September 18, 1972

Yom Kippur and the hamseen are coinciding.    They say the hamseen can drive people crazy, and I can see why.  The winds are hot and dry; the sand the winds stir up is everywhere, including inside the house.

My daughter Judy and I are alone for the holiday, as Abe took Ben to his father’s.  I just couldn’t be stuck again in that small apartment with no escape.

Meanwhile, I’ve given up on kosher beef.  While I love chicken and fish, I don’t think I can spend a whole year without decent meat, so I’m headed to a non-kosher store. This is one of the joys of living in Ramat Aviv.  There are alternatives.

Ben doesn’t like school.  Judy’s teachers will say something to her in English and then in Hebrew.  Hava, Ben’s teacher, doesn’t know English and keeps complaining about the way he holds his pencil.  Does it really matter if he can read and write and do sums.  This reminds me of when I was in elementary school and always got a C in handwriting.  At least he only goes from 8 to 12:30.  But it’s hard to see a happy child turn grumpy, as he sets off for the gan every day.

On the bright side, we like taking the kids to the beach, which is only five minutes away via our stick-shift Fiat.  Finally, our own transportation!

It’s sort of weird, splashing in the water, while fighter jets zoom above us.  This time the action was against terrorists in Lebanon.  But there’s always some terrorist incursion happening somewhere, and we live right near an air base.

I remember being outside one day, hanging the clothes—with the sun they dry in an hour—and a fighter jet came screaming right above my head, or so it seemed.  This was the first time it happened and I was terrified.  I can’t imagine what our “enemy” feels—or maybe I can.  But by now, I have to say, I’m used to it.

The big news is that as soon as we get our B1 visas, we can get a television.  The stations only exist for four hours, nighttime viewing.  But, hey, I’m ready.