I was trying to find the lyrics for Frere Jacques and found this site that pairs lyrics with midi files. Granted, some of the midi files are a bit off, but it's fun to share with the kids some of the songs we learned as kids. I was surprised by how many songs I didn't know! Some of the songs have links to learning sites themed according to the song.
Check it out. If for no other reason than to listen to Why Does the Sun Shine, a very cool 1950's teaching song that I first heard recorded by They Might Be Giants, about...well, about why the sun shines. ;-)
Be sure to check out the, ahem, wonderful lyrics to The Big Rock Candy Mountain and the complete lyrics to You Are My Sunshine. I knew the second verse to You Are My Sunshine, which always made Sweetheart cry when I sang it, but I didn't know the other verses. I think it's the original stalking song.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
If this works...
You should be able to click here to see one of Bard's fellow choir members juggling on the Great Wall. It takes a few minutes to download, but it should work. Does it?
This one is of Ash running up the steps of The Wall.
This one is of two of the girls yelling at the top of The Wall.
This one is of the choir singing to someone. Who is it, Bard?
This one is of Ash running up the steps of The Wall.
This one is of two of the girls yelling at the top of The Wall.
This one is of the choir singing to someone. Who is it, Bard?
Saturday, June 25, 2005
They had a blast!
Yesterday we took a field trip to a science center where Monet and Houdin spent a good portion of the day making water rockets using 2-liter and 1-liter bottles (photos to follow at a later time). The instructor was fantastic, a woman who allowed the kids to answer questions and didn't judge or ridicule when the answers were wrong or off-the-mark. It's so refreshing to find a person like that. At one point she asked a question to which Houdin replied, "I don't know." She told him that she was impressed that he could admit that and told us that her husband still can't admit that he doesn't know something. She encouraged creative thought and experimentation with a gentle, kind assistance that I find so rare in adults.
After observing Houdin throughout the class, watching him follow instructions and seeing how encouraging and helpful he was to the younger participants, she offered him a spot as a counselor at their upcoming space camp, free of charge. This was a dream-come-true, as he'd been talking about that camp since he first brought the paper home from an educational fair months ago, but because we'd already committed to Bard's China trip, there wasn't any room for it in the budget.
It's wonderful to interact with people who have such genuine interest and respect for young learners. Those are the kinds of people who grow intelligent, respectful adults.
After observing Houdin throughout the class, watching him follow instructions and seeing how encouraging and helpful he was to the younger participants, she offered him a spot as a counselor at their upcoming space camp, free of charge. This was a dream-come-true, as he'd been talking about that camp since he first brought the paper home from an educational fair months ago, but because we'd already committed to Bard's China trip, there wasn't any room for it in the budget.
It's wonderful to interact with people who have such genuine interest and respect for young learners. Those are the kinds of people who grow intelligent, respectful adults.
Friday, June 24, 2005
The Return Flight
She's home.
Her return flight was much less eventful than her flight out, unless you count the fact that she was able to sit next to T.U. on her flight from Beijing to Chicago. But I'll let her tell you about that.
I'll tell you that it was wonderful to see her. That I didn't realize how much I missed her smile. That there is a bond between this mother and her daughter that transcends many miles and much time, but that I love to see her beautiful face and listen to her excited voice and hear her infectious laughter.
She's been half-way 'round the world, seen things that I will likely never see, and now she's asleep in her bed in a roomful of fairies and flowers, will likely awake wondering where she is.
But I will know, I already know, and I'm glad to have her back.
Her return flight was much less eventful than her flight out, unless you count the fact that she was able to sit next to T.U. on her flight from Beijing to Chicago. But I'll let her tell you about that.
I'll tell you that it was wonderful to see her. That I didn't realize how much I missed her smile. That there is a bond between this mother and her daughter that transcends many miles and much time, but that I love to see her beautiful face and listen to her excited voice and hear her infectious laughter.
She's been half-way 'round the world, seen things that I will likely never see, and now she's asleep in her bed in a roomful of fairies and flowers, will likely awake wondering where she is.
But I will know, I already know, and I'm glad to have her back.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
A sweet sound
Right now, what I hear is my 10-year-old son Monet at the piano picking out the chords and melody to "Morning" from Peer Gynt, simply for his own enjoyment. This is one of the moments when I truly love homelearning.
And another chapter comes to a close...
Fifteen-year-old Bard is returning from her choir trip to China tonight. It's interesting how things have changed with her gone. I'm wondering how having her back will affect the family.
One thing I've noticed is how fourteen-year-old Houdin has greatly decrease his argumentativeness. Yesterday he was given a list of chores to complete, and he did them without being reminded and without any back talk. They were physical chores, too, shoveling manure and moving large rocks. But he did them all well, and it was a great help to me. I'm wondering if it's a maturing process, or if he now feels like the eldest. They've always been highly competitive, and I wonder if that lack of competition has allowed him to relax a bit.
Bard is also a great help around the house. I can always count on her to do the dishes, clean up the kitchen, do laundry, or whatever other tasks need completing. I miss her sense of humor, her warm hugs in the morning, her thoughtful conversation and her unconditional love. It will be so great to see her again. I feel like I said "goodbye" so long ago, and I almost expect a different person to step off that plane.
And in a lot of ways, she will be a different person. I've just read reports that her choir was detained on their plane in San Francisco on their way to Beijing because there was "fuel flowing out of the wings" and that they went 18 hours without food before landing and eating their first breakfast in Beijing. I've also received reports that most of the kids have upset stomachs.
Since we're not gathering her from the plane until late tonight, I'm sorry that I won't get to hear about most of the adventures until tomorrow, and then for a lifetime.
I'm very excited and just can't wait to leave. These hours seem like an eternity!
One thing I've noticed is how fourteen-year-old Houdin has greatly decrease his argumentativeness. Yesterday he was given a list of chores to complete, and he did them without being reminded and without any back talk. They were physical chores, too, shoveling manure and moving large rocks. But he did them all well, and it was a great help to me. I'm wondering if it's a maturing process, or if he now feels like the eldest. They've always been highly competitive, and I wonder if that lack of competition has allowed him to relax a bit.
Bard is also a great help around the house. I can always count on her to do the dishes, clean up the kitchen, do laundry, or whatever other tasks need completing. I miss her sense of humor, her warm hugs in the morning, her thoughtful conversation and her unconditional love. It will be so great to see her again. I feel like I said "goodbye" so long ago, and I almost expect a different person to step off that plane.
And in a lot of ways, she will be a different person. I've just read reports that her choir was detained on their plane in San Francisco on their way to Beijing because there was "fuel flowing out of the wings" and that they went 18 hours without food before landing and eating their first breakfast in Beijing. I've also received reports that most of the kids have upset stomachs.
Since we're not gathering her from the plane until late tonight, I'm sorry that I won't get to hear about most of the adventures until tomorrow, and then for a lifetime.
I'm very excited and just can't wait to leave. These hours seem like an eternity!
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Compost Happens
Ahhhh...there's nothing like a day of digging in poo to make a person feel good.We love our new house. We really, really do. It's very hard, though, to love the house payment. I mean, yeah, we knew what we were getting into when we started planning, and, yeah, we decided that we wanted to build a house in which we could raise a family and be happy for life, but we never thought we'd be--never planned to be--housebroke.
I know it sounds like I just have bad grammar, but I don't. Not usually, anyway. "Housebroke" is the term for spending all of your income on your house payment and having nothing left over on which to live. Those pesky little things like eating and wearing clothes actually cost money that seems to be rather elusive right now.
It's really not all that bad. I'm making it sound worse than it is. I hope. But, it's true, things have been very tight here. We live paycheck to paycheck, we have implemented a largely vegetarian diet, and I have been doing what I think I should to cut back on all spending. I cancelled my cell phone, cut back on the NetFlix, am considering Vonage (if it weren't for that scary "no 911 service" thing, I'd be there), and quit buying things that once seemed like essentials but aren't, like paper towels and fabric softener. Yes, I know I still have more than most third world countries. That awareness rarely leaves me. This is not Western Civ Whining. It's simply stating my facts.
I've been cooking a lot more, which means spending a lot more time in the kitchen, where I seem to be living these days. But I'm happy to be doing it. Truly! I like the creations that are coming out of my culinary experiments--breads and cakes and spreads and rice dishes and salads and dressings--it's been a lot of fun. Tonight, we had a bleu cheese/cottage cheese/white cheddar/almond/tomato/basil spread on toasted flax spelt bread with a layer of hummus thrown in and a cucumber salad on the side. For lunch, it was freshly ground peanut butter on sandwiches, homemade pound cake and strawberries from the picking we did last week. We've completely cut out not only sodas, but all sugary drinks, including juices. It's water, tea from the garden, and organic whole, raw milk from the farmer, which is almost 1/3 cheaper than conventional milk and at least 3/4 cheaper than organic from the health food store.
But one thing that has been hard to manufacture in our financially-challenged state is garden beds.
Gardening is one of my main loves, especially herb gardening. I love any useful plant that can add to our sustenance. This year, I have no vegetable garden because we couldn't decide what to do with our new lawn, especially since we have no extra money to do major landscaping. Since I can't afford garden soil or bedding plants, I've been staring at the area around our house's foundation with a combination of desperation and disgust. Until today, it was a dirty, dog-trodden sore spot on my pasture-turned-lawn.
Yesterday, my dear husband Bo wondered aloud if the neighbor's horse manure pile would do the trick for our garden bed needs. If it's well-rotted, I said, it would be perfect. So just for the asking, he brought home a pickup load of composted horse poo ("There's more where that came from," he said) that I happily dug into all afternoon. I had enough clearance-sale seedlings of tomatillos, basil, tarragon, lavender and marigolds to get the bed started, and then I had Bo transplant some chives, bronze fennel, oregano and coreopsis from my wild, untamed tea garden into the beds. To keep the dogs out, we surrounded the whole thing with rabbit fencing we bought two years ago and it looks loverly. Much loverlier than the dog path it was before!
While we were out digging in the poo, my newest friend, neighbor and renter, Pensive Wanderer, blessed me with a visit and a gift--a sample of Green Tea ice cream from Woo City! I'm so happy to have PW as a friend. I finally have someone in my life who speaks my love language...gifts! For some reason, when I receive a gift, it makes me feel especially warm and fuzzy inside. I just know that someone thought enough of me to take their time and energy to buy, make or find me something (like some Good Eats DVDs...thanks again, Happy Housewife!) It's always so nice to get things from PW--a subscription to Countryside magazine (which I blackmailed out of her by telling her I hated her for having a subscription), a Barry Manilow CD (she's the first person EVER to buy me a Barry Manilow CD!) and now, Woo city ice cream. Thank you, PW, for being so thoughtful. You rock.
The other highlights of the day were:
- Monet's new friend from baseball coming to visit. Monet rode his bike to his friend's house, they rode back together. Monet showed K. his piano pieces, they played baseball together, and they made a chart to keep score. Then Monet, K and Houdin all headed down to the pond with bottles and nets, returning with tadpoles, frogs and crawdads which are now living in a rubbermaid container on my front porch;
- Watching Houdin use the tiller in my herb bed. He's becoming such an amazing young man, so strong and witty, and it seems as if it's happening overnight;
- Seeing the boys run through the field and up to the neighbors' house to swim in their pool;
- Seeing Sweetheart's excitement as she caught a butterfly, studied it, let it go, and then looked it up in our North American butterflies book with great accuracy;
- Watching a gorgeous sunset with my family;
- Standing outside in the dark watching fireflies flicker in the trees throughout the valley while Monet figured out how many hours it was until the Fourth of July, when we'll watch fireworks from our front porch;
- Nursing The Baby on the front porch in the cool of the night while Sweetheart studied and identified a large moth that was drawn to our porch lights;
- Singing "Just You Wait," along with Eliza Doolittle and "On the Street Where You Live" with Freddy;
- Listening to the rain on the roof and Bo snoring as I type this.
Throughout every day, I think about so many things I want to write down, the sweeth comments and the amazing sights and the inspiring thoughts, and by the time I get in front of this glowing screen, I forget them. But I have a piece of some of them now, a snippet of my life, a reminder of how good things are when I'm feeling like they're all so very bad.
Thank you, God, for such a gorgeous day.
*Photo from beefchickenpork.org.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Suddenly, I have more free time...
I've enjoyed the baseball season. Really, I have. Even though Monet spent a lot of time on the bench this season, it was nice to visit with people, make new friends, watch the kids make new friends.
But tonight, because they lost their second tournament game, it all came to an end, and now my nights are free again. Free to pursue gardening and family games and dinners together and writing.
I've enjoyed the season, but I'm also glad that it's over.
But tonight, because they lost their second tournament game, it all came to an end, and now my nights are free again. Free to pursue gardening and family games and dinners together and writing.
I've enjoyed the season, but I'm also glad that it's over.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
A Father's Day Feast; Ode to a Cow
Yesterday, while we were out picking strawberries, I heard Bo's voice from further down the field."You know what I think?" he asked.
"What do you think?" I asked back.
"I think we need to make a trip to Burt's tonight."
What a perfect idea. Burt is a local certified organic dairy farmer who welcomes us to come anytime we want to fill our containers with fresh, whole, raw organic milk. No homogenization. No pasteurization. Just pure milky goodness.
After the strawberries were picked, loaded into our Jeep, and transported back to our kitchen island, we headed off to Burt's farm. Once we made our way through the woods, along the winding lane and to Burt's milkhouse, we could hear the sound of his milking equipment chug-chug-chugging away. Yes! We arrived just in time to see a milking, and to get ultra-fresh milk for our strawberry treat!
While Bo filled eight gallon containers from the stainless steel milk cooler, I talked with Burt, a sharp man who's in his seventies but looks to be about fifty, except for his snow-white hair. His beautiful complexion and muscular arms tell the story of years of healthy living and hard farm work.The Baby, Sweetheart and I peeked our heads into the milking parlor. That's where Burt's sons and daughter line up all of those beautiful Jersey cows for their evening grain and udder relief.
"Hey, I saw your kids' pictures in the paper last Sunday," one of Burt's sons calls up from the lower level of the parlor. "Did they have fun at the Art Walk?"
I tell him that they did, ask him how he's been, and my hands ache to get in there and milk with them. I've done it before--stood here as part of Burt's milking staff--but tonight we have other things to do. Instead, we leave a donation on the milk cooler, thank Burt and his family, and head for home.
When Bo made his appearance in the kitchen this morning, I was tearing spinach for salad. He'd made his preferences known for this Father's Day meal: steak on the grill. My contributions were a spinach salad, steamed broccoli, wild rice and iced tea from the garden; peppermint, spearmint, lemon balm and clover.
Bo's contribution was to skim the cream off the top of the now-cooled milk and put it into containers, start the grill and get the hand-crank ice cream maker ready for production.
So, with a simple recipe of cream, sugar and fresh strawberries along with some ice, rock salt and elbow grease, we readied our delicious dessert. Homemade strawberry ice cream!
We let the ice cream rest in the freezer to harden while we ate our meal together and talked about Sweetheart's latest loose tooth. I recalled the story of Bard's first loose tooth, how she begged me to pull it, how I tied the tooth to a string and tied the string to a door, slammed the door and sent Bard screaming from one end of the house to the other, the tooth still hanging on stubbornly. Then I told the story of Houdin's early loose teeth, how he came to Bo and I to excitedly show us a tooth that was barely wiggling in the gums.
"Yep. That'll come out in a week or so," I told him. "Now, it's bedtime, so off you go!"
A half-hour later, Houdin appeared before us with a bloody mouth and the tooth in his hand. I was amazed that my son would endure that kind of pain to remove a tooth! But the amazement didn't stop there.
"I think this one's loose, too!" He announced, jutting out his jaw for me to observe.
"No, I don't think it is, Son. Back to bed, okay?"
An hour later... you guessed it. ANOTHER tooth and a bloodier mouth! After that, he was commanded not to pull out any more of his teeth for the night!
Now the meal is over, the remaining ice cream is in the freezer, and the males of the family are working on the treehouse. I'm putting off kitchen cleanup long enough to jot down these thoughts of our lunch together on this Father's Day.
It was a meal fit for a dad. :-)
It was a meal fit for a dad. :-)
Now, an ode to the cow. Thanks, cows, for giving us the yummy milk and providing our lunch of steak and hamburgers.
The Cow
by Robert Louis Stevenson
The friendly cow all red and white,
I love with all my heart:
She gives me cream with all her might,
To eat with apple-tart.
She wanders lowing here and there,
And yet she cannot stray,
All in the pleasant open air,
The pleasant light of day;
And blown by all the winds that pass
And wet with all the showers,
She walks among the meadow grass
And eats the meadow flowers
I don't think I'll seek out a poem about a cow giving its meat just now. :-)
Happy Father's Day!
Making Bread
I've read several things lately that have convinced me that eating white breads is damaging to our health. Did you know that eating white breads adds up to a 1/2 inch increase directly to your waistline per YEAR?"US researchers have found that white bread is more likely than wholemeal bread to lead to extra fat around the waist, because the body breaks the calories down more quickly.
In a study of 459 healthy, middle aged people, the team from Tufts University in Boston discovered that participants who ate the most white bread saw the biggest increase in their waist measurements.
Their waists increased by an average of half an inch a year, which was three times more than people who ate the most wholemeal bread."
The other thing I've found is that most commercially produced breads contain high fructose corn syrup, which can cause a variety of health and emotional problems.
So I've begun experimenting with making my own whole grain breads using basic ingredients.
The first loaves I made with Sweetheart, The Baby and Monet, and I used only King Arthur's stone ground whole wheat flour, honey, salt, yeast and water. While it was delicious straight out of the oven, it wasn't the kind of bread I'd want to use to make sandwiches.
Next, I made a different bread recipe from Laurel's Kitchen, the basic bread recipe printed in one of the later editions, which contained oil and had a very detailed description of how to make the bread. I followed that to a T and it turned out much better. I think the key was additional rising time as well as longer final proofing.
The third baking I did was with part stone ground whole wheat and part with King Arthur's White Wheat. It turned out just right.
The next loaf I made was a 100% white whole wheat walnut bread from a recipe from King Arthur flours. It turned out amazingly soft and very yummy.
Today, I hope to make some with flax seed meal added.
One thing I've found is that when I've made bread in the past, I was making two major mistakes that were preventing me from getting the kind of loaves I wanted. First of all, I was adding too much flour. If you make whole wheat bread, and if it has any oil or honey at all in it, it will always remain somewhat sticky. It's important for it to be a firm mass, but not completely dry. If it's too stiff, it will end up as a brick.
The second mistake I was making was not letting it rise correctly. Sometimes I would just do one proofing and let it rise too long, which would allow the yeast to go past its prime. Sometimes I wouldn't let it rise long enough. And I know for a fact that I wasn't baking it long enough. Using a probe thermometer, the internal temp of the bread should reach 190 degrees farenheit.
Making bread does take extra time and energy, but it's good exercise for the arms (I knead mine by hand), it's so much healthier, and the family absolutely loves it. Some mornings, when we're in a hurry and heading out the door, we grab a loaf of bread and a stick of butter and eat on the run!
There are enough bread recipes on the King Arthur website to keep the kids and I busy for years.
If you'd like to try making your own bread, too, I'd be happy to help you as much as I can. Just leave me a comment and I'll see what I can do!
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Homeschooled student wins congressional art contest
If you're wondering why you should bother with formal art classes for your homeschooled student, take a few minutes to read this article:
"Homeschooled student wins congressional art contest
Oil painting by Columbia girl, 14, will hang in Washington.
By Anna Marie Groff
Lancaster New Era
Published: Jun 15, 2005 1:59 PM EST
LANCASTER COUNTY, PA - Holly Winter, 14, a homeschooled student from Columbia, won the 2005 16th Congressional District Art Competition with her oil painting.
Winter, who has dyslexia, which causes difficulties in reading, writing and spelling, turned the canvas upside-down while painting most of it.
"(Dyslexia) can affect all things," Winter said. "It's easier for me to paint when it's upside-down."
Winter's winning oil painting, entitled "Glades Grist Mill," will be on display in the nation's Capitol for one year.
She also received a $12,000 scholarship to the Savannah School of Art and Design in Georgia, if she chooses to attend.
When Winter began homeschooling two years ago, she signed up for an oil-painting class at A.C. Moore.
"From that time on we knew she had a gift," her father, Earl, said. Winter has painted 15 to 20 oil paintings since then.
Winter's mother is Donielle Winter.
Sam Mylin, who teaches art classes for Winter and other homeschooled students, requested that homeschooled students have the opportunity to enter the art competition this year.
Five homeschooled children, including Winter, entered art pieces. Thirty-five students from six area high schools also entered.
Pitts has hosted the competition for eight years.
The nationwide Congressional Art Competition has awarded scholarships to high school artists from around the country for 24 years."
"Homeschooled student wins congressional art contest
Oil painting by Columbia girl, 14, will hang in Washington.
By Anna Marie Groff
Lancaster New Era
Published: Jun 15, 2005 1:59 PM EST
LANCASTER COUNTY, PA - Holly Winter, 14, a homeschooled student from Columbia, won the 2005 16th Congressional District Art Competition with her oil painting.
Winter, who has dyslexia, which causes difficulties in reading, writing and spelling, turned the canvas upside-down while painting most of it.
"(Dyslexia) can affect all things," Winter said. "It's easier for me to paint when it's upside-down."
Winter's winning oil painting, entitled "Glades Grist Mill," will be on display in the nation's Capitol for one year.
She also received a $12,000 scholarship to the Savannah School of Art and Design in Georgia, if she chooses to attend.
When Winter began homeschooling two years ago, she signed up for an oil-painting class at A.C. Moore.
"From that time on we knew she had a gift," her father, Earl, said. Winter has painted 15 to 20 oil paintings since then.
Winter's mother is Donielle Winter.
Sam Mylin, who teaches art classes for Winter and other homeschooled students, requested that homeschooled students have the opportunity to enter the art competition this year.
Five homeschooled children, including Winter, entered art pieces. Thirty-five students from six area high schools also entered.
Pitts has hosted the competition for eight years.
The nationwide Congressional Art Competition has awarded scholarships to high school artists from around the country for 24 years."
Preschool loosens parent-child bonds
If you've been thinking about entering your youngster in preschool in order to give him or her a leg up in this world, or if you've been pressured by family members to begin preschool because it's "good for" the child but you're not so sure, you really need to read this article in The Washington Times. Our society is trying to convince mothers that the best thing to do for their young children is give them to someone else to raise, to instill values and provide their educational foundation. There are some, according to the article, who want to see compulsory schooling begin as early as three years old:
"The theory advanced by mandatory-preschool advocates is that children need to be exposed to formal education early or they will fall behind and become societal burdens. Is this true? Does forcing 3-year-olds into formal education improve their educational attainment?
Contrary to what we hear when states push to get children in school earlier, research suggests that preschool children suffer from various aliments when they are exposed to early formal education. This is not the fault of teachers but the simple reality that preschoolers' minds are not ready to master the skills they need for structured education. It's just too soon.
For example, psychologist and professor of child development David Elkind discovered in his 2001 study 'Much Too Early' that the capacity to manipulate symbols mentally is developed around age 5 or 6. This makes it possible for children to attain a level of achievement in math or reading, for instance, that is not possible for preschool children. Furthermore, a report by the Southwest Policy Institute says, 'Contrary to common belief, early institutional schooling can harm children emotionally, intellectually and socially.'
Children are dependent on their parents for their care. If a child is deprived of the parental bond early in life, his or her natural development is disrupted.
It is impossible to predict the exact long-term outcomes of severing the bond between parent and child, but the experience of Czechoslovakia under Soviet oppression gives some insight.
Clinical psychologist David A. Scott reported in a talk called 'Day Care and Democracy in Eastern Europe' that '[i]nstitutionalized children ... suffered developmental retardation and deprivation. In comparison with children raised in families, the institutionalized children suffered heightened emotional disorders, fear, tension, behavioral disorders."
Very simply, a child's place is with her loving, dedicated and attentive mother and father. That's where the bulk of her development takes place, that's where she feels the most secure, and that's where she learns the most. It seems to me that the focus in this country should be encouraging mothers and fathers to be loving, dedicated and attentive, not removing the child from their care and giving them the message that their child's development is someone else's job.
"The theory advanced by mandatory-preschool advocates is that children need to be exposed to formal education early or they will fall behind and become societal burdens. Is this true? Does forcing 3-year-olds into formal education improve their educational attainment?
Contrary to what we hear when states push to get children in school earlier, research suggests that preschool children suffer from various aliments when they are exposed to early formal education. This is not the fault of teachers but the simple reality that preschoolers' minds are not ready to master the skills they need for structured education. It's just too soon.
For example, psychologist and professor of child development David Elkind discovered in his 2001 study 'Much Too Early' that the capacity to manipulate symbols mentally is developed around age 5 or 6. This makes it possible for children to attain a level of achievement in math or reading, for instance, that is not possible for preschool children. Furthermore, a report by the Southwest Policy Institute says, 'Contrary to common belief, early institutional schooling can harm children emotionally, intellectually and socially.'
Children are dependent on their parents for their care. If a child is deprived of the parental bond early in life, his or her natural development is disrupted.
It is impossible to predict the exact long-term outcomes of severing the bond between parent and child, but the experience of Czechoslovakia under Soviet oppression gives some insight.
Clinical psychologist David A. Scott reported in a talk called 'Day Care and Democracy in Eastern Europe' that '[i]nstitutionalized children ... suffered developmental retardation and deprivation. In comparison with children raised in families, the institutionalized children suffered heightened emotional disorders, fear, tension, behavioral disorders."
Very simply, a child's place is with her loving, dedicated and attentive mother and father. That's where the bulk of her development takes place, that's where she feels the most secure, and that's where she learns the most. It seems to me that the focus in this country should be encouraging mothers and fathers to be loving, dedicated and attentive, not removing the child from their care and giving them the message that their child's development is someone else's job.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Feeling Knocked Down
There are days when people pick me up. There are days when people knock me down.
Today, I feel like I'm kinda getting knocked down.
Why is it that others feel such a hubris as to tell me how to live and what I should or should not be doing with my life, how I should feel, how I should approach parenthood? When I'm left alone, it's smooth sailing. My internal compass gives me such a clear image of my direction in life, and I get so excited about the destination. And then someone will come along with a big cannon and...boom! I've been blown out of the water.
It can be big things like a person telling me that my well-thought out ideas aren't going to work, or medium things like my husband losing the electric bill and getting stressed out over it, or it can be small things like the coach not putting my kid in the game until the second half and only giving him one at-bat. Today, it was a bit of each and a little more.
I feel like I'm very careful not to tell others how they should live and don't hand out advice unless it's requested. I don't tell other people how to discipline their children, what to eat, how to learn, or when to put my kid in the game. Yet all around me I'm approached by people, friends and strangers, willing to tell me about their One True Way of living. They have The Thing or The Book or The Food or The Vitamin or The Lifestyle that will work for me.
Don't get me wrong. I take all of their words into consideration. I investigate their unsolicited advice and entertain their ideas because I believe in giving people an audience, encouraging real thought.
But when it comes to others listening to my advice...well, I usually just don't give it. I figure that unsolicited advice is much like a telemarketer's phone call--if I were interested, I'd seek it out myself.
I've changed my diet, I've taken my multivitamins, I've increased my exercise, I've eaten my broccoli, I've seen the therapist, I've drank my tea, and I've read the books. I've taken the good advice and I've tried very earnestly to ignore the bad advice.
But today, I'm just feeling a bit knocked down.
Today, I feel like I'm kinda getting knocked down.
Why is it that others feel such a hubris as to tell me how to live and what I should or should not be doing with my life, how I should feel, how I should approach parenthood? When I'm left alone, it's smooth sailing. My internal compass gives me such a clear image of my direction in life, and I get so excited about the destination. And then someone will come along with a big cannon and...boom! I've been blown out of the water.
It can be big things like a person telling me that my well-thought out ideas aren't going to work, or medium things like my husband losing the electric bill and getting stressed out over it, or it can be small things like the coach not putting my kid in the game until the second half and only giving him one at-bat. Today, it was a bit of each and a little more.
I feel like I'm very careful not to tell others how they should live and don't hand out advice unless it's requested. I don't tell other people how to discipline their children, what to eat, how to learn, or when to put my kid in the game. Yet all around me I'm approached by people, friends and strangers, willing to tell me about their One True Way of living. They have The Thing or The Book or The Food or The Vitamin or The Lifestyle that will work for me.
Don't get me wrong. I take all of their words into consideration. I investigate their unsolicited advice and entertain their ideas because I believe in giving people an audience, encouraging real thought.
But when it comes to others listening to my advice...well, I usually just don't give it. I figure that unsolicited advice is much like a telemarketer's phone call--if I were interested, I'd seek it out myself.
I've changed my diet, I've taken my multivitamins, I've increased my exercise, I've eaten my broccoli, I've seen the therapist, I've drank my tea, and I've read the books. I've taken the good advice and I've tried very earnestly to ignore the bad advice.
But today, I'm just feeling a bit knocked down.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Also in the news...
Well. Apparently this week is the week for our family's fifteen minutes of "fame." This photo of Sweetheart and Monet along with an article appeared in this Sunday's local paper on the front page:
Art of all types at festival
By E. JOHNSON
Staff Writer
Temperatures in the high 80s and low 90s exceeded the crowd of shoppers at Art Walk 2005 on Saturday, the first day of the Arts Community’s premier “festival-style” downtown celebration on the courthouse square.
Activities will continue today from 11 a.m.-4 p.m.
On Saturday, siblings Monet and Sweetheart* didn’t appear to be fazed by the heat, as they applied their chalk-drawing talents to the sidewalk along East Jackson Street, where Arts Council volunteers had already chalked the slogan “Culture Builds Character,” while their father, Bohemian, watched from a tree-shaded bench.
*I changed the names and deleted location details for this blog post.
ABC.com: ABC's 'The Scholar'
Homeschooled student wins ABC's 'The Scholar':
"Home-schooled his entire life, this incredibly thoughtful and determined young man is bound for great things. With a 4.0 GPA and near perfect SAT scores, Scot was not only home-schooled but also self-taught for most of his primary and secondary education. He currently works four jobs, sometimes up to 80 hours a week, to help support his family and save for college. A black belt in the martial arts discipline of Tae Kwon Do, he is a determined and disciplined athlete, in addition to being one smart cookie. Admittedly cut from a different cloth, Scot hopes to one day be a lawyer, an investment banker or... a beatnik poet. "
"Home-schooled his entire life, this incredibly thoughtful and determined young man is bound for great things. With a 4.0 GPA and near perfect SAT scores, Scot was not only home-schooled but also self-taught for most of his primary and secondary education. He currently works four jobs, sometimes up to 80 hours a week, to help support his family and save for college. A black belt in the martial arts discipline of Tae Kwon Do, he is a determined and disciplined athlete, in addition to being one smart cookie. Admittedly cut from a different cloth, Scot hopes to one day be a lawyer, an investment banker or... a beatnik poet. "
Beacon Journal | 06/13/2005 | Touring Choir exports Akron harmonies to Great Wall
The newspaper where my daughter's choir is based printed this article yesterday about her trip.
Posted on Mon, Jun. 13, 2005
By Marina Takahashi
Beacon Journal staff writer
Standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the muggy attic of Steinway Hall, 52 members of the Touring Choir of the Summit Choral Society held a steady note last Tuesday.
They have been rehearsing like this for months, and the time has finally come.
Today, they are en route to Beijing to perform in the China Children's Choir Festival on Saturday.
"In some ways, even more than a musical experience, I think it'll be an intercultural experience,'' said Summit Choral Society artistic director Frank Jacobs.
But this tour is not the choir's first abroad. The Touring Choir, with members ages 13 to 18, has performed in England, Hawaii, and Italy, led by their conductor Arlene Jacobs.
"The kids will have an opportunity to visit (the famous sites) that they've heard about,'' Jacobs said. "I'm excited for this chance to go, and for them to be a part of this intercultural relationship, a real hands-on experience with these children.''
At the festival, the teens will sing alongside choirs from Indianapolis, Chicago, and Honolulu, as well as the Children and Young Women Chorus of the China National Symphony, founded by Yang Hongnian of the Central Conservatory of Music.
The Jacobses met Hongnian after visiting Beijing last year to survey the concert venues.
To their surprise, Hongnian's graduate class at the Conservatory was rehearsing Bach's Mass in B Minor. Back in Akron, their adult choir was too.
This coincidence led to the proposal of a joint concert, aside from the children's festival, with the Summit Choral Society's 40 adult singers and Hongnian's 60 graduate students at the Forbidden City Concert Hall on Thursday.
"I guarantee you, this has never been done before,'' said Frank Jacobs, who will be conducting the concert. "I broke out into sobs.''
In addition to the festival of more than 250 singers at the Tianqiao Theater in Beijing, Akron's choir will perform in three other concerts. Their debut will be on Friday at the Great Wall of China, where they will join the Indianapolis Children's Choir and a Chinese youth drum corps.
After the festival the next day, the Akron group will perform independent concerts on June 20 and 22 in Shanghai and Hangzhou.
The festival will host the world premiere of Someday Soon, a piece written by David Pettit, who has worked with the choir several times.
The song was commissioned by the Jacobses and Paul Lam, CEO of Kingsway International, the organizer of the festival. Dedicated to Lam's mother, Nora, who was a Christian missionary in China, the song promotes peace and cooperation.
"I wanted (the children) to feel the warmth and friendship of each other,'' Pettit said.
On top of rehearsing the songs, choir members have also familiarized themselves with Chinese culture and food.
"(Arlene Jacobs) gave us a pair of chopsticks. They're square so it's a little hard to eat with, but I've been practicing with those in case we have them in China,'' said Grace Beaseley, 15, who will be flying for the first time.
Beaseley's grandparents, who live in Beijing, will attend the concert.
"Musically, it's going to be a superlative experience because (the Chinese) choir is one of the finest choirs these kids will ever hear,'' Frank Jacobs said. "For them to be invited means that they can have a sense of pride about the international stage in which they will be singing.''
Posted on Mon, Jun. 13, 2005
By Marina Takahashi
Beacon Journal staff writer
Standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the muggy attic of Steinway Hall, 52 members of the Touring Choir of the Summit Choral Society held a steady note last Tuesday.
They have been rehearsing like this for months, and the time has finally come.
Today, they are en route to Beijing to perform in the China Children's Choir Festival on Saturday.
"In some ways, even more than a musical experience, I think it'll be an intercultural experience,'' said Summit Choral Society artistic director Frank Jacobs.
But this tour is not the choir's first abroad. The Touring Choir, with members ages 13 to 18, has performed in England, Hawaii, and Italy, led by their conductor Arlene Jacobs.
"The kids will have an opportunity to visit (the famous sites) that they've heard about,'' Jacobs said. "I'm excited for this chance to go, and for them to be a part of this intercultural relationship, a real hands-on experience with these children.''
At the festival, the teens will sing alongside choirs from Indianapolis, Chicago, and Honolulu, as well as the Children and Young Women Chorus of the China National Symphony, founded by Yang Hongnian of the Central Conservatory of Music.
The Jacobses met Hongnian after visiting Beijing last year to survey the concert venues.
To their surprise, Hongnian's graduate class at the Conservatory was rehearsing Bach's Mass in B Minor. Back in Akron, their adult choir was too.
This coincidence led to the proposal of a joint concert, aside from the children's festival, with the Summit Choral Society's 40 adult singers and Hongnian's 60 graduate students at the Forbidden City Concert Hall on Thursday.
"I guarantee you, this has never been done before,'' said Frank Jacobs, who will be conducting the concert. "I broke out into sobs.''
In addition to the festival of more than 250 singers at the Tianqiao Theater in Beijing, Akron's choir will perform in three other concerts. Their debut will be on Friday at the Great Wall of China, where they will join the Indianapolis Children's Choir and a Chinese youth drum corps.
After the festival the next day, the Akron group will perform independent concerts on June 20 and 22 in Shanghai and Hangzhou.
The festival will host the world premiere of Someday Soon, a piece written by David Pettit, who has worked with the choir several times.
The song was commissioned by the Jacobses and Paul Lam, CEO of Kingsway International, the organizer of the festival. Dedicated to Lam's mother, Nora, who was a Christian missionary in China, the song promotes peace and cooperation.
"I wanted (the children) to feel the warmth and friendship of each other,'' Pettit said.
On top of rehearsing the songs, choir members have also familiarized themselves with Chinese culture and food.
"(Arlene Jacobs) gave us a pair of chopsticks. They're square so it's a little hard to eat with, but I've been practicing with those in case we have them in China,'' said Grace Beaseley, 15, who will be flying for the first time.
Beaseley's grandparents, who live in Beijing, will attend the concert.
"Musically, it's going to be a superlative experience because (the Chinese) choir is one of the finest choirs these kids will ever hear,'' Frank Jacobs said. "For them to be invited means that they can have a sense of pride about the international stage in which they will be singing.''
Monday, June 13, 2005
Liftoff
We arrived at the airfield two hours early so that she could check in and find her group. I hugged her goodbye, commanded her siblings to do the same, and, surprisingly, they all did--even fourteen-year-old Houdin, who claims to hate his sister, hugged her and said "goodbye."
I stood by the display of confiscated items--dynamite and hand grenades and pie servers--watching my firstborn go through security. Because of a brief conversation with another choir parent, I didn't see her leave the gate. I turned around and she was gone.
Standing on the observation deck, I began to wonder if I were looking at the wrong plane. What was taking so long? I thought about leaving, not waiting to see this moment, this culmination of hard work, fundraising, nervousness and excitement, both of us earning money by driving the Amish and scrubbing decks and cleaning houses and babysitting. I wanted to finally see the whole big thing get off the ground. But the plane just...sat there. Not moving. Did we miss it, I wondered? Was she on a different plane and we missed seeing it take off? I even called the airlines to check on the departure time. I punched in the flight number and a friendly automated voice came back.
Delayed.
My fifteen-year-old daughter was sitting in an airplane that I could see, right there in front of me. I was watching her without seeing her, and she couldn't possibly see me. And she must have been wondering why she was being delayed from lifting into the air, what unknown event was preventing their takeoff for their trip to China. And I couldn't talk to her about it, couldn't tell her that it was okay, couldn't tell her that it wouldn't be much longer, because I knew the next scheduled departure time. I wanted to run to the terminal. I wanted to board the plane and sit with her.
I just waited.
After an hour of waiting, that big hunk of steel began to move, faster and faster, though to me it seemed like it was in slow motion, and then I held my breath, and there it was, suspended in air, sliding slowly from my sight. It was suddenly all completely out of my hands. If only I could give my worry over like that, like a plane taxiing down the runway, lifting off, getting smaller and smaller, and vanishing from view. Like the shrugging that says, "Well, I guess that's it. I guess we can go now," and the worry would just be gone.
"Do you see it?" Bo was asking six-year-old Sweetheart. "Do you see the plane in the air?"
I could see it. I could see it until it was but a tiny speck in the western sky. It was the moment I'd been waiting for all year long. I wouldn't have missed it for the world.
*^...-o-^_^-o-...^**^...-o-^_^-o-...^**^...-o-^_^-o-...^*
Tonight was the first night of my now ten-year-old son Monet's baseball tournaments. He loves to play, and can play well during the practices, but when game time comes, he freezes, locks up. "It's different out there," he says, and isn't ashamed to admit that he's afraid of being hit by a wild pitch. It has happened before. He still has the blood on his glove.
We arrived at the field an hour too early because I didn't read the schedule correctly, so we spent the extra time practicing, pitching and hitting for each other, goofing off and being silly, while my husband, Bo, exhausted from his early-morning race to the airport, slept, snoring, on the sidewalk.
"Is he really asleep?" The boys asked.
"Yep. He really is," I answered, and plopped my bottom on his hip, a wonderful seat. He barely stirred.
The game was scheduled to begin at 8:00, but the first game was a high-scoring one between two sloppy teams, starting at 6:00 and not ending until 8:30, and then only by a mercy rule in the fifth inning. So our game that was scheduled to begin at 8:00 didn't.
Delayed.
Finally, at game time, I waited for Monet to get his turn to bat. Because he's one of the weaker players, he gets a shot or two at the ball and then a couple of innings in either right or left field, and then he warms the bench for the rest of the game. It's hard to show up for every game, on time or early, work in the concession stand when needed, always arrive prepared with Monet's uniform and equipment neat and clean, and spend an hour and a half watching my son sit on the bench while the coaches sons play inning after inning. But I know the truth. They work with their boys, and baseball is just not my strong point.
Monet finally stands in the batter's box. I can see him, right there in front of me, but I can't whisper in his ear that the ball is going to be too high, or that he should swing away, or that he needs to jump back so he won't be hit. But he does let that too-high ball whiff by, and he does swing away, and he does jump back. And then, he hits it. A good play cuts him off and he's out at first, but he got a piece of it. He hit the ball.
And that may have been all of the confidence it took, because I watched him run out into right field and keep an eye peeled for balls coming his way. He backed up first, he played deep when he needed to.
Our boys were playing well, but there were two runners on base and two outs. We were ahead 5 to 3 in our first tournament game of the season, ahead of a team that had only given up two games during the season. One to us.
And then, I hear the crack of the bat. I see that hunk leather move, faster and faster, though to me it seemed like it was in slow motion, and then I held my breath, and there it was, suspended in air, sliding slowly from my sight. That ball's heading for my boy, I thought. He raced forward, glove outstretched, and there it landed.
Right in the glove.
I give no exaggeration when I say that everyone on our side cheered for him, his coach smacked his tush, and his teammates and older siblings high-fived him. And all the mothers and fathers had their eyes on me. Did you see it? their eyes were asking. Yeah, I saw it. That's what my face said. That's what my fervently clapping hands and hoarse voice whooping said. Oh, yeah. I saw it.
This is what I'd been waiting for all season long.
I wouldn't have missed it for the world.
On the way home, Monet ate cold pizza and discussed his catch in bemused tones. And then he was quiet.
When I looked back to see what he was doing, he was sound asleep with his thumb in his mouth.
Some things just stay with you forever; a last hug, a liftoff, a base hit, a pop fly dropping into your glove, the image of your son sleeping with his head against the car door, thumb in his mouth and baseball cap on his head.
These are the things I never want to miss. When they come flying towards me, I want to be standing in right field with my glove outstretched, and I want to feel the weight of them in my hand for as long as I live.
I stood by the display of confiscated items--dynamite and hand grenades and pie servers--watching my firstborn go through security. Because of a brief conversation with another choir parent, I didn't see her leave the gate. I turned around and she was gone.
Standing on the observation deck, I began to wonder if I were looking at the wrong plane. What was taking so long? I thought about leaving, not waiting to see this moment, this culmination of hard work, fundraising, nervousness and excitement, both of us earning money by driving the Amish and scrubbing decks and cleaning houses and babysitting. I wanted to finally see the whole big thing get off the ground. But the plane just...sat there. Not moving. Did we miss it, I wondered? Was she on a different plane and we missed seeing it take off? I even called the airlines to check on the departure time. I punched in the flight number and a friendly automated voice came back.
Delayed.
My fifteen-year-old daughter was sitting in an airplane that I could see, right there in front of me. I was watching her without seeing her, and she couldn't possibly see me. And she must have been wondering why she was being delayed from lifting into the air, what unknown event was preventing their takeoff for their trip to China. And I couldn't talk to her about it, couldn't tell her that it was okay, couldn't tell her that it wouldn't be much longer, because I knew the next scheduled departure time. I wanted to run to the terminal. I wanted to board the plane and sit with her.
I just waited.
After an hour of waiting, that big hunk of steel began to move, faster and faster, though to me it seemed like it was in slow motion, and then I held my breath, and there it was, suspended in air, sliding slowly from my sight. It was suddenly all completely out of my hands. If only I could give my worry over like that, like a plane taxiing down the runway, lifting off, getting smaller and smaller, and vanishing from view. Like the shrugging that says, "Well, I guess that's it. I guess we can go now," and the worry would just be gone.
"Do you see it?" Bo was asking six-year-old Sweetheart. "Do you see the plane in the air?"
I could see it. I could see it until it was but a tiny speck in the western sky. It was the moment I'd been waiting for all year long. I wouldn't have missed it for the world.
*^...-o-^_^-o-...^**^...-o-^_^-o-...^**^...-o-^_^-o-...^*
Tonight was the first night of my now ten-year-old son Monet's baseball tournaments. He loves to play, and can play well during the practices, but when game time comes, he freezes, locks up. "It's different out there," he says, and isn't ashamed to admit that he's afraid of being hit by a wild pitch. It has happened before. He still has the blood on his glove.
We arrived at the field an hour too early because I didn't read the schedule correctly, so we spent the extra time practicing, pitching and hitting for each other, goofing off and being silly, while my husband, Bo, exhausted from his early-morning race to the airport, slept, snoring, on the sidewalk.
"Is he really asleep?" The boys asked.
"Yep. He really is," I answered, and plopped my bottom on his hip, a wonderful seat. He barely stirred.
The game was scheduled to begin at 8:00, but the first game was a high-scoring one between two sloppy teams, starting at 6:00 and not ending until 8:30, and then only by a mercy rule in the fifth inning. So our game that was scheduled to begin at 8:00 didn't.
Delayed.
Finally, at game time, I waited for Monet to get his turn to bat. Because he's one of the weaker players, he gets a shot or two at the ball and then a couple of innings in either right or left field, and then he warms the bench for the rest of the game. It's hard to show up for every game, on time or early, work in the concession stand when needed, always arrive prepared with Monet's uniform and equipment neat and clean, and spend an hour and a half watching my son sit on the bench while the coaches sons play inning after inning. But I know the truth. They work with their boys, and baseball is just not my strong point.
Monet finally stands in the batter's box. I can see him, right there in front of me, but I can't whisper in his ear that the ball is going to be too high, or that he should swing away, or that he needs to jump back so he won't be hit. But he does let that too-high ball whiff by, and he does swing away, and he does jump back. And then, he hits it. A good play cuts him off and he's out at first, but he got a piece of it. He hit the ball.
And that may have been all of the confidence it took, because I watched him run out into right field and keep an eye peeled for balls coming his way. He backed up first, he played deep when he needed to.
Our boys were playing well, but there were two runners on base and two outs. We were ahead 5 to 3 in our first tournament game of the season, ahead of a team that had only given up two games during the season. One to us.
And then, I hear the crack of the bat. I see that hunk leather move, faster and faster, though to me it seemed like it was in slow motion, and then I held my breath, and there it was, suspended in air, sliding slowly from my sight. That ball's heading for my boy, I thought. He raced forward, glove outstretched, and there it landed.
Right in the glove.
I give no exaggeration when I say that everyone on our side cheered for him, his coach smacked his tush, and his teammates and older siblings high-fived him. And all the mothers and fathers had their eyes on me. Did you see it? their eyes were asking. Yeah, I saw it. That's what my face said. That's what my fervently clapping hands and hoarse voice whooping said. Oh, yeah. I saw it.
This is what I'd been waiting for all season long.
I wouldn't have missed it for the world.
On the way home, Monet ate cold pizza and discussed his catch in bemused tones. And then he was quiet.
When I looked back to see what he was doing, he was sound asleep with his thumb in his mouth.
Some things just stay with you forever; a last hug, a liftoff, a base hit, a pop fly dropping into your glove, the image of your son sleeping with his head against the car door, thumb in his mouth and baseball cap on his head.
These are the things I never want to miss. When they come flying towards me, I want to be standing in right field with my glove outstretched, and I want to feel the weight of them in my hand for as long as I live.
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Of desserts, departures and Dark Lords
I can't sleep.
I know I'm not the only one in this house who's still awake. Bard's awake. Bo's awake. Houdin's awake.
In less than six hours, we will be standing in an airport waving goodbye to our dear daughter as she boards a plane to China.
China.
Half-way around the world.
I think I'm going to puke.
We all tried to occupy our minds today by keeping busy. Since it's Houdin's birthday, and since I've been promising him that I would teach him how to make cheesecake since Christmas, and since there are too many "sinces" in this sentence, I spent the morning in the kitchen, first making bread (which turned out loverly) and then assisting Houdin with his first Milk Chocolate Cheesecake with Oreo Crust. He insisted on tempering the melted chocolate before adding it to the cream cheese/sour cream/egg mixture because Alton Brown said that was the thing to do. I have to admit, it was the first cheesecake I've ever made that didn't crack on top.
While the cheesecake cooled in the fridge, Bard, Houdin, Monet, Bo and I hopped into the car to drive the 45 minutes to the movie theater to see Revenge of the Sith. All I can say is that Anakin should have noticed when people's eyes turn inhuman colors, that they're most likely evil and should not be trusted. Oh, and I can say this, too; Am I the only one who knew from Episode I that Darth Sidious had the same horrible chin and pointy nose as Senator Palpatine? Bard insists that none of the Jedi had ever seen Sidious, but I find that hard to believe, what with all the "I sense great confusion in you," stuff. Couldn't they sense great EVIL when that creepy Palaptine sauntered into the room? Mace Out-the-Window didn't get the "I sense great freakiness in you and can tell that you're going to do me in" message from our pal Palp? Sheesh. But I suppose George Lucas knows what he's doing. He's just a tad wealthier than I am, after all, so I suppose I can't argue.
After a brief jaunt to Don Pablos for shared appetizers, we drove back home to cut the cheesecake. It was absolutely delicious and Houdin was quite proud, repeatedly drawing everyone's attention to the flawless, uncracked top of the decadent dessert.
And now...oh, my. It's after midnight. I'm going to have to wake up before I even get into bed. Did I mention that I can't sleep?
In less than six hours, my daughter will be flying half-way around the world.
I think I'm going to puke.
I know I'm not the only one in this house who's still awake. Bard's awake. Bo's awake. Houdin's awake.
In less than six hours, we will be standing in an airport waving goodbye to our dear daughter as she boards a plane to China.
China.
Half-way around the world.
I think I'm going to puke.
We all tried to occupy our minds today by keeping busy. Since it's Houdin's birthday, and since I've been promising him that I would teach him how to make cheesecake since Christmas, and since there are too many "sinces" in this sentence, I spent the morning in the kitchen, first making bread (which turned out loverly) and then assisting Houdin with his first Milk Chocolate Cheesecake with Oreo Crust. He insisted on tempering the melted chocolate before adding it to the cream cheese/sour cream/egg mixture because Alton Brown said that was the thing to do. I have to admit, it was the first cheesecake I've ever made that didn't crack on top.
While the cheesecake cooled in the fridge, Bard, Houdin, Monet, Bo and I hopped into the car to drive the 45 minutes to the movie theater to see Revenge of the Sith. All I can say is that Anakin should have noticed when people's eyes turn inhuman colors, that they're most likely evil and should not be trusted. Oh, and I can say this, too; Am I the only one who knew from Episode I that Darth Sidious had the same horrible chin and pointy nose as Senator Palpatine? Bard insists that none of the Jedi had ever seen Sidious, but I find that hard to believe, what with all the "I sense great confusion in you," stuff. Couldn't they sense great EVIL when that creepy Palaptine sauntered into the room? Mace Out-the-Window didn't get the "I sense great freakiness in you and can tell that you're going to do me in" message from our pal Palp? Sheesh. But I suppose George Lucas knows what he's doing. He's just a tad wealthier than I am, after all, so I suppose I can't argue.
After a brief jaunt to Don Pablos for shared appetizers, we drove back home to cut the cheesecake. It was absolutely delicious and Houdin was quite proud, repeatedly drawing everyone's attention to the flawless, uncracked top of the decadent dessert.
And now...oh, my. It's after midnight. I'm going to have to wake up before I even get into bed. Did I mention that I can't sleep?
In less than six hours, my daughter will be flying half-way around the world.
I think I'm going to puke.
Happy Birthday, Houdin
"You're overdue, and this is gonna be a big baby."Those were the words I barely heard fourteen years and one day ago. Contrary to everything I wanted, everything I had planned for, my doctor wanted to induce labor. That was the last time I would let a doctor talk me into such a thing. Every birth after this one would be a home birth.
Houdin came into this world stretching over the boundaries. His feet were too large to be contained on the footprint paper, and the birth record showed his arrival weight at 9 lbs 10 oz. Seven days later, when I went in to have his circumcision performed (the last time for me to do that to a baby, too) he weighed almost twelve pounds. It was then that the mistake was discovered: his birth weight had been transposed and he had weighed 10 lbs 9 oz.
Houdin's character also entered this world in a big way. His first words were "Go 'WAY!" and "SHUB UP!" which were words we didn't allow in our house, but he absorbed them from somewhere in his environment. He took to singing right away and has continued singing ever since.
Today, I celebrate the birth of a baby as well as the growth of a young man. He has talents and abilities that I don't even pretend to understand. He has no inhibitions and won't take no for an answer. This has been both a source of pain and pride for me, his mother. I keep praying over him that God will help to channel those talents and abilities into something amazing, something wonderful.
I'm sure I'm not the only mother who was taken a sidelong glance at her teenaged son and wondered, "Where did you come from?" Not yet a man, no longer a boy, caught between here and there. Just beginning to be intrigued by girls, just beginning to struggle with the cracking of his voice, just beginning to know his own strength and realize his own weaknesses. "Where did you come from?" I wonder. I can barely remember how he slipped from his infancy to now.
A son is a gift and a challenge. As I look at these photos of my boy, my man-child, I pray that I can be better for him, that I can recognize his talents and abilities every day, and that I can train him up in the way HE should go, not stamp him with a cookie cutter mold and expect him to fall in line with the rest of the world.
Happy birthday, Houdin. You truly amaze me.
No Slow Boat
In twenty-four hours, my fifteen-year-old daughter, Bard, will be setting down in Chicago on a one-hour layover before getting back on a plane to San Francisco. From there, she will cross the Pacific and, through the miracle of flight and the mystery of time, she will find herself half-way around the world before dinnertime.
While in China, she will see things I've only read about in books, and things I've never known existed. She will see The Great wall, The Forbidden city, Tian'Anmen Square, the Panda Garden at Beijing Zoo, the Summer Palace, and spend an afternoon at a Chinese school.She'll eat Peking Duck and sip Dragon-well tea. She'll shop in the new Silk Alley or some other free market, maybe picking up dolls for her sisters, coins for her brothers, jewelry for her mother and something dad-like for her dad. She'll sing with her choral ensemble, lifting her voice in the Bach B Minor Mass at the Forbidden City Concert Hall.
I have an itinerary. I'll know where she'll be almost every minute of the day. But I'll worry anyway. Needlessly, I'm told. But still, I'll worry.
What mother wouldn't?
And can I admit that I'll be jealous? Well, I will. As a child, the furthest I traveled with my family was Niagara Falls and the most frequent vacation was to visit my mother's relatives in the hills and hollers of West Virginia. I've never seen The Grand Canyon or Mount Rushmore. I've never been to Disney Land, Disney World or even to Florida. I've been to Nag's Head three times in my adult life but never had good weather, so the beach experience doesn't exist for me. I've never been to New England or New Mexico. In my adult life, I threw two kids in my new green Jeep, a third baby growing in my belly, and drove across the country, staying in Youth Hostels along the way, to visit my dear friend who was lost and lonely living in Texas. That was the most I'd ever seen of my country, making a loop that included Chicago, St. Louis, Hot Springs, Little Rock, Shreveport, New Orleans, and Chatanooga. It was a wonderful adventure I'll never forget. At the time, I must have endlessly worried and counted pennies, but now I can't even remember what it cost, only what it paid--memories that will last my lifetime and longer.
I ran into a woman the other day that I have always thought of as somewhat of a friend. We don't visit often, but when we see each other, we chat and laugh and she makes me feel good to talk to. I was buying rice and noodles at Sam's Club. She had driven an hour to return a pair of sandals for her son. I was weighing purchasing options for Bard's China wardrobe, and she told me she was leaving for a family cruise to San Juan for her daughter's graduation. That's when I knew. I could never be friends with this woman. What in the world would we ever discuss?
I have fantasies of traveling the country with my whole family in a big ol' RV, like The Kirkwoods have done. But then again, there's much to see here, in my own back yard.
Still, I'll be worried and, yes, more than a bit jealous as I watch my daughter fly away tomorrow morning, her view of the earth growing smaller and smaller, while I stand with my feet rooted firmly on the ground.
But I'll also be doggone proud of her.
While in China, she will see things I've only read about in books, and things I've never known existed. She will see The Great wall, The Forbidden city, Tian'Anmen Square, the Panda Garden at Beijing Zoo, the Summer Palace, and spend an afternoon at a Chinese school.She'll eat Peking Duck and sip Dragon-well tea. She'll shop in the new Silk Alley or some other free market, maybe picking up dolls for her sisters, coins for her brothers, jewelry for her mother and something dad-like for her dad. She'll sing with her choral ensemble, lifting her voice in the Bach B Minor Mass at the Forbidden City Concert Hall.
I have an itinerary. I'll know where she'll be almost every minute of the day. But I'll worry anyway. Needlessly, I'm told. But still, I'll worry.
What mother wouldn't?
And can I admit that I'll be jealous? Well, I will. As a child, the furthest I traveled with my family was Niagara Falls and the most frequent vacation was to visit my mother's relatives in the hills and hollers of West Virginia. I've never seen The Grand Canyon or Mount Rushmore. I've never been to Disney Land, Disney World or even to Florida. I've been to Nag's Head three times in my adult life but never had good weather, so the beach experience doesn't exist for me. I've never been to New England or New Mexico. In my adult life, I threw two kids in my new green Jeep, a third baby growing in my belly, and drove across the country, staying in Youth Hostels along the way, to visit my dear friend who was lost and lonely living in Texas. That was the most I'd ever seen of my country, making a loop that included Chicago, St. Louis, Hot Springs, Little Rock, Shreveport, New Orleans, and Chatanooga. It was a wonderful adventure I'll never forget. At the time, I must have endlessly worried and counted pennies, but now I can't even remember what it cost, only what it paid--memories that will last my lifetime and longer.
I ran into a woman the other day that I have always thought of as somewhat of a friend. We don't visit often, but when we see each other, we chat and laugh and she makes me feel good to talk to. I was buying rice and noodles at Sam's Club. She had driven an hour to return a pair of sandals for her son. I was weighing purchasing options for Bard's China wardrobe, and she told me she was leaving for a family cruise to San Juan for her daughter's graduation. That's when I knew. I could never be friends with this woman. What in the world would we ever discuss?
I have fantasies of traveling the country with my whole family in a big ol' RV, like The Kirkwoods have done. But then again, there's much to see here, in my own back yard.
Still, I'll be worried and, yes, more than a bit jealous as I watch my daughter fly away tomorrow morning, her view of the earth growing smaller and smaller, while I stand with my feet rooted firmly on the ground.
But I'll also be doggone proud of her.
Saturday, June 11, 2005
Marilla, I assure you it was sublime.
There are days that are so completely sublime that I have to force myself to even dare write about them for fear they'll completely disappear into the inadequacy of my words.
Today was one of those days.
It began with my rising early, making my way to the sun-splashed recliner in the piano room where I picked up my copy of Laurel's Kitchen and began reading. The call to simplicity inspired me, and I recognized immediately the familiarity of making do. Often, when I have very little money and a half-pantry of food, our most delightful, memorable meals spring forth. Such is my current position. With Bard leaving for China this Monday and so much of our finances wrapped up in her travel, music lessons for the kids and dental bills for my dad, the budget is as tight as a drum. What a perfect time to delve back into the art of bread-baking, soup making and old-fashioned family time.
I made two loaves of whole wheat bread yesterday, following the directions to a T, and they turned out wonderfully, though the rise wasn't as high as I wanted it to be since I'd like to use the loaves for sandwiches. Still, it went very well with all of the other meals we've had since.
After my quiet time with Laurel's Kitchen, I awoke my husband Bo and we gathered up the family for a walk on the new rail-trail near our house. On our way to the trail, we noticed that the community Art Walk was in process, so after our short walk, we headed back to the center of town where we talked to local artists, including the fabulously kind Mr. Del Guidice, the art instructor for The Sprouted Acorn, and his sweet daughter. Whether it's the busy summer months or the cost of the classes, our portrait course for next week simply doesn't have enough students. If we don't gather five more students before Tuesday, we'll reschedule the class for the Fall and see how it fairs then.
I also talked to two local potters, one I'd wanted to talk to anyway in order to discuss a possible article for Ohio Magazine. He was open to an interview, so I'll go out to his studio next week, if it flies with the editor, to do the interview.
The other potter showed interest in teaching a workshop for The Sprouted Acorn in her studio. I was so engrossed in conversation with her that I almost forgot about my Breema class, remembering in time to realize I was five minutes late. We hurried to the home of my Breema instructor where Bo and the kids dropped me off.
Breema is a new thing for me. I had wanted to learn Yoga but never seem to have the time or the motivation to get to the classes. Recently a friend of mine, Dave, who is a massotherapist contacted me about taking a self-Breema class and, since my back was aching and I knew I needed to do something about it, I signed up. For both of the classes, it was just the instructor and I, so it was a very relaxing, informative time. It's a good practice for me to learn to Be Here Now, and I'm always amazed at the brashness of the world after I leave a class with Dave.
After the Breema class, we stopped by the store for some groceries, and I came home and made a cheese spread from Laurel's Kitchen while the kids munched on watermelon:
We spread this on wheat bread and topped it with greens and cucumbers then served it with a salad and homemade buttermilk dressing. It was delicious, filling and refreshing.
After a nap, I went back to the kitchen to start the soup, also a Laurel's Kitchen recipe:
While I chopped veggies and made the stock, we listened to A Prairie Home Companion broadcast live from about an hour and a half from here. It was wonderful to hear Garrision talk about things near and dear to us, and the music was fantastic. I found myself singing harmonies to Cecilia, performed by Tonic Sol Fa. I had fun, but I'm glad they couldn't hear me.
After the soup stock and the show were both finished, I threw in the noodles, carrots, potatoes and celery and asked Bo if he'd like to take a walk with me. With The Baby on his shoulders, we checked out our bluebird boxes, The Baby peering over Bo's head to see the wren's eggs that occupied the first box. No bluebirds, but the wrens are protected migratory birds, so they stay. In our prairie grass section of the property, we found a daisy which The Baby delighted in calling, "The Dancing" as she dangled it in front of Bo's face. We examined the plum and mulberry trees, counted blackberry patches and peeked inside another bluebird house, this one containing no eggs but filled with a grassy cup that just might be a bluebird.
Behind our property is an Amish cemetery from which the view is amazing. We reverently stepped inside the gate and The Baby, still perched on Bo's shoulders, pointed out "the books" in the ground, referring to the grave markers. Here are buried people we never knew, neighbors who lived and died here before we arrived, some even before we ever arrived on this earth. A fresh grave without a marker stirred my emotions, as did the marker of a neighbor's son who was struck by lightning at the age of nineteen, standing near a fence on a clear day while talking to a relative, the storm seemingly miles away sending one stray bolt that would bring this young life to an end. A cardinal sang from a high electrical wire next to the post that was struck by lightning just yesterday, knocking out our power and forcing simplicity for an afternoon. The power is back on today.
Back to the house we walked, the smell of Golden Soup increasing the closer we walked to our farmhouse on the hill.
Gathered around a table, our bowls filled with rich, hearty noodle soup, my husband and children filling me with accolades, I was more wealthy than I've felt in a very long time. With this feeling, I understood:
And now, as I hear my children playing Taps on the piano, I know that it's time to close this post. Day is done.
The day was sublime, and, rest assured, my words don't do it justice. But they will help to spark a memory for me that will remain vivid in my mind for many years and many meals to come.
Today was one of those days.
It began with my rising early, making my way to the sun-splashed recliner in the piano room where I picked up my copy of Laurel's Kitchen and began reading. The call to simplicity inspired me, and I recognized immediately the familiarity of making do. Often, when I have very little money and a half-pantry of food, our most delightful, memorable meals spring forth. Such is my current position. With Bard leaving for China this Monday and so much of our finances wrapped up in her travel, music lessons for the kids and dental bills for my dad, the budget is as tight as a drum. What a perfect time to delve back into the art of bread-baking, soup making and old-fashioned family time.
I made two loaves of whole wheat bread yesterday, following the directions to a T, and they turned out wonderfully, though the rise wasn't as high as I wanted it to be since I'd like to use the loaves for sandwiches. Still, it went very well with all of the other meals we've had since.
After my quiet time with Laurel's Kitchen, I awoke my husband Bo and we gathered up the family for a walk on the new rail-trail near our house. On our way to the trail, we noticed that the community Art Walk was in process, so after our short walk, we headed back to the center of town where we talked to local artists, including the fabulously kind Mr. Del Guidice, the art instructor for The Sprouted Acorn, and his sweet daughter. Whether it's the busy summer months or the cost of the classes, our portrait course for next week simply doesn't have enough students. If we don't gather five more students before Tuesday, we'll reschedule the class for the Fall and see how it fairs then.
I also talked to two local potters, one I'd wanted to talk to anyway in order to discuss a possible article for Ohio Magazine. He was open to an interview, so I'll go out to his studio next week, if it flies with the editor, to do the interview.
The other potter showed interest in teaching a workshop for The Sprouted Acorn in her studio. I was so engrossed in conversation with her that I almost forgot about my Breema class, remembering in time to realize I was five minutes late. We hurried to the home of my Breema instructor where Bo and the kids dropped me off.
Breema is a new thing for me. I had wanted to learn Yoga but never seem to have the time or the motivation to get to the classes. Recently a friend of mine, Dave, who is a massotherapist contacted me about taking a self-Breema class and, since my back was aching and I knew I needed to do something about it, I signed up. For both of the classes, it was just the instructor and I, so it was a very relaxing, informative time. It's a good practice for me to learn to Be Here Now, and I'm always amazed at the brashness of the world after I leave a class with Dave.
After the Breema class, we stopped by the store for some groceries, and I came home and made a cheese spread from Laurel's Kitchen while the kids munched on watermelon:
Jack and Dill Spread
Makes 1 cup
1/2 cup grated jack cheese
1/2 cup low-fat cottage cheese
1 tsp. dill weed
1 Tbs. chopped toasted almonds
1 Tbs. minced chives or scallion tops
1/2 tsp. Dijon mustard: optional
Combine all ingredients in a bowl. Chill at least 30 minutes before using.
—The New Laurel’s Kitchen, by Laurel Robertson, Carol Flinders, and Brian Ruppenthal
We spread this on wheat bread and topped it with greens and cucumbers then served it with a salad and homemade buttermilk dressing. It was delicious, filling and refreshing.
After a nap, I went back to the kitchen to start the soup, also a Laurel's Kitchen recipe:
GOLDEN NOODLE SOUP
2 Quarts Golden Broth (see below)
Big handful whole wheat ribbon noodles (or matzoh balls)
1 cup diced celery
1 cup diced potatoes
1 cup diced carrots
1 tsp salt
1/2 cup finely chopped parsely
Bring broth to a boil in a heavy pan. Add noodles, celery, potatoes,
carrots and salt. Reduce heat and simmer gently until the vegetables
are tender, about half an hour. Stir in parsley, adjust seasoning and
serve.
Makes about 10 cups of soup.
GOLDEN BROTH
1 Onion chopped
1 clove garlic
1/2 cup yellow split peas.
1/2 tsp turmeric
2 Quarts hot water
Put all ingredients in a large pot and simmer at least half an hour.
Strain for a thin stock or puree for a thick one.
While I chopped veggies and made the stock, we listened to A Prairie Home Companion broadcast live from about an hour and a half from here. It was wonderful to hear Garrision talk about things near and dear to us, and the music was fantastic. I found myself singing harmonies to Cecilia, performed by Tonic Sol Fa. I had fun, but I'm glad they couldn't hear me.
After the soup stock and the show were both finished, I threw in the noodles, carrots, potatoes and celery and asked Bo if he'd like to take a walk with me. With The Baby on his shoulders, we checked out our bluebird boxes, The Baby peering over Bo's head to see the wren's eggs that occupied the first box. No bluebirds, but the wrens are protected migratory birds, so they stay. In our prairie grass section of the property, we found a daisy which The Baby delighted in calling, "The Dancing" as she dangled it in front of Bo's face. We examined the plum and mulberry trees, counted blackberry patches and peeked inside another bluebird house, this one containing no eggs but filled with a grassy cup that just might be a bluebird.
Behind our property is an Amish cemetery from which the view is amazing. We reverently stepped inside the gate and The Baby, still perched on Bo's shoulders, pointed out "the books" in the ground, referring to the grave markers. Here are buried people we never knew, neighbors who lived and died here before we arrived, some even before we ever arrived on this earth. A fresh grave without a marker stirred my emotions, as did the marker of a neighbor's son who was struck by lightning at the age of nineteen, standing near a fence on a clear day while talking to a relative, the storm seemingly miles away sending one stray bolt that would bring this young life to an end. A cardinal sang from a high electrical wire next to the post that was struck by lightning just yesterday, knocking out our power and forcing simplicity for an afternoon. The power is back on today.
Back to the house we walked, the smell of Golden Soup increasing the closer we walked to our farmhouse on the hill.
Gathered around a table, our bowls filled with rich, hearty noodle soup, my husband and children filling me with accolades, I was more wealthy than I've felt in a very long time. With this feeling, I understood:
Proverbs 15:17Many times, pseudo-abundance makes us greedy, and greediness makes us unhappy and hateful. That hatefulness poisons those around us. When I've gathered together tumeric, dill, bay leaves and a bit of vegetables, when I throw those things together in a pot of hot water and go exploring nature with my loved ones, I feel connected to them, to the world around me, to God, to myself.
Better is a dinner of herbs where love is than a fatted ox and hatred with it.
And now, as I hear my children playing Taps on the piano, I know that it's time to close this post. Day is done.
The day was sublime, and, rest assured, my words don't do it justice. But they will help to spark a memory for me that will remain vivid in my mind for many years and many meals to come.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Narnia Movies, C.S. Lewis, and More - The Stone Table
This site is for fans of C.S. Lewis' works, including the upcoming film, The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe.
Have you seen the trailers for the movie? Have you read the books? Will you see the movie? If you haven't read the books, will you read them before you see the movies?
We have read the books, several times, and I haven't seen the trailers yet. I plan to go do that now.
Have you seen the trailers for the movie? Have you read the books? Will you see the movie? If you haven't read the books, will you read them before you see the movies?
We have read the books, several times, and I haven't seen the trailers yet. I plan to go do that now.
Teaching with Movies
Walden Media | Teach with Our Upcoming Movies and DVD Releases
Walden Media provides lesson plans for their current and upcoming productions, including films like Holes, Because of Winn Dixie and the soon-to-be-released The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. Register as an educator and get access to these and other lesson plans.
Walden Media provides lesson plans for their current and upcoming productions, including films like Holes, Because of Winn Dixie and the soon-to-be-released The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. Register as an educator and get access to these and other lesson plans.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
X&Y
There are three things that help me get through the stacks and piles and mounds o' laundry that a family of baseball-and-soccer-playing, tree-climbing, bike-riding, dirt-digging, kitchen-experimenting kids, a sweaty husband and four dogs can create (if you don't know how a dog can create dirty laundry, try riding in the front seat of a Jeep with a muddy, slobbery black lab on a hot day). Those three things are talking on the phone, lauging with my kids or listening to music. A second floor laundry next to the master bedroom was the smartest thing I did in this house next to having a roof. So I haul the clean clothes out of the dryer in the next room and spread them out on my sorting table, AKA the bed in the master bedroom. My mother-in-law's not home, and she was my phone call of choice today. My kids are busy with Playmobil castles and pirate ships, and my oldest daughter, Bard, who provides the most laughs, is at a friend's house.
So, thanks to Rhapsody, I'm doing laundry and listening to Coldplay's latest CD, X&Y, which was released yesterday. coldplay very quickly became one of my favorite bands after I heard The Scientist, and now Bo is attempting to teach me to play Green Eyes on the guitar. I love the simple worship feel of Coldplay's lyrics and music. I listen to their albums over and over, and I'm just as enamoured with this release as I was with Parachutes and A Rush of Blood to the Head.
As I fold underwear and sort socks, I'm transported. Thanks to the magic of the telepathy that is recorded music, here is the simple song that is making its way out of Chris Martin's head, through my speakers, into my brain, detouring through my heart and finding its way to my own voice:
So, thanks to Rhapsody, I'm doing laundry and listening to Coldplay's latest CD, X&Y, which was released yesterday. coldplay very quickly became one of my favorite bands after I heard The Scientist, and now Bo is attempting to teach me to play Green Eyes on the guitar. I love the simple worship feel of Coldplay's lyrics and music. I listen to their albums over and over, and I'm just as enamoured with this release as I was with Parachutes and A Rush of Blood to the Head.
As I fold underwear and sort socks, I'm transported. Thanks to the magic of the telepathy that is recorded music, here is the simple song that is making its way out of Chris Martin's head, through my speakers, into my brain, detouring through my heart and finding its way to my own voice:
My song is love
Love to the loveless, shown
And it goes up
You don't have to be alone
Your heavy heart
Is made of stone
And its so hard to see you clearly
You don't have to be on your own
You don't have to be on your own
And i'm not gonna take it back
Well i'm not gonna say I don't mean that
Your the target that i'm aiming at
And I get that message home
My song is love
My song is love, unknown
And i'm on fire for you, clearly
You don't have to be alone
You don't have to be on your own
And i'm not gonna take it back
And i'm not gonna say I don't mean that
Your the target that i'm aiming at
But i'm nothing on my own
Got to get that message home
And i'm not gonna stand and wait
Not gonna leave it until its much too late
On a platform i'm gonna stand and say
That i'm nothing on my own
And I love you, please come home
My song is love, is love unknown
And i've got to get that message homefrom X&Y, the newest release by Coldplay
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
A Week in Review
Well, it's been a busy week here in Lake Lessonland...
This weekend was the grand opening for our county's Rails-to-Trails bike and hike trail. It's hard for me to drag my sorry bee-hind out of bed before 8:00, but we rose early in the morning so that we could make it to the trail by 8:10. That's when the Road Apple Kids' Run would begin, and 13-year-old son Houdin was determined to be there. Having not trained, prepared, or even warmed up (he scoffed at me for advising it), I was sure this was going to be one of those Big Life Lessons. I was right. Except the Big Life Lesson was for me. I watched from the side of the finish line as my purple-do-rag-headed son jogged towards me in second place, preceded only by a girl a couple of years younger than him (or is it "he"?).
"I let her win," he said. "I didn't think it was right to beat a little girl."
He received a Road Apple Run t-shirt and a medal. I received a piece of humble pie.
While we were there, we listened to our Governor dedicate the trail, ate barbecued chicken, homemade ice cream and, of course, walked. Since it was now TEN YEAR OLD Monet's birthday, he was given a fistful of dollars on which he spent $2.00 for ice cream, $2.00 for drinks and $1.00 for a raffle that he was very disappointed not to win. Yet he remains hopeful, asking me every day if we could still get that call. I suppose we could, but I doubt it. Still, I've been wrong before once or twice.
On Saturday evening, we attended the graduation party of Ash, one of 15-year-old daughter Bard's best friends. I spent my time eating and playing Duck Duck Goose with a group of kids in the common yard of the condominiums where the party was held. Let me just say I always picked the slow kids, okay?
On Sunday we celebrated two birthdays: Monet's first double digit--TEN!--and Houdin's 14th. We packed up the whole family for a surprise outing to the local waterpark. It was even a surprise to me, because I was sure I couldn't afford it, but so many circumstances fell beautifully into line that we were able to join two other families for a day at pseudobeach. Houdin spent the day on the log roll, running his tuckus off and wearing several layers of skin off the bottoms of his feet. But he remained King of the Hill, in spite of a sunburn, which is, of course, the most important thing.
While there, six-year-old daughter Sweetheart found a tree frog on the water slide. Lucky for us, Monet and Houdin received critter nets for their birthdays, so we were able to observe the little guy close up and then transport him to the safety of a nearby tree.
This week, we've also seen the end of Houdin's soccer season, Houdin and Monet's choir season, and are approaching the end of Monet's baseball season.
In just FIVE DAYS, 15-year-old Bard leaves for ten days in China with her choral ensemble. Am I ready? Let me just say...uh, no.
Yesterday, I planted marigolds in the kitchen garden, discovered that something had destroyed the wren's nest that had been nestled in the lemon balm, and found a wren's nest in the bluebird boxes. I left it. In the evening, Monet made hot dogs on the grill while Bo mowed the lawn and took the kids for rides on the tractors. Then we all settled onto the hillside to watch the three stars of the summer triangle slip into view. Ping. Ping. Ping.
And then we came inside for a game of Slamwich, a gift given to us by our close friends in celebration of the boys' birthdays.
This morning I got up way too early and drove to the feed supply where I picked up nineteen new day-old chicks which I hope to keep alive for long enough to collect eggs. These Araucauna chicks will grow into gorgeous multi-colored chickens that lay multi-colored eggs! Right now, I can hear them peeping from their box in the kids' bathroom.
That's my week in review. Oh, there was so much more, but I have to prepare for piano lessons. The piano teacher is coming to our house today, bless her soul, because my van is still in the shop because the mechanic is still on vacation.
I'm vacationing right here.
And that's the news from Lake Lessonland, where all the chicks are alive, all the flowers are blooming, and all the children are above average.
This weekend was the grand opening for our county's Rails-to-Trails bike and hike trail. It's hard for me to drag my sorry bee-hind out of bed before 8:00, but we rose early in the morning so that we could make it to the trail by 8:10. That's when the Road Apple Kids' Run would begin, and 13-year-old son Houdin was determined to be there. Having not trained, prepared, or even warmed up (he scoffed at me for advising it), I was sure this was going to be one of those Big Life Lessons. I was right. Except the Big Life Lesson was for me. I watched from the side of the finish line as my purple-do-rag-headed son jogged towards me in second place, preceded only by a girl a couple of years younger than him (or is it "he"?).
"I let her win," he said. "I didn't think it was right to beat a little girl."
He received a Road Apple Run t-shirt and a medal. I received a piece of humble pie.
While we were there, we listened to our Governor dedicate the trail, ate barbecued chicken, homemade ice cream and, of course, walked. Since it was now TEN YEAR OLD Monet's birthday, he was given a fistful of dollars on which he spent $2.00 for ice cream, $2.00 for drinks and $1.00 for a raffle that he was very disappointed not to win. Yet he remains hopeful, asking me every day if we could still get that call. I suppose we could, but I doubt it. Still, I've been wrong before once or twice.
On Saturday evening, we attended the graduation party of Ash, one of 15-year-old daughter Bard's best friends. I spent my time eating and playing Duck Duck Goose with a group of kids in the common yard of the condominiums where the party was held. Let me just say I always picked the slow kids, okay?
On Sunday we celebrated two birthdays: Monet's first double digit--TEN!--and Houdin's 14th. We packed up the whole family for a surprise outing to the local waterpark. It was even a surprise to me, because I was sure I couldn't afford it, but so many circumstances fell beautifully into line that we were able to join two other families for a day at pseudobeach. Houdin spent the day on the log roll, running his tuckus off and wearing several layers of skin off the bottoms of his feet. But he remained King of the Hill, in spite of a sunburn, which is, of course, the most important thing.
While there, six-year-old daughter Sweetheart found a tree frog on the water slide. Lucky for us, Monet and Houdin received critter nets for their birthdays, so we were able to observe the little guy close up and then transport him to the safety of a nearby tree.
This week, we've also seen the end of Houdin's soccer season, Houdin and Monet's choir season, and are approaching the end of Monet's baseball season.
In just FIVE DAYS, 15-year-old Bard leaves for ten days in China with her choral ensemble. Am I ready? Let me just say...uh, no.
Yesterday, I planted marigolds in the kitchen garden, discovered that something had destroyed the wren's nest that had been nestled in the lemon balm, and found a wren's nest in the bluebird boxes. I left it. In the evening, Monet made hot dogs on the grill while Bo mowed the lawn and took the kids for rides on the tractors. Then we all settled onto the hillside to watch the three stars of the summer triangle slip into view. Ping. Ping. Ping.
And then we came inside for a game of Slamwich, a gift given to us by our close friends in celebration of the boys' birthdays.
This morning I got up way too early and drove to the feed supply where I picked up nineteen new day-old chicks which I hope to keep alive for long enough to collect eggs. These Araucauna chicks will grow into gorgeous multi-colored chickens that lay multi-colored eggs! Right now, I can hear them peeping from their box in the kids' bathroom.
That's my week in review. Oh, there was so much more, but I have to prepare for piano lessons. The piano teacher is coming to our house today, bless her soul, because my van is still in the shop because the mechanic is still on vacation.
I'm vacationing right here.
And that's the news from Lake Lessonland, where all the chicks are alive, all the flowers are blooming, and all the children are above average.
Monday, June 06, 2005
Am I Crazy?
From Quiet Life: "Name five things that you ARE crazy about that most people would think you're weird for."
1. Homelearning. This was Donna's #1, and it's mine, too. People are always amazed, giving me comments like, "Can you do that?" and "How can you do that?" and "I could never do that."
2. I don't have television reception. We rent DVDs through Netflix, but have no cable, no dish, no Teevo. Nada. And life actually goes on.
3. I have five kids and if I were a better person, I'd be ready for more. I'm impatient, often grumpy and not nearly momlike enough for my tastes. But if I could be, I'd have a dozen kids. Really. And, no, I'm not Catholic. And, yes, I know what causes them.
4. I love life in the country. Friends and neighbors from the city often ask how we can live "out in the sticks." The thing is, though, I have to drive half as long to get to the grocery store as most of my city companions, and I get to look at beautiful scenery and wildlife along the way instead of concrete and broken glass. Plus, I love that I can have animals in the country. We have four dogs, a few cats, a couple of fish, three turtles, four birds, a goat and a chameleon. On the way are more chickens and a couple of bunnies.
5. I enjoy large gatherings. The energy I draw from having a bunch of people around me is rejuvenating.
What five things do you love that other people claim are insane?
1. Homelearning. This was Donna's #1, and it's mine, too. People are always amazed, giving me comments like, "Can you do that?" and "How can you do that?" and "I could never do that."
2. I don't have television reception. We rent DVDs through Netflix, but have no cable, no dish, no Teevo. Nada. And life actually goes on.
3. I have five kids and if I were a better person, I'd be ready for more. I'm impatient, often grumpy and not nearly momlike enough for my tastes. But if I could be, I'd have a dozen kids. Really. And, no, I'm not Catholic. And, yes, I know what causes them.
4. I love life in the country. Friends and neighbors from the city often ask how we can live "out in the sticks." The thing is, though, I have to drive half as long to get to the grocery store as most of my city companions, and I get to look at beautiful scenery and wildlife along the way instead of concrete and broken glass. Plus, I love that I can have animals in the country. We have four dogs, a few cats, a couple of fish, three turtles, four birds, a goat and a chameleon. On the way are more chickens and a couple of bunnies.
5. I enjoy large gatherings. The energy I draw from having a bunch of people around me is rejuvenating.
What five things do you love that other people claim are insane?
Wow. I'm trendy and I didn't even know it.
I just read this link provided to me by Anne Zeise of Home's Cool. The author of the article discusses what he calls Mom Schools:
"Mom Schools are where a mom sees that her kids need something, so she sets it up, offers it, and invites others. I know of five Mom's schools in Cedar City, Utah, and I know families which have kids in all five. Mom schools are of many types, many options. Some Mom schools are free, some cost $35 a month for the whole family, others are $350 a month per child and everything in between. Others have free events, fee events, and a full-time price.
Some incorporate, others file as partnerships or sole-proprietorships, still others just offer an event here and there and never officially go into business. Some offer training to parents, some hold Shakespeare courses or theatre, simulations, clubs, colloquia for 11-12 year olds, a theater group, a trip to Europe, etc. Or visiting lectures. Or performance groups: band, choir, symphony, dance, etc. The sky is the limit. Parents decide their children need something, so they set it up and invite others.
Experienced homeschoolers may say that Mom Schools have been around for a long time, but there is a significant difference between the homeschool co-ops that have been around the 1960s and 70s, and Mom Schools. First, co-ops have tended to be run by committee while Mom Schools are owned. The difference in quality is significant when someone is in charge. Secondly, co-ops have tended to serve mainly as social entities, providing valuable emotional support for homeschooling parents and social activities for the kids. Mom Schools tend toward focused academics. Finally, because of their very nature, co-ops have been limited; most of them meet once a week or less, and the depth of the academic offerings have tended to be shallow. Mom Schools meet according to the needs of the students, and most Mom Schools tend to focus on one or a few areas of expertise. A network of such schools in an area provides a much deeper academic offering than the traditional co-ops.
I call them Mom Schools because of the hundred or so I know of, only a few are initiated by Dads. But in many of them, Dad is partially or very closely involved.
Mom Schools incorporate offerings from Distance Schools, Virtual Schools, Correspondence Courses, Curriculum, Montessori, Charlotte Mason, Robinson, Unschooling, Unit Study, College Courses, etc. Parents simply look for what is best for their students and then help provide it.
This trend shows that thousands of Americans not only believe in freedom, free thinking and a better educational model, but also that the entrepreneurial spirit is well and strong in America. Most importantly, Americans still have initiative — which is drummed out of so many in the public schools and is so often missing in the public debate."
This is very much what I'm trying to put together with The Sprouted Acorn. What I'm finding so far is that there are a BUNCH of people who would like to be mentors for the venture, but I have only had a handful of people interested in participating in the group itself. Part of this may be because it's summer; the other part is that I'm having a hard time getting the local newspapers to give me a fair shake. For some reason, the past two public service announcements I've sent to them have gone unprinted, even though I actually stopped in and spoke to a man from one of our local papers. I think that if more home educators in our area knew about The Sprouted Acorn, they'd catch the vision and join in.
If you've heard of or have participated in one of these Mom Schools, I'd love to hear from you.
"Mom Schools are where a mom sees that her kids need something, so she sets it up, offers it, and invites others. I know of five Mom's schools in Cedar City, Utah, and I know families which have kids in all five. Mom schools are of many types, many options. Some Mom schools are free, some cost $35 a month for the whole family, others are $350 a month per child and everything in between. Others have free events, fee events, and a full-time price.
Some incorporate, others file as partnerships or sole-proprietorships, still others just offer an event here and there and never officially go into business. Some offer training to parents, some hold Shakespeare courses or theatre, simulations, clubs, colloquia for 11-12 year olds, a theater group, a trip to Europe, etc. Or visiting lectures. Or performance groups: band, choir, symphony, dance, etc. The sky is the limit. Parents decide their children need something, so they set it up and invite others.
Experienced homeschoolers may say that Mom Schools have been around for a long time, but there is a significant difference between the homeschool co-ops that have been around the 1960s and 70s, and Mom Schools. First, co-ops have tended to be run by committee while Mom Schools are owned. The difference in quality is significant when someone is in charge. Secondly, co-ops have tended to serve mainly as social entities, providing valuable emotional support for homeschooling parents and social activities for the kids. Mom Schools tend toward focused academics. Finally, because of their very nature, co-ops have been limited; most of them meet once a week or less, and the depth of the academic offerings have tended to be shallow. Mom Schools meet according to the needs of the students, and most Mom Schools tend to focus on one or a few areas of expertise. A network of such schools in an area provides a much deeper academic offering than the traditional co-ops.
I call them Mom Schools because of the hundred or so I know of, only a few are initiated by Dads. But in many of them, Dad is partially or very closely involved.
Mom Schools incorporate offerings from Distance Schools, Virtual Schools, Correspondence Courses, Curriculum, Montessori, Charlotte Mason, Robinson, Unschooling, Unit Study, College Courses, etc. Parents simply look for what is best for their students and then help provide it.
This trend shows that thousands of Americans not only believe in freedom, free thinking and a better educational model, but also that the entrepreneurial spirit is well and strong in America. Most importantly, Americans still have initiative — which is drummed out of so many in the public schools and is so often missing in the public debate."
This is very much what I'm trying to put together with The Sprouted Acorn. What I'm finding so far is that there are a BUNCH of people who would like to be mentors for the venture, but I have only had a handful of people interested in participating in the group itself. Part of this may be because it's summer; the other part is that I'm having a hard time getting the local newspapers to give me a fair shake. For some reason, the past two public service announcements I've sent to them have gone unprinted, even though I actually stopped in and spoke to a man from one of our local papers. I think that if more home educators in our area knew about The Sprouted Acorn, they'd catch the vision and join in.
If you've heard of or have participated in one of these Mom Schools, I'd love to hear from you.
Saturday, June 04, 2005
A Spontaneous Field Trip
I was planning the next session of our Sprouted Acorn Learning Series, a course on portrait drawing with Fred Del Guidice, when I realized that I had made an error. I had billed this as a five-week course, but I had set aside six dates. So I picked up the phone to call Mr. Del to get his opinion on just how many dates he would recommend for such a class. The phone rang twice.
"Hello?" There was both surprise and recognition in his voice. I figured he'd seen my name on the caller ID.
"Hello," I answered. "How are you today?"
There was a pause. I could hear tension. But, knowing Mr. Del, I knew the response would be positive.
"Blessed..." he said, "and challenged."
That's about as close to complaining as Mr. Del ever gets. I knew something was wrong.
"What's wrong?" Isn't that what you would ask if you knew something was wrong?
"I just can't believe you called," he said.
His disbelief, it turns out, stemmed from the fact that I gave him four chickens. I mean, that's not WHY he was in disbelief. He was in disbelief because they four chickens I had given him five weeks ago had been slaughtered that morning, most likely by a racoon.
"Everyone's so upset," he said. "The girls are crying. The boys are crying. Even my wife cried."
I knew right then what I had to do. I still had eleven chickens in a box in the kids' bathroom. Eleven chickens are too many for us. I told Fred I'd be over. He protested, of course, but I didn't relent. It was a selfish thing, see. It's more blessed to give, and all that.
I loaded all of the kids in the car, which wasn't too hard. They love Mr. Del, and since we just finished our last art class on Wednesday, complete with an appreciation parade given by the students, my kids thought it would be at least a few weeks before they'd see their favorite drawing teacher again.
We arrived at their farmhouse, and I was immediately glad that we made the visit. Mr. Del had purchased a fifty pound bag of chick feed the day before, had built a small coop the week before, and he couldn't find a feed supply with extra chicks. I pulled out the box of five Japanese Bantams (he'd had four, but Sweetheart had insisted that we give him five this time) and popped them into the brand new coop.
And then the fun started. Mr. Del introduced me to his fantastic wife, we visited with his warm, precocious, charming children, and then we got to take a peek inside his studio. Wow. It was a feast for the eyes. What an encouragement to see a man of Faith display such incredible talent and ability in his art. And throughout his studio were reminders of his family; paintings they'd done, drawings of each of them, letters and notes and cards and posters given to this loving dad by his grateful children.
The real treat, I would have to say, was when we discussed singing and I discovered that this family loves to sing together. Two of the young daughters sang Create in Me a Clean Heart, complete with beautiful harmonies. Neither of them read music. It all comes naturally. "It's genetic," one daughter says. And she tells me how her mother used to sit on her grandmother's knee, listening to The Old Time Gospel Hour, her grandmother singing the harmonies and feeding her granddaughter M&Ms.
It was such a pleasure to take that spontaneous field trip to the next county, to see our favorite art teacher, and to be inspired.
"Hello?" There was both surprise and recognition in his voice. I figured he'd seen my name on the caller ID.
"Hello," I answered. "How are you today?"
There was a pause. I could hear tension. But, knowing Mr. Del, I knew the response would be positive.
"Blessed..." he said, "and challenged."
That's about as close to complaining as Mr. Del ever gets. I knew something was wrong.
"What's wrong?" Isn't that what you would ask if you knew something was wrong?
"I just can't believe you called," he said.
His disbelief, it turns out, stemmed from the fact that I gave him four chickens. I mean, that's not WHY he was in disbelief. He was in disbelief because they four chickens I had given him five weeks ago had been slaughtered that morning, most likely by a racoon.
"Everyone's so upset," he said. "The girls are crying. The boys are crying. Even my wife cried."
I knew right then what I had to do. I still had eleven chickens in a box in the kids' bathroom. Eleven chickens are too many for us. I told Fred I'd be over. He protested, of course, but I didn't relent. It was a selfish thing, see. It's more blessed to give, and all that.
I loaded all of the kids in the car, which wasn't too hard. They love Mr. Del, and since we just finished our last art class on Wednesday, complete with an appreciation parade given by the students, my kids thought it would be at least a few weeks before they'd see their favorite drawing teacher again.
We arrived at their farmhouse, and I was immediately glad that we made the visit. Mr. Del had purchased a fifty pound bag of chick feed the day before, had built a small coop the week before, and he couldn't find a feed supply with extra chicks. I pulled out the box of five Japanese Bantams (he'd had four, but Sweetheart had insisted that we give him five this time) and popped them into the brand new coop.
And then the fun started. Mr. Del introduced me to his fantastic wife, we visited with his warm, precocious, charming children, and then we got to take a peek inside his studio. Wow. It was a feast for the eyes. What an encouragement to see a man of Faith display such incredible talent and ability in his art. And throughout his studio were reminders of his family; paintings they'd done, drawings of each of them, letters and notes and cards and posters given to this loving dad by his grateful children.
The real treat, I would have to say, was when we discussed singing and I discovered that this family loves to sing together. Two of the young daughters sang Create in Me a Clean Heart, complete with beautiful harmonies. Neither of them read music. It all comes naturally. "It's genetic," one daughter says. And she tells me how her mother used to sit on her grandmother's knee, listening to The Old Time Gospel Hour, her grandmother singing the harmonies and feeding her granddaughter M&Ms.
It was such a pleasure to take that spontaneous field trip to the next county, to see our favorite art teacher, and to be inspired.
Friday, June 03, 2005
Music to Entertain Whilst Doing Laundry
Here's a fun way to expose your kids to classical pieces while appealing to their sense of humor. Beethoven's Wig is a series of well-known classical pieces accompanied by silly lyrics reminiscent of The Warner Brothers, Yacko, Wacko and Dot. The Trumpet Tune provides the background for a mini history lesson on the Kings and Queens of England. The Beethoven's Wig website has lyrics, performance dates and more.
If you have Rhapsody, you can click to listen. Enjoy!
Beethoven's Wig:
1. Beethoven's Wig (5th Symphony) - Beethoven's Wig
2. Franz Liszt The Famous Pianist (Hungarian Rhapsody #2) - Beethoven's Wig 3. Please Don't Play Your Violin At Night (Eine Kleine Nachmusik) - Beethoven's Wig
4. Can You Can Can? (Can Can) - Beethoven's Wig
5. Just For Elise (fur Elise) - Beethoven's Wig
6. Haydn's Great Surprise (Surprise Symphony) - Beethoven's Wig
7. Kings And Queens Of England (Trumpet Tune) - Beethoven's Wig
8. Drip, Drip, Drip (Pizzicato From Sylvia) - Beethoven's Wig
9. Harmony (The Merry Peasant) - Beethoven's Wig
10. Hey Guitar Teacher (Bouree) - Beethoven's Wig
11. Tchaikovsky's Cannonball (1812 Overture) - Beethoven's Wig
12. 5th Symphony - Beethoven - Beethoven's Wig
13. Hungarian Rhapsody # 2 - Liszt - Beethoven's Wig
14. Eine Kleine Nachtmusik - Mozart - Beethoven's Wig
15. Can Can - Offenbach - Beethoven's Wig
16. Fur Elise - Beethoven - Beethoven's Wig
17. Surprise Symphony - Haydn - Beethoven's Wig
18. Trumpet Tune - Purcell - Beethoven's Wig
19. Pizzicato (from 'Sylvia') - Delibes - Beethoven's Wig
20. Merry Peasant, The - Schumann - Beethoven's Wig
21. Bouree - Bach - Beethoven's Wig
22. Overture - Tchaikovsky - Beethoven's Wig
If you have Rhapsody, you can click to listen. Enjoy!
Beethoven's Wig:
1. Beethoven's Wig (5th Symphony) - Beethoven's Wig
2. Franz Liszt The Famous Pianist (Hungarian Rhapsody #2) - Beethoven's Wig 3. Please Don't Play Your Violin At Night (Eine Kleine Nachmusik) - Beethoven's Wig
4. Can You Can Can? (Can Can) - Beethoven's Wig
5. Just For Elise (fur Elise) - Beethoven's Wig
6. Haydn's Great Surprise (Surprise Symphony) - Beethoven's Wig
7. Kings And Queens Of England (Trumpet Tune) - Beethoven's Wig
8. Drip, Drip, Drip (Pizzicato From Sylvia) - Beethoven's Wig
9. Harmony (The Merry Peasant) - Beethoven's Wig
10. Hey Guitar Teacher (Bouree) - Beethoven's Wig
11. Tchaikovsky's Cannonball (1812 Overture) - Beethoven's Wig
12. 5th Symphony - Beethoven - Beethoven's Wig
13. Hungarian Rhapsody # 2 - Liszt - Beethoven's Wig
14. Eine Kleine Nachtmusik - Mozart - Beethoven's Wig
15. Can Can - Offenbach - Beethoven's Wig
16. Fur Elise - Beethoven - Beethoven's Wig
17. Surprise Symphony - Haydn - Beethoven's Wig
18. Trumpet Tune - Purcell - Beethoven's Wig
19. Pizzicato (from 'Sylvia') - Delibes - Beethoven's Wig
20. Merry Peasant, The - Schumann - Beethoven's Wig
21. Bouree - Bach - Beethoven's Wig
22. Overture - Tchaikovsky - Beethoven's Wig
BlogBinders.com (Turn your blog into reality.)
Have you seen this? At BlogBinders.com : you can "turn your weblog into a book!
Blogbinders.com helps you turn your blog into a bound book - great as a gift, an archive, or even to sell to your readers!
It is quick, easy, and affordable to turn your blog into a printed book. All it takes is a few easy steps:
Provide information about your blog account
Select styles, cover/back and customizations
Review automatically generated proof
It's that simple! In under a week, your book will arrive."
It's not much different than the self-publishing that places like CafePress and Lulu.com provide, but I like the linking of the two ideas. I'd been thinking about printing out my favorite blog entries to save for my kids, but this is better. And if I were better about keeping learning records, I could use it as my children's portfolio.
Blogbinders.com helps you turn your blog into a bound book - great as a gift, an archive, or even to sell to your readers!
It is quick, easy, and affordable to turn your blog into a printed book. All it takes is a few easy steps:
Provide information about your blog account
Select styles, cover/back and customizations
Review automatically generated proof
It's that simple! In under a week, your book will arrive."
It's not much different than the self-publishing that places like CafePress and Lulu.com provide, but I like the linking of the two ideas. I'd been thinking about printing out my favorite blog entries to save for my kids, but this is better. And if I were better about keeping learning records, I could use it as my children's portfolio.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Keeper of the Keys
"Traditionally, the world over, the woman in a house has been known as "the keeper of the keys." To hold the keys to the household, its storerooms, attics, chests, and cupboards, was a position of great responsibility and, therefore, of great honor. In a season of impoverishment, it was the woman's wise allocation of limited supplies that would see the family through, and in times of plenty, it was her foresight that provided for future needs."
It all started with a sale on Breyers* ice cream. Well, really it started way, way, way before that. Generations and eons before. But it's a nice intro, don't you think?
Ice cream, for me, is a special treat. It's the epitome of summer on a clear, bright day. It's a comfort food to accompany me as I settle onto the couch. It's a celebration to mark the passing of a childhood.
And if I'm going to bring ice cream into the house, I'm going to do it right. It has to be Breyers.
Yes, I like Ben and Jerry's, and I love Häagen-Dazs (their Dulce De Leche is the absolute best), but I have five kids and three grown-ups in this house. I can't abide by the Whale-of-a-Paile stuff, so we reserve our ice cream moments for special occasions so we can get the good stuff.
The difficulty has always been in the timing of the purchase. If I buy any creamy frozen goodness more than a few hours before the approaching celebration, it will be gone before you can say, "cut the cake." And it's not my kids who are the culprits. Oh, no.
It's my father.
Okay, so I'm on a father-bashing kick lately, but honestly, the man has driven more women over the edge than...well, I can't think of a good analogy right now, so you'll have to come up with your own. I'm thinking, like, pack mules over the Grand Canyon. The next analogy that I can come up with is Thelma and Louise. The men in their lives literally drove them over the edge.
Since my father lives with me, I'm determined not to allow him to drive me over the edge. He has tried. Believe me, he has most definitely tried. But I'm resisting. I have a good husband who keeps me grounded, speaks goodness and truth into my life, and, probably most importantly, listens to me go off about the ignorant, coniving, manipulative so-and-so that is my father.
We have two birthdays coming up. Imagine my joy and ecstasy when I walked into the local grocery and found that Breyers, all flavors, was on sale for, get this, $1.98 a half gallon!* No limit!! I was amazed. I was inspired. As the Keeper of the Keys, I knew that I could spend twenty dollars and buy enough ice cream to last our family for six months or more. I told each of the two kids who were in my company that they could pick two flavors each. No, make that three. And I chose eight myself. Fourteen half-gallons of the finest ingredients from all natural sources.
Getting it in the door would be the biggest problem, because if my sweet-toothed father saw it, it was as good as gone. But when I arrived home, he was out riding his bike, the daily obsessive activity that keeps him from looking like he eats nothing but sweets and drinks nothing but coffee. He calls himself a vegetarian, but never, ever eats vegetables, hardly ever eats proteins and doesn't drink milk.
The kids and I smuggled our booty into the basement and stashed it in our renters' freezer, which they keep in our house. Surely, my dad would never look there. When I told the renters about the ice cream, she told me that another local grocery had it on sale for the same price. I went back and got more ice cream for my dad, just so I could be sure he wouldn't eat ours should he have the gall to find it.
Money's tight right now. Very tight. We don't buy diamonds or furs, we don't have a housekeeper (well, except for Bard and me), and we don't even buy new furniture. My older kids get clothes from the thrift store, clearance racks and Sam's Club. The younger kids get hand-me-downs and an occasional new outfit for birthdays or weddings. When I get a freezer-full of ice cream, you better know I intend to ration it wisely. I have two birthdays this week. Two! And after a very intense discussion of finances with Bo, it became clear that the boys' birthday celebration was in peril. It's 9-year-old Monet's first double-digit, which we use as a good landmark, since we don't have birthday parties every year for every child. I went to sleep depressed, in tears, knowing that I may even have to cancel our surprise birthday trip to the local pool for lack of money. I don't care if I only hit the salon once a year, but if I have to disappoint my babies, it rips me to pieces.
I awoke this morning, though, and thought about the goodness of God. I have more wealth than most third-world nations. Yes, my car broke down and will take two weeks to fix, but at least it waited until after I'd bought my groceries, taken back my library books and finished soccer for the season, and it had the good sense to break down in the grocery store parking lot while I had my AAA card in my purse and actually had my purse with me. And, because I'm the keeper of the keys, I have some gifts stashed away in the basement (where my dad won't find them and give them to the kids) that I bought at after-Christmas sales. They're not cheesy gifts, either. I know my boys don't read this blog, so I don't hesitate to tell you that a Playmobil castle and an electronic change sorter along with a half-dozen sets of AstroJax and a series of beach toys aren't lightweight gifts, especially when I paid less than $50 for all of them!
And, Good Lord, I had ICE CREAM! LOTS AND LOTS OF ICE CREAM! All I needed was to make a cake recipe I found in a magazine, one I'd been wanting to try anyway, and we'd be set! We might even be able to scrounge up the $36 it takes to get into the water park!
That's when I opened my freezer to get out the frozen vegetables for tonight's Crock Pot Vegetable Soup***. And there it was. A container of Breyers Very Chocolate Cherry ice cream, nearly empty, in MY freezer compartment. Not in our renters' freezer, where I'd left it, but in MY freezer compartment! At that very moment, my father came up the stairs with a bowl and a spoon in his hand. A used bowl and spoon. Used for, you guessed it, Breyers Very Chocolate Cherry ice cream.
"Did you take that out of the renters' freezer?" I asked.
"What?" he responded. Very unconvincingly, I might add.
"Did you take that ice cream out of the renters' freezer?"
"Well, it's ours. Isn't it?"
"Did you ask if it was ours?"
"You weren't here to ask."
Never mind that he calls me on my cell phone to ask me where the refrigerator is, or how to lick an envelope. He couldn't call me to ask if the ice cream in someone else's freezer, which he had no business opening anyway, was our ice cream.
"I bought you two gallons of ice cream," I said, "and I ask you if you need anything every time I go to the store."
"I didn't need anything."
"Then WHY did you eat that ice cream? I bought that ice cream because it was on SALE for $1.98, so we could have it for special occasions! Not so you could eat a half-gallon a night!"
"Gads! Why do you jump all over me for two bucks worth of ice cream? I have to eat something!"
It escalated from there, with me saying that ice cream isn't a balanced meal, and him saying, "Gads!" and me saying, "You don't respect boundaries," and him saying, "I don't belong here," and me saying, "You just need to respect others' boundaries! Don't give me your manipulative crap! Jut stop taking the kids' money. Stop eating their candy. And STOP stealing food. Especially ice cream!"
And then it ended with him packing his bike, hitching a ride with my husband to my aunt's house, and maintaining silence for the hour-and-a-half ride.
You might think I'm being over the top, here. But the truth is, my dad has an addiction. His father was an alcoholic. He has the potential for being an alcoholic. One of the conditions on which we let him live with us is that he no longer buys alcohol.
A sweet-tooth is a marker for alcoholism.
"Patients with a history of alcoholism on the father's side of the family are more likely to have a preference for sweets than those without such a history, says Alexey B. Kampov-Polevoy, M.D., Ph.D., of the Mount Sinai School of Medicine in New York. Those with the strongest attraction to sweet taste were linked five times more often to a family history of alcoholism than those who disliked sweet tastes."
Men's Health News
Published: Wednesday, 15-Sep-2004
So, you see, this is more than just a wise allocation of limited supplies. It's about more than being an inconvenience for me to endure his compulsions, though those are really, really big annoyances. It's about dealing with a man who is in denial of his genetic makeup and how it affects others. It's about him taking his weaknesses and turning them into aggression towards me.
I live daily trying to know how to handle this man, in a way that Christ would handle him. As I told a friend this morning, I would almost say I hate him, but I can't stand the thought of him dropping over and me living with that guilt. It's a long, hard road.
After he left this morning, I thought about making a loaf of bread. I picked up Laurel's Kitchen and read the paragraph at the top of this post. A word there, just for me. While I've always thought of myself as the manager of this household, maker of rules, cruise director and probation officer, I'd never thought of myself as the keeper of they keys.
Keeper of the KEYS.
Which I infer to mean there must have been locks. Which means I'm not the only woman in the history of the world who had to lock her food away to keep it from being stolen by her family members.
I just wish that doggone freezer would have had a lock.
*Before you blame me for forgetting an apostrophe, let me assure you that I didn't forget it. The Breyers company did.
**They aren't even half-gallons anymore. They're 1.75 quarts.
Stay-at-home students
An article in The Orange County Register on Monday provides a positive view of three kinds of homelearning. The piece, titled"Stay-at-home students" begins with,
"The thing about home-schoolers is it's almost impossible to find them at home.
They're at class. They're at Barnes & Noble. They're at the library. The beach. Band practice.
This, of course, flies in the face of the conventional thinking about home-schoolers, where the inside joke among them is that their children are pasty recluses who never feel the warmth of the sun."
You do have to register to read the entire article, which is free, but if you don't want to read the whole thing, you can e-mail me and I'll forward it to you.
"The thing about home-schoolers is it's almost impossible to find them at home.
They're at class. They're at Barnes & Noble. They're at the library. The beach. Band practice.
This, of course, flies in the face of the conventional thinking about home-schoolers, where the inside joke among them is that their children are pasty recluses who never feel the warmth of the sun."
You do have to register to read the entire article, which is free, but if you don't want to read the whole thing, you can e-mail me and I'll forward it to you.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Not Just a Walk in the Park
One thing I never thought I'd have to do in the country was walk my dog.
When we lived in the suburbs, we went for long walks in the MetroParks, took adventure trips and our dog accompanied us to soccer games. When we purchased our three acres in the middle of some of God's most beautiful handiwork, surrounded by fields and acres and miles of Amish farmland, I was relieved that our dog would no longer need to depend on us for exercise. Install a couple of dog doors, provide a crate in the garage, daily food and water, and you have a virtually maintenance-free companion.
Why, just a couple of days ago, as my husband Bo and I took a walk around our property, we were extoling the virtues of country life for a dog. Lewis, our young black lab and Jack, our jack russell/toy fox terrier, team up together and go exploring for hours, chasing rabbits and opossums, romping through the high meadow grasses, returning soaking wet from a dip in a nearby pond or creek. Ah, that's the good life. That's the life of a healthy dog.
Until we got the phone call that our healthy dogs have been bad, bad dogs. Sheep chasers. Words like, "angry Amishman," and "high-powered rifle" sent me into a sulk, and eventually sent me over to the neighbor's house to get details.
"Yer little dog and Kenny's Rottweiler have been chasin' sheep and calves," Neighbor Joe told me. It wasn't Joe's calves, or his sheep for that matter. He was just doing the right thing and telling me about it, instead of calling the pound or taking a twelve-gauge to my dog's head. "Well, Daniel P.'s wife had 'em cornered in a barn stall with a b.b. gun. I'm surprised that Rott didn't turn on her. And yer black dog and that little one, why, one a'the neighbors said they spotted 'em over by the schoolhouse."
The schoolhouse! That's...that's miles away! And on a very, very busy road! Apparently three acres aren't enough. You need five acres, fifty acres, five HUNDRED acres, dotted with ponds and void of sheep.
I came home and locked all of my dogs in the garage, except for the beefy old black lab who doesn't move much beyond the front porch. What else could I do?
"What's the plan, then?" Bo asked.
"I guess we keep the offending criminals in the garage at night, in the house during the day, and keep those celebrated dog doors closed," I sighed. Lewis in the house. Jack is one thing. He's small, obedient, and doesn't chew the heads off of Sweetheart's Barbie dolls (though I wouldn't mind if he did). But Lewis. He's practically a bear with the energy of a five-year-old boy.
"So what about the crap?"
"Good Lord, Bo. What do you want me to do? Make up a crap cleanup schedule? Assign each person a day to clean up the crap? No one's going to abide by it, anyway."
"I mean, what about letting them out to go to the bathroom? What do we dp about that? How do you plan to let them out without them running off and getting their heads blown off?"
I thought about it for a second, held the words in my throat, waiting for a miracle to ebb forth before I had to actually say them. No miracle came.
"We walk them, I guess."
*******************************************
I was up too late last night. Blame it on familial relationships, too much caffeine, an overactive fantasy life or the brain-children of a writer with too little time to write combined with any or all of the above. Whatever the case, morning came very early. As I drifted in and out of pre-dawn sleep, I thought about the dogs in the garage, about the crap-cleanup duty, and about the fact that there must be something wrong with me, because my blood pressure's not high enough for the stuff I'm worrying about. I didn't want to get out of bed. Truly, I didn't. Let them crap in the garage. We'll call it, oh, I don't know, excrement study, and I'll have one of the kids take care of it. I'll log it as "natural science" time.
But I knew that was just my sleep-deprivation talking, and what I really needed was to get my tuckus out of bed and walk the dog.
The one that'll run on me is Lewis, the hyperactive black lab we acquired through FreeCycle. I know he's really the guilty party, too, because our other dogs never roamed wild until Lewis came along. He's not fixed yet, though he will be soon, so his hormones are in control. The other three dogs are all settled with their fate. Decreased amounts of estrogen and testoterone run through their veins. There's really no need to stray far from home.
But Lewis still has that wanderlust, and he has no problem taking little Jack along for the ride on his doggie deliquent misadventures. Jack, with his natural high-energy and insatiable curiosity, is the perfect match for the adolescent Lewis. If I have Lewis under control, all else falls into order fairly nicely.
So, I clipped the leash to Lewis' collar and stepped out into the too-bright sun of daybreak.
He was grateful for my company, this big black baby of mine. That's nothing new. Our dogs always have company: a kid to follow down to the pond, a mom out pulling weeds, a dad who can't resist a good wrastlin', a child asleep in his bed. People often ask us how we have such great dogs and I really think the key is constant companionship. Our dogs, like our homelearning children, are very well socialized. Some people like that. Some people can't handle it.
We walked together, Lewis and I. Jack and our only female (kind of, since she's spayed) Snoopy, a basset hound with a tiny bit of beagle in there somewhere, tagged along behind us. The dew gathered around my ankles, collected on my pajama pants, and awoke my heels, which were exposed in my boiled-wool mules.
I checked each of our bluebird houses for illegal residents, finding a squatter's egg in one of the boxes. With persistence, we can protect the bluebirds from being overtaken by the non-native House Sparrows. I evacuated the gathering of sticks and the lone brown-speckled egg from the nest, holding its warmth in my hand. It will go on one of the kids' nature shelves.
I peeked in on the House Wren home that's nestled in my mound of Lemon Balm, five eggs clustered together and a nervous mother chittering nearby.
I examined our prolific plum tree, thrilled to see it bearing its first season of fruit since we planted it four years ago.
We walked through our small forest of maples, Lewis and I, noticing how much they've grown since we came to this place, wondering how many maple trees we'd have to tap to get a gallon of syrup. "I have a book somewhere," I told Lewis. "I'll look it up. Maybe we can do that next year. "
We stepped close to the spreading blackberry patch, Lewis sniffing for a fallen bird or a timid rabbit, me promising myself that this will be the year I defeat the poison ivy and claim my harvest for summer's fresh blackberry cobbler.
And I longed for a good film camera--and the smarts to use it--as Snoopy and Jack disappeared into the tall meadow grasses, tiny clouds of particles floating into the air just above the purple-tinted heads of timothy grass. It was some of the most beautiful cinematography I've ever seen.
There were sleeping children back at home, so Lewis and I made our way up the lane and through the garage, where I opened the door to the house and started inside. Lewis paused at its entrance.
"Come on in," I told him, never minding about fleas and chewed Barbie heads.
"You shared your world with me. Now I'll share with you mine."
When we lived in the suburbs, we went for long walks in the MetroParks, took adventure trips and our dog accompanied us to soccer games. When we purchased our three acres in the middle of some of God's most beautiful handiwork, surrounded by fields and acres and miles of Amish farmland, I was relieved that our dog would no longer need to depend on us for exercise. Install a couple of dog doors, provide a crate in the garage, daily food and water, and you have a virtually maintenance-free companion.
Why, just a couple of days ago, as my husband Bo and I took a walk around our property, we were extoling the virtues of country life for a dog. Lewis, our young black lab and Jack, our jack russell/toy fox terrier, team up together and go exploring for hours, chasing rabbits and opossums, romping through the high meadow grasses, returning soaking wet from a dip in a nearby pond or creek. Ah, that's the good life. That's the life of a healthy dog.
Until we got the phone call that our healthy dogs have been bad, bad dogs. Sheep chasers. Words like, "angry Amishman," and "high-powered rifle" sent me into a sulk, and eventually sent me over to the neighbor's house to get details.
"Yer little dog and Kenny's Rottweiler have been chasin' sheep and calves," Neighbor Joe told me. It wasn't Joe's calves, or his sheep for that matter. He was just doing the right thing and telling me about it, instead of calling the pound or taking a twelve-gauge to my dog's head. "Well, Daniel P.'s wife had 'em cornered in a barn stall with a b.b. gun. I'm surprised that Rott didn't turn on her. And yer black dog and that little one, why, one a'the neighbors said they spotted 'em over by the schoolhouse."
The schoolhouse! That's...that's miles away! And on a very, very busy road! Apparently three acres aren't enough. You need five acres, fifty acres, five HUNDRED acres, dotted with ponds and void of sheep.
I came home and locked all of my dogs in the garage, except for the beefy old black lab who doesn't move much beyond the front porch. What else could I do?
"What's the plan, then?" Bo asked.
"I guess we keep the offending criminals in the garage at night, in the house during the day, and keep those celebrated dog doors closed," I sighed. Lewis in the house. Jack is one thing. He's small, obedient, and doesn't chew the heads off of Sweetheart's Barbie dolls (though I wouldn't mind if he did). But Lewis. He's practically a bear with the energy of a five-year-old boy.
"So what about the crap?"
"Good Lord, Bo. What do you want me to do? Make up a crap cleanup schedule? Assign each person a day to clean up the crap? No one's going to abide by it, anyway."
"I mean, what about letting them out to go to the bathroom? What do we dp about that? How do you plan to let them out without them running off and getting their heads blown off?"
I thought about it for a second, held the words in my throat, waiting for a miracle to ebb forth before I had to actually say them. No miracle came.
"We walk them, I guess."
*******************************************
I was up too late last night. Blame it on familial relationships, too much caffeine, an overactive fantasy life or the brain-children of a writer with too little time to write combined with any or all of the above. Whatever the case, morning came very early. As I drifted in and out of pre-dawn sleep, I thought about the dogs in the garage, about the crap-cleanup duty, and about the fact that there must be something wrong with me, because my blood pressure's not high enough for the stuff I'm worrying about. I didn't want to get out of bed. Truly, I didn't. Let them crap in the garage. We'll call it, oh, I don't know, excrement study, and I'll have one of the kids take care of it. I'll log it as "natural science" time.
But I knew that was just my sleep-deprivation talking, and what I really needed was to get my tuckus out of bed and walk the dog.
The one that'll run on me is Lewis, the hyperactive black lab we acquired through FreeCycle. I know he's really the guilty party, too, because our other dogs never roamed wild until Lewis came along. He's not fixed yet, though he will be soon, so his hormones are in control. The other three dogs are all settled with their fate. Decreased amounts of estrogen and testoterone run through their veins. There's really no need to stray far from home.
But Lewis still has that wanderlust, and he has no problem taking little Jack along for the ride on his doggie deliquent misadventures. Jack, with his natural high-energy and insatiable curiosity, is the perfect match for the adolescent Lewis. If I have Lewis under control, all else falls into order fairly nicely.
So, I clipped the leash to Lewis' collar and stepped out into the too-bright sun of daybreak.
He was grateful for my company, this big black baby of mine. That's nothing new. Our dogs always have company: a kid to follow down to the pond, a mom out pulling weeds, a dad who can't resist a good wrastlin', a child asleep in his bed. People often ask us how we have such great dogs and I really think the key is constant companionship. Our dogs, like our homelearning children, are very well socialized. Some people like that. Some people can't handle it.
We walked together, Lewis and I. Jack and our only female (kind of, since she's spayed) Snoopy, a basset hound with a tiny bit of beagle in there somewhere, tagged along behind us. The dew gathered around my ankles, collected on my pajama pants, and awoke my heels, which were exposed in my boiled-wool mules.
I checked each of our bluebird houses for illegal residents, finding a squatter's egg in one of the boxes. With persistence, we can protect the bluebirds from being overtaken by the non-native House Sparrows. I evacuated the gathering of sticks and the lone brown-speckled egg from the nest, holding its warmth in my hand. It will go on one of the kids' nature shelves.
I peeked in on the House Wren home that's nestled in my mound of Lemon Balm, five eggs clustered together and a nervous mother chittering nearby.
I examined our prolific plum tree, thrilled to see it bearing its first season of fruit since we planted it four years ago.
We walked through our small forest of maples, Lewis and I, noticing how much they've grown since we came to this place, wondering how many maple trees we'd have to tap to get a gallon of syrup. "I have a book somewhere," I told Lewis. "I'll look it up. Maybe we can do that next year. "
We stepped close to the spreading blackberry patch, Lewis sniffing for a fallen bird or a timid rabbit, me promising myself that this will be the year I defeat the poison ivy and claim my harvest for summer's fresh blackberry cobbler.
And I longed for a good film camera--and the smarts to use it--as Snoopy and Jack disappeared into the tall meadow grasses, tiny clouds of particles floating into the air just above the purple-tinted heads of timothy grass. It was some of the most beautiful cinematography I've ever seen.
There were sleeping children back at home, so Lewis and I made our way up the lane and through the garage, where I opened the door to the house and started inside. Lewis paused at its entrance.
"Come on in," I told him, never minding about fleas and chewed Barbie heads.
"You shared your world with me. Now I'll share with you mine."
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