Some of you may know from my previous posts that I am commissioning a custom sword, and have been struggling with the ethical and practical ramifications of this decision.  I do not plan on fighting with it, nor do I plan on using it for any purpose other that to look great with my costume at the Renaissance Faire, and to practice swashbuckling in the privacy of my own home.  However, I recently decided that if I was going to have a longsword, it would make sense to know how to handle it safely, in the same way that I would hope those who own guns would know how to safely handle them.

Though a sword is definitely a lethal weapon, from another age, perhaps, but deadly nonetheless, it still, to me, feels different than owning a gun.  Perhaps it is the poetry of motion that is swordplay that draws me in.  Perhaps it is the romantic notion of the knight in shining armor, fighting dragons and rescuing maidens (or better yet, the maiden rescuing him) that is so appealing, until, of course, I think about the reality of what they were actually doing, and then it gets pretty gruesome.  But we don’t like to think about that, do we?  Perhaps it is the gracefulness attributed to those who are truly masters of the blade, the ones who can slip in and out of  their opponent’s shadow like water through stones, that I want to emulate.

In order to better understand the art of the blade, and to know how to handle it so that my mother cannot accuse me of poking someone’s eye out, I have signed up for lessons in the martial art and science of sword fighting.  And I am having fun!  Who would’ve thought?!!  It is hard work and great exercise.  We practice with wooden swords, blunt at the tip and heavy to hold.  I am learning how to stay in balance and how to plant my feet so even the largest guy can’t topple me.  I am learning how even the smallest movement can make a big difference–sometimes the difference between a grazing cut and a fatal strike.  I am learning how to observe others and anticipate my opponent’s move in order to protect myself, and I am learning Renaissance Italian, German and French.  Even if I wasn’t going to own a sword, these are all useful skills to have.  And my inner knight is having fun learning them.  But at the end of the day, when I’m soothing my aching muscles and realizing that I am sore in places I didn’t even know I had places (to quote First Wizard Zed in “Legend of the Seeker”), I am still left with the discomforting thought that I am learning the art of war, me, the pacifist who loves peace and strives to pursue it.

Though I know I am not going to actually wield this sword in combat, nor do I  intend to use it even in simulations or LARP (Live Action Role Play), I am still feeling slightly guilty.  Why?  Swordplay is a martial art like any other.  Why am I feeling the need to defend myself for wanting to learn it?  I guess the fact that I am struggling with this means I probably don’t have to worry that I will be tempted to use it for anything other than aesthetic enjoyment, or perhaps, the occasion slicing of some really big melons!

I spent the day yesterday attending the unveiling service for my friend, Debbie Friedman z”l, may her memory be a blessing.  All of us who knew and loved her, or were inspired or touched by her music, her heart, her soul, or her unique way of teaching and including others in her light, have lost someone rare and precious.  In keeping with the way she lived her life, her last wishes were for those mourning her not to be sad but to join together in song and celebration of the life we are given, being thankful for each other and for every precious day, and to make the most of it.

It is hard to believe that is has been a full year since we lost her.  I remember that at her funeral service, (which was held on January 11, 2011 at 11:11—angel time), my heart stopped when I caught sight of her guitar resting atop her unadorned coffin, draped only with a simple cloth embroidered with a mogen david.  I was drawn to it, and as I gently laid my hand on the cloth cover to say my goodbye, I felt a definite energy from within.  I touched the guitar, then walked back to my seat, and my mom took her turn.  When she returned, my mom commented that the guitar should have had a broken string.  I was instantly struck with the symbolism—after all, Debbie was always breaking strings in concert, but also, now that she is gone, our community will always feel the loss of that broken string that can NEVER be replaced.  I sighed and looked down in my lap, sadly brushing at imaginary lint, and there, as if it had been dropped from above, as if Debbie had heard me, was a piece of broken nylon string!  Debbie was indeed watching with the angels, and most likely leading them in song!

Yesterday, after a moving, tearful service in which her students and colleagues sang her songs and blessed her with their voices and prayers, we gathered together for a meal of consolation, and then a kumsitz (a gathering of people sitting and singing together).  At every conference or workshop Debbie attended, these organic gatherings were the highlights, and Debbie would sit playing her guitar into the wee small hours of the morning, surrounded by all ages of people wanting to be close to her.  She would sing and play any song, hers or any folk song those around her could shout out, and everyone was invited to play and sing along.  Though not without ego, she had a unique ability to make every person feel special, and was always generous in sharing the spotlight, whether on-stage or off.  At this, the marking of one full year of mourning, her students, her teachers, her friends gathered together, piano, guitars and trumpet in hand, and sang in angelic, tear-filled harmony the songs and blessings she had written and sung, taught and infused with life and light and meaning, my friend EJ’s hands signing along, lifting us even higher with her silent graceful prayer.  A heavenly chorus of voices rose up in her memory, voices of the future she will never see, voices inspired by her soul and continuing her legacy.

Debbie, you continue to be a blessing.  Go forth in peace, knowing you will live on in all our hearts.

It was Christmas in Northern California.  The sky was blue, the towering pine and palm trees were swaying, the Japanese maple and liquid amber were finally shedding their Autumn leaves, and there was frost on the lawns and the big inflatable Snoopy down the street.  What’s a nice Jewish girl to do, when everything on Earth, it seems, is closed except for the usual movie theaters and Chinese restaurants?  After spending a quiet afternoon sipping hot chocolate and schmoozing with good friends in our humble hobbit hole, we went to dinner at the new kosher Israeli restaurant in town.  I must say, after spending almost two months inundated with Christmas cheer from every radio station, coffee shop, restaurant and bookstore, not to mention every other location except home, it was such a treat to sit down in a restaurant where they were playing Israeli music and I could potentially order ANYTHING from the menu, because it was all kosher!  Imagine that!  I was finally not limited to only the salmon or the vegetarian pasta!  What a concept!!!

The whole community had turned out, and our friends ran into at least 4 other people they knew during the course of the evening.  Though it was crowded and so noisy we had to scream to our table mates to be heard over the din of the glasses clinking, patrons jabbering, waiters waiting, (5. . . golden. . . felafel!), and a big-screen TV blaring a raucous Israeli music concert, it was a relief to be with my own community on this usually lonely-for-Jews day of all days.  We wondered aloud at how the Orthodox males who were dining behind us were dealing with the scantily clad female Israeli musician who was crooning her heart out to a stadium-sized crowd on the large screen.  Not only was she dressed immodestly, but she was singing in public, where these men had no choice but to listen or leave!  As my grandma would say, “shreklich!” (terrible) and as I would say, “Oy!”

My favorite moment came when the presumed owner came out of the kitchen and stopped everything by announcing that it was time to light the hanukkiah (the Hanukkah menorah).   They muted the TV, everyone in the place immediately stopped talking, the servers stopped serving, and silence fell as he lit the candles one by one, six for the sixth night plus one called the shammes which lights them all.  I am not ashamed to admit that I was so moved I started tearing up.  He chanted the blessings in an Israeli melody I was not familiar with, and then went right into Maoz Tzur, Hebrew for “Rock of Ages”, a traditional Hanukkah melody.  The Jewish patrons grinned and sang along or swayed to the familiar melody, while the non-Jewish guests smiled politely.  The owner tried to lead us in another few songs, but the patrons were eager to get back to their food and drink, so he blasted a Hanukkah CD, and a few of us sang along to an Israeli version of a well-known Hanukkah song.  In the song, the letters we see in this country on the dreidle (the little spinning top played with on Hanukkah), nun gimmel hey and shin (which form the acronym, “a Great Miracle Happened There”), were changed to nun gimmel hey and pey, (a Great Miracle Happened Here), because this was an Israeli version, and the miracle did in fact, happen in what is now Israel!

Once we got home it was time to light our own candles, and then, what was there to do but watch a Dr. Who Christmas special?!  During the program, there was a commercial for Walmart.  In fact, it was aired at almost every commercial break during the hour and a half show (or at least, it seemed that way!)  I have multiple ethical reasons for not stepping foot in Walmart or supporting it in any way, but now it seems I have another one.  The commercial started with a young mother and father shopping with their baby, encountering a Walmart salesperson who tells them that the items in the store are even more discounted than usual for the holidays.  The mother immediately deadpans to her husband as the camera focuses on their cherubic little girl sitting in the front of the cart, “You need to teach her to walk, she’s taking up valuable cart space.”

I still cannot even write this without getting incensed.  Has Christmas come to this?  Have we gotten to the point where saving money on things has become more important than our own children?  Are we SO callous that we will not hesitate to kick our own child out of a shopping cart to make room for more cheap stuff, made by out-sourced slave labor?  This is by far not the only commercial I have seen this year that flaunts the greed and selfishness of the season, but it is the one that compelled me to write.  Don’t get me wrong, I do not hate this season.  In fact, I love the smells of gingerbread and peppermint mochas as much as the next person.  I enjoy the pretty lights and tacky decorations, and I am the first one to cry at all the sappy, feel-good Christmas specials where love, family togetherness and last-minute miracles are the staple.  But I DO have a problem with the other messages that inundate us constantly during this time, messages that say that getting what we want is paramount, where bookstores have automatic programs to intercept and send back gifts we are sent that are not exactly to our specifications, and where the end result of giving is more important than the thought that used to count for something.  I have a problem with the hypocrisy of giving ONLY during this season and conveniently forgetting the rest of the year, leaving food banks and charities hurting the other 364 days.  I have a problem with extending a one-day holiday from the moment Halloween is over until the end of New Year’s Eve, just to keep the stores in business.

I do not think it is waging a war on Christmas for store clerks to wish their patrons a “Happy Holidays” instead of a “Merry Christmas”.  I appreciate it, and thank them, oftentimes out loud, for their consideration.  I do not expect to be wished a “Happy Hanukkah”, but it is nice to have it acknowledged that not all of us celebrate the birth of Jesus.  All evidence to the contrary, we are NOT living in a Christian country, and our population is diverse and not all Christian.  Jews do not celebrate Hanukkah in addition to Christmas, nor is Hanukkah a Jewish Christmas.  I cannot speak for the other religions, or how other folks who do not celebrate Christmas feel during this time, but as a Jewish American, I can honestly say that I am looking forward to January 2nd, when I can go back to listening to my radio station and sitting in a bookstore or coffee shop, and not having snippets of “Santa Baby” dancing in my head.  Go ahead, call me Scrooge.  I can take it.

“And they shall beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks; Nation shall not lift up sword against nation; Neither shall they learn war anymore.”    -Isaiah 2:4; Micah 4:3

So, as you may know, I am commissioning a custom-made sword.  Me, the pacifist klutz who hates violence and confrontation of any kind.  But I’ve always wanted a sword, go figure.  And if not now, when?  I’m getting to that age where, if I don’t do things now, I may never get the chance to do them, and life is short, and precious.  So, if I’m going to do this, I’m going to make it the most beautiful and meaningful sword I can design. 

I have already decided on the elements.  I chose the blade from one sword, the pommel from another, the guard from a third, and the handle from a fourth to create my dream sword.  It will be a combination of Elvish, Ranger and fantasy Monarch.  The blade will be fully functional, which means it will be sharp and not just decorative, so I need to keep a bunch of Band-Aid boxes on hand, just in case a practice session goes awry.  The pommel and guard will be silver, with a tree of life engraved on the pommel, and the leather-wrapped handle will be some form of rich brown wrapped with gold thread.  Below is a preliminary Photoshopped prototype of my sword in progress.   The etching on the blade will be different than you see here.

My dream sword in progress.

I chose a couple of Hebrew quotes to be etched on the fuller (the groove down the center), contrasting with a swirly vine pattern which will curl around the letters going down the blade.  I decided to use a Hebrew script called “Yerushalmi”, which is the closest modern script to the one found on the Dead Sea Scrolls, the oldest Hebrew script we have found to-date, (I think).  It is elegant, with bold horizontal lines and curved, narrowing ascending and descending lines, which will contrast with the flowing, feminine vine pattern embracing it.  The idea of contrast intrigued me, as it parallels my conflicting emotions about the entire endeavor—the straight, hard masculinity of the sword itself, contrasting with the softer embellishments and values I would impose onto it—those of justice, righteousness and peace.   

The first quote I chose is from Leviticus 19:16.  “Do not stand idly by the blood of your neighbor.”  The second quote is from Deuteronomy 16:20.  “Justice, justice shall you pursue.”  I may put the words of Psalm 34 on the scabbard, “Seek peace and pursue it.”   The quote above about swords into plowshares I thought would be just a little TOO ironic, and over-the-top.  

Hebrew quotes w/vine pattern design for etching

Is it my guilt trying to assert itself; trying to remind me of the purpose of this weapon?  Or is it my way of justifying wanting something used for war?  Maybe it will serve as a reminder of what we should be fighting against.  Maybe I will actually turn it into a plowshare one day, as soon as I figure out exactly what a plowshare is!

When a friend asked me what I was going to use the sword for, I answered cheekily that I certainly wasn’t going to use it to cut cake, unless it was a very BIG cake!  She suggested that I use it to fight for justice.  Of course I would, that goes without saying!  But in the virtual sense only.  I don’t see myself going out to the post office or grocery store and whipping out the sword to prevent someone from cutting in line, or stealing a tomato.  But maybe, just maybe, by carrying it around at the Renaissance Faire, I can somehow channel Robin Hood and all those knights who fought for the rights of the oppressed.  And maybe, just maybe, seeing it on my wall will inspire me to go out and work for justice in a way that is more befitting today’s standards of tikkun olam, (repairing the world), by helping the needy, feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, comforting the bereaved, and championing the rights of the oppressed.  If it inspires me to go out and perform one more mitzvah (commandment, or good deed) than I had planned to do, than it will be worth everything I put into it.

What is a nice, modern, liberal Jewish pacifist klutz going to do with a sword?!!  (Put someone’s eye out, my mother keeps saying!)  That is the question I have been mulling over for the past few months, ever since I became obsessed with owning my own.  But wait, let me back up a moment.  I admit that I have always been enthralled with knights in shining armor, sword fighting (in stories), archery, and the intoxicatingly romantic idea of fighting for justice, truth and honor.  I always wanted to be a knight, never mind that there were no Jewish knights, let alone Jewish women knights!  Details, details.  Interestingly, I loved to read about knights brandishing their swords in battle for good against evil, but when I actually saw it, violent and bloody on the screen, I turned my head away in disgust.  So, why do I want my own sword?  I’m getting to that. 

I went to my first Renaissance Faire as an adult a few months back, and fell in love with the whole thing: the ability to time-travel, the merchants with their hand-made wares, the stunning costumes and pageantry, the knights and chivalry come-to-life, the silly yet romantic jousting, the colorful language and characters, the ever-present reminder of the many conveniences of life we now have, and the taste of a time in which the simple pleasures kept one’s mind off the dark, gritty and often violent reality of Medieval and Renaissance life.  And of course, all the swords!

In addition to swords, I always loved archery, and growing up, wanted to be Robin Hood, not Marian, because, besides robbing from the rich to give to the poor, Robin got to shoot a bow and swashbuckle his way out of things.  Marian, I guess, also shot a bow (and supposedly better than Robin), but there was something about Robin that was far more fascinating for me.  Perhaps it was the idea of pulling a sword out of its scabbard, or bending back one’s bow and setting the world to rights with a single stroke or shot.  Ahh, if only it was that easy!  I guess in the Middle Ages, the Wild West and Middle Earth, it was at times.

My father had a full-size wooden long bow given to him by an old friend, who carved it from lemon wood when the two of them were just boys growing up in South America.  When my brother and I were young, my dad used to take that bow with us to the park, and we’d shoot colorful wooden arrows at a large cardboard box.  Once I became an adult, I didn’t shoot a bow again until I lived in Cleveland and my friend Janice, long-time member of an archery club, re-taught me.  This time, we practiced out on a farm and shot at a real paper archery target backed by a thick bale of hay.  I got pretty good, and my nickname became “Maid”, short for Maid Marian!  My father gave me his cherished bow a few years ago, so now I was one step closer to being Robin Hood!  And the bow still works!

Robin Hoodlesstashen of Lokshen, from Shushan Forest

Last year I broke down and finally bought a Robin Hood costume for a Purim celebration.  After all, I had the bow, now I needed the outfit to go with it!  Purim is a holiday with a theme like many others in Judaism—they tried to kill us, we survived, let’s eat!  On Purim, Jews read the scroll of Esther, give gifts to the poor, and celebrate their survival as a people by dressing up in costume and eating cookies called hamantashen, shaped like the ears or hat of the evil villain Haman who sought to destroy us.  My costume was pretty nice, as far as costumes go, but after attending the first of a few Renaissance Faires and seeing all the sumptuous attire, I began the process of slowly making my outfit more and more authentic, so that I could wear it to the faire and not be embarrassed.

First I replaced the fake leather vinyl boots for real leather ones.  I found a pair of awesome lace-up Locksley boots online, but despite my extensive research and advice by the sales person regarding the sizing, when they arrived just in time for that weekend’s faire, they were too small, forcing me to find an acceptable but not-as-perfect, last-minute alternative at a local shoe store.

Next I added a wide leather belt with studs to match my tunic, and ordered authentic leather pouches to hold the chocolate gelt that I would give out as the coins I “robbed” from the rich.  I bought a lace-up cotton shirt at one of the faires, and sewed a couple feathers onto my hat.  I ordered a special archer’s leather arm bracer which, when it finally arrived, did not fit.  Grrrrrrrr!  I was beginning to realize the expense and foolishness of ordering clothing online!  That weekend when we went to the faire,  I took a workshop on how to make your own leather arm bracers, and spent the next few weekends going back to the leather shop to finish them.  I now know the basics of leather working, and have a beautiful pair of custom leather arm bracers with a tree of life design, fit for a tree-hugging warrior, but, I realized, not really fit for an archer—too bulky and inflexible!  It’s all about the learning process, right? 

Hand-tooled leather Tree of Life arm bracers

2nd Robin incarnation, w/new shirt, boots and belt

I now needed a sword for my new belt. (Finally, she’s getting to the sword part!)  I looked at swords online for hours, going to every sword making website I could find, and learning more than I ever thought there was to know about the making and designing of swords, yet never quite finding what I wanted.  I was obsessed, and excited.  I even went to the only shop in the area that had real functional swords, so I could actually hold one in my hand and feel its weight, but didn’t find exactly what I was looking for.  The one sword I did like was of course, no longer being made, and when I finally found a place that had one left, I had already decided to go another way.  I found a master craftsman who fashioned swords and actually worked in the USA, out of Idaho.  He seemed to be one of the best in the business; his work was amazing, and I was impressed with his craftsmanship and artistry.  I took a deep breath and contacted him.

I thought I must be crazy!  What was I doing?  A custom sword would cost three to four times what a standard sword would cost.  What was I going to do with it?  Cut melons?  I’m still looking for work, how can I afford or justify this?  Everything I have been taught, everything I believe in is against violence, bloodshed, fighting and warmongering.  And yet, this was something I inexplicably always dreamed of.  It had the potential to be exactly what I always wanted, and it would be unique.  I could make it my own.  I could design the sword and scabbard to meet my conflicting emotions head on and put an answer to all my questions.  I would of course not actually use it, except to walk around at Ren Faires and to practice swashbuckling in the backyard, but perhaps I could use it in a virtual way, to fight for justice?  But I believe in loving, not fighting.  Oh, what to do?

The little knight inside me finally won out, and I contacted my sword maven and paid the deposit.  There was such a long queue for his work that I was told I would not receive the finished sword until next June!  But that would give me more time to earn the money and perfect the design.  In the meantime, however, it did not address the immediate problem of still needing a sword for the faire.  I broke down and bought my favorite decorative sword—Frodo and Sam’s little Sting, (from The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings,) which has a curving Elvin design etched on the elegant blade, and a beautiful Elvin scabbard.  If you happen to not be a hobbit, it is too short to be a long sword and too long to be a dagger, but it looks great on my belt, and is a work of art I can appreciate.  It also gives me something not-too-expensive to play with until my actual sword is finished!  (It also looks great on my wall, where I can be inspired by its artistry.)  I will say more about designing my sword in coming blogs, but let me finish with my outfit.

I now needed new arrows for my bow, as the original ones we shot as kids were old and scruffy, and missing most of their paint and fletching.  And I needed an authentic-looking quiver to hold them.  I looked at quivers online.  The ones I could afford were cheap and plain; the ones I liked were custom made and hundreds of dollars.  I decided to make my own instead.  I consulted a few websites to see how other people made theirs.  As I was still new to leather working and I didn’t have the knowledge, tools or access to acquire the material, I decided to go the non-leather route with this item.  I created my quiver out of a rolled sheet of cork, covered with fabric and Ultrasuede (imitation suede), and lined with thick felt and a piece of fluffy sheepskin on the  inside bottom.  (Boy, I would like to be thosearrows, snuggled in soft felt and resting on sheepskin fluff!  What a life!)  I found a tree pendant that I attached to the outside, continuing the tree of life theme.  The shoulder straps were leather belts I found at thrift stores and a biker’s hangout.  It was beautiful!  I imagined Robin would have been proud to wear such a quiver!  Now I needed some stylish wooden arrows. 

Hand made quiver with wooden arrows

This turned out to be another interesting adventure.  I didn’t have time to order them online, as they were all custom made, and I didn’t even know what lengths or types to order.  As traditional archery is not exactly the most popular sport today, there are only 3 archery stores within reasonable driving distance of my house.  The first one claimed their archery expert was out sick for a few months, and they would have to wait until he returned.  The second place mostly sold hunting gear and guns, and, though it was the closest, I couldn’t bring myself to go there.  The third, about an hour away, could make the arrows for me overnight.  Perfect! (The Renaissance Faire was that coming weekend!) 

I drove about an hour to the archery shop.  When I got there, I found that they used just bare, unstained wooden shafts, the fletching (feathers) was not what I had originally wanted, and they only had 6 dowels in the size I needed for my bow.  (I had wanted a dozen).  I settled for a half-dozen shafts, which I would have to stain myself, after the feathers were added (which is not the order in which it is done!)  When the assistant brought out a box of ziploc bags filled with a haphazard array of assorted feathers, I hand picked two white and one black flecked feather for each arrow.  Of course, they were out of the size nocks, (the ends that have a groove to hold the string) that I needed, so I would have to go to the gun store to get those.  D’oh!

That afternoon I plucked up my courage and drove to the gun store.  I pass the place almost every day but have never stepped foot in it.  A life-size, plastic brown-flocked deer with a red archery sign on its back stands out in front of what looks like a one-room house painted all over in camouflage.  It makes me ill just seeing it.  From the outside, the place always feels deserted and ramshackle.  I made my way from the pint-sized parking lot to the front door, which was covered with a metal meshed security gate, and hesitantly entered the tiny shop.  Expecting it to be empty, I was surprised when I entered to find it full of huge, serious-looking men buying guns.  Oy!  Here I was, a liberal Jewish pacifist Renaissance geek, looking for nocks for her arrows that she would only shoot at a paper target, surrounded by huge, gun-loving hunters.  I felt all their eyes on me as I asked if they had what I needed for my traditional wooden arrows.  The young man behind the counter pointed me toward the corner, where a sad, mismatched assortment of fluorescent fletched arrows stuck out of a broken plastic bucket that apparently hadn’t been touched in over a year.  These were the only wooden arrows they had.  They did, however, have the size nocks I needed, just not in the right color.  I wanted a traditional color.  They had fluorescent orange.  Sigh.  I took my little, three dollar neon orange purchase home and painted them antique gold.  Then, once I picked up my new arrows the next day, I stained the shafts a deep rich mahogany brown, to look more natural.  I now had a beautiful set of arrows to go with my hand-made quiver.

Robin of Lokshen, and Lady Kaila of the Shire at the Faire. Latest outfit, with arm bracers, leather pouches & Sting

Stay tuned for more about the anxiety and ecstasy of designing my own sword!

The red leaf maple leaves are turning to rust, a chill wind hovers in the air, and our little tiger Mendel is wondering if I’ll ever take down the foam Halloween ghosties and pumpkins in the window that are blocking his cropped view of the world.  It’s finally Fall in California, which means the rain has begun, Christmas movies have started on TV and Thanksgiving turkeys aren’t even on sale yet in the stores.  I’m spending the chilly day indoors, trying to figure out how to start my first blog.  I know, I should have done this years ago, but I’m a little behind in the tech department.  As a calligrapher and artist, I’d take an old-fashioned pen or brush and paper over texting or emailing any day, but one must adapt to the times, or be left in the dust.  When it comes to technology and progress, resistance is indeed futile.  (Voyager’s Seven-of Nine would be proud.)

I should be mowing the lawn, which has grown so long it was mistaken for an urban jungle by the neighborhood squirrels.  Instead I’m musing on the effects of long-term unemployment on creativity, depression, and the propensity to purchase gourmet food.  I’m also a newly-minted chef, trying to decide what direction to point my Japanese chef knife.  But I digress.  It must be lunch-time.  I’ve also realized that I am part-hobbit, as I enjoy, breakfast, second breakfast, elevenses, lunch, tea, afternoon snack, etc.  And I am perfectly happy staying home in our humble hobbit hole, tending our veggie beds and trimming the fruit trees, and would take that over an afternoon at the mall any day.

I inherited many good things from my paternal grandfather, including his love of nature, green thumb and inability to stay inside on a beautiful day, a deep connection to Judaism, and a talent for baking, among others, but unfortunately I also inherited his klutz gene.  If I had invested in the Band-Aid corporation years ago, I wouldn’t be looking for work now!  I’m probably one of their most loyal customers, and I have the scars to prove it.  But all those scars have good stories that go along with them.  Perhaps this blog should include some of those stories.  Stay tuned.  This klutzy hobbit is going to lunch!