The Number One

The morning rush for the bus is a special experience on the Number 1 Line in Arad. It sets out at 7:30 am and is not listed on the regular bus schedule. You have to really hunt for it. It’s listed under “1-א”.

The 1-א runs only twice a day, actually, and the afternoon route is totally different. Unless you are a kid, it is impossible to understand. I have missed that bus while standing in the center of town at least half a dozen times because I couldn’t figure out where the bus stop was.

Like today, for example. I got lucky because the driver saw me sitting at the wrong stop as he passed by on the way to the starting point for the route. He waggled his finger at me to let me know that I had blown it again, and then pulled over to let me on anyway. And it wasn't even one of the morning drivers.

“This is NOT the right stop at this hour,” he scolded me.
“Well, where is it then?” I threw back at him, exasperated.
“Where your kids are standing,” he said, as if I should know where that is. “Next to the bakery across from that alley that leads to the mall, the one near the town square,” he elaborated, seeing my blank look. He shook his head. Clearly convinced that I should know better by now. “But only at 1:50 pm,” he added.

I would never have known, of course. I begin now to understand my small son’s frustration with trying to catch the bus to come home from yeshiva. It’s like trying to catch a mink in a rainstorm while it’s swimming in oil.

But that’s not what this story is about.

We are talking here about the Morning Bus, the one that my kids too often “almost miss”, the one with drivers who will someday earn the Medal of Honor.

The “Big Green” bus roars its way down the hill toward our stop approximately seven minutes after it leaves its starting point, the Yefeh Nof Hotel. My kids time their wake-up, breakfast and leaving the house in precise milliseconds in order to make the bus without having to wait at the bus stop. I know this makes no sense, but this is an ADHD household, where the time spent getting from “here” to “there” is never taken into account. “Between times” do not exist for the ADHD person, be he child or adult. Trust me.

Anyway, the bus winds through our neighborhood, picking up the early commuters, driven on alternate days by two Arad natives, Shlomie and Coby. Both are the most friendly, tolerant and patient bus drivers I have ever seen. I know this first-hand, having occasion to test that patience more mornings than I care to remember.

The first time we “almost missed” it, we actually thought the driver wouldn’t wait for us. Laughable thought, I know, but there it is. Newbies to the Number One always think this way, coming from cruel cities where bus drivers don’t know and don’t care.

Our entire bus knows better, of course. Both Coby and Shlomie now stop at our corner and look down the block to see if we are straggling up the hill, late again. If we are, they wait. So does everyone else.

One of the regulars, Tzipi used to get very irritable. She scolded my kids at least twice a week for being late to the stop. “But she lives between two stops,” my kids complained. “She can always catch the bus at the second one if she is late for the first,” she said. Somehow my kids consider it an inalienable right to be late for the bus and still expect it to be there.

“What can you do?” shrugged Coby the first time it happened. The next time, Shlomie just sighed and then chuckled. “Kids,” he said philosophically in the way that only Israelis have. The rest of the riders nodded. They’re Israelis too.

Today they all just laugh when they see us struggling toward the bus. I am not sure this is better. Even Tzipi has come to pity me as I race up the hill toward the corner of our street, (forget making it around the corner to the bus stop), urging my kids to keep moving. My harried, bedraggled look as I drag myself up the stairs to my seat, panting like a cat in labor, is too much even for her tough Israeli attitude to chide.

Every rider has their own story. We’re a little community. When one is missing, everyone else wonders why – and asks the driver. Today Tzipi didn’t come. So we asked Coby where she was ----- as if he could possibly know. It felt like a piece was missing.

Tzipi has been a metapelet and ganenet (babysitter and nursery school teacher) for decades. Red-haired Rachel (who has to be over 50) fought valiantly with the Egged office over the lack of a Friday 7:30 am bus, which meant my kids were late to school every week. She was magnificent. (No, it didn’t change anything. You need the Ministry of Transporation to harass national Egged to do that.)

Alicia, a Black Hebrew and a native-born Israeli, is also a regular. She is a member of the large community from Chicago that settled in Arad several decades ago, and is bilingual. Alicia is used to dealing with kids and lateness; she is a dental assistant and X-ray technician in the local clinic.

There are, of course, others. Rachel’s daughter and grandson used to come and Rachel would take the baby while her daughter caught the #386 to Beersheva with the rest of the commuters. She moved recently, partly because she couldn’t take the suspense of wondering if she would make it to the #386 every day.

It’s always a race to catch it, in truth, since the routes intersect at only one point, literally within two minutes of each other. Getting us to the stop on time is an art form which Coby and Shlomi have both mastered. We do not have a good day when there is a substitute driver.

I am sure that Rachel’s daughter left Arad because of the substitute driver. He is unfamiliar with the route (read: chooses not to learn it) and drives like a snail. Worst of all, he absolutely refuses to vary the route to make the shortcut, even when there are no other riders left. That is not in keeping with Arad etiquette. And he doesn't smile. The ultimate transgression.

Even the drivers who take the evening run back from Beersheva know how to behave better than that. (After 7:00 pm, the Beersheva-Arad bus makes the rounds of the entire town, because the local lines quit at 5:30 pm – another silly Egged quirk in Arad).The evening route trundles through some neighborhoods but doesn’t even enter others, stopping instead at the intersection where the offending neighborhood begins.

There are ways to deal with this, however, as any Aradian knows.

“Anyone getting off in Neorim?” calls out the driver when we reach Arad.
“Nope,” answers one of the riders after polling the others.
Scratch that neighborhood, on to the next.

“Maof?” Silence.
“Check and see if anyone needs Maof,” the driver quietly requests.
I go down the aisle, waking up sleepers and asking the rest: “Nu? Maof?”
Heads shake negative. I return to my seat behind the driver.
“No one for Maof.”
Scratch that one too.

If it’s a quick ride, sometimes you can talk the driver into “adjusting” the route to enter the excluded neighborhood. Yeah, okay, it’s breaking the rules, but...

Aradians gotta stick together, after all.

It Must Be Love

My kids were really to blame this time. They had left the front door unlocked. Repeated jerks to the doorknob in a mad dash for the morning bus left it in sad shape, unable to perform its function efficiently. This means that every time we close the door now, we must deliberately, thoughtfully, jerk the knob UP in order to make sure it is really closed.

That didn’t happen last night when the kids came home, so this time Becky didn’t need to knock. Uninvited, she strolled in and made a flying leap for her favorite spot on our couch.

Sussi, of course, was overjoyed. They mouthed each other eagerly, long sharp teeth happily juxtaposed as Becky soundlessly drooled all over Sussi.

We didn’t even bother to try to separate them. It was easier to wait until their initial energy was spent.

About a half hour later Becky had stopped panting and Sussi had stopped mouthing. Becky sprawled on the length of one sofa, her friend Sussi took over another. I made my move.

“Becky, SHOO!!!”

Sara, on the other hand, tried a more friendly approach. She stood by the door, calling invitingly in her more cordial voice. “Come, Becky! Come on…. Come on Becky…”

It was useless, of course. Becky had made up her mind. She was staying.

I fixed Sussi with a baleful eye. “It’s YOUR fault,” I told her. “She comes to play with YOU.”

Sussi looked sheepish. She knew the truth.

Finally I lost my patience, strode over to the couch and demanded that Becky leave. I spoke in an authoritative tone, like her owner Avi. “That’s it. OUT. NOW.”

She hopped off the couch, looking around uncertainly, probably seeking support from those standing around her. No dice.

“Let’s go. Out,” I repeated firmly. I chased her to the door, opened it and shooed her out. She went, compelled by my tone. I closed the door and locked it.

BAM. Scratch scratch claw scratch…… Becky was clearly going to batter down the door, or claw it down.

I opened it, glared at her, and chased her out of the yard. She waited on the sidewalk, sizing up the situation. It looked good from her point of view. All she had to do was wait ME out this time.

Uh uh. This time I was walking her home. It was a beautiful, crisp evening and Becky trotted ahead of me, looking behind her every few seconds to see if I was still there.

When we got to her house, I went to the front door and knocked politely. There had been no answer when I called, but I had left a message. The air was becoming chilly.

“Avi! Lili!” I peered in the window, which was slightly open so their cats could jump in and out. (This is Arad, after all.)

Sigh. I would have to do it myself.

“Come here Beckalush,” I called. It’s the nickname of their house, and she responded accordingly. I slowly reached for the chain while petting her. She stood still, obviously conditioned to obey – at least when she sees the leash. I hooked her up. She looked at me reproachfully, her liquid brown eyes pleading for release.

Yeah, right.

Waving goodbye, I walked away. She sat at the end of the driveway, watching like a rejected suitor. The fact that both she and Sussi are female was clearly irrelevant to both.

I know she’ll be back to drool all over my house and my dog. I know she’ll be greeted with open paws. I know Sussi’s head will be dripping again.

I am resigned, though. After all, it must be love.

Becky's Owner

This is Avi, our friend and neighbor, standing with our 7 year old son Zalmy. Avi is a jack-of-all-trades, having worked at a nuclear reactor site, run a grocery store, owned a bakery and worked as an independent contractor. Avi is the only person on this world whom Becky respects. His wife Lili, would make that, "fears". Avi says it's all the same, and it's all good.

Becky and Sussie

Becky is the one on the left, Sussie is on the right. They are standing on the stone wall that surrounds our front yard...... the same stone wall the both of them sail over every time they get together.

Becky

BAM!!!!
Claw claw claw claw claw scratch claw.
BAM!!!
Rattle rattle rattle rattle.

We have a front door made of beautiful cherry wood, a precious comodity in Arad. At least, it was beautiful, before Becky.

BAM!!!! Something was slamming up against our door, and it finally gave way under the weight of a full-grown monster with teeth, tongue and drool.

"Can Sussie come out and play?"

Becky is our dog's best friend. A huge, slobbering, friendly, affectionate, insane and strong boxer and Amstaff mix, she is about three years old and a mother several times over. One might, in a fit of temper, be inspired to call her a bitch, but really she's not like that.

Becky looks like a huge baloney with four sausages to stand on. Her tail is a whip, not to put too fine a point on it. Her whole body wags with it, and when it wags it cuts down anything in its path. Trust me.

Her owners are good friends of ours, across the street and three houses up the road. Avi is Yemenite, with a bushy salt and pepper beard and the warmest eyes you have ever seen. His wife Lili is just that; a gorgeous Hungarian born in Latin America and raised here in Israel. They are a real team, but not when it comes to Becky.

"Behhhhhhhkkkkeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" Lili tries her hardest to control Becky, who generally ignores her except at mealtimes or when she wants to be loved.

"Becky!" Avi is much firmer with her, and she respects him. Lili says Becky is afraid of him. Avi says that's good. "She is an idiot," he says. "And watch out for her tail. She can do real damage with that tail."

The last time Becky came to play with Sussie, she finally busted through the front door, flinging it open in her haste to enter our living room. Joyfully she rushed to the sofa and leaped onto it, overshooting the seat and landing on the back itself. She stood there, poised for action, waiting for Sussie to come and get her.

This could have been a challenging situation.

At the time, our three youngest were home, and Avi and Lili's youngest daughter, Lior, was with them. We were all there, amazed and slightly nonplussed, when Sussie made a leap at Becky. It was all in good fun, of course.

Except that the kids didn't see it that way. And that was when the shrieking began, with one of my very brave daughters standing on the back of the opposite sofa, another one planted directly in front of me (I was sitting on Becky's sofa, you understand) and my 7 year old son laughing his head off and dancing around with glee. Lior covered her mouth with her hands, holding her breath, not knowing whether to scream or laugh.

"Oh BECKY!!" She did both. "Come DOWN. Now!" Becky didn't even notice. She and Sussie began chasing each other around the house, periodically catching each other and wrestling with teeth and drool in abundance. The growls were fearsome, true, but if one looked closely (not too closely, mind) one could see that it was all play. The bites were never deep and the growls were too soft to be meant to scare anyone.

Nonetheless, I thought it best to at least send them OUTSIDE to play.

"Can you please tell Esty to stop screaming?" Lior requested politely. "It really won't help the situation and it will just take longer to calm them down and get Becky out of here." I agreed, but getting any of my kids to slow it down to a dull roar was simply not an option.

Instead, Lior and I chased the two girls around until I finally lost patience and yelled at Sussie. SHE, at least, had the grace to look chastened and paused. In that golden moment, Lior grabbed Becky and pulled, I potched, and we managed to force her out.

Or so we thought.

BAM!!! Another joyful leap back onto the couch, and Becky settled in for a comfortable visit.

"No, I don't think so." This time, I glared balefully at her and said, "GO!" Sussie meanwhile came to play -- and when I scolded her and chased her out, Becky galloped after her.

SLAM. This time, I locked it.

And then my husband called Avi and Lili.

"Hello, how was your day?"
"Ah, hi Sinai. How are you?"
"Terrific. Ah, Avi? We have a visitor that I think you might like to meet."
"Really? Who is it?"
"I think you should come and see. It would be a pity to spoil the surprise."
"Hm. Is it a relative?"
"Not exactly."
"Okay....."

Knock knock.
This time I unlocked the door. It couldn't be Becky. The knock was too polite. And there stood Avi, who had figured out who it was because Becky was still romping around outside with Sussie. He had not, however, realized exactly WHAT it was we had called about, and my wonderful husband was laughing too hard to tell him.

When I finally broke the news, he just smiled gently and nodded. "Yes," he agreed, "she is an idiot. Loveable, but stupid. Lili spoils her. Don't let her in."

Thanksgiving in Arad

I love Thanksgiving. My husband thinks it is the "celebration of the genocide of the Indians", as he calls it, but I think he is just acting like a subversive Commie pinko. He doesn't even refer to them by their rightful name, "Native Americans," either.

He does humor me, though, and I have been able to raise my children with their American heritage more or less intact, even within the confines of a super-Orthodox culture.

So of course, I wanted turkey for Thanksgiving, even here in Arad. This being my first time in Arad for the occasion, I did not realize I would need a year's head start on gathering supplies for the annual event.

The week of Thanksgiving, I called the Chassidic butcher, who is the only one you can really order specific cuts from. The counter woman is the first to answer the phone.

"Hello?"
"Hello. I would like to order a whole turkey."
"There is no such thing."
"That is not possible. I do see turkey meat available here."
"Correct. Which parts would you like? It comes in necks, breasts, and pulkes."
"I would like the whole bird."
"How would you like it cut up?"
"I don't want it cut up."
"It doesn't come that way."
"Please let me speak to the butcher."
"Hold on. (mouth away from the phone) "Shmuel!!!!"
"Hello?"
"Hello. I would like to order a whole turkey."
"It doesn't come like that." (see, here at least I am getting somewhere, because at least he acknowledges that such a bird exists in the original)
"It does in Jerusalem."
"I doubt it."
"Wanna bet?"
"It's very unlikely."
"I am telling you that my friends in Jerusalem have no problem going to the butcher to order AND THEY GET a WHOLE turkey. It is no big deal, at least there. Can you explain to me why you, as a professional butcher, the one and only butcher in Arad, cannot manage to make a simple order for a whole turkey?"
"I can't imagine where they are getting it from."
"Well, obviously they are getting it from the same suppliers that you use, or at least I would ASSUME so..... there can't be that many poultry suppliers."
"Well, anyway do you realize that a whole bird is very large?"
(at this point i am laughing)
"Yes. Approximately 14-18 pounds, in your terms, 7 to 9 kilos."
"Hm. We really have no call for it here. No one ever orders it."
"Maybe that's because you never make it available. And it might also be that no one knows you even exist. There are a lot of Americans here, but very few call you, if any, because almost none of us know you are out there and none of us understand any of your advertising, if there is any, because it is all in Hebrew or Russian and most of us have trouble reading it. Maybe if you made yourself more well known, or if you made this item more available, you might find you have more demand as well. It is a little bit of a disgrace, you know?"
"Hm. Well, I will try to get one and if I succeed, you will have it by next Monday."
"No. I wanted it for tomorrow but I see that is not going to be. So what you need to do now is to call your supplier, find out how much lead time he needs from me in order to secure the item, how long it will take you to get it here, and how much it will cost per kilo. Okay?"
Silence.
"Call me tomorrow. I'll see what I can do."
Click.

Total phone time: 20 minutes
Total talk time: 15 minutes
Total laugh time: unlimited

This is the gift that keeps on giving.
Welcome to Thanksgiving in Arad. May we all be blessed with happy memories......