Tuesday, May 31, 2005

Crash: A Review

I have never considered myself a prejudiced person.

As a child, I cringed at my father's hatred of blacks, a hate justified because they were "lazy, stupid, and ugly." In my childhood household, entire human beings were dismissed because of the shade of their skin, the size of their hips or the width of their nostrils. I told him he was wrong, and I was labeled "naive," a child who "rooted for the underdog."

"I've worked with 'em for fifteen years," he'd say. "I know how they are. You just wait until one of 'em steals your purse." I can still remember the day he literally chased one of my black classmates from my front porch. I was disgusted, humiliated and ashamed.

I saw glimpses of my father in Crash. Bigotry, superficiality, berating off-handedness.

But I also saw glimpses of myself.

If you hear that Crash is a movie about prejudice and dismiss it because, like me, you don't recognize any bigotry in your heart, hear this. Crash is a movie about selfishness, anger, hatred, passion, empathy, fear, compassion, humility, pride, and desperation. It's a story in the vein of Magnolia, an interweaving of complicated lives, people who do what they do because they think it's right, because they think they have no other choice, or because they're driven to their actions by a moment of anger, helplessness, frustration, humiliation or righteousness. These people are moving at the speed of life, and they're bound to crash into one another.

I watched the film, truly gripped and intrigued, recognizing myself in the frightened, angry housewife, in the well-intentioned son, and in the dedicated father. I also recognized myself in the hardened, hateful officer, the spiteful wife, and the vindictive mother.

I've never thought of myself as a prejudiced person.

Today, the film returned to my mind, replaying itself, as provocative films often do. Throughout the day, I studied my life for my own prejudices. And, truly, I thought there were none.

I thought this even as I sniffed my nose at the Burger King employee with the multiple piercings, tatoos and intentionally-crooked hat, dirt under his fingernails and an apathetic attitude about his employment. "He'll mess up my order," I thought, "I just know it."

He did.

I thought I was without prejudice as I mentally shook my head at the teenaged cashier whose t-shirt boasted, "I had a blast last night, who ever he was" (yes, "who" and "ever" really were printed as two separate words). "Does she realize what she's advertising?" I wondered. "Does she understand what she's saying about herself?"

I thought I was without prejudice until I caught myself tsk-tsking the middle-aged man with the greasy bowl-cut who was staring at the cashier's low-riders, her panties' pink waistband peeking just above her jeans. She wouldn't give him the time of day. I guess she wasn't advertising to him.

Can any of us escape prejudice? Can we breeze through life unscathed by its carelessness or untouched by its heartlessness? Have you never thought, "I'm better?" Have you never paled in comparison? When it comes right down to it, are we really prejudiced, or are we just tired, angry, selfish, hurried, fearful, insecure and anxious?

Crash was one film that caused me to raise these questions about myself.

I'm still trying to find the answers.

"Go Figure! The Fascinating World of Mathematics"

I've been brainstorming about having a Family Math Night here in our home as part of The Sprouted Acorn. In pursuit of that, I've been researching activities and ideas. This morning, I came across this website for "Go Figure! The Fascinating World of Mathematics": This page of the besthomeschooling site offers links to "math games, activity ideas, puzzles, articles, learning and teaching aids, freebies, math in daily life, 'unschooling math,' overcoming math anxiety, and much more..." I was amazed by the number of links she gives on this page, with a lot geared specifically towards unschooling. This site looks like it will be an adventure similar to Anne Zeise's site, one that you will need to set aside hours in order to delve into it and learn.

Now that our schedule is easing, up, I hope to do just that!

Monday, May 30, 2005

Family Math and a Math Club

I'm considering organizing a math club or a family math class for my kids and the kids in the community, maybe as part of The Sprouted Acorn. Has anyone ever hosted or been a part of a math club? I'm particularly looking at the Family Math book, as I'd like to learn concepts with my kids. Has anyone used Family Math?

Math is my weakest area. Consequently, it's my children's weakest area as well. I'd like to improve that area by using hands-on family learning, not just worksheets and textbooks. I believe there is value to memorizing facts, so we are focusing on that this summer, but I would like to work together to spark our mathematical synapses.

What has worked for you?

The Math Worksheet Site.com

The Math Worksheet Site.com allows you to create printable math worksheets from your browser. Choose from different customizable levels of addition, subtraction, multiplication, division, mixed problems, fractions, measurement, graphing, telling time and a one hundred chart.

This is especially helpful for us now as we have just instituted a "Nintendo Bank." The kids earn Nintendo time by completing math problems, helping each other with flashcards and practicing math concepts. They earn Nintendo time for each correct answer they get as well as for each session of flashcards. They've each graphed out a chart to record how many minutes they've earned in their "bank" and how many minutes they've used. When they achieve mastery, we'll splurge and purchase a new game system.

So...what's your favorite game system? ;-)

Enki Education

I found thissite about Enki Education. It looks intereresting, but I especially like the concept of gathering of homelearning families to sing, dance and play together. That's part of my goal for The Sprouted Acorn. From Enki's site: "The central task of education is the integration of body, heart, and mind - this is the fundamental premise of Enki Education. To this end, our Homeschool Curriculum weaves together many diverse elements and is informed by the work of several leading educators and a variety of methods. Central among these are the multicultural focus of the United Nations International School, the integrated arts approach of Waldorf Education, the skill building techniques of traditional Western education, and the independent project learning of theme studies programs. "

Sunday, May 29, 2005

On First-Hand Experience

My friend Penny Barker was an unschooler long before anyone had thought to print such a concept in a newspaper or claim it as a label. Penny, however, calls what her five children did over the past three decades, and continue to do during their adult lives, "Organic Learning" She, her husband and her adult children share that style of hands-on learning with about thirty young visitors a week all summer long at their Country School Farm.

Recently, Penny and I had an e-mail discussion about labels as they pertain to herbs in our gardens. I had pulled up all of the labels in my herb bed in the fall and, now that they're bursting forth again, I have one plant that I just can't determine whether it's an herb or a weed (or if there's even a difference between the two). I was intrigued by Penny's response to my dilemma and found a bit of my own philosophies in what she said.

"In our present culture I always think we are much, much too big on "labels" and its secondary experience rather than the first-hand experience of the object itself! I think it's great that you're gonna' have to figure this plant out by other means! Neat!

I have a funny story about herbs and labels that I wrote up for an Australian homeschooling publication years ago: When J. was six and B. sixteen, it was their evening to prepare supper for the family. A potato-dill soup and homemade bread were what they decided to serve. No problem with the bread--the girls both learned that one early on--but the soup was a newer recipe. When it came to the time in the recipe to add the dill, which I keep in a mason jar like all my other harvested herbs, J., who'd taken the top off the pint jar, said "no!" when the B. reached her spoon into the jar labeled "dill." It wasn't dill, he told her; she said "nonsense,"--he protested to the point that she used her sense of smell on it and realized he was right! His first-hand approached as opposed to B's secondary one saved our supper! Don't you just love it?!

I think we may have gone a little overboard in our present culture with labels--I see it in our visitors time and again--they will often try to tell us how to do something because they've read about it rather than focusing on the actual doing right before their eyes. Sometimes I think we're creating a culture of "know-it-alls" who actually know very little! They'd rather read about something (second-hand) rather than experiencing it (primary). It's one of the main reasons we started out with pencil and paper with our summer visitors but soon gave them up realizing that kids were too hooked on the abstract!

Reading is, of course, the easier way to experience life and can become such a habit that kids learn to prefer it over doing. When our kids were growing up we read books for pleasure (not our research, of course) only in the evenings and Sundays. (This was not a "rule" but more of a tradition--it just evolved that way because we were so very busy with the farmstead, the outdoors and animals.) It was harder on me than [husband] R (he's not much of a reader for pleasure) since I've always been quite an avid reader but I was so busy "doing" with the kids, that I didn't really have time, anyway, except in evenings and Sundays! As a mother, you know the busyness of which I speak!"
I certainly do. While reading, for me, is a break from the tedium and a mental stimulant, I've long told my children that reading is simply living vicariously. If you have the opportunity, it's so much better to DO!

Stream of Consciousness about an Unschooling Math Experience

We were discussing circles.
I knew there was some magical truth about them, but what was it?
Measure a circle.
Measure its...diameter? Circumference? And then what?
Bo remembered.
He retains so many facts; I retain thoughts and feelings, emotions and memories.
"Measure the circumference of that trampoline," he said.
Kids grabbed the coveted tape measure. They all wanted a chance.
We all held on to a point on the circle, Bo, the Baby, Sweetheart, Monet, Houdin and I, steadying the measuring tape.
"Now measure the diameter," says Bo.
Again, they scramble, eager to get their hands on the measuring tape.
It's cumbersome, but they work it into submission.
We talk about fractions.
We talk about division.
We talk about multiplication.
"How many pieces of candy does each person get?"
We draw circles on paper, divide them, divide them, divide them until they are only hash marks on a page.
1
1/2
1/4
1/8
1/16
1/32
On and on and on.
We measure more circles, this time using the jumprope, measuring its half and multiplying by two.
We divide the circumference by the diameter.
Again and again, the answer is 3.14
A light goes on! And another!
Bo draws a symbol on the board.
"This," he says, "is PI."
BLING! "ARK!"
"What do you want from me?"
"I AM THE PIE!"
Stick figures on the chalkboard
Represent members of the family.
Four girls.
Four boys (counting Papa)
And that's how we discuss ratios.
1 girl for every 1 boy.
A ratio.
1:1
Four boys and four girls become eight people,
And there are more stick figures, this time the four-legged variety.
There are four dogs and eight people.
Each dog wants to walk how many people?
Be fair!
That ratio is 2:1.
And then there are more circles;
On paper with a pencil
On the hardwood floor with chalk,
with a brother in the center holding the rope
and a sister marking the circumference.
Out come the protractors.
Out come the compasses.
Upstairs goes mom, to log this moment.
Bounding up the stairs, a happy nine-year-old boy
And his six-year-old sister.
"I just learned PI," Monet states proudly. "I know what the sign for PI is!"
It's just after twelve a.m.
In this homelearning family,
We have PI at midnight.

Do you have some favorite PI links to share? I do.

Math Humor
Where does PI come from?
A World without Circles Writing Contest Winners from Math Cats

Friday, May 27, 2005

Of Campfires and Marshmallows

Warmer weather is here, and it just has me wondering...

Who came up with the concept of venturing into the dark, setting a bunch of logs, paper and stuff on fire, giving small children sharp metal sticks, leading the children, in the dark, to the fire, and encouraging them to turn puffs of gelatin and corn syrup into deadly torches of flaming goo? Who came up with that idea? Were they really serious, or was it just a joke to see how many stupid people would actually try such a ridiculous stunt? Like a bad urban legend?

Come on. Let's think about this.

Six year old + dim light of the campfire + metal prongs left in the fire long enough to become a cauterizing rod or a branding iron or both...what good can possibly come of that? The only outcome I can surmise is a mother with a permanent nervous tic and a completely rational fear of small children. And we all need extra help with that now, don't we?

And to add marshmallows to the equation. On their own, in their tepid, straight-from-the-bag state, they're dangerous enough. But then we give them to children--CHILDREN!--and watch them set the things on fire. These simple children, who don't understand the properties of oxygen plus fire, panic and begin to swing the flaming goo wildly about without any concern for the lives and safety of others.

So, I ask you, who came up with this brilliant scheme?

Whoever it was, I can guarantee you this: that person was NOT a mother.

Researchers Say Socialization No Longer an Issue

Finally! Someone is getting the message. But do you think there will ever be a day when we stop hearing that question?

From the Christian Post: "Fourteen-year-old Kayla Freeman from Bristol, Tenn. says she knows more people than she did while in traditional school, and she has discovered better friends in the homeschool community.

"Most homeschooled kids I know are outgoing and friendly," Kayla said. 'They are the truest friends I have.'"

The Sprouted Acorn

I'd like to introduce you to my newest blog! It's a site for information about the classes that we are hosting for homeschoolers in our home! The Sprouted Acorn: "The Sprouted Acorn
is a private project designed for the mentoring of homeschooled students by artists, writers, tradesmen and others from Holmes County and the surrounding community. Classes are held in the private residence of a homeschooling family. Classes focus on such things as creative writing, woodworking, fiber arts, drawing, sketching, coopering, foreign languages and more."

I'm excited about it and am anxiously awaiting enrollment. So far, our next art class has six children enrolled. Nine more, and we're all set!

Thursday, May 26, 2005

Stressed Out Students

STRESSED OUT
Experts recommend moderation for students who face intense parental pressure to excel

Dave Murphy, Chronicle Staff Writer

Sunday, May 8, 2005

As the boy played behind the bushes at his Redwood City school, his obviously agitated mother grabbed him, abruptly escorting him to her car.

"She asked him what he thought he was doing and proceeded to tell him all in one breath that he would never get into a good university or have a good job if he spent all his time playing and goofing around," said Jim Dassise, a parent who watched the episode unfold. "He should be more like one of his friends, who spent his time studying and having good grades."

The boy was about 9 years old.

Moraga resident Cynthia Brian, an acting and media coach who works with children all over the country, has seen the same sort of pressure -- sometimes self-imposed. "At 7 or 8 or 9," she said, "they're already talking about, 'This is going to look good on my resume.' "

Harried schedules, international competition and unrealistic expectations aren't just for adults anymore. The pressure on students to get exceptional grades and build Harvard-quality resumes has gotten so bad that Stanford University has an annual Stressed Out Students conference this week to help intermediate and high school parents, teachers, administrators and -- most of all -- students.

"They're making themselves sick," said Denise Pope, a Stanford School of Education lecturer and founder of Stressed Out Students. "And we're complicit in that."

Pope, author of "Doing School: How We Are Creating a Generation of Stressed Out, Materialistic and Miseducated Students," said even young students quickly understand that the real parental pressure is for grades, not knowledge, so sometimes cheating is the simplest path. Teachers cheat, too, inflating grades because it's easier than fighting with parents.

"A lot of these behaviors start when grades start being given," Pope said. In other words, in third or fourth grade.

The pressure comes from adult anxiety and competitiveness, said Dr. Alvin Rosenfeld, co-author with Nicole Wise of "The Over-Scheduled Child" and the former head of the child psychiatry training program at Stanford's medical school. Top colleges demand great grades. School funding demands good test scores. Both place demands on students.

"It's not about parents who are over the top," said Rosenfeld, who practices adult and child psychiatry in New York and New Jersey. "It's about a cultural pressure that's endemic."

Pope said she and her husband, Mike, limit each of their three children - - ages 8, 6 and 3 -- to one or two extracurricular activities. "I think kids are overscheduled in school and out of school," she said, "and both of those contribute to stress.

"There is severe parent peer pressure out there. There are more resources than ever before that are available to our children, but that doesn't mean you have to use all those resources."

Rosenfeld said harried schedules also take away the free time that is essential for children to be able to fantasize and create.

"If Einstein's parents were alive today, poor little Albert would get a comprehensive evaluation and end up on Ritalin," he said. "Deprived of his daydreams, he might not discover the theory of relativity, but he certainly would focus more fully on the complex demands of fourth-grade math."

Concerns about childhood pressure are hardly new. One popular book from 1981 was David Elkind's "The Hurried Child." But if children were hurried then, they're frenetic now.

A University of Michigan Institute for Social Research study of 3- to 11- year-olds compared the children of 1997 with those of 1981. The ones from 1997 had 12 fewer hours of free time a week, less frequent family dinners and vacations, and virtually no conversations that involved the entire household.

A 2003 survey of 460 parents of 9- to 13-year-olds by the Lucile Packard Foundation for Children's Health, one of the Stanford conference's sponsors, shows how torn parents from San Mateo and Santa Clara counties can be. When asked to list items that made them moderately or very concerned about their children, the most common responses were school performance and feeling stressed.

Often the children's schedules and parental anxieties mirror what is happening in the parents' careers, said UC Berkeley Sociology Professor Arlie Hochschild, who has studied and written books about family dynamics and workplaces. Intense competition and technological advancements have made jobs less secure, and as parents work longer hours, they put their kids in more scheduled activities.

Brian, the acting coach, said that exposing children to a variety of activities -- even offering a gentle nudge -- can be healthy, but too many parents expect their kids to excel. "If they're not everything to all people, they're nothing."

Parents also face unrealistic expectations, she said. "Every single organization or extracurricular meeting believes it's the most important thing on the planet."

Her son and daughter are in college now, but Brian got off the extracurricular parental treadmill years ago.

"At one point, I was gone every night of the week," she said. "Finally, I thought to myself, 'This is absolutely crazy. I'm doing all this so my kids can be part of XYZ, yet I don't have any time to spend with my kids.' "

Even one activity that has been around for generations -- after-school sports -- has gotten more intense and time-consuming, said Jim Thompson, executive director of the Positive Coaching Alliance, a nationwide nonprofit agency based at Stanford. Many California schools cut back on sports after Proposition 13 passed in 1978, meaning that kids have to be shuttled elsewhere.

There are also fewer opportunities for children who aren't top athletes, as the number of baseball teams, for example, dwindles by the teen years, Thompson said.

"Rather than youth sports being an educational function," he said, "it becomes a screening function."

The level of competition inside the classroom has stepped up as well. Rosenfeld said many parents push for perfect grades so their children might qualify for Stanford or an Ivy League university.

Stanford lecturer Pope said the pressures often lead students to cheat. And if their teachers don't look the other way, their parents will.

"Even in the face of hard, cold evidence," Pope said, "the parents will be in denial."

Research in 1999 by Donald McCabe, founder of the Center for Academic Integrity, found that cheating is common at many universities. In his survey of 2,100 students on 21 campuses, one-third admitted to serious cheating on tests, and half admitted to cheating on written assignments.

"A lot of these kids who cheated their way through high school are cheating their way through college," Pope said. "And it doesn't work."

E-mail Dave Murphy at dmurphy@sfchronicle.com

Wednesday, May 25, 2005

Dining with Books

Did you know that it's considered rude to read while you're in someone else's presence? The first thing that comes to mind is a father reading a newspaper, especially one who reads his periodical at the breakfast table.

Yet there's something in me, whether learned or inherent, that yearns for reading material when I find myself with a meal before me. I'll grab anything--a cereal box, a periodical, a child's sketchbook--because it just seems necessary for me to feed my mind while I feed my face.

Still, we've maintained a rule in our home that there is to be no reading at the meal table. If I or another family member is eating alone, that's different. But if it's a family meal with one or more people present, the book must be eschewed while we chew.

Yesterday, while I put the finishing touches on a BLT lunch and the kids prepared the table, I thought about my current read, The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver, and I ached to digest it along with my bacon sandwich, but, hey, I knew the rules.

But, hey, I MAKE the rules.

And so, as I set the lettuce and mayo on the table, I announced that no one may eat unless they come to the table WITH a book in hand! This, I said, will be a reading lunch! It will be considered rude to talk during this meal, so if you must eat, you must also read! After all, the reason it's ill-mannered to read in another's presence is because the other then has nothing to occupy themselves. Well, I suppose the other reason is because it's assumed that one's reading material is more interesting than one's present company, but we all know in this household that such is not the case. We're all very interesting. :-)

Everyone came to the table with a book. I, of course, with The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver, Bard with Sorcery and Cecelia or The Enchanted Chocolate Pot by Caroline Stevermer, Patricia C. Wrede, Houdin with Mark Wilson's Complete Course in Magic by Mark Wilson, Monet with The Westing Game by Ellen Raskin and Sweetheart with Doll Party by Shirley Albert (which was the first book Bard ever read independently).

It was a moderate success. There were two of us, Bard and I, who were nose-first into our books, while the others wanted a combination of reading and general conversation. But I liked it. It felt good, right, and free.

Rewriting the rules: another benefit to being a homelearning family

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

My Kitchen Garden

I spent the day today reading, writing and working in the garden, with the exception of an excursion to piano lessons. I love what I hear right now; Monet practicing his piece in earnest!

Working in the garden was both a delight and a chore. Our new lawn is a jungle, so I'm working on it bit by bit as time and money allow. My first project this spring has been a longtime goal. I finally have, after many years of dreaming about, planning for and envisioning it, a kitchen garden. It's very humble and just beginning, but it's there, the herb seedlings holding their own in this questionable Ohio spring coolness where it's late enough in the growing season to make me feel guilty that I don't have my vegetables planted, but cool enough that I'm relieved of my guilt. And that's a good thing.

Herbs are my favorite things to grow. I remember the first time I took a whiff of a pineapple sage leaf and thought, "Oh my gosh! It smells just like pineapple!" I remember walking through this huge greenhouse full of the most wonderful herbs, discovering a new world, testing the scent of each scented geranium--orange, peppermint, pineapple, cinnamon, nutmeg, rose, lemon and lime--adoring the tags above each table imploring me to "please touch!" (If you aren't familiar with scented geraniums, read this and learn!) I remember toting home several flats of my new passion, tearing out all of my existing flower beds (planted by the home's previous owner and not my style) and filling them with mints, lemon balms, lavender, lamb's ear, echinacea, chives, fennel, dill, nasturtiums and sweet-faced Johnny Jump-Ups. I kept detailed records of my growing garden, which wasn't exactly a kitchen garden, because it was in my front yard, an olfactory greeting for all who entered into my small city home, but I definitely used much of its harvest in the kitchen.

But now, I have a country home, and when we designed the floor plan, we allowed for an exterior door from the kitchen which steps onto the porch which steps onto the lawn which is bordered by--you guessed it--my new kitchen garden.

I placed the root-bound plants into the ground today, wondering how a greenhouse can have plants that are already root-bound so early in the growing season. The marjoram, cilantro, parsley, golden oregano, dill, columnar basil and rosemary were placed carefully in turn, earning their positions according to the frequency with which I use them, the cilantro and marjoram closer to the door, the dill and parsley further back. And at the furthest edge, grape tomatoes, Marglobe tomatoes and Early Girls, kept company by three jalapeno pepper plants. I'm looking forward to a pesto, bruschetta and salsa summer!

Do you grow herbs? If not, you should definitely give it a shot! They're forgiving, many are very hardy, and a lot of them can be grown in pots on your porch or sunny windowsill. It's always encouraging to me to see the tiny spikes of garlic chives popping through the cold ground early in the Spring. Those chives are my crocuses!

Next project: clear out my neglected tea garden and deep beds. The catnip and mints (and weeds, of course) there have all but taken over since I spent most of last summer finishing the interior of our house.

Love looks not with the eyes, but with gardener's gloved fingers!

Field Trip Coordinator for Ohio Homeschoolers

If you're in the state of Ohio, especially Northeastern Ohio, you might be interested in Field Tripping!.

"Field trips are among the coolest, most effective learning tools ever, but many of us don't implement them as often as we could. Learn more by doing, seeing, touching and sometimes playing! These are the field trips and tours I personally have experienced. "

We've attended several of these field trips and have always been pleased with the organizational skills of the coordinator.

The Dog Poo Blues

We were coming home from a bluegrass jam session and potluck on Sunday when I got a whiff of something fairly...um...unpleasant.

"Someone in this car has dog poop on their feet," I said. I'm pretty brilliant that way. Amazing powers of deduction. Mistress of the Obvious.

Bo, still feeling musical from our time at the jam, offered, "Hey. You could make that into a blues song."

So I did, and I sang it right there on the spot. It made my husband laugh. It made my kids roll their eyes. Yes, I am that good.

Now, for your...uh...enjoyment? You'll have to provide your own blues licks and turnarounds. If you're feeling adventurous, you can even add a verse or two. If you do, be sure to share it.

Without further adoo-doo...

The Dog Poo Blues

Someone in this car now, Baby,
Has dog poop on their feet.
Yeah, I said someone in this car now, Honey,
Has dog poop on their feet.
Well, it's smellin' extra funky, Darlin',
When you're crankin' up the heat.

Somethin' smells real nasty, Mister.
Tell me, Brother, is it you?
Somethin's smelling pretty foul now, Sugar.
Tell me, Sister, is it you?
Ya'll go on and check your feet, now,
Cuz somebody stepped in poo.

Somebody stepped in dog crap, Baby
When they went out for a stroll.
I say, someone stepped in dog crap, Baby,
When they went out on that mornin' stroll.
Oh yeah.
Somebody stepped right in it, Honey,
Now they got dookie on their sole.

::insert turnaround and drunken howls here::

Monday, May 23, 2005

The Art Club

It's good to have a place to gather with other artists where one can share one's works and have them appreciated.

Last Thursday, my husband Bo and I and all of the kids were welcomed into the home of a pair of local artists who were hosting the Bohemian Art Club. Apparently this club kind of travels around from home to home and the nature of it changes from meeting to meeting. Some meetings host guest artists who sing or share their talents with the group. This meeting was a kind of "show and tell" of art. All art is welcomed, including pieces submitted by children of any age and art in any classification.

At the beginning of the meeting, the host collects all visual art and then, after a social time of soup, snacks and wine, he introduces each artist and their artwork, passing around each piece for the group to consider and appreciate. He stops occasionally to allow those with written words or performing arts to present their works as well. Monet and Sweetheart both shared their sketchbooks, Sweetheart shared a painting, Bo shared his version of Rusty Old American Dream by David Wilcox on his acoustic guitar, Houdin wowed 'em with a few magic tricks, Bard read several pieces of poetry, and I performed two of my essays, The Salon and Sliding.

I may just be vain and shallow, or I may just enjoy human feedback, but I really enjoyed the reaction I received to my pieces. I love to make people laugh. I love to see their eyes light up with recognition and agreement. When I read The Salon, the women in the room were laughing. Hysterically! Since I'm really not experienced in the art of stand-up comedy, I didn't know how to pause, when to continue, how to fill the awkward empty space. But I didn't care! With that kind of reaction, I could have stood there reading all night. But I didn't. I pulled myself to earth and ended after the second piece. I'm not sure I could have handled any more of the adrenaline, anyway.

There were many talented artists there--writers, painters, portrait artists, potters, musicians--and I just felt so at home. It was a very good feeling. A warm feeling. An appreciated feeling. A kindred feeling. That's probably a banal way to describe it, but it's accurate. I felt a kinship to some of those folks.

I'm looking forward to more meetings and visiting different homes, getting to know other artists and musicians. When we came to this community, I was worried that the artistic needs we have as a family would not be met. With jam sessions, writing groups, art classes, piano lessons and other gatherings, I'm finding that we almost have more outlets than we can handle.

Wow. That's a nice problem to have.

Intermittent

My 1989 Dodge van has this unique feature.

It's called "intermittent."

When I turn on the windshield wipers, they swish back and forth in intervals. Yeah, I know. You'd like to think you have this feature, too, on your fancy Lexus or your brand new Mercedes. But I can almost guarantee that you don't, Buddy Boy.

See, MOST vehicles have an intermittent feature that causes the vehicle's windshield wipers to swish back and forth in REGULAR intervals. Betcha didn't catch that the first time around, did ya? REGULAR, as I'm sure you've figured out, is the key word here.

But not my van. I should be so lucky. When I twist the control handle, the wipers might flash back and forth at warp speed for a few seconds and then suddenly get too tired to go on any longer. Swish-swish-swish-swish----kaput.

Or they might give a nice, healthy swipe, maybe even two, and then...nada.

But wait! If I hold out for just a few more minutes (like I have a choice), they might decide to come on again for three or four passes, then more nothin', then a couple more, then a great big long expanse of nothin' followed by another interval of warp-speed. I keep trying to tell myself that my wipers have an internal moisture sensor that causes them to spring to life when needed. The fact that I have to peek between little rivers running down my windshield seems to indicate otherwise.

This really wouldn't be much of a big deal, since it only rains, oh, about every day during Spring in Ohio. Unless you've finally put your garden in, which means it won't rain for about three weeks. I mean, sure, it would be a pain to keep having to peek through those little windshield-rivers, but in a pinch I could handle intermittent--and I mean TRULY intermittent--windshield wipers.

The REAL problem for me, though, and I think you'll understand why, is the intermittent starter.

Now that, Buddy Boy, is a royal pain.

Feeling a little challenged...

Do you ever have times when you feel like nothing's working? Like your relationships are suffering, your job stinks, your car won't run, your dreams are taking a serious butt-whoopin', and your hairstyle (0r lack thereof) needs a major overhaul?

Do you ever have times when you just want to give it all up, throw in the towel, toss the baby out with the bathwater?

If you don't, let me just say I hate you.

Don't take it personally. I probably wouldn't hate you if I really knew you, but right now, my defenses are down, so it just feels better to hate you at this moment.

Out of all of my friendships, I've got misunderstandings and unsettled issues going on with two of my friends. The worst thing about it is that I don't see these issues working themselves out. I see the relationships dying. In both of these circumstances, there are some serious double-standards going on that I just can't overlook and they just can't see. I'm not even sure if we like each other anymore.

I'm supposed to be a stay-at-home mom, but I rarely stay at home. Can I get an "Amen, Sister?" I can't remember the last time I spent an entire day at home. And while I don't have a job, per se, the little things I do to help earn money aren't cuttin' it. Actually, the big job my husband Bo is doing isn't cuttin' it, either. Something's gotta give.

Out of our three vehicles, two are totally and completely on their way out and the third is seriously thinking about it. For the first time in my life, I find myself envious of people with new, reliable vehicles. I've never really concerned myself with this before, but now I'm concerned.

Dreams? Well, for some reason, they're taking it in the gut, too. I'm at one of life's crossroads and I just can't decide which way to turn.

And the hair thing, of course...well, I guess that's a perennial problem.

So I'm feeling a little challenged right now. On one hand, I'm looking forward to whatever direction the Lord is planning to take me.

On the other hand, I'm feeling pretty scared.

Oh, and I probably don't really hate you. Sorry I said that. Don't take it personally.

Sunday, May 22, 2005

Pizza Delivery

So, we're comin' home from Wal*Mart, right? As we drive along our dusty country roads, we're passing Plain People left and right, dressed in their Sunday best, the men in black suits, black hats and spotless white shirts, the women in blue dresses, white shaws and black bonnets.

"Why do they think their dress is plain? It looks pretty fancy to me," Bo says.

He's right. What I'm wearing today? A pair of khaki shorts, a black tank and a tan baseball cap? No makeup and my hair in a bun? That, to me, is as plain as plain can get, unless you count streakin'. I may be a granola gal, but I'm not ready for that.

To me, the Plain People look downright fancy, too. They stand out from the green grass and grey dirt as they walk from their every-other-Sunday church meeting, journeying from a neighbor's home or shop back to their own, filled up from eating lunchmeat sandwiches topped pickle relish and peanut butter spread, which is known to us English as Amish Wedding Spread, a coma-inducing concoction of corn syrup, peanut butter and marshmallow fluff. Yes, it is often served atop ham and cheese. I've tried it. It's not bad.

So, coming home from Wal*Mart, after passing several Amish families in their fancy-plain clothes, my husband Bo sees a white box laying on our dirt road.

"Is that a pizza?" He asks.

Indeed it was.

Around here, Amish families often gather in a shop to assemble dozens and dozens of pizzas and then sell them door to door or family to family to raise funds for a church member or Amish family in the community who is overwhelmed by medical or funeral expenses. The pizza boxes are plain (I do mean plain this time) white and the content is sealed in a plastic bag. These pizzas are very substantial and are sometimes frozen for later use. It's a real cottage industry, the profits used to help those in need.

This pizza was substantial, and it was also frozen, which was a good thing, because it had become...well, a street pizza, I guess you'd say. When I ducked out of the car to pick it up, I did some quick detective work. Still frozen. Amish-made pizza. Church Sunday. By golly, I'll bet one of our Amish neighbors dropped this just recently while coming home from church!

While we'd passed plenty of families on the main road, we hadn't passed any of our Amish neighbors on our own road, so we figured it was someone going our way. Driving ahead, we were met by one horse and buggy, but they were going the other direction.

"Should we ask them if they were planning on dropping a pizza?" Bo asked.

By the time we got to our lane, we still hadn't passed anyone who looked like they'd lost a pizza, and Bo was saying, "Hey. It's free food," but I'm not accustomed to eating things I scoop off the road, so I suggested we keep on driving until we met the main state route. Surely the owners hadn't lost their lunch that long before, since it was still frozen. Still using my brilliant powers of observation and deduction, see?

Sure enough, around the corner was Roman, a sweet Amishman who lives the next farm over. He was still in his Sunday-go-to-meetin' duds. He was walking AWAY from his farm. His face was filled with consternation. This was probably our guy.

Still, I felt a little silly asking, "Hey, did you lose a pizza?"

He looked at us for just a second and I thought, "He thinks we're nuts," then his mouth burst into a grin as he saw the plain white box on my lap.

"Well, yeah!" He said. "The horse did somethin' funny back 'round the corner, and when we got home, why, we noticed we only had two pizzas instead of three!"

"I'm kinda sorry we found ya," Bo said. "We were figuring we'd have it for lunch."

"Well, come on down!" Roman said. And he meant it.

Thanks but no thanks, we said. I knew our clan would finish off all three pizzas and ask for more, no matter how substantial those pies were.

So Roman thanked us sincerely, waved goodbye, and we turned ourselves around and headed for home. Strange happenings on a Sunday afternoon.

Sign me, The Street Pizza Delivery Gal who's going to figure out what to do for lunch.

Friday, May 20, 2005

::: the boy of summer :::



My Boy
.....has never batted cleanup,
has never once barehanded
..........a ball that's on the fly.
My boy
Doesn't start the lineup--
.....he always goes down lookin', but he doesn't know why.

My boy.
He's a cream-puff hitter,
has never beat the tag with a bent-leg slide.
My boy
only gets free transportation.
He's never whiffed a bomber,
.....never once struck out the side.

But he knows the trembling whinny of the Eastern Owl's Screeching,
can identify Draco on a cool, clear night,
stands over the griddle of his own bubbly pancakes
while the waking rays dance
through the kitchen skylight.

My boy--
he's a real bench-blanket,
the first one to the hotdogs,
the last one off the field.
My boy--
he's a six-o'clock hitter,
the coal out in the diamond where his errors are revealed.

But he can share with you the magic of a morning dove's mourning,
can spot a satellite as it slides across the sky,
snips green chives into farm fresh scramblers,
lifts a tune to heaven that can make the angels sigh.

My boy
builds boxes for the bluebirds,
knows how to locate North by the drinking gourd's bowl.
My boy
runs through the fields and heads for home;
My M.V.P.--this boy of Summer--how he blesses my soul.
He's my boy of summer, and he blesses my soul.

Schola Tutorials

A Circle of Quiet gave praise to Schola Classical Tutorials. I hadn't heard of them before so I checked it out. It looks like something Bard would just love. Do you have any experience with Schola? I'd love to hear your feedback.

Wednesday, May 18, 2005

More than a million U.S. kids call teachers Mom or Dad

KRT Wire | 05/17/2005 | More than a million U.S. kids call teachers Mom or Dad: "WALNUT CREEK, Calif. - (KRT) - It doesn't get more exclusive than Berkeley, Calif.'s Treehorn School.
With an enviable 1:1 teacher-student ratio, this unorthodox private school blends anthropology lessons with math, history and plenty of baseball. It's no use salivating: Unless Lucy Kuntz is your mom, you won't get in.
Kuntz homeschools her 7-year-old son, Aaron, using one of four education options allowed under California law. She started her own private school, with its own homegrown curriculum. Friday included a jaunt into Richmond, Calif., for an evolution workshop, followed by batting practice.
'I'm an unschooler,' said Kuntz. 'We don't have a typical day.'"

This was an encouraging article. I was especially pleased that parents aren't shying away from declaring themselves "unschoolers." As each of our family members begins to venture into their favorite direction more and more, I'm becoming increasingly comfortable telling people that we don't "do" grade levels (Why would we? We only have five students!) and we don't follow a set curriculum. "We're eclectic," I say, and people just accept that, sometimes even become truly interested instead of throwing out test questions.

It was nice, too, to recognize a name in the article--Ann Zeise from A-Z Home's Cool. If you haven't taken time to explore Ann's site, go for it. Just don't overdose one it! There's a ton of rabbit trails you can take there. When my kids come to me with a question about some interest, Ann's site is one of the first I consult.

The one thing that bothered me about the piece (other than the banal, "What about socialization???") was that the journalist insisted on noting that Zeise is a certified teacher but didn't bother to label the other moms. Somehow, there's always this--what is it? Justification? I don't know-- when someone is tagged as a certified teacher. I think it could discourage others who are tossing around the idea of homeschooling. That title seems to jump out at you, and I can't even remember how many times people have responded to my declaration of homeschooling with, "Oh, don't you have to be a teacher to do that?" I don't want people to feel intimidated, feel that they have to have some degree in order to teach their own. I want to encourage homelearners, potential and current, to teach and learn in their own way, with what works best for them, is most fulfilling and satisfying, does not discourage them from learning or drive them absolutely nuts.

It has taken me fifteen years to begin to feel comfortable in my homelearning skin. After reading the aforementioned article, I'm thrilled to see that others are comfortable in theirs, too.

Are you comfortable in yours?

Tuesday, May 17, 2005

Anne Tyler, Writer 8:05 to 3:30

I discovered the following article about one of my very favorite authors by way of Writing, Homeschooling, Living--thank you so much for pointing me to it! I thoroughly enjoyed seeing the way Tyler thinks and creates. I'm currently reading Amateur Marriage and wondering if the female main character is really me. Haunting!

Anne Tyler is so inspiring to me, mostly because her books seem to be about some form of me (I'm not at all egocentric ), and partly because I fancy that my writing style is similar to hers (fancy it...don't claim it). I'm sure I could never match her sweet, simple, poetic descriptions and amazingly believable character studies, but I do think my writing style is similar.

Also, Anne was homeschooled for part of her life, a fact that I don't see in writing often but I read in the book Anne Tyler as Novelist by Dale Salwak, editor. I loved her even more when I read that. I wonder, since her own children are not homeschooled and she doesn't often discuss it, how she feels about homeschooling. Ms. Tyler, if you ever happen to read this, I would love to interview you about your homeschooling experiences!

This article below, from the NY Times, was dated May 8, 1977. I'm including the body of the article here because some may not wish to register to read it. If you do register, there is a Featured Author page for Anne Tyler here.

Anne Tyler, Writer 8:05 to 3:30

By MARGUERITE MICHAELS

Two plus nine is eleven, carry the one, Mrs. Anne Tyler Modarressi says as she bends over 9-year-old Mitra and her math paper. "I don't think you should write down the one you carry--it's too confusing." Used cereal bowls and signs of school lunches already packed are scattered around the kitchen. Dinner is in the oven, but morning tea is still brewing as Mitra and her older sister Tezh slam the front screen door on their way to school. It's 8 A.M.

At 8:05 Anne Tyler is walking up the stairs to her study. "I've learned over the years that I can even put the dishes in the dishwasher," says Tyler. "As I close the door on the kids I go up to my room--like one of Pavlov's dogs. Otherwise I'll get sidetracked."

Thirty-five-year-old novelist Anne Tyler, mother of two and author of seven, resents being referred to as a housewife who writes. "Is John Updike a father of four who writes?" From 5:30 in the morning to 8 she is Mrs. Modarressi: wife, mother, cook, housecleaner, laundress. From 8:05 to 3:30, when school's out, she is Anne Tyler: writer. Monday trough Thursday. Friday is for "groceries and snow tires."

"I have perfect control of time," says Tyler, "and I can organize it." Five minutes for a peanut butter sandwich lunch. Thirty minutes for "the highlight of my day"--the mail. A junk catalogue freak--"you can't imagine what people are selling"--Tyler knows all the mailmen who work her east Baltimore neighborhood and their exact schedules.

Now working on her eighth novel, Tyler doesn't see herself building up to "the great book." "I think of my work as a whole. And really what it seems to me I'm doing is populating a town. Pretty soon it's going to be just full of lots of people I've made up. None of the people I write about are people I know. That would be no fun. And it would be very boring to write about me. Even if I led an exciting life, why live it again on paper? I want to live other lives. I've never quite believed that one chance is all I get. Writing is my way of making other chances. It's lucky I do it on paper. Probably I would be schizophrenic--and six times divorced--if I weren't writing. I would decide that I want to run off and join the circus and I would go. I hate to travel, but writing a novel is like taking a long trip. This way I can stay peacefully at home."

The housewife and the writer are connected by index cards. White and unlined. "Around the house," one card reads, "Cobb wears kneesocks with her housedress." There are cards scattered in almost every room of the house. And ball-point pens. The pen in the bedroom has a light on it. The cards--with their random thought trapped--are eventually filed in one of two small metal boxes. The blue box is the novel box. Divided by chapter number, the box and "revise" sections. The second box is the short story box. Its categories are "details" and "first sentence." The Cobb kneesock card has a three in the left-hand corner, which means it goes to event three in the 11th chapter of the new novel.

Other cards for chapter 11 are scattered across the black-and-white checkered daybed on which Anne sits--"on the small of my back"--to write. Her novels are written in longhand with a Parker ball-point pen on white paper attached to a clipboard. "I used to use Bics," says Tyler, "but after a few hours the ridges became painful."

Her study has two large windows, but her eyes fix on the wall opposite the daybed. It's covered with family photographs and an eclectic collection of pictures cut from newspapers and magazines: a sepia photograph of her great-grand-father playing a cello up in the hayloft door of a barn--the same photo of Caleb described in "Searching for Caleb"; bare, empty rooms in stark black and white; and a hand-copied poem by Richard Wilbur about sleeping, which reminds Tyler of writing ". . .step off assuredly into the blank of your mind. . .something will come to you."

Everything on the wall is framed; extra frames are in the closet next to the stacks of white paper and the Parker refills. The pictures are moved and removed, and the only constants in the room are the day-bed and the bookcases--filled with almanacs back to 1948, Time- Life history books decade by decade back to 1870 and several photography books "just to sink into," says Tyler. "To fill up on when I feel empty."

Still, time "for thinking" and "for hearing my characters" is as important as the plain white cards and paper. She does much of her hearing from two to four in the morning-- "an inherited family insomnia." When her children were little she slept through the night from fatigue, "and I wasn't half as productive as I am now. Five years went by between the second and third novels.

Her working rhythms were a long time coming. Born in Minneapolis, she moved around with her family--her father is a chemist--until they settled in a Quaker community in Raleigh, N.C. Never planning to be a writer, Anne Tyler would tell herself stories just to get to sleep at night. Westerns, usually. At Duke University she majored in Russian but took the required English 101 with Reynolds Price. Before she graduated Phi Beta Kappa, price introduced her to his literary agent. Then there was graduate school in Russian at Columbia in New York; library jobs at Duke and McGill University in Montreal; occasional short stories in the Saturday Evening Post, Harper's and The New Yorker; and marriage to an Iranian psychiatrist, Taghi Mohammad Modarressi. Not exactly in that order.

She finished her first novel, "If Morning Ever Comes," in 1964, but only after leaving the manuscript--almost on purpose--on a plane. She hates it and hates her second novel, "The Tin Can Tree." Her favorites is her fifth "Celestial Navigation," possibly because its central character, Jeremy, who never leaves Baltimore block and lives life from a distance, is the closest Anne Tyler has come to writing about herself.

And she hates to research. "I wanted to do a fortune teller--Justine in 'Caleb.' Haven't you ever been tempted to have your fortune told? It would have killed it off instantly if I'd ever gone to one. Instead I bought a little dime-store Dell book--just to pick up the names of some of the card formations. It's a lot more fun to make things up."

But the first month of a new novel, according to Tyler, is not much fun at all. "It seems to me that very often the way I begin a novel is that I have these index cards-say a hundred. They are things that at one time or another I thought I would like to explore, maybe a conversation I've overheard on a bus that I wondered where it was going or what did it really mean. At every fifth card or so a little click will go in my mind and I think, 'Boy, that would be fun' and I start to expand on it and then I set the card aside. At the end I have maybe 10 cards, and they are such disparate things that the problem is how on earth am I going to get them all into one framework? I have to think a month before I can figure it out.

"Sometimes a book will start with a picture that pops into my mind and I ask myself questions about it and if I put all the answers together I've got a novel. A real picture would be the old newspaper clipping about the Texas girl who slashed 'Elvis' in her forehead [Evie Decker in "Slipping Down Life"]. With this novel, the one I'm working on now, a picture came very clearly into my mind from out of nowhere of a young man walking down a street of row houses in east Baltimore pushing an empty baby stroller from the 1940's--one of those blue things with little white canework insets. There he went, and if you ask who he is and why on earth he's pushing an empty baby stroller--is he a man trying to take care of a small child? What are the complications?--then you can see a novel.

"My interest is character. The real joy of writing is how people can surprise one. My people can surprise one. My people wander around my study until the novel is done. It's one reason I'm very careful not to write about people I don't like. If I find somebody creeping in that I'm not really fond of, I usually take him out. I end a book a the point where I feel that I'm going to know forever what their lives are like. You know what Charlotte [in "Earthly Possessions"] is doing now. I build a house for them and then I move on to the next house.

"I guess I work from a combination of curiosity and distance," says Tyler. "It seems to me often that I'm sort of looking from a window at something at a great distance and wondering what it is. But I'm not willing to actually go into it. I would rather sit behind the windowsill and write about it. So all my curiosity has to be answered within myself instead of by crossing the street and asking what's going on.

"I feel very strongly an urge to make a large space around myself at all times. I'm not terribly involved in a really tangled life and I have a lot of ways of saving myself--of simplifying life where it doesn't matter, so I have time for what does."

Anne Tyler calls her family her "anchors to reality." "The only reason I know anything about popular culture is because the children drag it into the house." But her reality is, in many ways, sparse. Just a few friends--who know not to call until after 3:30; bluejeans and size-10 dresses ordered out of catalogues "in four or five colors"; Saturdays are for the weekly family excursion to the library (to get stacks of classical records); one trip a year to Bethany Beach in Maryland; long brown hair that hasn't seen a beauty parlor since 1958; wide blue-gray eyes without television.

"The only real physical effect that writing a novel has on the household," says Tyler, "is that I get so uninterested in cooking. My family can always tell when I'm well into a novel because the meals get very crummy."

"I have no world view," says Tyler, "Reading Eudora Welty when I was growing up showed me that very small things are often really larger than the large things. I know that here are some central preoccupations that keep popping up over and over in my books. I'm very interested in day-to-day endurance. And I'm very interested in space around people. The real heroes to me in my books are first the ones who manage to endure and second the ones who somehow are able to grant other people the privacy of the space around them and yet still produce warmth.

"I am not driven to write. I am driven to get things written down before I forget them. My work goes in two parts. The first part is the story, with my characters talking and surprising. But I still don't know what it's about, or what it means. The second part comes when I read it back, and suddenly it seems as if someone else is telling me the story and I say 'now I see' and then I go all the way back and drop references to what it means. I keep telling my husband to burn any manuscript if I die before I get to part two. It isn't mine until I see what my subconscious is up to. The story of 'Earthly Possessions' was written before I realized what the pattern was--that a relationship as bizarre as a bank robber and hostage could become a bickering familiar relationship. Anything done gradually enough becomes ordinary."

Living in a large cubbyhole house on a beautiful old street she refuses to leave, Anne Tyler never expects, and says she doesn't want, to be a huge commercial success. Last year, her best year, she made $35,000. She doesn't want the "intrusion" of fame-- "although I would very much like to think that somebody's out there reading my books."

"Populating the town is what's most important," says Tyler, "but it does matter to me that I be considered a serious writer. Not necessarily important, but serious. A serious book is one that removes me to another life as I am reading it. It has to have layers and layers and layers, like life does. It has to be an extremely believable lie."

Marguerite Michaels is a Washington correspondent for Time magazine.

You're Invited!

my three pennies worth: "It's a House-Warming Party to celebrate the grand opening of www.ChoosingHome.com and you are invited!

Share your story of how you made the decision to be a "full-time-at-home" woman, tips on how to make the transition from career to home-worker, perks and benefits of being at home, difficulties you've overcome, cultural assumptions and lies about "housewives," and the list goes on...

We will post the articles and their respective links on our new site on June 1st, as well as feature some in June's newsletter (also sent out June 1st)."

Monday, May 16, 2005

Sketching Resources

As part of our weekly art lessons and daily sketching practice, I've been investigating good instructional books on sketching. Since Sparrow mentioned carving out time and actually scheduling her sketch time, I thought I'd list a few of my favorite books on the subject. These books also meet with the approval of our art instructor:


Sweetheart with Art Teacher Mr. Del

Keeping a Nature Journal: Discovre a Whole New Way of Seeing the World Around You by Clare Walker Leslie and Charles E. Roth. This is a wonderful book that specifically discusses the merits of nature drawing. It was the work that first inspired me to begin sketching simply because it extols the benefits of sketching in order to begin to really see what you're observing. Unlike photography, taking a sketch intimates you with your subject and reveals things you'd might otherwise have missed.

Drawing Nature by Stanley Maltzman. This one covers what the aforementioned book doesn't, which is the actual technical aspect of sketching natural objects. Once I began looking at Maltzman's book, I could see more clearly how a tree was put together in order to sketch it more accurately. From the book:


"Through the years, students have asked what inspired me to paint a certain picture, or what kind of pencil I use for drawing. My answer is, "It is a thousand-hour pencil." In other words, the secret is not in the pencil....it is the work, the devotion and the love of drawing."

The Complete Sketching Book by John Hamilton. What I love about this book is that the author stresses drawing simple, everyday objects that you can find right in front of you, just for the practice of sketching them. From the book:


"Hardly a day goes by without some visitor to my studio saying, 'I do wish I could draw, you know I did try once, but I was no good at it.' This is sad because I don't think it is true. What they are saying is that they started off by attempting something that was too difficult, failed in the attempt and gave up hope...Accept the fact that you are just beginning, and just as with anything you do in life, you have to develop your skill by stages. You learn to drive or you learn to cook and now you can learn to draw. You didn't make a souffle' as the first dish you cooked and you didn't drive in the fast lane of a motorway after your first driving lesson-- so don't expect to produce a masterpiece at the first attempt at sketching."

Another book I'm enjoying and which practically parallels the art classes we're taking is Jill Bays Drawing Workbook; A Complete Course in Ten Lessons. This book discusses the nuts and bolts of sketching, from contour drawing to negative spaces. It's simple to follow and offers many illustrations for the lessons. This was the first book I used that really inspired Monet to pursue art as a hobby.

Finally, for sheer inspiration, there is The Art of Tasha Tudor by Harry Davis. I love Tudor's drawings, the simple, bucolic subjects and the sweet borders she runs around each piece. Any book that you can pick up about her life is inspiring, and if you go to her website, you can purchase signed pieces and books.

I tried to scan some of our recent sketches, but, alas, my brand-new-got-it-for-my-birthday printer refuses to associate itself with my computer. I simply don't have the time or the patience to figure out what's wrong, but I hope Bo will be able to identify the problem so I can more easily upload photos and scan in the kids' works.

Do you have any favorite artists? Books about art? Please share them. The books I have listed here are from my local library, so if you have titles you'd like to share, I'll order them from my library, too!

Sunday, May 15, 2005

A Common Sight

This has been my view of Bard for most of her life--the top half of her face visible, the bottom half covered by a new book every couple of days. For the past few weeks, this has been the view of pretty much everyone in the house. Well, with different faces, of course. The point is, we've all been doing a lot of reading.

I've been reading every chance I can get. I just finished Stephen King's Bag of Bones and now I remember why I don't read King's novels. While the language itself is highly readable, the stories sometimes leave me feeling cheated and at a loss (with the exception of The Green Mile and Shawshank Redemption). I didn't really gain anything from reading Bag of Bones, other than the realization that writing isn't all that much of a mystery. After reading King's On Writing, I know that the majority of his ideas come from nowhere, and his writing is almost entirely stream-of-consciousness "unearthing" of a story in the first draft. I guess I chose to read Bag of Bones because I wanted to see how he got from "here" (the birth of an idea) to "there" (the finished work). Now I know.

I'm also reading Teach Your Own by John Holt, which I've never before read. Have you? Did you like it? I've read other things--articles and so-forth--by Holt, but never a whole book of his. I like what I've read so far.

Another current read is Amateur Marriage by Anne Tyler. Tyler is one of my favorite authors, but I'm having a hard time getting into this one. It may be the fact that I was simultaneously reading a Stephen King novel, full of jump-value and heart-racing pace. Maybe it's time to get into the lazy, meandering river of Tyler's writing again.

And speaking of lazy and meandering, I'm also reading The Poisonwood Bible. I know, it's ages old, but I'm just getting to it. I'm also listening to Kingsolver's Prodigal Summer in the car when I'm driving alone. I'm not sure if I love her writing yet, but I sure do enjoy the poetry of it.

For my sketching hobby, I've been thumbing through a few books on that craft as well. I've enjoyed our art class and am looking forward to the upcoming class on Portrait Drawing by the same author.

Unfortunately, there never seems to be enough time to do the things we want to do once you find them (quick...what's the name of that song???), so I'm trying to figure out where I'm going, what I'm doing, why I'm doing them. The writing bug keeps nipping at my brain, tingling in my fingers, but I simply don't seem to get the opportunities to sit down and WRITE with the exception of the minimal updates to this, my humble blog.

How do you do what you love? How do you carve out the time? Who do you have in your life that makes doing what you love possible? And do you help them do what they love, too?

Forever wondering...

Friday, May 13, 2005

My Label is Yellow

Judy over at Anybody Home wrote an excellent post on labels. She wrote it just the way I would have written it and even came up with an ingenious way to solve the world's moodiness.

Today, my label is Yellow.

Where are the cups?

Chris, from the The Big Yellow House, wrote a hilarious piece on recycling carrots. Her post reminded me of an incident that happened with my kids and my mother-in-law about three years ago.

We were all hanging out at my mother-in-law's childhood home where we were engaged in the unpleasant job of preparing for a funeral. The parents, being somewhat preoccupied with cleaning and cooking and grieving over Grandpa, didn't notice right away that the kids in the house were leaving opened cans of pop sitting around. Everywhere.

The next morning, while the innocent children were still asleep, my mother-in-law collected about fifteen cans of pop that contained anywhere from a a quarter-can to a full can minus a few drops of various kinds of soft drinks. She gathered all of the cans, grabbed a large metal bowl from the cupboard, and dumped all of the pop, filling the bowl almost to the top. It was the most deadly looking suicide drink I'd ever seen.

When the sweet, innocent children awoke, Grandma called them into the kitchen, ready to give them an eye-opening object lesson.

"This," she said, "is all of the pop that I found around the house this morning. Pop is expensive. Because pop is expensive, no one will be wasting any more of it. For the rest of the day, if you want pop, you can get it right out of this bowl."
She expected groans and a chorus of "Eeeew! Gross!"

Instead, one child piped up with, "Where are the cups?" while the others asked questions like "Is there Sprite in it?" and "You mean we can drink pop for breakfast?"

She didn't let them drink it. I told her she should have. It sounded to me like her presentation was quite effective.

Make Me Something from Wood

One thing that amazes and inspires me is woodworking. When I look at a well-crafted table or recycled-wood wardrobe, I'm inspired. The ability to take something beautiful and make something both beautiful AND useful is a skill I covet but have never taken the time to learn. Just thinking about it makes me want to run out and buy a hickory sideboard for my gathering room or a recycled corner cupboard for the piano room. Alas, money is tight. If only I knew a carpenter.

That's a joke, see.

My husband used to be a carpenter--spent his younger days "carrying houses," he liked to say. He'd come home late at night, dog-tired, and I'd get mad at him for collapsing on the floor, asleep in a cloud of sawdust and smelling like a hamster.

He has a desk job, now, and smells more like water softener salt when he gets home, but I've never let him forget his carpentry skills. I've roped him into working on a few things over the years, including a wood floor and trim in our new house, but he's thankful that he's no longer a carpenter by trade.

The way I figure it, this could be a good thing for me. You know the old saying about how a carpenter's kids never live in a finished house? I knew a guy like that. Seven kids, a wife with a nervous tick, and a big house that wasn't finished. He didn't finish it the year his son and I got on the kindergarten bus, and it wasn't finished the year we stepped off that bus for the last time in our senior year of high school. Having walls is kind of important to me, so I'm sort of glad Bo's no longer a carpenter. I want my husband to have the time and the interest for woodworking. 'Cuz not only do I love stuff made of wood, but my boys love to work with wood. I can see that since Bo's no longer a carpenter, working with wood is becoming more and more something he enjoys doing instead of something he feels he has to do. When he does complete a project, like the gorgeous cedar deep beds he made for my garden, he's happy with his work. Proud of it, really. So, there's hope, see.

The flip side is that things made of wood can also be fragile and temporary. Like the outdoor plant stand that was inadverently held-together (temporarily) with non-galvanized screws. It split and cracked and eventually fell apart. The gorgeous cedar bed I mentioned, in fact, was broken just last week, right before planting season. My nine-year-old son Monet was doing some daring feat, bouncing around like boys tend to do, and landed on my favorite cedar bed, completely obliterating one side, shattering the board into splintery pieces. He felt badly. I think I felt worse, but I can't be sure of that.

The day before Mother's Day, Monet stood beside a little roadside Amish vendor's table and looked at the wares. He especially had his eye on a bluebird box, a wooden box designed specifically for the nesting of eastern bluebirds. He had six dollars balled up in his fist, but the box was fifteen. I knew he wanted to buy it as a Mother's Day gift, but I was also glad that he didn't have enough money. Fifteen dollars was too much for a yellow pine birdhouse, especially when they were so easy to make. If I just knew a carpenter.

When we returned home from our little excursion, I dug out a set of bluebird box prints I'd picked up at the Mohican Wildlife Weekend a few weeks ago and handed them purposefully to my husband, Bo. "Monet wants to make a bluebird box," I said. And, because this was totally and completely for Monet, I added, "You know. For Mother's Day." I knew that our funds were quite low and that there were other household projects that needed to be completed, so I wasn't sure if the bluebird box would be a priority. I got out of the way, and just let whatever was going to happen, happen.

A few hours later, Monet sought me out while I was curled up in my bed enjoying a good book. "Hey, Mom! I want to show you something! We made a bluebird box! But it didn't come out like the picture." He thrust the drawing I had given Bo back into my hand. "See, it's supposed to look like this, but we put the roof on crooked, and we accidentally drilled two holes in the front. But I think you'll like it, anyway." I was wondering how my carpenter husband would allow a crooked roof and two entry holes when I entered the garage and realized that my chain had been yanked. There, lined up neatly in a row, were five perfect, gorgeous, hand-made by my men bluebird boxes. I had enough boxes for my very own bluebird trail, something I've wanted for some time now. I picked one up, amazed with it's solidity and perfection, and noticed the wood. Cedar. Where did he get...?

"We used the wood from the deep bed Monet broke," Bo said. "It wouldn't have held up much longer as a deep bed, anyway. But as bluebird houses, it'll last forever."

Monet was beaming from tip to top and ear to ear. "I fooled you," he said. "Did you really think we'd messed 'em up?"

Yep, I told him. You fooled me alright.

On Mother's Day, after we returned from a 10K hike for Cystic Fibrosis, accompanied by Pensive Wandererand her family, Bo and I walked around our property and created our very first bluebird trail.

As we walked, Bo said to me, "You know, I really had fun putting these together. The whole time we were working, Monet was right there, handing me the right tool and asking me the right questions. He gave me a hug and said, 'Dad, you're a great carpenter.' I thought, wow. My son admires me for something this simple. I told him that if he watched and paid close attention, he could be an even better carpenter. I really enjoyed putting these together," he repeated. "I think we'll make an owl box next. We still have some wood left from that deep bed."

Yeah, the bluebird boxes are great. I get a warm feeling every time I look out my window and see them. I'm amazed but not yet frustrated by the House Wrens' ability to find and trust something so quickly and we've cleaned out the wrens' stick nests twice already to make room for the bluebirds who will eventually make their homes there.

But, more than the boxes themselves, I love that my guys spent the day together, restoring a broken project, creating something new with their hands, making memories and building a better relationship.

What more could a mother and wife of a carpenter want?

Well, other than a big cabinet for my gathering room made of wood recycled from a centuries-old farmhouse. Other than that, of course.

Wait, I think I have plans for a picnic table around here somewhere, too...

Wednesday, May 11, 2005

The End of a Good Thing

I guess all good things must come to an end. Why is that, anyway?

Last night was the last meeting of the creative writing class that Bard and I were taking. I'm bummed, yes. I don't know, I guess it was just this wonderful feeling I had that Bard and I were going to have a night out, that we were taking our artists on a date (have you read The Artist's Way?) and spending time with each other, Mother-and-Daughter-like. It was a time to rejuvenate and learn from other women as well as a time to share a bit of ourselves.

That part, for the first time in my life, was hard for me. Our instructor is a published author many times over, and I often walked away, after reading my stuff, feeling like "just another writer wannabe." I don't know why. I guess if I don't get lavished with praise, I feel like I've failed. Yeah, I'm that sensitive.

Writing has always been a part of my life; from the time I was able to put words on paper, I was writing stories about my world. My very first story, at least the first that I can remember, was at five years old. I wrote about my mother going to the hospital. It turned out that the hospital would be familiar territory for me because of my mom's frequent visits there for physical and mental emergencies. It also turned out that writing would be good therapy for it.

But anymore, I feel like I have a harder time flexing my writing muscles. Maybe I'm more particular. Maybe I'm losing touch. I struggle a bit harder to find "that word." I see many bits of inspiration but don't get to the paper in time to flesh them out. I have awesome ideas but can't seem to get from here to there.

I guess that's part of why I'm sad that the writing class is over. It was so pregnant with possibility and I was sure I would emerge from it a better writer, a person with something in hand that would wow the masses. In the back of my mind, I was calling forth that little writer I've always supressed, told to wait, convinced that there would be a season for her to break forth and bloom. And now, where is she? Where is that five-year-old muse? Come forth, I bid thee, young writer! Come forth!

I've been kicking around the idea of starting a Christian Writers' Group. What's holding me back? Fear and dread. That's a whole post of its own. (NOTE TO VICTORIA: I'm in Amish Country. While I'd love you to attend, I'm sure it's too far for you to drive. You're welcome to come, though...if I start it!)

So, I guess I'm still looking for some guts.

But mostly, I'm just grieving over the end of a good thing.

Sunday, May 08, 2005

Give her the reward she has earned...

A Letter to Husbands and Children
That woman in your life is amazing. Have you stopped to think about all of the things she does for you? All of the things you wouldn't be able to do, or have, or be if it weren't for her? She's a treasure, that woman.

That woman in your life needs love. Yeah, she bites your head off from time to time, and she insists that she's fat when you say she looks beautiful. Of course she lets you down, chews you out, tears you up. Don't think she doesn't realize it. Don't think she doesn't care. She does. Believe me, she does.

That woman in your life needs time. Many of the hurtful things she says to you are because she's tired, stressed out, at the end of her rope. She wants the very best for you, wants to provide everything, do everything, make it all just perfect. But she's only one woman--amazing as she may be--and one woman can't do it all. She needs your time, your attention, your help. She goes the extra yard for you. Why don't you meet her a few feet in?

That woman in your life loves you passionately. If she could express how much she loves you, you'd probably be scared witless. She thinks about you day and night, dreams for you, prays for you, plans for you, worries about you. She would give up everything for you, has already given up most things for you. She most often puts you first, has become so accustomed to doing so that you don't even realize that she eats dinner cold, or wears holey jeans. She loves you so much more than she loves herself.

That woman in your life needs attention. For today, try going to her and asking her what she's thinking about, what's bothering her, what she's dreaming. For today, serve her first, bring her a cold drink, tell her that you'll get the dishes and take care of the cleanup. Draw her bath, turn down her bedsheets, light some candles, write her a note to tell her how much you appreciate her.

That woman in your life needs to be needed. She may complain about cooking dinner, washing the laundry or settling the arguments, but it's mostly because she thinks no one notices. Tell you you need her. Tell her how much better life is because of her. Tell her that what she does is important, makes a difference.

And then, watch her shoulders lift up, and watch the weight of the world drop off of them. Watch her eyes light up, and the corners of her mouth rise to a smile. And then listen as she hums, sings, praises God for you, so very glad that she's in your life, too.

Her children arise and call her blessed;
her husband also, and he praises her:

"Many women do noble things,
but you surpass them all."

Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting;
but a woman who fears the LORD is to be praised.

Give her the reward she has earned,
and let her works bring her praise at the city gate.

Proverbs 31:28-31


Friday, May 06, 2005

I've been TAGGED!

Well, I'm it! I've been tagged by my daughter, Bard, The Barmy Blogger.

Here's how it works. I chose five of the questions to answer below, then the people I tagged (I'll list them at the end) answer their own five questions, then tag their own five people.

The Questions:

If I could be a scientist...
If I could be a farmer...
If I could be a musician...
If I could be a doctor...
If I could be a painter...
If I could be a gardener...
If I could be a missionary...
If I could be a chef...
If I could be an architect...
If I could be a linguist...
If I could be a psychologist...
If I could be a librarian...
If I could be an athlete...
If I could be a lawyer...
If I could be an inn-keeper...
If I could be a professor...
If I could be a writer...
If I could be a llama-rider...
If I could be a bonnie pirate...
If I could be an astronaut...
If I could be a world famous blogger...
If I could be a justice on any one court in the world...
If I could be married to any current famous political figure...

If I could be a farmer...

I would raise organic pork, beef and free-range chicken. I would be just like
Joel Salatin, have my own salad bar beef and lots of chicken tractors. I'd have a CSA, which stands for Community Supported Agriculture. I would raise organic herbs, fruits and veggies, drive a 1954 dark green Ford Pickup, and people would come from miles around to buy my turquoise, sage, and brown Aracauna eggs and earthy foods. They would each have big hand-woven baskets that were made by local Amish women, baskets on which each member would make a deposit and carry it with them when they came to my farm. Each time, they would come and fill up their baskets with goodies. Once a year, we'd have a big potluck dinner, a hayride and a bonfire. We would make hand-cranked ice cream from our organic, raw milk. It would be Very Good.

If I could be a musician...

I would play acoustic guitar, have very springy black curls, wear long, dangly earrings and flouncy blouses, write poetic, insightful lyrics like
David Wilcox and sing them in a voice like Natalie Merchant's or Jonatha Brooke's. People would love my wit and humor, and I would have a following that would allow themselves to be open to the true love of God. I would encourage bootlegging, have my own record company, like Ani DeFranco, and would show everyone what the music industry should REALLY be like. I would invite famous musicians into my home where we would play music all hours of the day and night. My children would learn to be great musicians by osmosis. It would be Very, Very Good.

If I could be a doctor...

I would be a homebirth doc. I would treat every birthing woman like the queen that she is, encouraging her to follow her instincts, trusting her to know her own body. I would take my knitting into homes in the still of the night or in the heat of the day or in the blinding snow, and I would sit in a quiet, candlelit corner, listening to the sounds of labor, creating a woven piece of art with my bamboo knitting needles--click, click, click--that would forever remind the birthing queen of the night her baby first nursed at her breast. It would be So Very, Very Good.

If I could be a painter...

I would create paintings of my children's faces, sunlight on their noses, sleep in their eyes, tears staining their cheeks, anger on their lips. I would paint my husband, my love, asleep in our marriage bed, the moonlight resting on his every curve. I would paint this land where I live, the falling down barns, the mangled trees, the checkerboard hills, the horse-and-buggy people. I would paint my dreams. I would paint my fears. I would paint my love. It would be Extremely Good.


If I could be a chef...

I would cook for you. I would serve you my passion on a platter, warm and saucy, satisfying and refreshing. I would lay out a table full of the very best of my farm and garden, a table that would invite you in, draw you in, make you sit, inspire you to partake. I would extract from you the compliments that are so often given the chef. Those compliments would feed my cravings, and I would cook for you again. It would be perfect.

And now, may I tag you?

Chris, from The Big Yellow house.

Shannon, aka, The Happy Housewife

Amy from Amy Loves Books.

Victoria from Homeschool Mom Tips

and Randi, the Cheeky Mama

If you don't have time, or don't want to do it, just let me know and I'll go cry quietly in the middle of the highway.

I'm sorry.

After yelling at my children and my husband, this verse, on my own blog, hit me right between the eyes.

"Whoever wants to embrace life and see the day fill up with good, Here's what you do: Say nothing evil or hurtful; Snub evil and cultivate good; run after peace for all you're worth. God looks on all this with approval, listening and responding well to what he's asked; But he turns his back on those who do evil things." (1 Peter 3:10-12)

Yes, I called them to say I was sorry.

But I still feel like crap. :-/

Wednesday, May 04, 2005

Guts, anyone?

So, I'm thinking.

Things have been a whirlwind in my life lately. I made the commitment to write for pay a couple of weeks ago, and today I decided to drop the job of driving for the Amish. It's taking a lot of my time, is unpredictable and is taking a real toll on our vehicles. I don't wanna do that anymore.

But writing--now THAT I want to do. But I don't seem to have even one spare moment (insert banal excuse for not blogging here). Still, the prospects have been promising. I'm beginning with periodicals but will be working on some of my story ideas in the meantime. Hopefully I'll get the guts to approach our local paper about doing a regular column eventually. Anyone have any extra guts lying around? If so, do you take PayPal?


Life's been pretty eratic. Makes sense to drop the driving, then. It's fun sometimes, listening to stories and hearing local gossip, but it digs into my day in a big way. So I'm gonna drop it. Devote more time to reading, writing, and attending to my family. With writing, unlike Amish hauling, I can set a schedule and hopefully can stick to it.

I just finished reading On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King. Can I just say that I read it more quickly than any book I've read in months? I thoroughly enjoyed it, though I did disagree with him on a few points. Still, much of it was very applicable to my life and resonated with me quite a bit. I stopped reading Stephen King stuff back in high school when his short stories gave me major heebee-jeebies so that I wanted to crawl into bed with Mommy and Daddy and suck on my blankie. I love his allegorical stuff, and I'm extremely curious about his spiritual life (yes, I do believe he has one), but I can't handle reading most of his works anymore. After all, he has said that he writes that stuff to get it out of his head, to help him sleep at night. Why would I want to read something that gives STEPHEN KING nightmares??? Haroomph!

Art classes are going very, very well. I was somewhat bummin' about finishing our seventh class out of eight today when the other mothers helped me COUNT and I was able to figure out, with much hand-holding, that we have three more classes to go. I'm learning so much more than I ever learned in any of my high school art classes. Plus, all of the kids seem to be progressing well. Having a wonderful teacher is very important.

Relationships. Now, there's a challenge. I seem to be having breakdowns in communication with people. On several occasions recently, I've experienced friends and acquaintances having a total lack of recall of spoken plans or misinterpretation (ie: reading between the lines) of my words. Maybe it really is time for me to lock myself in my room and write, write, write. If nothing else, it will hone my communication skills.

Along those lines, I've decided to host a Christian Writers' Group in my home once every three weeks (guess that rules out locking myself away). The art classes, while sometimes a pain in the arse, have also been very rewarding. While I don't know that I really need to read my work aloud (sometimes that just takes the wind out of my sails), I do feel a need to gather with other Christian writers. I feel isolated right now and keep remembering that day a few weeks ago when I sat in a gymnasium full of writers and aspiring writers at a local Writers' Workshop. I felt like I was among others who could understand my passion. Who could feel my pain. It was a comfort to be there and have that kinship.

Bard has been going absolutely grape-nuts on the piano. I can't believe it. The kids have only been taking lessons for a few weeks now, but she has taken to it like Jane Goodall to a chimp. She has been spending every spare moment working on When She Loved Me from Toy Story II and is progressing swimmingly. The boys are doing alright, too, but haven't taken to it like Bard has. I'm very proud of her. Also, she received a scholarship for her overseas trip which reduced our portion by a third. That final hurdle is fast approaching, and it has been lowered considerably. Thank God.

Oh, I would be SO WAY MOBIE remiss if I failed to mention that The Happy Housewife is totally awesome. She sent me some Alton Brown Good Eats DVDs and we have just been eating 'em up. Ahem. Last night, we made fish and chips from the Fry Hard episode and tonight I made pan fried chicken. Oh, oh, my. If you've never watched Good Eats, do yourself and your kids a favor, and get your hands on a show. Alton is like The Frugal Gourmet and Bill Nye the Science Guy whisked together. So very worth watching, which is saying a lot in today's media climate.

Sucky thing: Monet had a baseball game tonight that started out REALLY well. By the last inning, however, the opposing team was up by three runs. Final inning, two men on base, two outs, Monet's up to bat. The pitch. He takes a swing. STEE-RIKE! That's okay, shake it off. Another pitch. NICE swing, but STEE-RIKE TWO! Then the pitcher sends a high one. BALL ONE! And another. BALL TWO! And then he sends one right over the plate. STEE-RIKE THREE! Game over! Monet walked off the field looking a bit defeated, but it wasn't until he came and put his arms around me, tears forming in his eyes, that I realized that he understood how much pressure he'd been under. It's okay. It's okay. We just need to spend some more time in batting practice. It helps that he has a truly wonderful coach, someone who gives him a pat on the batting helmet and a "That's okay," and then works with him even more. Good people are so wonderful.

So, that's what I've been thinking.

What's been on your mind, lately? Do you have any goals or ambitions that you've been pushing to the back burner? Has someone taken the wind out of your sails? Have you found a kindred spirit? Have you said you're sorry lately? Do you need to? Is someone driving you nuts? Pushing your buttons? Yankin' your chain? Are you in love? Are you broken hearted?

I'd love to hear about it. We are simply not alone.

And it might even help everyone if we all just share guts.

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