Six Israelis died and dozens were injured in car accidents during the Passover holiday.
Two Palestinian terror operatives were killed when Israeli airstrikes hit their car in southern Gaza.
Who are the chametz seekers, those dutiful service technicians who in preparation for Passover, and for a fee, help us search and destroy the hidden, unexpected unleaven in our lives?
Israeli police said a West Bank car overturning that left an Israeli man and his baby dead was an accident.
A car crashed into the front steps of a Pittsburgh-area synagogue.
As the events unfolded, it was a story that could only be measured against the biblical account of Job. It was everyone's worst nightmare.
Hello, my name is Caroline, and I am in love with my car ... there I've said it.
On the way to Los Angeles International Airport this afternoon, I thought I was about to be murdered.
My blind date, Scott, likes college hoops, '80s TV and helping others. I like his cute tuchus. I'm thinkin' we'd make a fine pair of Jews. We stray from the first date playbook and follow a Santa Monica dinner with a Main Street stroll. As we walk past yet a third unique boutique on our way to get dessert (that we don't want) and more time together (which we do), Scott says those three little words that can rock a girl's world. "There's my car."
It's a PT Cruiser -- washed and waxed today, valid registration, parked less than 12 inches from the curb. No fuzzy dice, high school tassel or pine-scented Playmate air freshener. The car doesn't scream "show-off" or "shady," Speed Racer or gas guzzler. What it screams is middle-aged dad. More specifically -- my dad.
We've just paid $3,000 for a new mattress.
"It's not a mattress," the salesman sniffed. "It's a sleeping system." His accent
A new anti-oil television advertising campaign that is intended to needle the consciousness of fuel-guzzling SUV owners will be making a lot of local residents uncomfortable.
It was nearly midnight when Louis Roth's seder ended and we packed ourselves into my old Bug. My wife, Kyongcha, rode shotgun; Steve, my 12-year-old brother, shared the cramped back seat with a case of matzo and boxes of kosher-for-Passover canned goods from the chaplain's office. It was enough to supply each of the seven Jews in my U.S. Army signal battalion.