Miriam was from London. They’d met and married when she went to Jerusalem to work on a kibbutz. Neither had been orthodox Jews until Tal decided to become a rabbi in a very strict sect, some time after their marriage.
I asked Miriam what work she’d done before the kids came along.
“I was a fitness instructor,” she said. She smiled at my transparent expression. “It was before we became orthodox. I wore shorts and lycra.”
I wondered how it would feel to go from sports wear to total body wrap. I didn’t think it represented liberation, but hey. It wasn’t up to me to judge.
The first months of their stay in my basement were a learning curve for me regarding Judaic rules and regulations. Tal had no steady job, which was a fortunate thing because observing all the religious holidays took up most of his time.
He was hooked into some pyramid scheme involving real estate—I attended one of his meetings at his invitation--but judging by how many times the rent was late, it wasn’t profitable. He wasn’t the best tempered man, either. I could often hear him berating Miriam and the children for something or other.
Shabbat quickly became a major issue. The washing machine broke down—it wasn’t up to the eight or ten loads a day Miriam had to put thru--and Eric wanted to fix it on Saturday. Tal refused him entry because it was Shabbat, so I had to hire a repairman on Monday.
True to form, I regularly blew breakers either late on Friday or Saturday. Tal complained bitterly when I insisted on going down and flicking them back on.
One peculiar religious celebration involved building a hut in my garden out of palm leaves and poles, in which Tal lived for a week. Miriam and the kids brought him his meals, and presumably he used the inside bathroom. But when the week was over, he didn’t take the shack down right away as he’d assured me he would. After three weeks had gone by, the ramshackle structure was falling apart and Mavis was due to arrive for my monthly gardening session. I set a deadline—it had to be gone by Sunday.
Even then, Tal put it off until the last possible moment. He wasn’t the most ambitious man around.
But I fell head over heels in love with the kids, particularly the second youngest girl, Leah. She was two and a half, a serious, curly headed angel who took to visiting me in my studio every day. I explained I had to work, and as I wrote she played quietly with the books and puzzles I found for her at yard sales. I wasn’t supposed to give her any snacks except fruit; my kitchen wasn’t kosher, but I reasoned that a few chocolate chip cookies couldn’t do her that much harm. She didn’t think so either.
It became obvious that Shabbat was synonymous with parental sex. The kids were routinely locked out of the basement every Saturday afternoon. They came upstairs and visited me, the oldest girl—Ruth—toting the baby. Much as I liked them, it didn’t make my life any easier.
Inevitably, Miriam was soon once again pregnant. Tal had explained that there were substantial bonuses in Jerusalem for very large families. After a certain number of children—I think he said seven-- there was no need for the father to work because the government gave the family enough money to live on. Obviously, he was aiming for that, and I began to have sleepless nights wondering how many bodies might end up living in my basement. I was beginning to feel like a slum landlord.
This would be the fifth pregnancy in eight years for Miriam. It hurt my heart to see her sitting on a bench in my garden, nursing one baby while increasingly pregnant with another.
She asked whether I minded if her mother and sister came from England to be with her when the baby was born, and of course I said it was fine, although where they’d sleep in that already overcrowded basement was beyond me.
Miriam brought them to meet me when they arrived, and it was immediately evident that they weren’t orthodox. Beautiful women, they both wore makeup, trendy tops and jeans, and had tousled, up to the moment, haircuts.
Miriam’s mother was a no nonsense lady with a definite presence, and I could tell she was appalled at the way her daughter was living.
Tal, who usually didn’t stir until noon, now took to leaving the house before 7 AM, looking hunted. He stayed away until at least 5 PM, which no one seemed to mind.
The baby, another beautiful girl, arrived right on time with no fanfare, and two weeks later, Miriam’s family left, also with no fanfare. But the sound of Tal’s angry voice accelerated now, penetrating the floorboards, and Miriam cried as she nursed first the new baby and then the old one in the garden.
I went out to her and put an arm around her. “What can I do to help?”
She turned her head into my shoulder and sobbed quietly for a few moments. “I feel like a baby machine,” she finally managed. “I’m going home to England with the children before I can get pregnant again. My mother’s sending me tickets. We have no money, Tal won’t get a steady job. I’ve told him it’s only for a visit, but I won’t be back. It’s hard to leave him, but I don’t know what else to do. I can’t live like this anymore, I feel as if I’m dying.”
“Then you must go.” I’d been a single mother with three small children, and I knew all too well how difficult it would be for her with five. And also how much easier without Tal’s restrictions and the certainty of another baby before she was recovered from this one.
The news must have gotten out, because a parade of somber rabbi’s and serious faced women from the Jewish community filed in and out of the basement during the next two weeks. I guessed they were trying to dissuade Miriam, but in her quiet way, she was stubborn.
She told me Tal would be staying on after she left, which worried me. He still had no job, and his car had recently been repossessed. Their mail came with mine, and I couldn’t help but notice the ever increasing stack of windowed envelopes with final notice stamped across the front in red. It didn’t bode well for the rent, and without Miriam around to clean, I was afraid the basement would soon resemble the city dump. Even getting Tal to take his copious garbage all the way out to the alley was a weekly challenge.
I decided to give him notice, but not before Miriam left. I dreaded the confrontation. Because of his religious convictions, he assumed he was always right, and he tended to be bombastic.
Miriam was leaving on Sunday. On Saturday morning, my firefighter son arrived to do some plumbing for me. I’d long wanted taps in my bathroom that I could turn on and off with my foot, adding hot water as needed. Long, hot bubble baths were one of my fondest indulgences.
“I have to turn the water off at the main valve, and it’s in the basement, in that room Tal uses as a study,” Dan said. “He’s going to go ballistic because it’s Shabbat.”
My sons, my friends, the neighbors—all of us were now overly familiar with Shabbat.
“I’ll go warn Tal.” I knew he wouldn’t like it. I knew all too well that in his view, no one should tinker with water on Shabbat. No one should work on Shabbat, or wash on Shabbat, or do anything except fornicate, I thought irritably.
But Dan had to return to work the next day, so my window of opportunity was narrow, and visions of bubble baths sent me reluctantly down to beard Tal in his den.
He was wearing a freshly ironed white shirt, yarmulke and black dress pants, sitting in a rocking chair studiously studying a holy book when Miriam answered the door. The kids were subdued, Miriam pale and tired looking. Suitcases were everywhere, and Tal looked out of sorts. I told him about the water main, and he shook his head.
“It’s Shabbat, no water on Shabbat.”
“Dan only has today off,” I wheedled. “All he’ll do is turn the water off and then on again in an hour or so. It won’t affect you at all. He’s a fireman, he knows what he’s doing.”
Tal didn’t agree, but he didn’t outright forbid it, either. I told Dan to go ahead, retreated to my studio and was concentrating on Chapter Eight of the latest romance when the basement door burst open.
Tal was the first to appear, as wet as if he’d jumped into a pool fully clothed. Dan was behind him, also so
aked to the skin. Behind them came dripping kids one after the other, and finally Miriam with the baby, both of them likewise very wet.
“Water,” Tal was shrieking, waving his arms and doing a demented dance in my garden. “Water everywhere, and its Shabbat. I told you no water on Shabbat.”
“Get the fuck out of my way and shut up,” Dan hollered at Tal, obviously driven way beyond his courtesy level.
To me, standing aghast in the door of the studio, Dan shouted, “Quick, Ma, where’s a long hose? The lever broke on the intake valve, the basement’s flooding fast.”
I pointed the way to my longest hose. Dan lopped off the end with a knife and disappeared back downstairs. I took Miriam and the kid’s upstairs and supplied towels, then ran down and started moving suitcases outside.
Dan hadn’t been exaggerating; the basement already resembled a wading pool, and even as I salvaged suitcases, the water deepened at an alarming rate.
Tal, totally useless at anything practical, was still circumnavigating the back garden, hands on his head, emoting about Shabbat and water and proclaiming what I assumed were curses in Yiddish, directed at Dan and I.
The older kids escaped Miriam, ignored their father, and came tearing back downstairs. They were elated because they now had a wading pool. They leaped and jumped about in the deepening water, laughing and having a wonderful time. Of course, Louie and Sammy joined the circus, peering into the basement, blocking the door, and generally impeding progress.
With great difficulty, Dan finally managed to get one end of the hose pulled over the spouting valve, and we ran the other end into the alley, pointing it down into the sewer drain. The force of the water coming in from the city was unbelievable.
“I have to dig up the front garden and find the main turnoff,” Dan panted, racing in that direction with a shovel.
“Shouldn’t I call the fire department and get them to come shut it off?”
“No,” Dan roared. “I’m a fireman, I’d never hear the end of it if the Department found out I flooded my mother’s house. Call the emergency number at the City and find out where the damned shut off actually is.”
My three sons are amazingly strong. Dan played World Rugby for five years, and he hadn’t lost his conditioning. It took me fifteen minutes to finally get through the maze of the automated City switchboard and speak to a real human.
In that time, Dan had dug a trench half way across the front of my garden, looking for the shut off. There was a pile of dirt two feet high all along the sidewalk.
The shut off turned out to be on the opposite end from where he was digging, so when I shouted out the right location, Dan started all over again. Within half an hour, he’d dug four feet down and three feet in from the sidewalk, found the shut off, and turned it off. By that time, we’d come near to flooding the storm drain in the alley, and every neighbor on both sides of the street was in front of my house, enjoying the matinee.
After the water was finally turned off, it didn’t take long for Dan to repair the faulty connection and turn the water on again. He finished with my taps, filled in the holes in the front lawn and quietly warned me that from here on in, his career as a part time plumber was over. I needed to put a certified plumber on standby.
He put on the clean, dry clothes his wife had delivered and, tired to the bone, slunk off home.
Miriam had also found dry clothes for the kids in the suitcases I’d hauled upstairs. We washed and dried the wet things and I offered to pay for them all to stay at a hotel, but she’d already contacted a friend who came and picked them up. I apologized profusely, but Miriam quietly said she knew it was an accident. She didn’t blame me at all.
Tal, however, was a different matter. He was still fuming about water and Shabbat, and he informed me that all his suits, hanging in the closet in his room, had been ruined by the water. I gathered them up and took them to the cleaners. They were only slightly damp. The door to the closet had protected them.
“How am I going to live down there?” he whined. “There’ll be mold and mildew. You’ll have to lower the rent.”
I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Tal, but you have to find another place to stay. I’m going to totally redo the suite, including digging a new sewer line which will allow for a regular toilet. It’s going to take a long time. I’ll reimburse you for this month’s rent in lieu of adequate notice.”
“You’ll also have to pay for all my suits,” he said in a sulky voice.
I didn’t point out that the suits were at least ten years old, and not exactly Armani at that. “The cleaner assured me there’s no real damage to them. I’ll pick them up on Monday, you can come by and check on them. If they’re not as good as they were before, I’ll make it up to you.”
He finally slunk off, and I phoned the insurance people. They came immediately. It turned out the intake valve had been inadequately soldered, and so they’d cover the cost of repairs.
That night, I filled the tub with bubbles and each time the water cooled, I turned the hot tap on again with my foot and reviewed the day.
It had been memorable. The bad news was that it had cost me a month’s rent, a hefty cleaning bill and I’d owe Mavis another small fortune when she came to repair the extensive damage to the uprooted front garden. But the good news far outweighed the bad.
I’d never have to consider Shabbat again when I blew a fuse or needed Eric to repair something on Saturday.
Tal was no longer with me, Miriam was off to a new and—I hoped—less stressful life, and the insurance people would pay for the repairs caused by water damage. I’d miss the kids, particularly Leah, but I wouldn’t have to worry about them falling into the pond or baby sit them every Saturday afternoon.
The damned electric toilet was all but a thing of the past, and I’d be a lot more discerning when I next rented my basement suite. Dealing with long term renters made running the Blue Collar B&B seem like child’s play.
Tal came back two weeks later to pick up the suits, which even he, after a minute examination, had to admit were undamaged.
“Miriam and the children are in London on holiday,” he told me. “I miss them, but they’ll be back soon.”
His eyes told a different story, however. Bleak and drained of hope, I guessed that he knew Miriam was gone for good, but he couldn’t let himself admit it. He looked unkempt, his shirt not ironed, his suit rumpled. He hadn’t shaved in days.
I felt a rush of sympathy for him. Who among us hasn’t made mistakes with dire consequences, not recognizing the need for dramatic change in our actions until it’s too late? Learning shouldn’t have to be painful, but it usually is. Obviously, it was for Tal.
He said, “I wondered if you’d rent me a room upstairs? I’m staying with a friend, and it’s not working out.”
“No.” The unadorned word popped out without apology. Sorry for him or not, I, too, had learned my lesson the hard way. Tal and I were not compatible.
He left that day and I never saw him again. I received calls for weeks afterwards, asking for his address or phone number. It seemed he had debts all over town.
Tal and his family had been an extreme learning experience for me. Bed and Breakfast guests may or may not be the most amenable folks around, but the fact is they’re only going to be with you for a limited period.
Unless they’re dramatically pregnant when they check in, chances are two guests are not going to become three or more overnight.
Their religious convictions rarely come under discussion, much less affect the life of the host. They don’t ask if they can build shanties in the back garden. So far, none had assumed I’d baby sit while they made whoopee.
The drama of that last day made me ponder the qualities of water. Nothing is softer and weaker when it’s still. Nothing is more powerful when it’s in motion. The more you attempt to hold on to water, the more it slips away. It seemed to me to be a powerful metaphor for the relationship between Tal and Miriam.
As repairs do
wnstairs progressed, I once again began to compose an ad for the suite. Political correctness forbade my saying so, but I was praying that I’d attract a quiet, gay, Buddhist couple who liked cats and meditated a great deal.
MY OWN FAVORITE LITTLE MEDITATION
(which I used a LOT at this particular time)
Sit comfortably. Imagine yourself taking the hand of whatever ascended Being you feel at ease with. Go with them towards a beautiful golden light. Just before you reach it, there’s an alter on your right. Take every damned thing that’s bothering you, no matter how large or small or silly, and heap it all on. Tell the Creator how grateful you are to be made in It’s image, to be forever safe and totally provided for. These are your gifts, because you would have no idols. Express your love, and watch your gifts disappear. And then be silent. Immerse yourself in the Light, five minutes is plenty.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Though the whole house began to tremble,
And you felt the old tug
At your ankles
(Mary Oliver, The Journey)
My B&B guests came and left again in a more or less steady, pleasant stream, and one day I realized I’d been running the Blue Collar for five years. There comes a time for all of us when change is necessary, and something in me slowly became aware that that time was arriving for me.
It began in my gut, as all forewarnings of change do. I had a vague sense of waiting, of something different this way comes. It was subliminal.
Deep in the Rocky mountains of British Columbia, there’s a beautiful valley where a small coal mining town called Sparwood nestles. A river runs through. It’s called the Elk. The valley is also called the Elk, named for the abundance of wild game--elk, deer, bear, cougars, moose, lynx, beaver, bobcat. The Elk River has Kokanee, the fabled inland salmon, as well as grayling and brook trout.
Rich in natural resources, timber, coal, and wild game, still the area had remained virtually unknown until recently, when a developer, shoveling some of the area’s average 379 inches of snowfall from his front walk one morning, had an epiphany. He saw the potential for a ski resort in nearby sleepy Fernie, which is at the confluence of three valleys where storms unload snow for days on end. He trusted his intuition. He built the resort, trusting that they’d come, and come they did.
How Not To Run A B&B: A Woman's True Memoir Page 10
