I am alive. You, the people who pray and cry and feel you are not the front lines, are
truly the army of Hashem. The IDF, as people should see, is merely the physical arm of what your prayers accomplish. You are the ones in the battle. We are the holding action, delaying the physical evil while you battle to clear the path for Moshiach. Never again will I feel a yeshiva student who learns all day is not brave for not being with us on this field. Because I watched the words and letters that he learned and prayed march ahead of us, thousands deep, and millions strong, absorbing the bullets and metal meant for me. I thank you, humbly, warriors of my heart and faith. You let me come home to my wife.

During this war, we received a tremendous outpouring of love and support; letters, donations, food, and clothing. In specific, because I know them, although without diminishing the greatness of all the people I don't know, Iwant to thank my mother and her tireless blogging efforts, my family for their support and letters, my wife for being brave beyond any woman or man I
have ever known.

I want to thank Congregation Tiferes Yisroel for remembering an old neighborhood kid, and multiplying that to help all my brothers in uniform. I want to thank all of the community in Baltimore for the davening and love that we felt even in the heart of darkness.

I want to thank the little six-year old who wrote, "Dear IDF, I am proud of you." I cried over that letter, my tears running through the pain and stress as we recovered from Gaza.

I want to thank the people who donated money for the vests that saved our lives, the people that gave us clothes to warm our bodies, candy to warm our hearts, and letters to warm our souls. You cannot know what one pair of socks, one chocolate bar, or one hastily written sentence can do to save the minds and hearts of your children from despair.

I am not as gifted with words as my mother, nor a hero as great as those who marched beside me or filled the air with prayer around me, but I hope from this letter, from my fumbling thoughts you can draw for yourself the love and hope I am trying to convey.

I have seen this people, my people, at its best and at its worst. I can see why Redemption will come soon. As a nation, we drew together. Disunity,differences in Kippot or sects fell away, and everyone reached out to help as best they could. No one said, "I have no part" or "This isn't my war". May Hashem see the greatness of His holy, beautiful people, and allow me to sing that old song to my child, with absolute truth and great joy: "I promise, my little one, that this is the last war."