Eye yai yai

About eleven, maybe twelve, years ago, I went to see an opthamologist for some problem I was having with my eye/s (I don't remember what it was). All I remember from that visit was that he put this stuff in my eyes that hurt like hell, and then used this machine to hold them open so he could look at them, and I practically freaked out I hated it so much, and he was very condescending to me, and then he said "you have a slight astigmatism in your left eye. There's no point in doing anything about it now, but in about ten years you'll probably need glasses."

Jump ahead about 9 years. I'm applying for my driver's license in Israel, and I go to have my eyes examined. I look into the little machine, read off the first two lines, I've passed, I go home. No problem.

Fast forward to a few months ago. I've dragged my heels completing the Israeli driver's license procedure, and by the time I get around to taking and passing the driver's test, it's been more than a year since my eye exam. The exam has expired, so I have to take it again. I go back to the same place, read off the first two lines, I've passed, I go home.

But this time there is a problem. Because though the Ministry of Transportation only cares about the first two lines, I could see all the lines that come after that. And this time, I was shocked at how blurry those next lines were from my left eye.

I went around for a while, every so often testing myself, squinting at street signs far away with one eye, then the other, and thinking "yup, definitely not doing well on the left." But I did nothing, because I'm lazy and vain and cheap, and those things together don't go well when one must get a prescription for one's first pair of glasses.

Last week, I went with an opthamologist and an optometrist to an Absorption Center, where they tested new Ethiopian immigrants' eyesight and gave medical referrals to those who need further attention. It's part of a study to see how the "system" can be changed to bridge the gap between Israel's excellent doctors and the Ethiopian immigrants, who don't know how to take advantage of the medical care available to them. They might, for example, struggle with learning Hebrew and take for granted that they are too old to learn a new language, when the real problem is that they can't see the letters properly - and they just take for granted that that's how it is, and never complain.

Anyhow, they had this nifty machine that can test someone's eyesight without them having to talk. They don't have to identify colors or letters or what direction something is facing -- which would be impossible for new immigrants who speak neither Hebrew nor English. I saw that each exam took less than a minute, so when all the immigrants were done, I asked if they could test me too.

I put my chin in the face-rest, looked into the machine, and 2 seconds later both the optometrist and the opthamologist were like "whoa! check out that left eye! You don't wear corrective lenses? Did you know you have a problem? You really need to see your doctor."

Well, so, today I overcame my laziness and my vanity and my miserliness and saw my doctor, who told me I don't even need a referral to an optometrist. So . . . it looks like next week I'm going to have my eyes checked again, and this time, I'm putting in an order for new eyewear . . . A couple of friends will come with me, to make sure I don't choose something that will make me look like a freak.

Part of me acknowledges that my friends with glasses have very cool styles and colors, and that the glasses, if chosen wisely, can be very attractive indeed. But . . . I hate to admit that I'm upset about it. Upset that those ten years flew by so fast, upset that now I'll have another expense and a new thing to have to worry and think about (not scratching them, not losing them, not crushing them . . . ), and, frankly, upset because my eyes are one of the only features I have that I really like, and I don't want to cover them up. I'm trying to remind myself that the right glasses could accentuate the good features while drawing attention away from the bad . . . but . . . well, this is a new thing for me.

Yes, yes, there are contact lenses . . . but there is no way in hell that I am sticking something in my eyes! No way! OK, bli neder, but no way!

A friend recommended I look into laser eye surgery, and my first reaction was there is no way in hell I'm letting someone burn a laser at my eye! No freakin' way! Bli neder, but no way.

So, that's that with that. More updates to come, I'm sure.

Appreciation Wednesday (on Monday): Thank you to my teachers

Sorry it's been a while since my last installment of this series. I had a draft for this post all set up, with serious background research and everything, and then discovered that I'd deleted all the text by mistake! Argh! But, of course, there are so many people and phenomena in the world to appreciate, so I'll write about something else this week while I reconstruct the other one . . .

I'm blessed to have had many amazing teachers in the course of my life. I'm grateful to my parents for having paid all the tuition money to send me to a K-12 school that I loved (most of the time) and in which I got a first-rate education. They also sent me on a year of religious studies in Israel, which I also loved, and to college (which I helped pay for, a little, and which I loved), and, with my grandmother, helped me significantly to attend graduate school, which I loved. (For that last, I also appreciate the folks at NYU who decided to give me a substantial scholarship, without which I would have had a much harder time finishing the program, and probably would not have enjoyed myself half as much.)

Today I'm taking some time to appreciate the English/writing teachers who helped me get to where I am today: a relatively successful freelance journalist, who is managing to pay my bills (usually) just by freelancing. There are not many people in the world who manage that -- the average freelance writer in America earns only $5,000 per year -- and there is no way I could have gotten here by myself.

Looking back, I realize that what made a difference for me was a combination of teachers who taught well, were personally encouraging to me, and/or helped me get my "foot in the door" of the business.

I appreciate my kindergarten teachers, whoever they were, for teaching me the letters of the alphabet.

I appreciate Mrs. Geracht, my first grade teacher, and Miss Simansky, my second grade teacher, for instructing me how to read and write, and creating an enjoyable and safe school atmosphere for me. I distinctly remember loving school very much right through second grade, and am grateful to have gotten off to a happy start.

I appreciate Mrs. Silver, my fourth grade teacher, for not only assigning fascinating projects, especially in reading, writing, and science, but also putting me in the highest spelling group, which was great for my self-esteem (and allowed me to learn to spell words like pneumonia when I was nine years old).

I appreciate Mrs. Onie, my sixth grade teacher, for teaching me how to write an outline (which I hated at the time) and giving me lots of writing opportunities. I also appreciate her for recommending that I be put in Honors English in junior high school. I had never seen myself as "honors" material, and it felt so amazing when she told me that my writing was excellent and that she thought I'd do well in the higher track.

I appreciate Miss Steiff, z"l, who taught me to analyze literature and, more importantly, to love, appreciate, and enjoy English grammar in grades seven and eight. She also taught a special extra-curricular course in tenth grade, to prepare us to take the Test of Standard Written English along with the SAT. The fact that an editor told me once "we like your work because it requires almost no copy editing" is due entirely to Miss Steiff, who taught me all about subject-verb agreement, and dangling participles. She was a special person and an excellent teacher, and I miss her very much.

I appreciate my ninth grade English teacher, Mrs. Charney, for reading one of my writing assignments out loud to the class as a model of good writing. I never forgot that.

I appreciate Mr. Youmans, my 11th-grade English teacher, for being fun and intellectually stimulating, and taking me seriously.

I appreciate the folks at Barnard College who chose my admissions essay, along with those of four others, to read out loud to all new students at orientation. I never forgot that. What a wonderful way to start college, with my fears about being able to do the work assuaged!

I appreciate Constance Brown, registrar at Barnard College and the instructor of my required Critical Writing class, who once told me during a one-on-one conference about a paper I'd written, "Sarah, you are a really good writer." To her, it may have been a throw-away comment, but to me . . . well, I never forgot it.

I appreciate Professor Patricia Denison (my wonderful academic advisor) and Professor Timea Szell (my independent research advisor) at Barnard for agreeing to write recommendations for me to Journalism school, rather than throwing up their hands and say "what? again?" . . . You see, they had already written recommendations for me to attend an M.A. program in English Education . . . and then had written different recommendations for me to get a degree in Guidance Education . . . and I kept changing my mind about what I want to do . . . So, I'm sorry I drove them crazy, but appreciate their diligence!

I appreciate Professor Richard Blood, formerly of the New York Daily News and Columbia Journalism School, and now of NYU, for teaching me to be a reporter and a deadline writer, for encouraging me and praising my work, and for getting me my first gig as a reporter, covering community board meetings for the New York Observer.

I appreciate Professor Brooke Kroeger of NYU for insisting on the highest standards of comprehensiveness in Feature Writing class, for getting me my gig as New York Correspondent for the Jewish Chronicle of London, and for hiring me to help with research on one of her books and to redesign the syllabus for her Journalistic Tradition course. I learned a lot by watching her, and thank her for her trust and support.

I appreciate Gary Belsky, deputy editor at ESPN Magazine and instructor of Magazine Article Writing in my graduate program, for teaching me the real skills necessary for freelancing: how to come up with story ideas, how to pitch them and to whom, how to write a freelancing contract and present the stories in a professional-looking way, how to repackage and resell stories to different publications, etc. I also appreciate that he got me my gig as a researcher at VH1.

I appreciate the folks at Writer's Digest for producing many inspiring books that help to keep me "fresh" and excited. I especially appreciate their production of Writer's Digest magazine and of the freelancer's bible, Writer's Market.

I appreciate my many clients. Almost without exception, they are a pleasure to work for, and they pay me on time. I especially appreciate the editors who call me to offer assignments, rather than wait for me to come to them with story ideas . . . you know who you are . . .

I appreciate the family members and friends who understand that "freelance writer" is what I want to be, not something I call myself in between "real" jobs, and who tell me that they think it's cool. That gets me through the rough patches when I'm bored or don't have enough work. Thanks, guys!

I appreciate the family members who have helped me out financially when things got a little rough . . . you know who you are . . . thank you.

I appreciate the employment advisors at Nefesh B'Nefesh, who often send out my resume on my behalf; I've gotten a few new clients and even job offers through them, and thank them for all they do to help North American immigrants.

And I thank Hashem for making it all come together.

Two of my stories up on the web

Here's one about an interesting little Israeli company.

And here's my travel piece about Tzippori.

I had such a great time in Tzippori (this was a couple weeks ago already). Peter was a fabulous tour guide, and it was amazing to get out of the city and into the fresh air, and just do something different.

At Kfar Kedem, I did, yes, don the costume they give out. It included a large white cotton square of material, folded into a triangle, wrapped around my head a couple of times, and in the end very protective of both my head and neck against the sun. I realize now why so many Orthodox women cover their hair with a mitpachat -- a kercheif wound around the head, often with fancy twists and knots. It is soooo comfortable. Peter put on the costume too - he's a good sport.

I milked a goat! I'd never milked an animal before. It was really strange, holding the breast of another animal. Is it just me, or is that really weird?

But in any case, we took milk fresh from the goat (and boiled, to pasteurize it), and Menachem, the Kfar Kedem owner, did something really cool.

He prefaced by saying "there is a discussion in the Talmud about the circumstances under which a Jew may buy cheese which has been made by a non-Jew. It says that if the cheese was made in a cow's udder, it is prohibited, because the udder may have been traif. If it was made using figs (?!?), it is prohibited, because the figs may have been orla [if you don't know what that means, don't worry about it]. But if it was made from the stem of the fig leaves, it is permissible.

"So, how do we make cheese out of the stems of fig leaves?"

Menachem took a couple of leaves down from the fig tree on his property, and from the stems, he squeezed a few drops of white liquid into the fresh goat milk. He started stirring, and before our very eyes, the milk started to curdle.

We drained the cheese in cheesecloth, hung it up to dry, and 20 minutes later, it was cheese! And it tasted pretty good! (I later realized that it tasted good at the time because I was starving and we were outside, so it fit into the "back to nature" feeling. When I got it home, it was tolerable but not good.)

And guess what? I didn't get sick from the cheese! Even though I'm lactose intolerant! Turns out that goat's milk has far, far less lactose than cow's milk.

I went home with two big tubs of spiced goat cheese, and have been loving it. Loving it. And, last week, I found goat milk yogurt in the health food store. I'm in heaven. I can have yogurt for breakfast again! Haven't done that for years!

So, it was a happy day.

PS. It took our homing pigeon about three hours to fly from Efrat, where Peter released it with his grandchildren, to Hoshaya. That's just a little longer than it takes to go by car.

Via Manolo

::sigh::

I love those sandals.

I love them.

And they would look sooooo good on me.

I posted the photo, and then my sister called, asking if that was my foot in the picture.

I'm flattered that she thought it could be my foot. In fact, it does look mostly like my foot, except that I never have such a great pedicure.

Those sandals. On my feet. Oh, the ecstasy.

And, they can be all mine, for $378.95.

Talk about unrequited love.

::sigh::

Skipping Tomorrow, Abandoning Yesterday

I almost laughed wryly when I read this.

I don't know how much say Ramon really has about how the government prioritizes.

But I must point out how ridiculous it is to talk about delaying compensation to settlers who voluntarily leave the West Bank, ahead of some shadowy future pullout, when, as far as I know, there are still Gaza settlers who have not yet received their full compensation, and whose promised homes have not yet been built.

You all know that I supported the Gaza pullout, at least in theory. But I have to say, regardless of whether I ideologically agree with a West Bank pullout or not, if I were an Israeli in the West Bank, and the government offered me some kind of deal to leave, my response right now would be "show me the money."

These people should be compensated. Most of them moved to Gaza and the West Bank under perfectly legal (from Israel's standpoint, at the very least) circumstances. They are not criminals. Despite the few crackpots you see on the news, the vast majority of "settlers" are decent people who have invested time and money into their homes, and there is no reason that they shouldn't recoup some of their losses. And the government should be timely in giving them what they need to set up somewhere else.

But, this is Israel, where the motto is "coulda, shoulda, woulda."

Conflicting Feelings, Missing Information

I've got LOTS of stuff to write about, and will try to catch up over the next few days.

Let's start with this article in today's New York Times:

With a sudden shortage of everything from disposable needles and adhesive tape to vital drugs, Gaza's once impressive public health system is running down fast under the dual pressure of aid cutoffs and the closing of the Karni crossing point with Israel.

Already, says Al Shifa's general director, Dr. Ibrahim al-Habbash, the hospital can no longer provide chemotherapy for many forms of cancer, has only a few days' supply of important surgical drugs like atropine, adrenaline, heparin and lidocaine, and has used up its strategic three-month cache normally kept for a health crisis.

::snip::

. . . his anger is a sign of the mounting frustration over the gaps in health care here, which are a result of a double crisis: the budget deficit in the Palestinian Authority — which has worsened significantly since Israel stopped transferring tax collections, and the United States and the European Union cut off aid after the Hamas government took over — and the inability to get goods into Gaza through the main crossing point at Karni, which the Israelis keep closing whenever there is a security alert.

::snip::

The Palestinian Authority is in part the author of these problems, for failing to stop attempted attacks on Karni, though Israel has been criticized by Mr. Wolfensohn and the European Union, and more quietly by the United States, for keeping the crossing closed.

Alright, let's look at Chayyei Sarah's conflicted thoughts as she reads this article:

1. "This is really terrible. It's so sad that people are unable to get crucial, life-saving healthcare because of the stupid politics around here. I feel so bad for these people who can't get basic treatments like dialysis and chemotherapy."

2. "The idiots. This is not so hard to fix. Read my lips: Stop attacking Israel, and Israel will open the Karni crossing. Which part of 'terrorists are bad' do you not understand? You vote in Hamas, you get what you deserve. You made your bed, now lie in it."

3. "I'm sure not all of the sick people who are suffering the consequences voted for Hamas, or hate Israel, or whatever. I bet a lot of them would be more than happy to recognize Israel and leave Israel alone, if it means a chance at a normal economy and a decent life. It's really awful that there are innocent folks who are being punished along with their idiotic comrades."

4. "Hm. Here's an interesting question: If someone did vote for Hamas, does that mean I believe they deserve to die of kidney failure or cancer? Maybe. Does that make me evil? I guess I'd rather that they just face the reality that Israel is here to stay, and start acting constructive about it. I don't need them to die. I would rather that they change. But in the absence of change . . . I'd rather shed my tears over people suffering in, say, Africa, than over people next door who don't care whether I die. Still, not all of them voted for Hamas, anyway. Lord, this is a complex situation."

5. "Why should Israel hand over any tax money to the Palestinian government, even if it is their own money? The government is headed by Hamas. Which part of 'terrorists are bad' do you not understand? I read an article recently that the Israeli government is thinking about using the money to pay off the Palestinians' debts to the Israeli electricity companies. Which means that Israel is sitting on the money, trying to figure out what to do with it. I'm sure most Israelis would be more than happy to provide the money in the form of heparin and medical bandages, but organizing such a thing, while making sure the money is actually going where it's supposed to go, takes some organizing."

6. "I wish that organizing would go faster on the parts of Israel, the US, and the European Union. These people need help now, and, as Queen Amidala said in Star Wars Episode I, it is not right for 'people to suffer and die while you discuss it in a committee.'"

7. "Why doesn't the army open up Karni more often? I keep reading, in articles, like this one, that Israel closes the crossing 'whenever there is a security alert.' What does that mean? That if there is an alert in the Shomron, they shut down everything, everywhere? That they close Karni when they have an alert that someone is specifically trying to infiltrate Israel through the Karni crossing? We need more information, some 'hasbara' from Israel, to understand whether these Karni shut-downs are actually saving Israeli lives, or just making things hard for the Palestinians. If shutting down Karni for so long is actually saving Israeli lives -- perhaps my life -- then I say, frankly, if the Palestinians are giving me such a choice, that I'd rather save innocent Israeli lives than innocent Palestinian lives. But is that the choice? Couldn't there be a better way?"

8. "How might I feel differently about the situation if I knew for sure that Israel was keeping Karni closed unneccesarily, or under very ambiguous situations? How much responsibility do I feel for what my government does? How much would I be willing to fight for Palestinians to get their medical supplies, when there are people who don't hate my guts just because I'm a Jew all over the world for whose rights I could spend my time fighting instead? Given that it is the Palestinians who are locked with Israel in this interminable, deadly wrestling match, do they deserve more or less of my consideration?"

9. "Why is it always Israel's job to find the better way? Is it because we hold ourselves to a higher standard? Or because that really is our job, given that at the moment we are more in control of this situation than the Palestinians are, since we're the ones with enough military power to control Karni?"

10. "What does it mean to be 'in control'? In a way, Israel is 'in control' because we have the tanks and the jet fighters, etc. But the Palestinians also have control, in the sense that it is up to them whether or not to end this crazy situation. They have choices, just as much as Israel does. It may not seem that way, given how downtrodden their masses are. But there is a choice. They can choose to continue fighting, and they will continue to be beaten, and Israel will not go away, and they will suffer for their choice. Or they can choose to accept the fact that Israel exists, and that they may as well make peace with us, and improve their situation accordingly. They seem not to like this second choice, because to them it means admitting defeat, admitting that Israel has more physical power than they do, and that they will never achieve their aim of a Judenrein Middle East. They see it as losing. But sometimes, choosing to compromise is power. It's the power to take whatever control you can of your future, and make the best with what you have. It is the power to choose that enough people have died, and it's time to go about the business of living. The Palestinians do not have the choice that they want. They cannot choose to destroy us, because we Jews don't go down so easily anymore. The Palestinians have been handed a lemon. They have the power to drown in the juice, or to make lemonade. That, too, is power."

Exciting Development!

On Thursday, there was a much-anticipated envelope in my mailbox, with the Hebrew words for "Ministry of Transportation" written in the corner. It was my Israeli driver's license! The real one, the plastic one, that doesn't expire until 2015!

Sure, my picture makes me look like a zombie who was kept in deep freeze for 6 months and then warmed over on a hot plate, but hey, I can now rent a car and hit the road with no problem! Except worrying about the crazy road conditions here!

The truth is, the chances of my renting a car anytime soon are slim. Most places I need to go in this country, it is much cheaper to take a bus, since I'm just one person. But now I have the option of putting together a group of friends, renting a "zimmer" in the Galil, and going on a proper vacation. Having options feels great, even if you don't use them.

Yay!

Independence Day

So, yesterday (Wednesday) was Israel's birthday, celebrating 58 years of Jewish autonomy, falafel, and vacations abroad. The traditional, nay, almost the required activity on Yom Ha'atzmaut is a mangal (barbecue). The Independence Day barbecue is so entrenched that someone once sent me a revamped version of the National Anthem, Hatikva, in which the lines "we have not lost our hope/ the hope of 2,000 years" was replaced with "we have not lost our grills/ the grills of 2,000 years." It brought to my mind an image of generations of wandering Jews, travelling from Spain to Tunisia, from Amsterdam to New York, carrying huge bags of Match Light charcoal on their backs, waiting for the miraculous day when every city-dwelling Jew could stake his claim to whatever bit of grassy spot he could find -- including, I should note, the landscaped roundabouts at major intersections -- and cook up kabobs to his heart's content and blast Shlomo Artzi music at full volume.

This year, my friends Beth and Simcha invited me to attend their family barbecue at Park Canada, a camping grounds near Bet Shemesh, between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. Simcha's parents are here from America to visit, so they gave me a lift from Jerusalem.

The place was packed. As in, hardly anywhere to park, and hardly anywhere to set up our gear. We located the group of American and Canadian immigrants with whom we'd planned to meet up, but discovered that a) we didn't know anyone in the group and b) they were not only sitting in the sun, they were sitting on the ground.

I should explain here that when Israelis make barbecues, they bring, as Beth says, "their entire kitchen and dining room." The Israelis were spread out all over the park, each family with a long folding table, plastic chairs, a tablecloth, real silverware, pots and pans, and a rope to cordon off their own private space among the trees. Several families had brought long cushions to sit on, or pergolas to create shade, and one had set up a huge hammock. In addition to the grills, they'd brought boom boxes, playing cards, kites, and all other manner of entertainment.

The American immigrants, by contrast, were sitting in a pathetic group on blankets, looking ill-prepared compared to the clearly professional barbecuers who are the natives.

Since Beth is very pregnant and really wanted to sit up normally, we found a spot next to a low wall just the right height for sitting on. Next to the wall was a tree for shade, under which we set up our blankets (having not yet assimilated to the folding-table level). The weather was gorgeous, the park was full of people relaxing and happy, and the kabobs were amazing.

We stayed for a few hours, grilling and eating and talking. The kids, ages 4, 3, and 1, enjoyed watching the fire, taking in all the kites and people and bugs, and running around on the grass. We bought them popsicles and tried to teach Sophie, the one-year-old, that you hold onto the stick and put the ice in your mouth, not the other way around. Simple pleasures.

That was it. That was the day. And you know what? It was a great day. You don't need amusement parks or professional entertainment or other flashy, packaged fun-in-a-can they try to sell these days. Just a nice day, a park, a blanket, and a grill, the grill of 2,000 years.

Memorial Day

In America, Memorial Day felt more . . . remote.

I didn't know anyone in the military. No one. I think I once met a guy at a Shabbat meal who was serving in the American army. Other than that, no one. None of my Irish-Catholic neighbors served, none of my Jewish friends. I didn't know anyone in college or in any of my many jobs whom I knew to be a vet. America is huge, and though its military is also huge beyond imagination, it is still possible to live there for 30 years and never know a soldier personally.

On Memorial Day we'd enjoy our day off, maybe watch a wreath-laying ceremony on television, and cluck-cluck over how sad it is, seeing the parents of fallen soldiers, isn't that terrible, the poor people, and then we'd go back to reading the paper, studying for AP exams, or going on a picnic. Memorial Day was something nice we did to give people who had lost family members a chance to visit the cemetary and feel they'd been honored, but it didn't touch me. It was something for other people, the people whose kids are soldiers, or were.

It didn't help that the wars were far away. At least, until 9/11, the military seemed like something we needed in order to help out other countries or just our own interests. It had nothing to do, really, with protecting us. Even now, for all the genuine concern that most Americans have about what is going on in Iraq, Iraq is just so far. It's another world, an alien world, and most Americans think of it as just a war zone, not a place where people have a culture and lives and take their kids to school every day and wonder when the grocer's next shipment of garlic powder will come in.

Today is Memorial Day in Israel, and I have to admit that I have no special plans. I'm swamped with work, so I'm staying home to write. But . . . it's not exactly like the days of yore when I spent Memorial Day studying for AP exams. Here, the war is in the air. It's in our backyard. It's in the fact that yesterday, when I saw and heard military planes overhead, I was worried enough about my safety that I called a friend to see if anything unusual was going on. It's immediate.

Here, almost everyone I know has served in the army, or will, or has a child who did, or will. My grocer, my hairstylist, my second cousins, my ex-boyfriend, my second cousin's girlfriend, my downstairs neighbor, the mashgiach ruchani of the school where I take classes, my friend's husband . . . all have given at least three years of their lives (most of them more) to protecting this country. To protecting me. My American friends with the 16-year-old son . . . in two years he'll be in an olive uniform. And someday, if I ever have a son, he'll most likely serve in the army as well.

So here, when I read about this year's wreath-laying ceremony in the news, I don't just cluck-cluck. I stop and really feel for these people. Their pain could have been the pain of anyone I know. And it could yet be my pain or the pain of a friend. The Goodmans, an American immigrant family whose son Yosef died in a tragic parachuting accident last February, could, God forbid, be me in 20 years. It is not out of the question. I honor their grief, because someday I might, God forbid, need to know that someone is honoring mine.

Something Going On?

Last night I heard a helicopter flying overhead, and realized it's a sound I have never heard here in my neighborhood. I wondered what it was; it's unlikely to be surveying, say, traffic, since I live nowhere near a highway, and it was late at night, long past rush hour.

Then, just now, I twice heard military planes flying over my head. The second time I rushed to the window and saw four planes in formation swinging upward together. It was pretty, but again, a little weird seeing it here. I live nowhere near an air base and can't remember this happening before, where I live.

Is this some sort of pre-Memorial Day practice for the military, or is something (even more unusual than "normal" here) going on? It's giving me the creeps.

I'll assume for now it's pre-Memorial Day practice, for tomorrow's commemorations of fallen soldiers. That's the story I'm sticking to, until I hear otherwise!

PS. I just spoke with someone more "in the know" about these things (whom I'll name if he tells me it's OK; I didn't ask), who said that the planes today are mostly likely a rehearsal for tomorrow, and the helicopter last night was probably a signifier of the increased security in the country right now, due to the attractive nature, to our enemies, of attacking us on Memorial Day or Independence Day.