Chapter 22

Chapter 22

My baby was not yet a year on Friday October 22, 2006, in that short season between fall and winter when the sunset is moved back to late afternoon, the Shabbos candles lit at the earliest time of the year. My blabbering blue-eyed blonde-haired baby wheeled himself around the kitchen in his colorful walker with its banana smeared tray, a bumping car zipping from cabinet to wall, bolting from the other end to Yossef Mendel and me to compete for our attention against our small-print interests. We sat at the kitchen table already set with napkin rings and flowers, deeply engrossed, Yossef Mendel in the Yiddish paper, his finger twirling one sidecurl, I on the Dell. I worked on a backyard-carnival poster Mr. Berger’s wife asked me to draw up, one of of those little art projects I liked so much and did so well. It was not only a part of the job at Reliable; I did it at home, where I had access to internet pictures. I worked, Yossef Mendel hummed an unidentifiable tune, and life was so promisingly predictable. I searched Yahoo for pictures that could be pasted into the documents. I queried carnivals and children, Hasidim and Hasidic rabbis. I’d never allow the Bergers to know about this web search that went along with other magics of my art, the 3D of Word-Art and cute little borders, because it was the internet, even as they were just harmless pictures. Those were the days when search results did not yet preview photo icons, when results couldn’t be sorted by images. I needed to dig into each link, see if there was an image, move on. Among the the links I clicked was “The blog. By an Ex-Choosid.” It had no pictures, but it had so much intrigue. What’s a blog?
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