A friend of mine was going through her nine-year-old son's
schoolbag and happened to flip open one of his notebooks. To
her dismay, she discovered a full page of "I won't talk
during davening." Not willing to jump down his throat
with an accusation, she mulled over how to confront him.
Finally, she asked, "Don't you need a parent's signature on
this, Duvid?"
With the sweetest, most angelic expression on his face, he
replied, "Oh, Ima, that wasn't for me! It was for the class
gemach."
Apparently there are gemachs for this sort of thing,
too.
The second story is along the same lines.
One motzaei Shabbos, Reb Shmuel (alias) noticed his
children taking out their Monopoly game and begin to play. It
was Thursday when it dawned upon him that they were still
playing the very same game they had begun earlier that
week.
"What's going on here? Maybe you don't know the rules. Once
you have properties, you buy houses, but when you run out of
money, you go bankrupt and leave the game and there's a
winner. So why hasn't anyone gone bankrupt yet?"
"Abba, that's the old way to play. When one of us runs out of
money, the rest of us make a gemach and loan him the
money so that he can stay in game!"
Submitted by C.F., Jerusalem
And now a story about C.F. She collects hashgocha
protis stories and always has one up her sleeve. When a
friend of hers called to chat earlier this week, C.
apologized that while everything was fine and dandy, all the
kids were well and so on, she did not have any particular
story to relate.
"I'll call you as soon as one comes up," she promised. By
Thursday, all she had to offer were the above two cuties, not
Hashgocha Protis tales, but good ones. She called up
her friend, and told them anyway.
"I'll tell YOU a H.P. story, C.," said her friend. "We're
invited away for Shabbos, but I had promised to host someone.
Would you be kind enough to take him on at your Shabbos
table?" And to make a H.P. story short, sure enough, she
agreed.
EITZES
This one comes from a lecture series on Tzniyus. A bright
idea for keeping your neckline in place, but this only works
with tops that have flat collars.
Take a piece of round elastic, preferably the wider kind, and
tie it to the measurement of your neck. Slip it over your
head and under your collar. You will see that while remaining
invisible, it will keep your blouse/sweater at the proper
place, and even if your baby tugs at you, it will snap right
back into place.
UREI BETUV YERUSHALAYIM -- BIG WHEELS
(The following was prompted by two stories that appeared
in our section some weeks ago. These are by Rivka.)
Since our car went the way of all scrap metal, I have become
a frequent bus rider.
It was midmorning, the second day of the month. Bus #10
pulled up to let on the two passengers waiting at the stop,
one young and one elderly. The first jumped in but the older
one took a step up, hesitated and backed down. The door
closed but the driver made no move.
"Why didn't he come on?" he asked the first passenger.
"Don't know."
"Is he not getting on because he doesn't have any money?"
The young man shrugged his shoulders. "Well," said the
driver, "ask him," and he opened the door again. The young
man exchanged a few words with the one outside and turned
back to the driver. "Yes, you're right."
"Tell him to get on."
The delicate looking old man climbs on, looks at the driver
and says, "I usually have a bus ticket."
"Never mind. You can buy your monthly ticket next time if you
don't have the money now."
"I didn't think you knew me."
"I know ALL of my passengers!" he said, with a benefactor's
happy grin.
The bus lurched forward, bearing its passenger to the next
stop, where he nodded gratefully to the bareheaded driver and
got out.
*
I was sitting on the bus on my way to Kupat Cholim when it
dawned on me that something was strange. The radio was
blasting away, but not anything that the bare-headed driver
would seem to have chosen. It was a sing-song Sefardic
recitation of Tehillim. I waited for the driver to adjust the
station to something secular, but he didn't.
At the community center, an elderly lady got on. As the bus
started forward, two `matrons' up the street began
gesticulating. He stopped, took them on and started again. A
few yards further, a new contingent of the `club' accosted
the moving bus and he stopped again and welcomed the ladies
on. The driver is all smiles, the ladies are all blessings. A
Jewish bus! I think to myself.
Finally, my stop was next, a block before Kupat Cholim. I
took my stand near the door, when a ragged old timer weakly
got up and sidled over to the door. He leaned on the post but
made no move to get off when I did. The bus moved on and I
could't help following it with my eyes. My instinct told me
that this passenger was going to be treated to a private
unofficial stop right across from Kupat Cholim.
The driver did not disappoint me. So it was.
