PLEASE, MR. POSTMAN The mail story in Herb Keinon's “Return to sender” column (July 31) brought tears of laughter to my eyes. My husband passed away last December and this required mountains of documents to be filled out and sent back to the US. One such document was for settlement of an insurance claim – and it took six months and five lost checks to finally get my money. Every time they mailed it, I cautioned them to send it registered mail. Each time they did no such thing. Finally in early June of this year my claim was settled because I had it sent to my sister who then mailed it to me via FedEx. A chunk of change but worth it for peace of mind. I have many such stories during the last several months and in my ongoing war with the Israel Postal Company. We live in the city of Chelm! ALIZA WEINBERG Rehovot Two true stories to supplement Herb Keinon's humorous though all-too-accurate article about postal service on both sides of the Atlantic: A) Israel: Several years ago on a Sunday, around two weeks before Shavuot, I went to our local post office to send two packages – 1) to my mother in New Jersey, via regular airmail, a sweater that she had forgotten on a recent visit and 2) a new Shavuot mahzor to my father-in-law in Jerusalem as a surprise gift. Five days later, I get a call from my mother to thank me for sending the sweater, which she received that same day. But as Shavuot approached, I still hadn't heard from my father-in-law, who would have certainly called to thank me. Well, Shavuot came and went, so I decided to call him and lo and behold, he had never received the book! He decided to go to his local branch to complain and was unceremoniously told that he should be patient and not to worry! Three or four days later he called me to tell me the book had indeed finally arrived. Thank God Shavuot comes every year... B) America: Sometime in the mid-1980s, I opened my post office box here to find an aerogram (remember those?) from a very good friend in the US. It was clearly addressed to Israel – in capital letters – though according to the postmark it had been sent some two years before. That seemed crazy enough, but turning it over while opening it, I saw on the back a prominent stamp in bold type saying: “MISENT TO IRAN.” I could only imagine the journey this letter took to get to me. GERSHON HARRIS Hatzor Haglilit CRY, SMILE Rabbi Moshe Taragin (“Smiling on Tisha Be'av,” July 24) asks why we continue to cry on Tisha Be'av. Why don't we smile instead? Why cry? Though Hashem has brought us back to our homeland, the sins that led to our exile, the idol-worship of Mammon, the licentiousness, the backstabbing, the baseless hatred, are alive and well to this day. The 30-story skyscrapers dotting our cities: Are they harbingers of the rebuilding of the Temple, or reminders of the hubris of the Tower of Babel? Then why smile? The (apocryphal?) story is told of the soldier who cried, along with his comrades, when the Western Wall was liberated in 1967. Asked why he was crying, as he was in no way religious, he answered, “I am crying because I don't know why they're crying.” As long as we want to know why we are crying, there is hope, and where there is hope, we can smile. BRENDA BRONNER Jerusalem SIMILAR SICKNESS Regarding “Wuhan wonder” (Letters, July 31): I wonder how many, if any, of your readers had a parent who survived the sleeping sickness epidemic of the 1920s. My late father was born in 1913 and in 1924 passed his scholarship exam and gained a place in the local grammar school. After a few months he started falling asleep in class. My grandparents said he was lazy and never took him to a doctor. I don't know where he continued his education, he never spoke about it. My parents grew up in the same East End of London tenement. Just before their wedding in 1938 my mother noticed that dad had developed a tremor in his thumb. She was told by a doctor not to worry as it wasn't hereditary and wouldn't be passed on to any children. Soon after their marriage his condition started to deteriorate. Somehow mum managed to get enough money together to take him to see Dr. Worster Drought, a well-known neurologist on Harley Street and for the first time, he was given a diagnosis. My father had Encephalitis lethargica and had contracted it as a child. He was put on amphetamines to keep him awake. Over the years the Parkinson-like condition worsened and he wasn't able to hold down a job for any length of time. I was born in 1942, their only child. Things were tough. Mum was the breadwinner and worked way into her 70s. Dad passed away in 1984, three months before I made aliyah. Now for the first time I read in the letter that even though there was a sleeping sickness epidemic at the time, he could also have had Spanish flu and his condition could have been a complication of that. It was extremely scary to read that this might be the situation again with COVID patients. As Dr. Dickman wrote, it is essential to abide by the rules. I know; I lived with the consequences. JEANETTE SCHECHNER Ra'anana SUFFER THE SCONE As a fourth-generation English Jew, together with many other Anglos, I enjoyed Neville Teller's lighthearted article “Tea & Cake” (July 17). I had suspected there would be a veritable plethora of replies to the article, which was why I refrained from writing in sooner. I was sure somebody would have written to you to correct a blatant error in this account – and was shocked they as yet have not. From time immemorial, the English tea was not tea and cake, but tea and scones. It is true that a slice of Madeira cake could also have been available, but tea in the afternoon just would not have been the same without the famous English scone. It would have been (and still is in my home) served with butter or cream and preferably Tiptree jam. And if anyone is in need of the recipe I will gladly send it to them. Some of the lowest points in our early days of making aliyah in 1969 were when our tea caddy was empty. No visitors were due from the Old Country to replenish our supplies of the necessary brew, making it necessary for us to exist on the local variety. But today one just has to enter the wonderful world of the Internet and with one flick of your fingers your favourite brew is on its way. How else would we octogenarians have survived these last corona months, cooped up as prisoners in our homes, if we were unable to partake of a true cup of English tea, with of course a fresh home-baked scone. I must thank you, Mr. Teller, for giving me the opportunity to praise the humble homemade scone. BARBARA A. PFEFFER Rehovot HAPPY HELP Regarding “Everything's fine” (Judy Joss, July 24): The article was a hit with us and so very true. As we grow older we do not want to feel we are of no use to our families or to ourselves. It may be very difficult for children to say to their elderly parents, “Its time for you to have help.” The parents may also feel, “Eh, we don't need help.” Either way each person must listen, weigh things up and above all, get going not to be a burden to one's family. Yes, there are obstacles but when one actually gets the help it is wonderful. Then, of course, one needs to be lucky to get a pleasant helper (we have one four times a week). We are blessed with a wonderful lady. We laugh together, cook together and exercise together. She makes sure we are well-stocked in the fridge and cupboards and takes care of many other necessities. So to our older generation, it is not a matter of giving in, it is a matter of making our lives more comfortable and easier for our children – and above all, to look forward to happier times ahead. HAZEL BROCH Netanya
