In the early 1970s, when I was a child, my family emigrated from Russia to Israel, and we lived in Jerusalem.At that time, neighborhoods were being constructed, and our home was in a new building, one of only two, on Stern Street in Kiryat Yovel.Stanley and I smiled at each other, recalling our recent conversation on this topic.Stanley refused to eat cake because he had eaten ice cream, filling his daily sugar allowance.Stanley is a person of short stature, with brown hair and kind, understanding hazel eyes.His parents are deceased, and his brother lives in Scotland.
While exchanging personal details about our lives, I decided to disclose my diagnosis with multiple sclerosis.
He didn’t attend college, but worked in his father’s shop; he can work with a hammer and nails.
He also uses his skills to provide services at a local synagogue, and he earns a small salary from that work.
A harmony resounded with the early morning prayers of new immigrants from India, Morocco, and Yemen.
These tones were joined by the morning calls of an Arabic woman, exclaiming, “Anavim, Anavim,” selling grapes from a large wicker basket that was balanced on her head.