The Seventeenth of Cheshvan

1. Rainfall notebook. Nir Yalon station (volunteer), observer R. Shahar. Entries for October 2026

Oct 1. At 08:00, zero. Still night, moderate dew on the hood of the car, traces in the measuring tube, 0.1, which I don't count. Gil called to ask when it's going to rain. I told him the Met Service doesn't employ prophets, it employs observers, and that in '88 the first rain came in the middle of November and we sowed anyway.

Oct 3. Zero. Dry and unseasonably hot, thirty-one in the shade at two. Wiped the dust out of the funnel and changed the leaf screen. The tube is thirty-five years old and the two lowest marks have worn off, 0.2 and 0.3, but I can read them by eye and I don't mention them to Michal. Last week Michal sent all of us an email: the volunteer network is being cut back, and in November they'll keep the stations whose records have no gaps and no suspensions. I have thirty-five years without a single suspension. I need to get through to the first rain without one mistake.

Oct 4. Zero. Found the first notebook in the storeroom, from 1991. The first entry in it is from the twelfth of November, eleven point six, and in my husband's hand in the margin, "congratulations." He used to laugh that I'd picked a hobby where the result doesn't depend on me.

Oct 12. Zero. East wind since morning, dust on the windowsills, the lemon tree by the gate has rolled its leaves into tubes, and Tapuz has spent the whole day under the car where the ground is cooler.

Oct 15. Zero. The news is talking about a dry autumn in the north. They showed the Kinneret, with rocks along the shore we didn't see last year. Gil called twice, and the second time I read him from my notebooks which autumns were dry and how they ended: '99, 2008, 2017. He said he needs water, and the bank gives him enough lectures. I wrote that down too.

Oct 18. Zero. Today the synagogue started asking for dew and rain in the prayers; Noam put up a notice on the synagogue door. I'm writing it down because for thirty-five years I've written down everything that has to do with rain, even indirectly. My husband used to say I was the only person in the valley who kept minutes of other people's prayers. The same day Gil sowed his wheat into the dust, all forty dunams across the road, on money from the bank. He says his grandfather did it that way and the seed will lie in the dry ground and wait. The seed will wait. About the bank I'm not so sure.

Oct 22. Zero. Gil came for lunch, ate without talking, then sat on my porch with his laptop doing sums. Through the window I saw him close the lid and keep both hands on it for a long time. After he left there was a wet ring from his glass on the step, and it dried in two minutes. I timed it by the kitchen clock.

Oct 25. Zero. The clocks went back last night, and my rainfall day ends at eight again, the way it should in winter. Got up an hour early out of habit and sat on the porch in the dark for an hour, watching the sky go light over Gilboa. All week there hasn't been one cloud, not even cirrus.

Oct 27. Zero. Tomorrow is the seventeenth of Cheshvan. Yesterday Noam wrote in the group what the date means. I looked on my husband's shelf, where there's a Mishnah with commentary, an old edition with the pages stuck together with age. He bought it at the flea market in Jaffa because he liked the binding and never once opened it. I read the passage Noam mentioned and read the commentary at the bottom of the page twice more.

Didn't make supper this evening. I'm writing it down because it has to do with rain.

2. From the Nir Yalon moshav group chat, October 26 and 27, 2026

3. Rainfall notebook, October 28, 2026

Oct 28. At eight in the morning, four point two.

I'm writing it down in order, the proper way. Clear night, stars right down to the ground, I went out at three, Orion was over the eucalyptus, no wind. Ordinary dew on the hood, on the windshield, on the railing. At 08:00 I unscrewed the funnel and there was four point two millimeters in the tube. I measured twice, held it at eye level, read from the bottom of the meniscus. The asphalt on the path is dry, the dust on the lemon leaves hasn't been laid, I ran a finger over one and the finger came away gray. Noam has no rain gauge, so I went over the fence to look at his watering barrel, dry. The water in the tube is clean, no dust, no gnats, cold, and it smells the way the Kinneret smells in June, early in the morning, by the shore.

Tapuz's bowl. Last night I washed it, dried it and turned it upside down on the step so the dust wouldn't get in. This morning it's standing the same way, upside down, and under it there's a wet patch the size of the bowl. Tapuz won't go near it. He slept on the roof of the car, and he's never climbed up there before.

Sent in the figure as usual. Measured again at 08:30, nothing in the tube. I'd emptied it and dried it after the first reading.

4. Letter from R. Shahar to the Met Service volunteer coordinator, October 28, 2026, 10:12

Good morning, Michal.

I sent in four point two today, and I understand it looks like a mistake from where you sit. I'm writing so you won't have to waste time on a phone call. The night was clear, the dew was ordinary, the path was dry, and none of the neighbors had anything, I went round five yards. The funnel is clean, the tube has no cracks, I checked it against a measuring cup with tap water and it all adds up. There are no sprinklers near the gauge. The nearest drip line is my son's, across the road, about two hundred meters away. For thirty-five years I have sent you figures, and I have never once sent you a figure I didn't see with my own eyes. You can flag it as doubtful, I'll understand. If you need me to, I'll bring all my notebooks to Beit Dagan, there are thirty-six of them in an orange crate, and you can see for yourself that my handwriting hasn't changed in all those years. Only my eyesight has, and for that I have glasses.

One more thing, which has nothing to do with the data, but since I'm writing everything down. Last night after sunset, for the first time in my life, I began a fast. I'm not religious, you know that, and I don't understand myself why I did it. Gil sowed into the dust and sits up at night with a calculator. I didn't eat from the evening on, and in the night I went out to the rain gauge and asked. Out loud, in an empty yard, like an idiot. I don't know who I asked. I'm telling you because everything that has to do with rain goes into my notebook, and you are my only reader.

Ruth

Hello Ruth, and thank you for the details. Four millimeters under a clear sky with everything dry around you, we'll of course flag that for checking, and we'll hold the station's data for now. That's standard procedure, please don't take it personally. Heavy dew can collect in a narrow-necked vessel, there can be condensation, there can be birds. Could you please send a photo of the funnel and of where the gauge is installed? I won't comment on the fast, but I hope it helps. Everyone here is waiting too.

Michal

5. From the Nir Yalon moshav group chat, October 28, 2026

6. Rainfall notebook, October 28, 2026, evening

The instructions say one reading a day, at eight in the morning. Today I'm breaking the instructions and writing separately, in the margin, so as not to mix it up with the official figures.

16:52, sunset. Clear sky, yellow in the west, already blue over Gilboa, not one cloud, and the air so dry my lips are cracking, though I put cream on them every half hour. The tube is empty and dry, I wiped it myself at 08:30. Unscrewed the funnel and looked in: a drop at the bottom of the funnel.

18:00. Six tenths. Clear sky, the first star over Gilboa. Dry under the awning. Sent Michal the photo of the funnel, as she asked.

18:40. Reply from Michal, copying it out so it's in the notebook: "Ruth, thank you, the installation is fine. While the check is under way we're suspending the station, and your data for October won't go to the archive. It won't be for long." Thirty-five years without a single suspension.

19:30. Two point one. Tapuz has lain down outside my door and won't leave. I poured him fresh water in a different bowl, he sniffed it and turned away.

20:15. Noam came by, asked how I was, brought dates so I'd eat, since at night it's allowed. I said I'd eat later. He looked at the tube on the railing, said nothing, and asked if I could hear it. I asked, hear what. He said he thought he could hear water running somewhere in the pipes, and went home, and left the dates on the step.

Gil called and said he'll come in the morning, and that I shouldn't go out during the night. I said I'll go out at eight, that's my reading.

I won't pour it out. Gil needs a figure, the bank needs a figure, Michal needs a figure with a photo. Let it collect.

21:40. Unscrewed the funnel, poured it into the tube, raised it to eye level. The lamp over the porch lights it from the side, the way I like, so I can see the edge. Bottom of the meniscus at nine point four. I was holding the tube by the top with two fingers so as not to warm it with my hand, and I watched, and the edge started to rise, slowly, one mark, another mark, one more. Nothing was dripping off the tube, I had my palm over the top, I was standing under the awning. It was rising in my hand.

Wrote down nine point nine and put the tube on the step. The palm I'd held over the top of it was wet. I wiped it on my trousers and it was wet again, and the skin on my fingertips had wrinkled up the way it does after a long bath. I'm writing with my left.

22:10. Called Gil myself and told him I have nearly ten millimeters. He was quiet for a long time, then asked if I'd eaten. I said you're allowed to eat at night, Noam explained it to me. He said he was coming over now. I told him not to, that he has spraying at six tomorrow and I'm fine, look, I'm writing. We agreed on the morning. He said he loves me. He hasn't said that to me since he was twelve.

23:15. Turned a dry glass upside down on the dry oilcloth in the kitchen, as a test. In the morning I'll see what's under it.

Haven't eaten since yesterday evening. Noam's dates were on the step, I brought them in so the ants wouldn't get at them. I'm not hungry. I want to wait for eight o'clock and look.

7. Private message from Noam Yadid to Ruth Shahar, October 29, 2026, 06:30

Good morning, Ruth. Yesterday there was something I didn't finish telling you. I couldn't sleep last night because I could hear water in the pipes, so I decided to finish. According to Rabbi Eliezer in the Gemara, the seventeenth of Marcheshvan is that very day, "in the second month, on the seventeenth day of the month," when all the fountains of the great deep burst open and the windows of heaven were opened. I don't know why I'm writing you this. Please don't go out to the tube alone at night.

8. Message from Gil Shahar in the family group, October 29, 2026, 07:58

mom says please dont call at eight shes measuring