The fifth commandment, as times goes by

There is a story I remember reading in my youth, apparently originally compiled by the Grimm Brothers, about giving a half blanket to an aging grandparent and keeping the other half for the parent when he becomes old and useless. (https://spellbinders.org/story/old-grandfather-and-the-half-blanket/) The morale of the story is that the grandson will treat his parents just like his father treated his father, i.e., by sending him away when he becomes old and useless.

Times have changed but human nature has not. We learn human relations, especially patterns of family interaction, from example, not words.  We do as we see, not as we are told. As my parents are now in their 90’s, I observe with amusement as I am doing as my parents do.

My paternal grandmother lived a long and not so happy life as did her many brothers and sisters, almost all reaching the age of 90+. She suffered from several serious diseases and psychologically found it difficult to deal the change in values in the 1960’s. In simple terms, she was a good, honest woman who could be difficult to deal with. My parents called her and her sister, who lived with her, at least once a day, drove them to and fro all holiday occasions, a 45-minute drive each way, and accompanied them through medical tribulations. While as a kid I “sort of” understood how much patience and energy this requires, I now realize that is was labor of love and duty.  Not only that, they never complained about this duty, accepting it as a part of life.

My maternal grandmother had even a harder life and was even more unhappy.  She was, well, Polish.  For those unlucky enough not to experience a Polish compliment, here is an example: You look good today, much better than yesterday. She used to call my mother every day at 8:00 and report all the disasters of the morning to my mother, which earned her the epithet bonnes nouvelles, good news in French. Needless to say, I could immediately identify a conversation with her by my mother lighting a cigarette.  Still, my parents did the same for her as they did for my other grandmother.  My step grandfather, a man whose major positive attribute is that he adored my grandmother, also lived to his 90’s. My mother and aunt made sure that he was well taken care of and visited him regularly.

Now, I live in Israel while my parents live in LA. Every night, we speak around 20 minutes on the phone. I fly to Los Angeles, a hellishly long flight, twice a year and have done so for over 28 years. In a modern twist, I now order items online for them. Fortunately, they have not had too many hospital visits, all things considered, although my father has had his scary moments. My brother has been there for those times.  My mother still drives and handles the frequent doctor visits. On the whole, my parents have required much more emotional than physical support.

This post is neither to complain nor to praise myself but to try to understand my willing choice to invest precious resources, i.e., time and money, on my parents.  That the fifth commandment exists does not obligate anybody, even the religious. Our decision to respect our parents, even when they could be viewed as a burden, is significantly based on example. Maybe, as the story suggests, we should honor our parents to make sure that our children honor us. I see the dutiful behavior of my daughter, now 21 years old, towards her grandparents and parents, with all of whom she has serious issues, and see that she is observing that commandment: Respect your father and mother. It could be said that investing in our parents is long term savings account, with very high interest, whose fruits we only see as time goes by.

My paternal grandmother and her sister

My maternal grandparents

Sweet nothing in name

Cotton candy, that spindly confection of sugar first marketed in 1904, is loved by children (and many adults) worldwide. Originally created in the United States, it has become a part of the entertainment culture of many countries.  As for all foreign products, the challenge has been to find a name for it in the local language.  The process is interesting as the chosen focus in the nomenclature varies.

The original American product was invented in partnership by a candy confectioner and a dentist.  Apparently, even though you are paranoid, conspiracies do really exist. In referring to their new product, they emphasized its most positive trait, sweetness.  It was called cotton candy. The Japanese literarily translated the word, calling it wata ame. Curiously, the Swahili word for it, pampa pipi, also refers to it as a sweet or candy.

However, its dominant feature in its translation is its texture.  The British called it candy floss, which became fairy floss in Australia, emphasizing its thin strings. Others grabbed on its overall texture, referring to its sweet cotton wool, including in Russian, сладкая вата [sladkaya vata], Hebrew, צֶמֶר גֶּפֶן מָתוֹק [tzemer gefen matok], Italian, zucchero filato, and Spanish, algodón de azúcar, literally cotton of sugar.

Yet, a third route exists.  As cotton candy is light and airy, some cultures relate it to hair.  The French call it la barbe à papa, evoking the images of a grandfather’s beard. Similarly, the Arabic term, shaear albanat, literally meaning “girl’s hair”.

Regardless, all agree that cotton candy is sweet and airy.  All that remains open to debate, at least according to the Pittsburgh Pirates announcer Bob Walk, is which color is the real one, blue or pink. Personally, as Rhett Butler so ceremoniously declared in Gone With the Wind,I don’t give a damn as it is way too sweet for me, whatever hue it has been given. Most people, especially children, would disagree with me and rightly so.  Life needs more sweet nothings.

The elemental heights of the Golan

This weekend, the stars aligned in a particular fashion. It was the weekend before my birthday; we had arranged far in advance a cottage in the Golan Heights to celebrate it; it had rained and snowed throughout the week leading the weekend; the storm broke on Thursday night; and the next weather front only appeared on Sunday afternoon. The meaning of these circumstances is that my wife and I enjoyed an amazing weekend in the Golan Heights.  I do not mean fighting the traffic jams and lines to Mount Hermon, Israeli's only ski site, not to mention the sheer density of people there.  I am referring to the amazing pleasure of the most basic elements of the Golan Heights experience: its rocks, water and wind.

Only an hour away from the Galilee where I live, the Golan Heights are immediately distinguishable by its rocks, mostly created by its volcanic past. The grounds are liberally sprinkled with basalt rocks of various sizes as if they had been dumped there by trucks.  The wall of old buildings, whether from the ancient Talmudic period or the more modern Syrian period, are made from basalt. The Avital Volcanic Park, an artfully adopted quarry site, provides an amazing inside view of the volcanic forces that shaped the area. Finally, we never got tired of looking at the white shiny peak of Mt. Hermon, covered in snow and glowing in the winter sun. Each view was better than the previous.

Accompanying the solidness of the rock was the omnipresence of water. Created by the heavy rains and sustained by the almost solid rock below, almost every field had one or more blue pond, often with a happy-looking cow or horse enjoying the green grass around it. All along the roads, streams were noisily flowing. Where ever nature had created the proper conditions, waterfalls, big and small, played their music. The water created a sight and sound concert.

However, the unsung hero of the Golan heights was the wind. On the one hand, where we had to stand unprotected by any breaking feature, it was cold, lowering the temperature by several degrees. However, as we were properly dressed, I cannot say that we suffered from the cold. On the other hand, the wind carried the sounds of nature: flowing water, birds and singing leaves. The sounds of the mass movement of people, roar of vehicles and general noise of civilization were almost never be heard. The result was a magnificent and peaceful, albeit a bit lonely, feeling.

Together, these elements, not to mention some great food, made for a wonderful weekend and created a taste of “od” as they say in Hebrew, meaning the desire to do it again. While some people go the Golan for its skiing, I enjoy its more fundamental pleasures.

Love and Marriage – à la Dumas

This week, I took advantage of the flu to partake in one of my annual rituals, rereading Alexander Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo. One advantage of fluency in a foreign language is the privilege of reading literature in the original language.  In this case, I read the French, unabridged version, which is longer and contains several generally untranslated chapters, including one about taking Hashish. In any case, as I am well familiar with the story, I was able to concentrate, through the eyes of Dumas of course, on French upper-class society in the middle 19^th century. Specifically, it was interesting to consider the social relations between men and women at that time.

Among the families portrayed in the book, it was striking to see the loss of power of parents to determine marriages. All of the young people, either actively (Eugenie Dangler) or passively (Albert de Morceff) did whatever possible to escape the designs of their parents. Even if there is ostensible filial or daughterly obedience to the father, it is not internally accepted. In other words, love matches had already become common, if not completely accepted. By contrast, neither Edmond Dantės nor Mercedes even consider marrying each other at the end of the book. The reason may be that Mercedes was too emotionally wrecked or Edmond’s heart was with Haydėe but could be that widows did not remarry at the time.

Looking at the well-developed women characters in the book, you can see a high level of emancipation, at least as compared to most societies of the time. Women were entitled to inherit property, lead independent social lives and even have discreet lovers, of course as long as they did not make their husbands look ridiculous. Moreover, despite the clear legal dominance of males by law, in the book no husband actually orders his wife, merely politely but clearly requests. Women had a voice, albeit a smaller one than men.

One of the pleasures of the book, one shared by the dialogue of Tolstoy’s War and Peace, another of my annual reading pleasures, are the delightful and poignant conversations. Within the framework of formal politeness and respect, people express the entire range of emotions, from the closest friendship to the strongest hatred, all while never raising their voice or using a foul word. Civil society is maintained even while uncivil thoughts are expressed. At least in that respect, modern society has gone downhill.

If, by any chance, anybody distainly notes that I have not inserted any quotes to justify my opinions, it is by intention.  My purpose is not to produce a literary criticism but encourage the rereading of an old classic.  The book has not changed since the last time but our eyes and sensitivity have, rendering our experience as good as if not better than the first time. Ultimately, old friends are no less enjoyable than new ones.

*Image taken from Amazon.