The Meteorologist

“Terrible wind”, he said to me in a gruff Chasidic voice, you know the accent, W’s become V’s and everything else is a mumble of unintelligence mastered after years of whispering prayers and revising Talmud. “Yes”, I replied, and kept my thoughts to myself, anyway he wouldn’t have found a wind joke funny.

We both stood on the street assuming the Bet Shemesh wind position, one hand on your head to stop your kippa, hat or other head covering from blowing over to Syria, Lebanon, Jordon, Saudi Arabia or the sea depending on wind direction, the other hand left free for speaking with.

When I finally returned home, wind swept, streaming eyes, no kippa that had long gone and is probably at this moment being worn by some Saudi prince, my wife presented me with a list of chores to complete since Hurricane Sharon had swept our little corner of the world. Clear the leaves from the garden, repair the fence, make sure the front gate locks, tie up the Rimon tree that appears to want to join your kippa in Saudi, I think the toilet is leaking and wash up from breakfast.

First job, the thankless and pretty futile exercise of clearing the leaves in a cyclone. With a black plastic bin liner, rake and broom I set to work. Methodically and meticulously I started clearing the garden, first the flower beds, then the grass and finally the path. As I was just finishing the final section of the path I looked up to see my Chasidic pal from earlier walking up the steps to my house.

“Terrible wind”, he said to me in a gruff Chasidic voice, you know the accent, W’s become V’s and everything else is a mumble of unintelligence mastered after years of whispering prayers and revising Talmud. “Yes”, I replied, and kept my thoughts to myself, anyway he wouldn’t have found a wind joke funny. I had to repeat that because it’s the way it happened.

“I think”, he continued “it might get worse and we may even get some rain”. Now there is only one nation on earth that makes a habit of incessantly and obsessively talking about the weather and that is my nation, Great Britain, the United Kingdom, The Center of the Empire, this Sceptered Isle, Pastures Green and of course White Hart Lane. “Never knew wind like this in London”, he said, confirming my suspicions. “No”, I said, waiting for the pleasantries to be over so he could ask for money for his yeshivah and I could refuse on the grounds that I only had a credit card and no cash or cheques. “I have come collecting for Nachal Haredi” (The armies ultra religious unit).

I dropped the bag of leaves which spread like our exiles to the four corners of the earth, stunned, shocked and with a ‘well this doesn’t happen everyday ‘ look on my face I reached for my wallet.

“You see those clouds up there, they are called (forgive me if I cant remember the word he used) that is a sign of low air pressure, its going to get colder and will rain either tonight of tomorrow”.

“Know lot about the clouds do you?” I asked out of genuine interest. “I used to work for the meteorological office when I lived in the UK”, he answered “Then”, he continued “I looked above the clouds to the heavens and here I am”, and he smiled.

With that he thanked me for my donation to Israel’s Haredi army unit, turned and left. “Oh, by the way”, he shouted over his shoulder, “I think you should tie up your Rimon tree and did you know your not wearing a kippa? Terrible wind!”