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We send our children to the regional school in a nearby kibbutz . . .

'Ahhh!' I came out of my fantasy with a scream. There was an ear-splitting din, and the ground shuddered. The trees around me, their roots left with nothing to hold on to, were crashing down one after another. When a tree of that size falls, it takes a few other trees with it.

God, help me! Save me! God . . .

The uproar died down, and the ground under me grew still. I heard only the rain and the roar of the Tuichi. Drenched and clammy with sweat, I forced myself back to the Galilee.

My brother and I rise at six, have our coffee in large mugs with thick slabs of cake. We leave early for the range on horseback. We check the fencing, take a count of the herd, check on a pregnant cow. At nine we head back home. The kids have already eaten and gone to school, and now the cook devotes herself to us. She prepares omelettes, salads, cheeses. Thick bread and butter, cream of wheat or rice pudding, hot chocolate, and her own special marmalade.

I don't know the source of our misfortune, but our fabulous cook leaves our employ. We place an ad in the newspaper: 'Wanted: gourmet cook. Residence on ranch in Galilee. Good terms and pay.'

We receive a great many applications and set up interviews. I am in charge. I sit in the office at the ranch and meet the prospective cooks. Each