?....who gives the rooster understanding to distinguish between day and night.? (from the morning prayers)
Got this off the BBC the other day (March 2):
?Figures released by Israel's Central Bureau of Statistics show that new building in Jewish settlements increased last year by 35%. Human rights organisations say that there are around 400,000 settlers in east Jerusalem, the West Bank and Gaza living in more than 120 settlements. Under international law, the settlements are considered illegal... The increase, in what is known here as 'settlement activity', confirms what everyone here already knows: that in this particular area, Israel has ignored its obligations as set out in the international peace plan, the roadmap.?
Settlement is up 35%. The world may lament those statistics, but I believe it is cause for celebration. In spite of international censure, incessant terror, and a perplexed government, the Jews of Israel continue to increase, thrive and live on their land. That?s Purim for you!
Things are not always as they appear. I learned this lesson when I first made aliyah back in 1986.
We were staying at an Absorption Center in Kfar Chabad, which housed immigrants primarily from Russia, Syria and North America.
An immigrant family from Georgia (as in Caucasus, not Dixie) owned a chicken, which in turn, owned the common grounds around the housing facilities. It was bizarre how people would stray off the path in order to avoid this rather assertive foul. I mean, this was one mean bird, and I am sure that Colonel Sanders himself would not want to tangle with it.
One afternoon, I heard my 15-month-old daughter shriek. I opened the door and saw the big bird aggressively pecking at my child and the cookie in her hand.
I ran out sceaming, ?I?m gonna kill that damn chicken!?
A six foot tall, 250 pound immigrant from America, who had been nonchalantly leaning against a concrete pillar and witnessing the assault from a safe distance, remarked, ?That ain?t no damn chicken. That thar?s a damn rooster.?
Yep, the big hillbilly from Brooklyn and a few bewigged women watched from the relative safety of their homes as this fairly mild-mannered immigrant from the Midwest cursed and drop-kicked ?the blankety, blank, blank chicken from Hell.? I rescued my daughter and even managed to retrieve the Osem biscuit. When it comes to my children, no chicken is too great for me.
The Georgian family felt pretty bad about the whole incident, so a few hours later a distinct aroma of barbecued rooster permeated the air. When they knocked on the door with the generous offering, I politely refused.
That was almost eighteen years ago, but the incident still sticks with me. So when my husband exchanged one of our baby goats for several young chickens, I wasn?t happy about the deal. I wasn?t happy that my youngest son opened the boxes and released the birds in my house. I just wasn?t happy. There was something about their strut. It was a bit ?butch?.
I said, ?They look like roosters to me.?
My eldest son, the budding zoologist, said, ?Go back to your computer, Mom. What do you know about chickens??
Well, in these dark times, I may not always be able to distinguish day from night, but I do know my chickens from my roosters.
At two in the morning, we heard a crow that made the Golan jackals? fur stand on end. Alarmed, but still groggy, I mumbled, ?That ain?t no chicken. That thar?s a damn rooster.?
My husband found the noisy culprit in the morning and asked for a chicken in exchange. Only the following night, it happened again. This routine went on for two weeks until my husband finally conceded that most of the original chickens were indeed roosters.
We now have a few chickens and one rooster. The chickens even lay ridiculously small eggs. Around here, I can use 12 eggs to make an omelet with far less cholesterol than one made with three store-bought eggs.
The only problem left is that the rooster can?t distinguish between day and night. It crows any time from late in the morning through a good part of the night. It is often asleep at day-break. I thought that it might be blind or perhaps, like a lot of us, it has insomnia or a mixed-up biological clock. Maybe it?s just plain stupid.
Then it dawned on me. In spite of the chaos and confusion around us, I?ve got a rooster that can see through the darkness. It sings praises and is ready for action anytime of day or night. That?s one smart bird.
So here¹s my Purim prayer:
May those of us who are chickens turn into roosters, so that we no longer have to behave like sitting ducks.
If you didn?t understand that, take a couple shots of good whiskey and read it again.
Purim Sameyach from the Golan.
Got this off the BBC the other day (March 2):
?Figures released by Israel's Central Bureau of Statistics show that new building in Jewish settlements increased last year by 35%. Human rights organisations say that there are around 400,000 settlers in east Jerusalem, the West Bank and Gaza living in more than 120 settlements. Under international law, the settlements are considered illegal... The increase, in what is known here as 'settlement activity', confirms what everyone here already knows: that in this particular area, Israel has ignored its obligations as set out in the international peace plan, the roadmap.?
Settlement is up 35%. The world may lament those statistics, but I believe it is cause for celebration. In spite of international censure, incessant terror, and a perplexed government, the Jews of Israel continue to increase, thrive and live on their land. That?s Purim for you!
Things are not always as they appear. I learned this lesson when I first made aliyah back in 1986.
We were staying at an Absorption Center in Kfar Chabad, which housed immigrants primarily from Russia, Syria and North America.
An immigrant family from Georgia (as in Caucasus, not Dixie) owned a chicken, which in turn, owned the common grounds around the housing facilities. It was bizarre how people would stray off the path in order to avoid this rather assertive foul. I mean, this was one mean bird, and I am sure that Colonel Sanders himself would not want to tangle with it.
One afternoon, I heard my 15-month-old daughter shriek. I opened the door and saw the big bird aggressively pecking at my child and the cookie in her hand.
I ran out sceaming, ?I?m gonna kill that damn chicken!?
A six foot tall, 250 pound immigrant from America, who had been nonchalantly leaning against a concrete pillar and witnessing the assault from a safe distance, remarked, ?That ain?t no damn chicken. That thar?s a damn rooster.?
Yep, the big hillbilly from Brooklyn and a few bewigged women watched from the relative safety of their homes as this fairly mild-mannered immigrant from the Midwest cursed and drop-kicked ?the blankety, blank, blank chicken from Hell.? I rescued my daughter and even managed to retrieve the Osem biscuit. When it comes to my children, no chicken is too great for me.
The Georgian family felt pretty bad about the whole incident, so a few hours later a distinct aroma of barbecued rooster permeated the air. When they knocked on the door with the generous offering, I politely refused.
That was almost eighteen years ago, but the incident still sticks with me. So when my husband exchanged one of our baby goats for several young chickens, I wasn?t happy about the deal. I wasn?t happy that my youngest son opened the boxes and released the birds in my house. I just wasn?t happy. There was something about their strut. It was a bit ?butch?.
I said, ?They look like roosters to me.?
My eldest son, the budding zoologist, said, ?Go back to your computer, Mom. What do you know about chickens??
Well, in these dark times, I may not always be able to distinguish day from night, but I do know my chickens from my roosters.
At two in the morning, we heard a crow that made the Golan jackals? fur stand on end. Alarmed, but still groggy, I mumbled, ?That ain?t no chicken. That thar?s a damn rooster.?
My husband found the noisy culprit in the morning and asked for a chicken in exchange. Only the following night, it happened again. This routine went on for two weeks until my husband finally conceded that most of the original chickens were indeed roosters.
We now have a few chickens and one rooster. The chickens even lay ridiculously small eggs. Around here, I can use 12 eggs to make an omelet with far less cholesterol than one made with three store-bought eggs.
The only problem left is that the rooster can?t distinguish between day and night. It crows any time from late in the morning through a good part of the night. It is often asleep at day-break. I thought that it might be blind or perhaps, like a lot of us, it has insomnia or a mixed-up biological clock. Maybe it?s just plain stupid.
Then it dawned on me. In spite of the chaos and confusion around us, I?ve got a rooster that can see through the darkness. It sings praises and is ready for action anytime of day or night. That?s one smart bird.
So here¹s my Purim prayer:
May those of us who are chickens turn into roosters, so that we no longer have to behave like sitting ducks.
If you didn?t understand that, take a couple shots of good whiskey and read it again.
Purim Sameyach from the Golan.