On the other side of authority

As I was returning from retrieving Sweetheart from a week with her grandparents, I chatted with my husband on my cell phone about the myriad patrol cars I'd seen on Rt. 30. It was almost an epidemic, one car after another, sometimes even three in a row, lined up like unruly schoolchildren waiting for their swat. I sympathized with the poor souls who were pulled over on the side of the road, their heads shaking with disbelief and denial, their wallets aching, their spouses glaring I could sympathize, but I could not empatize. Empathy had drained from my heart like water from a leaky radiator.

I was smug. It had been over 12 years since my last traffic violation, and even that one was questionable. I think the officer had just wanted to make fun of my driver's license and make me feel old by calling me "ma'am."

Lesson number 42: Never be smug.

The driving today was good--it was clear, sunny, and both of the children in my charge were fast asleep buckled into their seats. I sailed along in my husband's trusty green Jeep Cherokee. My cell phone rang out the tune "It's a Beautiful Day" and I picked it up to answer my mother-in-law's call. All was wonderful, the conversation was good, and the world was in perfect order.

Until I saw the patrol car going the other way.

My eyes dropped to my speedometer. 75mph at least, for sure. I was ten miles per hour over the speed limit. I kept my eyes on my rear view mirror until I took in the unmistakable sight of a police car doing a U-Turn to head eastbound--coming my direction.

"Oh, crap," I uttered into the cell phone. "I think I'm getting pulled over."

I hung up the phone and tried to very nonchalantly slow down, remember with great hope the myth that they can only tell you were speeding if you hit yours brakes. Glancing to my right, I gasped at the sight of the speed limit sign.

Speed Limit
55

Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap.

You know how, when you're just about completely and totally positive that you're about to get nailed for something you did wrong, your mind begins to race? You know how you start to think of all of the ways you could possibly get out of this? I gazed over at my sleeping daughters and knew that life as a mama fugitive would not bode well. I tried beyond all reason to convince myself that he wasn't actually coming after me but after one of the other vehicles that I was so expertly and effortlessly keeping pace with. I thought that maybe, when he saw that I was doing the speed limit now, like a good little girl, and when he saw my sweet cherubs sleeping comfortably in their seats, obviously not alarmed by their mother's extremely safe and gentle driving, he would just give me a stern look as he sailed by my law-abiding self. I thought all of this in the two minutes it took for him to catch up to me and turn on his lights.

Oh, crap.

I pulled out my paperwork and waited. All of the excuses I could think of rushed to my mind, wiggled into my throat, perched on the tip of my tongue. As the officer approached my door, I rolled down the window and handed him my license. He didn't make fun of it, though he well could have. But he did call me ma'am.

Should I bat my eyes, I thought? Should I act distraught? Meek? Repentent? I mean, here I am, at the precipice of a major speeding ticket. The strategy is very important. What should I do? I glanced again at my sleeping beauties. It was too late to run.

"Hello, Ma'am," the officer began politely. "Did you realize what speed you were traveling?"

In that moment, that brief, pregnant moment, I entertained feelings of anger, defiance, resentment, frustration, disbelief, injustice, arrogance and self-righteousness. I wanted to tell him that I haven't had a ticket in over twelve years, that I'm a very good citizen, that I don't even have a library fine. I wanted to explain to him that I was very tired from driving all day, that I had just had an argument with my six-year-old daughter because she wanted a welcome home party after returning from a week at Grandma's and I hadn't bought a cake. I wanted to give him the excuse that I hadn't seen the speed limit sign, that other vehicles were flying past me, that I wasn't used to the smooth ride of this Jeep as it compares to my beast of a van. I wanted to stab him with sharp words about how it must be quota day since I saw so many patrol cars on the roads, that he looked like he could use a donut or, better yet, a trunk monkey.

I was just about to toss out the an excuse about the long drive when I recalled a conversation I had with Houdin less than a week ago. I'd been correcting him for bad behavior and he'd been making lame-o excuses. Don't make excuses, I told him. Just apologize, say yes sir or yes ma'am, and get over it. "But I want to tell MY side of the story," he said, "and I don't want people to think badly of me!" Then, I responded, unless it's under penalty of death or destruction, just say yes sir or yes ma'am and get over it. That's what will make people think better of you. Don't ever offer excuses for bad behavior.

I knew I had to answer the officer's question about my speed, and I knew I had to hold myself accountable to my own advice.

"I didn't realize how fast I was going until I saw your patrol car," I admitted.

"I clocked you going 77," he said, "and I'll have to cite you for that." I cringed and nodded, knowing it was my own fault. "Yes, sir," I said.

I find it interesting that, when faced with justifiable correction from authority, my first reaction was not shame, apology, or respect, but anger, defiance and resentment. I didn't want a ticket. I didn't want this guy to think badly of me.
I hate to admit that. I hate to admit that it was very, very difficult for me to hold my tongue.

But I did it. I offered no excuses, smart alek comments or ploys to get out of my ticket. I just sat there like the very good girl that I am. Or that I imagine myself to be, anyway.

I'd like to say that my good attitude earned me a "get out of paying a fine free" ticket, that the officer was so impressed by my repentent and mature behavior that he decided not to fine me, but that's not how it flew. I'm officially a hundred and thirty six bucks lighter. I took my ticket, signed the acknowledgement, thanked the officer for his service and crept along in the slow lane all the way home, all of the other vehicles flying past me. One even tailgated me for several yards and honked his horn before moving to the left to pass me. I felt like I needed one of those "student driver" cars, except that it would say, "I just got a speeding ticket."

But now I remember what it feels like to be corrected, to be under authority. My empathy has been refilled. And now I can tell my son that I, too, followed my own advice. It was difficult, but not at all impossible.

Love 'Em or Hate 'Em?

How do YOU feel about Circus Peanuts?

Water: the structure and properties of liquid water

"Liquid water (H2O) is often perceived to be pretty ordinary as it is transparent, odorless, tasteless and ubiquitous. It is the simplest compound of the two most common reactive elements in the Universe. However, it is the most remarkable substance. Although we drink it, wash, fish and swim in it, and cook with it (although probably not all at the same time), we nearly always overlook the special relationship it has with our lives. Droughts cause famines and floods cause death and disease. We are about two-thirds water and, without it, we die within a few days. Life cannot evolve or continue without liquid water, which is why there is so much fuss about water being found on Mars and other planets and moons. It is unsurprising that it plays a central role in many of the World's religions. Because of its clear importance, water is the most studied material on Earth but it comes as a surprise to find that its behavior and function are so poorly understood (or even ignored), not only by people in general, but also by scientists working with it everyday."

I find this site about water and its properties very interesting. I think you will, too!

Note to Bard: Reading the water website counts as chemistry. I think you'll find it full of interesting facts.

Encore: Ode to an Ohio Winter

by Thicket Dweller

The garden hose and
leaf rakes are still
lying in the driveway
And up against the house
the bike rack leans
The cooler from
the picnic is still
Camped out of the front porch.
I'm afraid to look inside...
It might be filled with old
Baked Beans

There's a soccer ball,
deflated, resting lonely
in the front yard.
Someone left their old sunglasses
tarnished, on the still porch swing.
Beneath that sits an dry dead plant.
Seems that I forgot to water
it--had good intentions when I bought it
at the nursery this Spring.

Winter took me unaware again.
It was falling into Autumn, into blazing leave and then
One morning I woke up and the snow was in a spin.
How'd it take me unaware again?

There are boots beside the sandals
In a puddle in the hallway
and a bathing suit's still hanging
from the shower curtain rod.
Look! That calendar is showing that it's well into December!
Yet I don't remember turning it.
That thing must be a fraud.

Winter took me unaware again.
I was falling into Autumn, into blazing leaves, and then
One morning I woke up and the snow was in a spin.
How'd it take me unaware again?

Huh. The temp is 55 now.
Well, that's winter in Ohio.
If you don't like what the weather is,
just stick around and it will change.
Or just wish for snow at Christmastime
While you're gayly whistling "Greensleeves"
And setting out your manger.

Still, I can't imagine weather
warm as this in January
Well, I'd better get to work
since I've been given a reprieve.
Guess I'll go clean out that cooler,
Use that rake for what it's made for.
Glad the trash bags aren't paid for
by each pound of sopping leaves.

Sheesh! It's getting kinda chilly.
Maybe I should put my coat on.
Oh, Good Lord! Is that a snowflake?
It was just as warm as May!
Sure enough, here comes a blizzard.
I should go shovel the sidewalk.
But I didn't dump that stuff there.
Nope, it's gonna have to stay.

Winter took me unaware again.
I was just falling into Autumn, into blazing leaves and then
One afternoon I look around, and the snow is in a spin.
Winter, how'd you take me unaware
Again?

Count It All Science...

...and math, and phys ed, and art, and literature, and...

We spent all day today and all day yesterday battling the surpise snowstorm and bitterly cold winds to visit the Mohican area for the Mohican Wildlife Weekend. We disected owl pellets, observed song birds, learned about Louis Bromfield, listened to a lecture about the natural history of Ohio, banded migratory birds, became enraptured by raptors, listened to Johnny Appleseed tell his stories, made dream catchers, watched a living history play, dipped beeswax candles, marveled over a composting toilet, took in a lecture on epitherapy, ate barbecued chicken, learned about beekeeping, planted seedlings, looked at amazing nature watercolors and carvings, sang campfire songs, made flint into arrowheads, and swung each other around this evening at a barn dance!

Today's Kudos go to Houdin, who didn't want to square dance but did so for his mother, because our square needed just one more couple. He danced and danced and danced and then danced some more, even after we stopped forcing him. He was actually disappointed when it was time to leave, but poor Bard was suffering from a splitting headache.

If Bard can recover, we'll go back for more of the same tomorrow!

Well Said

"One morning in Boston, as I walked to work across the Public Garden, I found myself imagining a huge conference, in a hotel full of signs and posters and people wearing badges. But at this conference everyone seemed to be talking about breathing. "How are you breathing these days?" "Much better than I used to, but I still need to improve." "Have you seen Joe Smith yet--he certainly breathes beautifully." And so on. All the meetings, books, discussions, were about Better Breathing. And I thought, if we found ourselves at such a conference, would we not assume that everyone there was sick, or had just been sick? Why so much talk and worry about something that healthy people do naturally?

"The same might be said of our endless concern with 'learning.'

~John Holt from the book Teach Your Own

Mama Makes Mirth

If you haven't read Big Yellow House, you have to. No excuses. I don't care what's growing in your fridge or how long it's been since you've last slept. Go. It's the funniest blog I know.

Chris, you are so the bomb. Are you still up for that "best friends" necklace?

And, by the way, have I told you how young you look? And thin?

Ahem. Anyway, if you need a laugh, The Big Yellow House has a few to spare.

Dear Art Instructor,

There was something that I hoped for when I first called you to come and teach art to my children. There was something that I wanted you to share with them, and even now, I'm not sure I can put my finger on what that was, exactly. But it was there, creeping beneath my skin, pushing through my fingertips, searching for a way to come out.

I didn't know you. I had never seen your artwork before I first read the article about you in our little upstart of a local newspaper. But when I read that article...well, let me tell you. I don't believe that things happen by chance. I'm a firm believer in destiny. I am, I guess you could say, a person of destiny. And so, when I read your article, I felt like many stars had aligned in order for me to be where I was. Many butterflies' wings had beaten in order for me to see that article in that newspaper on that particular day.

My son, understand, is an artist. I don't necessarily mean to say that he has this amazing talent that surpasses all other children. I don't mean to say that I single him out above all others and hold a torch for him. I don't mean to say that at all, though I do feel it sometimes--most times--in my mother-bones.

What I do mean to say is that he has the eyes of an artist, the mind of an artist, the spirit of an artist. He even has the name of an artist, given to him as a gift from a man--another imaginer, visionary, creation emulator--who missed meeting my son fresh out of the womb by only a week, the last ragged breaths of the man's pneumonia-stricken lungs sharing oxygen from the same room with my pregnancy-crowded lungs. We shared that air. I borrowed his name. My son carries it with him like a esteemed masterpiece. One artist goes out, one artist comes in.

And so that article, the one in which you shared your story, your path to the acceptance and embracing of your gift, seized me, enveloped me, drew me in, and I knew that you would influence my son's life.

Yesterday, I watched you light his fire. You acknowledged his work, recognized his commitment. You respected him, encouraged him, rewarded him. You inspired him.

And because you took the time to crack open his sketchbook and peer gently yet eagerly into the picture-thoughts he purposed on every page, he took the chance of carefully opening his heart and mind to pay attention to you. Otherwise, he may never have been interested in your message of salvation, of unity, of humility.

Inspiration. Good Lord, I don't know that there is any way to manufacture what you did to him. It's a path towards which I've been guiding him for nine years. And in four weeks, three lessons--truly, in one day--you have inspired him to not just become a better artist, but to become a better person.

There was something I had hoped for when I first invited you into my home, set a table for your art supplies, welcomed you with a handshake. I didn't divulge this information. Perhaps I felt it wasn't fair to put such pressure on any human being. Perhaps I was too afradi to hope. But the truth is, I wasn't looking for just an art teacher, though I knew that art would be the catalyst. I wasn't looking for just a critic or a guide or an instructor. I was looking for something that contained all of those, but included so much more. I was hoping--praying, indeed- for a spiritual leader, a man of integrity, a solid role model, an example of character to which a young boy can aspire.

I was looking for a mentor. You have not disappointed.

No matter how many vivid, perfect, incredible, lifelike portaits you produce in your earthly days, no matter how many visions and dreams you capture with canvas and color, what you created in my son yesterday will always be, in my mind, your finest work.

You have my gratefulness,

The Young Artist's Mother

Of all the things...

Of all the things my daughter is, talentless is definitely not one of them. She has skills. Don't you think so?

I Have Decided

Over the weekend and on somewhat of a whim, I attended a writer's conference at a neighboring county's college. I haven't attended such a conference in many years but every time I do, I come away with something good, something inspiring. This time was no exception, but the circumstances were different than I could have predicted.

When I had registered for the conference, I was forced to choose two workshops. That meant that out of the seven speakers and eight presentations available, I had to narrow it down to just two. Two. Two is barely anything. It's almost nothing. How could they expect me to miss out on all of those other possibilities? Me, who can't sleep at night for fear of missing something, would have to be right next door to a classroom that very well could have changed my life? Me, who struggles to stay seated in the movie theater because I just might be watching the wrong movie, a movie that wasn't meant for me, while MY movie plays right next door?

I fingered the descriptions of each workshop, changed my mind a couple of times, then decided. Even as my decision was made, I wasn't settled. What if I were wrong?

The day of the conference, I drove to the college alone. I walked into the college alone. I found my way to the location of the continental breakfast alone. And I sat completely alone while all of the other writers milled around me, filling their plates with cold bagels and fresh fruit and their ears with what I could only imagine was writer-like chatter. I just watched.

Around my neck hung my nametag, like an albatross around my neck. On its front, in bold letters, was my name. Benign. But on its back was written the titles and room numbers for the two workshops I'd chosen. The letters weighed down my shoulders, caused my head to droop with the burden. I may have been wrong about the classes I elected to take, but it was too late now. They were written in black and white, right there on the back of my name. I had chosen.

Even my cold bagel was a reminder of my poor decision-making abilities. I had looked all of them over carefully and decided on what I thought was a white bagel flaked with chives or onions. Upon closer inspection, I realized that these little purple specks were blueberries and in no way resembled anything green, chives or otherwise. As I nibbled on my poor choice, I surveyed the nametages of those around me. Who did I choose? Who looked as if they were interesting, could impart unending wisdom to me, could share with me just the right inspiration that would plunge my soul into the refreshing river of revelation?

I saw right away that the writer who would be presenting my first class, Trish Berg, was friendly and outgoing. I also knew that she wrote material much like mine and that our backgrounds were also similar. I settled withing myself that this choice, the choice for Trish Berg's workshop, had been a good one.

But there was this niggling feeling that my second class, the one on finding the plot in a story, was not where I needed to be. I watched the presenter interact with the people around him, and I just didn't feel drawn to him. Maybe I'm too reliant on destiny, serendipity, whatever you want to call it, but the chemistry between this guy and me just wasn't there.

So, while I as I attempted to listen intently to Trish Berg's presentation on finding my niche in a saturated market, I was also plotting how I would ditch my second class. Where would I go instead? Who would be a better choice? Who would give me that coveted chemistry that I so desired?

Trish's voice startled me from my thoughts. "Has anyone ever written a query letter?" I had an idea, but I thought I'd let someone who had been paying closer attention go first.

But no one did.

Alright, I thought. I'll throw out the subject of my first and last query letter, the fleece I'd laid out years ago to determine if I could really be a "real" writer.

"Well, I once wanted to write an article on youth hostels in Ohio," I said. I could tell that Trish wasn't familiar with youth hostels, so I filled her in a bit and informed her that I had sent a query to Ohio Magazine but had received a rejection letter.

"You should talk to Linda Feagler! She's the senior editor for Ohio Magazine and she's here today."

Giving a presentation? The senior editor for Ohio Magazine? The one who most likely sent me a rejection letter in response to my query?

"You should definitely talk to her," Trish repeated.

That was all the prodding I needed.

So, when Trish's wonderful presentation was over, I slinked into Linda Feagler's classroom, surveyed the circle of chairs and boldly took a seat in the front.

I can barely remember what I said during the class. I know that I was impressed by Linda's encouragement, her humanness, her interaction with the people in the class. She took the time to ask each of us about ourselves, what we'd like to write, and discuss with us what it takes to query a magazine, particularly Ohio Magazine. I do remember that I had the courage to tell her about my idea for covering youth hostels and jokingly mention my prized rejection letter. She pretended to turn tail and run.

"It was years ago," I admitted. "I don't even know that you were there, then."

This prompted Linda to start her presentation on the history of Ohio Magazine, which, indeed, had undergone major changes since I sent my query. This emboldened me to mention a couple of the other ideas I'd had for the magazine. She encouraged me to get in touch, to submit my ideas. I assured her that I would.

I made my way to the lunchroom with a copy of Ohio Magazine in my hand and a lot of ideas rattling around in my head. Picking up my boxed lunch in the college cafeteria, I evaluated my seating choices. In the cafeteria alone, in the common area alone or on the patio alone. I was just deciding that on the patio alone looked a little too crowded and a little too windy when I heard a voice behind me call, "Do you mind if I join you?" When I turned to see if I was the target of the question, I saw that the voice had come from Ohio Magazine's senior editor, Linda Feagler.

But here's the funny thing. Instead of getting worried, tongue-tied or overly nervous, instead of hoping to wow her with my writing prowess, I was simply relieved. I didn't have to eat lunch alone, and I just might make a new friend.

And I was right.

Linda and I got so carried away in our conversation about the love of writing, about our interests, our backgrounds, and one common area, the unexpected deaths of our mothers, that we were both surprised to discover that cafeteria was completely empty. The next event had begun fifteen minutes prior and we were still finishing our meals as well as our conversations. I had soaked up Linda's encouragement, she had poured out her compassion over my discovery of my estranged mother's death, and we had both shared how such major life events found their way directly out of our heads and onto the page. I could relate to her grief over the loss of her mom and she could relate to my need to write about mine. I felt like I was among my own.

We didn't get much of a chance to say goodbye as we hurried off to the auditorium for the keynote speaker and closing events, so I fired off an e-mail to Linda on Monday morning.

Dear Linda,

I wanted to drop you a line to say thank you for taking the time to have lunch with me at the writers' conference on Saturday. Much of what you said is echoing in my head, motivating me to pursue my writing more seriously after many years of "writing in the closet" and reluctantly shoving my written word to the back burner. I think it's highly serendipitous that I walked into your workshop. I have to admit that I skipped out on my scheduled workshop to attend yours (she confessed sheepishly). It just felt like the right thing to do at the time, and I'm glad that I did. The fact that you joined me for lunch was a pleasant surprise. While I attended the conference hoping for inspiration, I didn't expect to get the bulk of it during lunch break! I gained more from our conversation than I did from the rest of the events of the day. Funny how that can happen.

In part because of your compassionate ear and encouraging words, I've made a commitment to "be a writer." I'm not quite sure yet what that means, because I've always written and I'm sure I always will, but I've never felt that I could justify labeling myself as a writer. I felt like I was lying or cheating somehow. "I like to write, but I'm really a mother," or "I'm a homeschooling mom, but I like to write, too." I suppose over this weekend, I simply realized that I need only to give myself permission to accept that label for it to apply.

So I have a plan. My plan is to work on my essay about the death of my mother and begin submitting it to the publications you suggested. Then I'll sit back and watch while the rejection letters flood in. ;-) I also plan to submit a query letter to Ohio Magazine in reference to the ideas I discussed with you. I'm excited about the opportunity to explore these possibilities further. I'm excited about my plan.

So I thank you, Linda, for your time and openness. You're a great
facilitator, and I'm glad you decided to present a workshop this past
weekend. But--yes, I'll admit my selfishness--I'm even more glad that you chose to have lunch with me.

Please keep in touch.

Quite sincerely,

The Writer
Charm, Ohio

So, for those of you who have been following my ongoing self-questioning about becoming a writer, I have found my answer to those niggling questions. I am giving myself permission, and I will be pursuing writing as an actual career, an occupation, a lifestyle.

I, who can never easily choose what to have for lunch, who spends much too long in the ice cream aisle and who was very glad to have had nine months to choose each of my childrens names, have decided. Yes. I have decided to embrace the title, "Writer."

The Amazing and The Mundane

I am SO excited.

I just returned from a writers' conference and I'm just busting at the seams to tell you what happened, but I can't! I have so much housework to catch up on, I can't take even another minute to type! It's not fair, is it? Well, you know what they say...

After ecstacy, laundry.

Sigh.

must...type...to...survive....

exhausted...can...not...type......just...celebrated.. .Sweetheart's...sixth...birthday...will...fill...in...when...i...can..... .see......
....zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

We all struggle...

My friend Pensive Wanderer has shared her homeschooling struggles on her blog. My heart goes out to her, and I know yours will, too.

Special Educators' Discounts at Borders and Waldenbooks!

As part of my birthday celebration yesterday, daughter Bard and I spent the evening at Borders Books. My mission was to find Now We Are Six by A.A. Milne for Sweetheart's sixth birthday, which is tomorrow. I found it after searching the shelves three times, going to the computer to see if it was in stock, seeing that it was, and searching the shelves again. It was wedged between several other books and hiding coyly. It will now reside on Sweetheart's bookshelf, starting tomorrow.

Spending time on that search gave me the opportunity to peruse the shelves more thoroughly. Boy, did I find some goodies! I brought home the next Magic Treehouse book for Monet, a couple of bargain books for Sweetheart's birthday, and Mary Jane's Farm and Country Home magazines for me! But the biggest goody I found was the little slips of paper and the posted signs promoting this weekend's educator's sale! April 15th-17th Borders will offer all educators 25% most things. The fine print says, "Discount applies to the regular price. Discount on DVDs is 15%. Discount on electronics and video games is 10%. Excludes previous and online purchases, gift cards, periodicals, comics, special orders not in stock, and shipping. May not be combined with coupons or group discounts." There's an educator's reception on Friday. Check your own Borders or Waldenbooks to find out the details. I asked a Borders employee what I needed as a homeschool, and he said that I simply needed to bring my excusal letter. Boy oh BOY!

One of the goodies that I found and will surely bring home was Everyday Graces by Karen Santorum. Has anyone else seen this book? Wow! It's kind of like The Book of Virtues but specifically for manners. It was written by a homeschool mom of seven and wife of Rick Santorum, U.S. Senator.

I saw so many other goodies I wanted. Ooooh, how I love to read aloud to my kids! But we still haven't finished Mandy by Julie Andrew which we started in January!!! I have so many other good read alouds that I want to do, but even our Five in a Row routine is waaaaaay behind due to all of the out-of-the-home activities we've been doing.

Still, I love being busy. It's better than being bored!

What's on your reading list today?

Happy Birthday to ME!

I have a love/hate relationship with my birthday. On one hand, I'd love to be spoiled rotten on my birthday. On the other hand, I hate that I'm not. ;-)

My family is tired of hearing this, I'm sure, but I put a lot of stock in birthdays. I think there's some deep psychosis about being adopted and abandonned or I was spoiled by my adoptive mother who was fairly nasty most of the time but did birthdays and every Christmas to the max. Who knows.

So I generally feel sorry for myself on my birthday. It's not that I don't like to get older--I really don't mind. It's just that I want to be pampered. I want to be spoiled. I want to be awakened to breakfast in bed, be whisked away on some surprise adventure and hear from lots of my friends. I want to be outside in the sunshine, planting something or taking photographs or shopping. I want to listen to music, dance, sing, celebrate. I want to be with my family, my whole family, and I want them to set aside all other things so that I'm the focus of the day. And I want to do NO housework, but I want it all to be done for me.

As for gifts, I'll take a letter. Nice, long letters are my favorite gift. Getting mail is one of my simple pleasures. Beyond that, I reserve my special day to buy myself good pottery, yummy chocolate, country magazines or a funky pair of earrings. My mother-in-law is always the very best at knowing just what to give me as a gift, and my daughter, Bard, never fails to give me a gift from her heart. Thank God for them!

And thank God for my kids and my darling husband who put up with my moodiness and listen to me whine about my high expectations. I'm definitely a bear, that's for sure. Yesterday, in spite of my moping and whining, they took me for a little hiking excursion and out to Olive Garden for dinner. They gave me gifts of Circus Peanuts, chocolate squares, earrings, a sweet charm bracelet, hand-made cards and letters. This morning, my dear Bo joined me for breakfast at our local homestyle restaurant where I signed the guestbook "Happy Birthday to Me!" which prompted the hostess to present me with a sweet little chocolate cake while all of the mostly Amish staff came out to sing happy birthday (though the Amish don't have the "th" sound in their language, so it comes out "birssday"). It made me smile from ear to ear, and I don't know that I'll ever eat that little cake!

How do you feel about your birthday? Does it encourage you? Depress you? How does your family celebrate those special days? What was your best birthday ever?

Stealing a Moment

We've been so busy with piano lessons, art lessons, field trips, choir, baseball and soccer these past few weeks that our reading time has dropped way, way down.

Bard is lamenting this fact. She's sad that her March reading list consisted of only eleven books.

I think it's great.

Don't get me wrong. I enjoy reading. Quite a bit, too. A life without books is like a house without windows. But there comes a time when one must get off one's duff, stop reading about others' lives and LIVE!

Phrase Thesaurus - ideas generator for writers

The Phrase Thesaurus is an interesting website. This service is available to subscribers only, but gives a few samples to whet your whistle. You can enter in any phrase and it will give you alternatives to replace that cliche. Or, you can enter in any word or pair of words and it will give you phrases that include those words. Looks like a promising tool for writers!

Have You or Do You Use Sonlight?

If you have or currently use Sonlight, I'd love to hear your opinions. I've seen a lot of Sonlight users around the blogosphere lately. I appreciate our current curricula choices, eclectic with a few workbooks and a dose of Switched On Schoolhouse by Alpha Omega, plus lots and lots of hands-on and organic learning, but I have relied on SOS for the bulk of our academics and I'm pretty fed up with it. It frustrates me because of the many errors and glitches in the grading system, plus our dependence on the computer is hampered by its constant crashes and incompatibilities.

So, I'm up for suggestions. I just perused the Sonlight webpage for a few minutes, but I'd like to hear more from people who've actually used it.

Thoughts?

I'm Never Wearing All Black Again

We headed out for the square dance late. I didn't really think it would be that big of a deal. My birthday's in two days, and I figured that, if nothing else came about, I would have a night on the town with the ones I love.

I tried to convince my fourteen-year-old son Houdin that it really was cool to dance, that girls would fall all over him if he learned how, but he wasn't convinced. Either that, or he's not ready to be interested in falling girls just yet. Regardless, he wouldn't come.

But fifteen-year-old Bard was in, as was my husband Bohemian and soon-to-be-six-year-old Sweetheart (in case you didn't figure it out, these are not my family members' real names. They're pseudonyms I use to refer to them in this blogosphere).

So I dressed in black. All black. Black socks, black skort, black flouncy skirt over the skort to give extra bounce during the dancing, black camisole and a black flouncy shirt with swoopy sleeves to give extra bounce during the dancing. I even stopped at the local Stuff*Mart to get a new pair of shoes, as my black shoes are third generation hand-me-downs that wouldn't have lasted through the evening. Well, okay. They would have. But it's a nice excuse for new shoes. Anyway, I thought black would be dramatic. And besides, the only flouncy clothes I have are black. Actually, half of my wardrobe is black.

When we arrived at the Grange Hall where the dance was to be held, I knew that it was a bad thing to see the caller getting into her car. That's never a good sign. She saw us just as we pulled in and let us know that the dance had been cancelled due to a shortage of dancers--there weren't enough to make a square, even with our three. But we were welcome to go in and listen to the band, she said, apologizing again before she left us for the night.

The music from the Grange Hall drew us in. Strains of "You Are My Sunshine," "She'll Be Comin' Around the Mountain" and "Redwing" kept us entertained. I implored Bo to take a swing at playing the upright bass--a very unique "naval bass" made of aluminum. I was proud to watch him play and wish with all my heart that I could buy him an upright. I'd listen to him all the days. Maybe I should just send him to this website and have him build one of these.

After a few numbers, we bid the band adieu and headed for Coccia House for pizza. It came very highly recommended, and we're always up for a good pizza, especially since I'm soaking this pre-birthday thing for all it's worth. Soon to be six-year-old daughter Sweetheart happened to mention the birthday thing out loud, because her birthday is two days after mine, and the waitress came to our table carrying our pizza which was boasting two birthday candles. Sweetheart and I puckered up and blew out the flames, though Sweetheart claims that I blew them both out. She's probably right.

Coccia House was probably the most interesting and surreal restaurant experience I've ever had. We walked in the back door and through the restaurant, which really is a huge house, and it just kept going on and on and on and on. It was like a funhouse restaurant, with rooms off of rooms off of more rooms. We happened to seat ourselves next to a very happy drunkard who took pleasure in informing us that you have to take your bill to the register, not wait for your waitress to take it. He spent several minutes trading apologies with the waitress for not knowing this fact and then proceeded to knock over his chair, almost knocking over himself in the process.

Even though the menu said the pizza was fresh made so it takes longer, it didn't take longer. This is because it was the wrong pizza. And, silly me, I didn't notice that it had too many pieces and too few toppings to be our pizza, so we ate half of it before the waitress realized what had happened. I felt badly, like I had purposely stolen the pizza. But I didn't. Really. I promise.

Bo noticed that the waitress looked very much like Michelle Pfeifer. No joke. She really did. When he mentioned this to her, she rolled her eyes. "You're tired of hearing that?" I asked. "Yeah," she answered. Sheesh.

The pizza was okay. Wasn't as good as Luigi's in Akron or Tomasetti's in Wooster. Just okay.

On the drive home, Bard lobbied emphatically for a trip to the coffeehouse, but Bo and I took pleasure in our cruelty and denied her the privilege. She told me to write that previous line.

And now, it's time for bed.

Visions

Inaugural Art Class at The Sprouted Acorn, featuring artist Fred del Guidice

For many years, I have held onto the dream of building a house in the country, a place for the gathering of family, friends, good food and fine music. We've had many hopeful signs, and many devastating heartbreaks, but we held fast to our dream. Years of prayer often felt worthless. After all, many people have no home at all. How could I be so myopic as to believe that God would grant me a big house on a hill in the country somewhere? Yet it was a desire of my heart, and I continued to pray for God's will in my life. If there were a place for us, I would be willing to go, whether that was in the city or in the country. And then, an injection of inspiration came that I could not ignore...

During a concert in Wheaton, IL in July of 2001, one of my favorite musicians, David Wilcox, David shared this word picture:

"Imagine an acorn planted in a paper cup. It's a seedling. You say to yourself, "It's an oak tree. It's the strongest of trees. It's an oak tree." And somebody looks at it and says, "Oh, come on! That's no oak tree! Look at that! That's an acorn with a sprout!" And you say, "Yeah, well. I'm...I'm taking care of it. It's gonna grow." "Oh, yeah. Where you gonna plant it? It's nothing but parking lot and broken glass! Have you looked outside? Have you seen this world?" And you say, "Yeah, yeah, yeah." You don't show it to everybody. Sometimes you keep the dream tucked inside your coat when it's cold. But's it there. And it's growing close to your heart. You find yourself a little garden. You call it a garden. It's a square foot of ground. It's a place to call home. The dream's gotta be planted. It's gotta have a place to dig in. And you clear a little more as you have time. A lot of time goes by and sure enough, the dream can grow. Grow right where you are. Right in your little town, in your little street, in your little home. And it grows. In those scorching hot summer days that used to feel like there was nothin' but pavement and broken glass, you got shade. What is that shade from? What is that great, green shade from? Oh, that's an acorn, in a paper cup. Well, and...time. Yeah. Take care of that dream. "

You have to understand...I'm a gardener. I love anything that grows. Even as we speak, I'm trying to nurture a couple of hormworms that I found devouring my tomato plants. Most people kill them, but I learned that they turn into very cool and very interesting hummingbird moths, creatures that amaze me as they flutter from one brightly colored herb to another, helping to pollinate my garden.

You also have to understand that I'm a treehugger. I don't love all trees more than I love all people, but there are SOME trees that I love more than SOME people (nods to Jane Goodall).

Finally, you have to understand that I have some family members who are *not* gardeners, or tree-lovers, or dreamers. As a matter of fact, a particular family member can be downright discouraging. If I didn't have people like my husband, and David, and other musicians, I would be pretty despondent a lot of the time.

Usually, when some exciting dream comes into my life, it just bubbles out of me. I share it with those I love. Including my discouraging family member. And most often, this person fills my ears and my heart with discouragement.

But as David spoke that night in Wheaton, I closed my eyes and I saw...I mean it, I *saw* our house on the hill. I saw it as clearly as if it were right there, right there in front of me! I could *see* a room full of people, loving and enjoying music, in my home, up on my hill, in a beautiful country community. Music is a big part of my life (my husband and children are musicians...I'm just the groupie) and a coffeehouse is something I had dreamed of for a very long time, but never, NEVER before had I been given a true vision of it. Actually, I'm not sure I've ever had a clear vision about anything. I was smitten. And inspired.

That was the beginning of a realization of a dream.

After the house concert, I was able to speak with David for just a few minutes. I told him about my dream of a paramusic career, how his story inspired me, how clearly that vision of our future home came to my mind, and I handed him my journal to sign. Here's what he wrote:

"To Denice:

It's an Oak Tree
(all it needs is a place to grow and time--
because all it needs to know is inside)
It's inevitable.

David Wilcox"


I've held that dream, that little tree in a cup, close to my heart and shielded it from those who would discourage me and laugh at my fragile sprouted acorn. I've shared it with those, including my husband, who could say, "Yes! Let me help you water that! I know a place where you can plant it!"

Shortly thereafter, by the grace of God, we were able to purchase a beautiful piece of property which included a gorgeous hilltop that commands quite a view. And, indeed, our little acorn has begun to grow. That's not to say there haven't been times of drought along the way, but all the roots grow deeper when it's dry, don't they?

The Sprouted Acorn has been my working title. I have even found the most amazing photograph by photographer Dan Suzio, of a sprouting acorn. It stands in our piano room as a reminder of that little dream and how it grew.

And the house on the hill...it stands, too, just as I envisioned it that night in Wheaton.

We've just begun hosting an art class in our home, and I hope that it's the first of many events and activities this house will see.

Tripping On Air

Tripping on air
Heels kicking of their own accord
My own clumsy limbs
are not themselves
I know for a fact that the foot in the red shoe

is no longer my own
for my feet can't handle normal walking,

let alone dancing.

Dancing!
The word hardly does justice to the feeling.

I feel like flying!
I feel like singing!
I am flying.
I swing
breathlessly
from partner to partner,
forgetting that my face is probably purple;
forgetting not to smile because I hate my smile;
forgetting to be shy because I don't know the boy whose arm is around
forgetting everything but the rhythm I feel;
And it's good.
Very good.

~By Bard, April 2nd, 2005

Lil Niece, the peanut. :-)

Sweetheart, Lil Niece and The Baby with her collection of giraffes.

The Baby with Lil Niece and all of her new giraffes. Can you see her?

That Was Nice

I had just walked out of the store and was heading toward my van, feeling just a bit guilty that I had parked at such a strange angle. I was within the yellow lines, though, so it really wasn't bad that I parked weird; it was just messy looking, careless, like I don't know how to park or was in too much of a hurry to do it right. These kinds of thoughts nag at me, are part of my desire to be the poster child for good Christians, large families, homeschoolers. I have to be careful. I have to make a good impression. Can't let someone make me the example over the dinner table. "This lady, called herself a Christian, but you shoulda seen the way she parked. Them Christians don't care about nobody but themselves..."

This is what I was thinking about when I heard a voice calling from nearby.

"Ma'am!" The voice said. I inwardly cringed at the chastising I was about to receive. My bumper was too close to her bumper. My front door was too close to her front door. I should be more careful. I should be less selfish. Was this my paint on the body of her car? Regardless of the lack of real fault on my part, I've seen those kinds of arguments unfold, and they aren't pretty. I heard the voice call again and looked around. The voice was coming from behind me, from the next aisle over.

"Could you get my walker for me? It's in the trunk of the car." The voice belonged to a middle-aged woman with shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair. She was seated in the driver's seat of a white Lincoln Towncar, her feet swung out onto the pavement of the parking lot. I must have been dazed. I had to switch the gears in my head. I think she repeated herself, or maybe she just explained.

"I should have had my kids get it out before they went in the store, but I didn't. Could you get it for me?"

"Sure!" I answered, maybe a little too enthusiastically. I walked across the aisle and looked into the trunk where I saw a wheelchair on top of a silver walker. I pulled the wheelchair aside to wrestle the walker from its place. It felt strange. I felt like I wanted to do more, not just pull the walker out and hand it to her. While she may have felt that she was imposing on me, that I was doing her some big favor, I felt just the opposite. I felt honored, priviliged. I felt...needed.

As I handed her the walker, she thanked me. That was it. Just a pure, sincere thanks. I resisted the urge to help her into the store, to follow her around and help her with her shopping. This "feeling needed" was good, but it could definitely go too far, turn quickly into being a pest. Me, not her. I settled for, "Would you like me to close the trunk?"

"Yes, if you would, please!" She responded. And I did. I made sure to close it just right. And while I've probably closed hundreds of car trunks hundreds of times, I was very aware of how I should close this one, kind of like when you're driving along familiar roads carrying a passenger that you barely know or want to impress. Suddenly it all slows w-a-a-a-y down and you want to make sure that you take every curve, every turn, ever stop just precisely, exactly right.

And do you know that I thought I messed it up? It didn't look to me like the trunk was completely closed. I pushed on it a couple more time, vaguely aware of the woman's presence a few feet away from me closing her car door.

"Did I do that right?" I asked stupidly. She assured me that I did, that it was indeed closed.

I crossed back to my crookedly parked van, nearly getting run over by an oncoming vehicle who was gracious enough to stop for me. My thirteen-year-old son, Houdin, was still standing beside the van.

"That was nice," he said, echoing the thoughts in my head. Yes, it was nice.

But I'm really not sure if he was referring to what I did for the woman with the walker, or what she did for me.

Acts 20:35 (The Message)

In everything I've done, I have demonstrated to you how necessary it is to work on behalf of the weak and not exploit them. You'll not likely go wrong here if you keep remembering that our Master said, "You're far happier giving than getting.'"

The Message (MSG) Copyright © 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002 by Eugene H. Peterson

It's An Obsession

So, I went to Wal*Mart today. I bought new shorts and t-shirts and cleats for Monet. He started baseball today, see, and really needs summer clothes to go with his brand spankin' new summer haircut. And while I was there, I bought Monet and Houdin each their swim trunks for the summer. It felt really good to get that stuff into my cart, into my van, into my house and into the closets.

So, I went to The Thrift Shop today and dropped off a huge garbage bag of stuff. I'm trying to declutter as much as I can, but it never seems to get done. In addition, we have renters in our cabin who are apparently trying to declutter, too, so they're bringing our cabin stuff up to the house and I'm trying to find room for it all. Much of it will go to The Thrift Shop. But even once I get it sorted and into a pile, it takes me forever to get it into a bag. Once I get it into a bag, it takes me a while to get it to the van. Once I get it to the van, it's a good week until I get it to The Thrift Shop. So, it felt really good to get that big garbage bag of stuff out of my house, out of my van, out of my life.

Wait a minute.

There are two things that make me feel really good. Well, more than two, but two that give me that "Wow. I've just accomplished something" feeling. Bringing stuff home and getting rid of stuff.

I guess the best thing for me would be to go to Wal*Mart, buy a bunch of stuff, bring it home, wash it and fold it, put it in a garbage bag and take it to The Thrift Shop.

I'll bet the kids' clothes would even last longer that way.

What I Haven't Told You About

Sounds like a really juicy title...but actually, it's just about the things I've done in the past week and a half that I haven't blogged, namely:

• Seeing my new niece for the first time and a whirlwind visit from my inlaws;
• Piano lessons;
• Art lessons
• Houdin's first soccer practice
• The trip to MAPS with pics
• Our first art class!
• Creative writing class
• Contra-dancing

See? Doesn't that sound like fun?

I'll get to it. I hope.

Reforming Hollywood

Yesterday Bard asked if she and I could have a movie night, just the two of us. Since I try not to plan anything on Sundays, our day was open and I thought it would be a great idea. I asked Bo if he was up for taking Sweetheart, Monet and Houdin bowling, and he was so inclined.

So Bard and I headed to the only things we really have near us: Movie Gallery and Wal*Mart. We have a local grocery, too, that rents DVDs for .99, but you can only keep them one day and the selection is pretty limited. Alas, life in a small town. If these Amish would just get gas-powered DVD players, the demand would increase and we'd have better selections.

We loaded up on all of the nasty snacks we'd need: Doritos, Fritos, Cheetos and whatever other "O" junk we could find. IBC Rootbeer, which doesn't end in "O" but Bard likes it, and some nacho cheese sauce.

But here's the thing: to have a movie night for girlies, it's essential to have a good movie or two. Can I just say that such a thing is quite rare? We scanned the racks of the Movie Gallery and found pretty much nothing.

I don't understand this.

We walked around the store twice before we decided on Little Black Book and First Daughter. I wasn't exactly comfortable with Little Black Book, but since I'd seen it, I at least knew what to expect. I haven't seen First Daughter.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't the biggest blockbuster hits the ones that whole families can enjoy, like Secondhand Lions, Shrek, and Robots? Aren't those the ones that families flock to see, buy all of the action figures and purchase their own copies when they come out of DVD? Aren't those the universally appealing films? The most popular? The highest grossing?

Isn't this why movies like Napolean Dynamite, which is a very low-budget film, end up gaining such national attention? Because it appeals to everyone? Well, okay. Not everyone. I do know some unenlightened people who don't "get it," but I'm still praying for them. ;-)

So why are these family-friendly movies so few and far between?

"I don't get it," I told my Bard as we headed home. "You would think there would be more universally appealing movies, more family-friendly films with real meaning and less nudity, language and sexual references. I mean, after all, who wants to sit in the room with their mom and watch naked butts?"

"Well, when I grow up," Bard said, "I'm going to reform the movie industry. I'll become a director and make more family-friendly movies."

I realize that not everyone DOES sit in a room with their mom to watch movies. I understand the appeal of movies that are more gritty, and I can even justify a few of them, but overall, it seems that high-quality films can be made without the grit.

So here's to the next generation, to kids like Bard who don't want to shove garbage into their heads, who want parables that leave them feeling better, braver, more encouraged. Here's to my daughter and her hope for the future, her goal of taking integrity into Hollywood.

I, for one, am pulling for her.

Isabella!

I am SO thrilled to announce the arrival of Isabella! I just received these photos from my mother-in-law who will have to remind me of the details. She weighed over ten pounds and was born at home with my sister-in-law as the midwife. Congratulations Eener and Bunny! I can't wait to hold her, buy her stuff and feed her pancakes and hershey's kisses!

Team Fox is ON THE MOVE!

Four years ago, our family attended a fundraising banquet and, I'll be honest, the goal was to get a good meal. A neighbor had invited us to a local Amish-style restaurant that was hosting an awareness dinner for Cystic Fibrosis. At the time, I really didn't know anything about C.F. and neither did my family, but I took Bard and Houdin.

Wow. We learned a lot. A couple from the church we were attending were at the banquet and we learned that they have two children who suffer from Cystic Fibrosis. After meeting Eva and her brother Christian and learning from their mother what a nightmare C.F. is and how frightening it is to wake up in the middle of the night to a child who can't breathe, we decided to get involved. We're not alone. I'm amazed how this community rallies around Eva, Christian, their family and the many others in our community who suffer from or have lost children to C.F.

I've mentioned before that my eldest son, Houdin, could ask for money from anyone. It's just a gift he has; he has no inhibitions and holds the belief that people generally want to be of help. When Houdin found out that there would be a fundraiser for Cystic Fibrosis called the Great Strides Walk for a Cure, he was all over it. I turned my head in embarrassment every time he asked a stranger for money, but, somehow, people just believe in him and he almost always gains their support.

Within days of setting out, Houdin had asked everyone he knew for a donation. He walked the streets of our local town and asked businesses to contribute. By the end of his fundraising campaign, he had raised over $500 for a cure for Cystic Fibrosis.

That was four years ago. Last year, Houdin decided to form his own walking team, Team Fox. We had twelve walkers and he met his fundraising goal due to the generous donations from friends and family, AND the team walked six miles in the rain!

This year, Houdin is again forming a team, but he has tripled his fundraising goals and doubled his team goals. This year, by May 8th, Houdin would like to raise $1500 and have twenty four walkers on his team. It's a big goal, but I believe he can do it. I believe that in encouraging him to continue his fundraising efforts, we are encouraging Houdin's gifts and talents.

If you would like to donate to Houdin's efforts, you can do so through the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation webpage. You can access Houdin's fundraising page by going here. Any little bit will help and every dollar will not only work towards a cure for Cystic Fibrosis, but will also help to boost Houdin's confidence.

For more information about Cystic Fibrosis in an easy-to-read kids' presentation, please visit this site.

Thanks for your support!

Scenes from NASA

Here's a way mobie cool collage of the day we spent at NASA Glenn Research Center in Cleveland. Click on the collage for a larger image.

Migration Sensation

So, I was actually a bit disappointed in the Migration Sensation today. I'm sure if I were a woman who had no kids and really liked slide-accompanied lectures in dark rooms, I'd have enjoyed it. But I didn't enjoy it as much as I had hoped.

That's not to say the topics weren't interesting. They were! But when compared to years previous, with speakers like Amish farmer, conservationist and author David Kline and owl expert and enthusiast Paul Boyd, this year's speakers didn't really hold my attention.

This is the third year we've attended the Migration Sensation in Shreve, Ohio. The past couple of years were better, but not by much. I guess I just figure that they have an awesome draw--the wetlands around Shreve are some of the best for observing migratory birds and wildlife--they may as well do it right. The children's programs were a nice effort, but interaction would be much better than lecture. The lunch was very sad--overcooked, cold coney dogs for $2.75 each. It only cost us $15.00 to attend the event and all of the lectures, but it cost us $27.00 to eat lunch of soup and hot dogs, and everyone was still hungry. And since it snowed (!) today, it was too cold and wet to go observe the wildlife in the bog. Aside from that, the event begings at 7:00 A.M., and just TRY keeping a teenager interested in ANYTHING but sleep at 7:00 A.M. Next year, we hope to take our own food, hike even if it's raining, and maybe even try to help the organizers create better kids' programs.

But there were a few cool side benefits. First, there were two bird sanctuaries who had displays in the vendor area, and between the two of them, we were able to see, up close, a great horned owl, a red-tailed hawk, a northern saw-whet owl and an eastern screech owl. The screech owl was in a man-made log with a hole in the front of the top part of the log, and he sat so very still and was so very perfect that he looked like he wasn't even real. When Monet approached the owl, he said, "Wow. That almost looks real."

"Yeah, doesn't it?" I said, keeping Bard from spoiling my joke by a nudge of my elbow. "If you look really closely at his eyes, they almost look like they would wink at you," and I drew Monet closer to the little creature for a closer look. After just a few seconds, the owl winked and Monet jumped back, shouting, "Whoa!"

The other side benefit was the sign I saw that said, "Contra dance tonight!"

After all of the energy expended at the Migration Sensation, I wasn't sure I was up for a dance, but I really, really wanted to go...

What We Did Today...

Shreve festival touts migrating birds

by Bob Downing

Beacon Journal

The wetlands in southern Wayne County will be alive with migrating waterfowl and songbirds when Shreve hosts the fifth annual Shreve Migration Sensation from 7 a.m. to 4 p.m. Saturday.

The activities include speakers from 8:30 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. at Shreve Elementary School, 598 N. Market St. (state Route 226).

There will be self-guided birding tours from 8 a.m. to noon to nearby 5,492-acre Killbuck Marsh, 228-acre Shreve Lake and 1,154-acre Funk Bottoms wildlife areas.

The three state wildlife areas are part of Ohio's largest inland wetland on the border between Wayne, Holmes and Ashland counties.

You will likely see lots of migrating waterfowl and perhaps sandhill cranes and bald eagles, and the event is designed to appeal from beginner to expert birders.

Stop by the school and get a map and directions to the wetland sites, where experts from the Ohio Division of Wildlife will be stationed and spotting scopes will be set up for visitors to use. You can bring your own binoculars or spotting scopes, if you prefer.

The biggest crowds are usually drawn to the bald eagle nesting site in the Killbuck Marsh. It is off Force Road east of Cemetery Road in Franklin Township.

The schedule of speakers is:

• 8:30 a.m. -- Prairie Plants by Randy Carmel, a science teacher at Wooster High School.

• 9:30 a.m. -- Ohio River Otters: An Amazing Success Story by Chris Dwyer of the Ohio Division of Wildlife.

• 10:30 a.m. -- Butterflies by Roger Downer, a researcher at the Ohio Agricultural Research and Development Center at Wooster.

• 12:30 p.m. -- Waterfowl by Jim McCormac of the Ohio Division of Wildlife and author of Birds of Ohio.

• 1:30 p.m. -- The Peregrine Falcon: Nature's Most Efficient Flying Machine by Chad and Chris Saladin of Lorain, who monitor nesting peregrine falcons in the Cleveland area.

• 2:30 p.m. -- Ohio Bats by Merrill Tawse of the Richland County Park District.

For youngsters, Tom Roig of Shreve will present a program on sled dog racing for youngsters and Laura Jordan of the Medina Raptor Center will be on hand with hawks and owls.

The program is being sponsored by the Friends of the Killbuck Marsh, a grass-roots nonprofit group; the Shreve Business & Community Association; and the Ohio Division of Wildlife.

The fee is $10 a person or $15 a family.

For more information, call 800-821-0456 or 800-362-6474. You can also check out the Internet site www.shreveohio.com.

Fits from Blogger

While I have been getting fits from Blogger, yesterday's April Fool's joke was NOT one of them. :-) I'm glad so many of you enjoyed my little prank. For those of you who weren't very persistent and never did "get it," shame on you. ;-)

When the going gets good, the bloggin' gets...gone? I don't know, something like that. Things have been busy here in o-HI-o but in a GOOD way, so I haven't been blogging like I want to. Instead of giving you a rundown of what I've been doing lately, I'm actually going to take advantage of the whole bloggin' date thingy and enter the posts as if I actually did them on time. So, if you're a regular blogreader and you're interested in reading the goings-on of Thicket Dweller's past week or so, you'll have to go back to the old stuff to read the new stuff. ;-)

So, read on! Or...um...read back. Or whatever.

It was a JOKE, folks. ;-)

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NEW POST: All Grown Up.

I think I'm officially getting old.

I was at the city offices this morning to pay my real estate taxes and noticed that the license bureau is in the same building. Since my birthday's in ten days, and my driver's license will expire then, I figured I'd save myself the hassle and just get it renewed while I was there.

Even though I hadn't showered.

Or done my hair.

Or in any way prepared to have my photo taken.

A photo that will stay with me for the next four years, that I will keep for identification purposes, that I will show to complete strangers in the checkout line of the local grocer's or The Gap.

But I knew that if I didn't get it done while I was there, my whole procrastination thing will kick in the minute I leave the parking lot and I won't renew my license until August, and all of the cashiers will say, "Do you know your license is expired?" And I'll say, innocently, "Oh, is it?"

So I did it. I renewed my driver's license even though I wasn't even remotely ready. I didn't even look in a mirror before I had my photo taken! There was a time when I wouldn't have even left the HOUSE looking like I did! But I was there, I seized the moment, and I did it. I chose maturity and responsibility over vanity.

And, boy, am I ever sorry I did.

NEW POST: "I Forgot"

If there were two words I would eliminate from the human language, they would undoubtedly be, "I forgot."

I suppose eliminating the words themselves wouldn't be good enough. I'd have to see that the entire concept of "I forgot," be eliminated.

"I forgot," is the bane of every mother's existence, the dreaded words a blow to every married woman's ego. It's the very thing that causes educators, librarians, baseball coaches, employers and friends to go completely and totally mad.

Yesterday was the epitome of forgetfulness in my household. A theme ran through my home like a river of molten lava, like a swarm of grasshoppers descending upon a field of ripening wheat.

"Did you do your chores?"

"I forgot...."

"Did you take out the trash?"

"I forgot...."

"Are you coming to the class tomorrow?"

"Oh! I forgot!"

"Where are the library books?"

"Uh...I can't remember."

"Did anyone call while I was gone?"

"I'm...not sure..."

This day of forgetfulness precedes, of course, tomorrow, a day for which I am attempting to prepare for the first of hopefully many community education classes geared towards home learners. We're working towards that very first class, a beginners' art class to be taught by amazing artist Fred Del Guidice. This class will be the culmination of years of prayer and I'm fairly certain that Satan intends to defeat it by tossing seeds of forgetfulness into some of my family members' brains. Unfortunately, those who have weeded out those ugly seedlings have to bear the weight of the work for those who haven't. And, believe me, it doesn't make us very happy.

I had just about gone out of my mind today handing out reminders to make beds, get dressed, do chores, etc. when the time rolled around to prepare to leave for Creative Writing Class, a course that Bard and I have been taking from a local writing for about four weeks now and which both of us thoroughly enjoy.

"Get ready, kids," I announced. I'd worked out a schedule with Bo two weeks before. He would take the younger kids to their science class at the library, drop Bard and I at our Creative Writing class, wait for Monet and Sweetheart at the library, then waste time at McD's until Bard and I were finished. I'd gone over the plan repeatedly. Last Tuesday, I'd reminded him several times.

"Home by six, right?"

"Right."

At 6:15 last Tuesday evening, I knew it wasn't going to happen.

This week, I reminded him again, though I thought the previous week's nasty taste was still lingering in his mouth enough that he'd not DARE forget. After a day full of "I forgot," I felt it was best to just call one more time. Just a reminder. The phone rang. No answer. Voicemail. Half an hour later, I tried again. Voicemail. Finally, at 5;15, I heard Bo's voice on the other end. I knew he'd had to have left by now to arrive home in time, since it's a one hour and fifteen minute commute. Yet I heard no road noise in the background.

"Ummm...whatcha doin'?" I asked hopefully.

"Working up an estimate," he replied.

"Where are you?" Hope was still clinging on by a fragile thread.

"Uh....where else would I be if I were working up an estimate?"

That was just the answer I did NOT want to hear. He was in the office. An hour and a half away.

"I was supposed to be home by six? Uh...I guess I forgot."

I'm surprised the telephone survived such an impact.

After the initial wailing and gnashing of teeth, I forced myself into problem-solving mode, quickly herded the kids into The Beast that is our Dodge van and headed down the road. Deposited kids and Grandpa at the library, dispatched husband to library to pick up kids, headed to creative writing class with Bard.

As drove down the main street towards our meeting spot, an artists' co-op and gallery I turned to my daughter and voiced my frustration.

"I swear," I told Bard, "if one more person says 'I forgot' today, I'm going to start chopping off fingers."

We parked The Beast and headed towards the gallery. As we approached, I noticed our Creative Writing instructor sitting on the steps in front of the shop.

She'd forgotten her keys to the shop.

A Thought for Terri Schiavo

Tonight my husband reminded me that a local woman was recently arrested because she was neglecting her parakeets. The conditions under which the parakeets were living were considered cruel and inhumane. Yet there currently roars a legal battle over the life of a human being--a human being that is currently starving to death at the hand of her government.

To Terri and her family, I offer these words:

"So do not be afraid of them. There is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, or hidden that will not be made known. What I tell you in the dark, speak in the daylight; what is whispered in your ear, proclaim from the roofs. Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather, be afraid of the One who can destroy both soul and body in hell. Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows."

My prayers are with you tonight.

::: it's that ol' black magic :::

As part of my goal to do 101 specific things within 1,001 days, I investigated the possibility of my 13-year-old son, Houdin, performing magic tricks at one of the local care centers. For Houdin, magic tricks, illusions, sleight of hand, prestidigitation--these are things that give him a bit of an ego boost. They make his mind work. They get him the attention he loves so much. Because Houdin has very little fear of standing in front of a group of people he doesn't even know and asking them for money, or experimenting with a new trick, I felt that the challenge of performing for residents of a care center or nursing home would be a good thing for him. I asked him about it. He was up for it. I made the calls.

Within a week, we were preparing for Houdin's first performance at the care center. He'd been biking to the local bakery several times a week busking for bucks while showing tourists his tricks. Some days, he'd come home with over $20.00. He was no stranger to performance. This would just be a different setting.

I'll tell you this, in case you haven't been reading my blog for long. Houdin is a pseudonym taken from the name of a famous magician, Robert Houdin, the man from whom Houdini based his stage name. Houdin and I butt heads. He's stubborn. I'm stubborn. He wants to sit around all day and be a boy, burping and making fun of his siblings and farting. I want him to work hard at being a man. He doesn't know the value of a dollar. I want him to learn it. It's a bit of a battle. No. Let me rephrase that. It's a constant battle.

So you're probably wondering why I would get this child--this child who would very quickly be diagnosed with an attention deficit disorder and medicated if he were in public school--involved in a project that took preparation and forethought. If you're not wondering that, I can assure you that I am.

We have appointments every two weeks on Thursdays to put on a half-hour to forty-five minute show for the residents of the care center. About a week before each event, I tell Houdin to start preparing for his upcoming show. About four days before each event, I ask him if he's prepared yet. "No," he says. No promise to prepare. Mini-lecture from me. Exasperated okays from him.

About two days before the event, I ask him if he's prepared yet. "No," he says, defensively. A bit of a bigger lecture from me. More greatly exasperated okays from him.

But no action.

The day of the event, I remind him that he will be leaving at a specific time to go to the care center, and I remind him to get his things together, to put together a routine, to make sure he has clean clothes and to be sure that all of his tricks work.

Fifteen minutes before the event...do I even have to write it? It's so painfully obvious what we go through.

Once we're in the car, I have to send him back into the house to change his pants or to wear the shoes that actually have toes in them or to get his magic tricks. The whole way to the care center, we're frustrated with each other and I'm nervous about his performance.

Today was no exception.

We were in even more of a rush today because of piano practice, so I made sure to remind Houdin what day it was (he often asks what day it is and doesn't seem to care from one day to the next) and what our schedule would be like. Today, in a rush, we left for the care center, but not until I had sent Houdin back into the house twice--once for a change of pants and once for a change of shoes. He has nice new dress shoes. He just seemed to think that the ones the dog had chewed to pieces were a better choice. Or maybe--and this is more likely--he just didn't think.

I did NOT want to go. I knew Houdin was unprepared. I figured he didn't have most of his tricks, and I was sure he was going to do several tricks that these residents had seen before.

We arrived at the care center to find many of the residents already assembled in the dining hall where Houdin gives his show. As he began to pull his tricks from his black and silver magic bag, it was clear that I'd been right. Several of the tricks were broken. A couple were missing pieces.

He was totally and completely unprepared.

I don't know...maybe the Lord is trying to show me something. Maybe He's trying to teach me patience or teach me that I can't be in control all the time or something. But I'm not getting it. All I'm getting is that I very much wanted to have a son that could learn, could be a gentleman, could rival any boyscout in the whole being prepared category. Instead, I have a son who can't remember how to spell his middle name. I'm totally serious.

I really hesitate in writing about this. It's a source of constant struggle for me, this relationship with this son of mine. I keep waiting for the light to go on in his head, for the whole thing to click, for the motivation to kick in, but it just...it just doesn't. And it drives me mad.

So, here we are, standing in the dining room of the care center, these dozens of expectant faces staring back at us, and Houdin's asking me which trick he should do. There really aren't that many from which to choose. He has a deck of cards, but only one table at a time can see those. He has his cups and balls trick, but one of the cups, less than three weeks old, is already broken. And he forgot the balls. He could do his trick where he blows bubbles and then catches one in mid-air and passes it around the room--a solid ball. But he doesn't have any bubbles in the bottle. He could do the color cube, but he broke the cube. He could do the stiff rope trick, but he broke the rope. In the end, he has only about five tricks he can do. Five little tricks. Dozens of expectant faces. Thirty to forty-five minutes.

I watch him struggle through a few tricks, drop a few bombs, and I see a few blank faces. I can't stand it. I can't stand seeing my son fail, and I can't stand seeing the residents' confusion when a trick goes wrong.

I, being the magical mom, pull a few things out of my hat. We'll do "black magic," I decide, where I send Houdin out of the room and we, the people in the room, choose an object. When he returns, he uses his brilliant mind-reading ability to detect the object. I ask him about several objects in the room. "Is it this one?" I ask. No. "This one?" No. "This one?" Yep. The crowd oohs and aahs. They're impressed. We do it again. This time, with no words. The residents are awed. We're working together. We're making happen. It's working because we were prepared. I wish I could get this into my son's head. Just be prepared, Houdin. Then there will be no blank stares, no embarrassment. no disappointment. I tried to explain this to Houdin over lunch. He just rolled his eyes.

When my husband Bo came home, I told him the tired old story.

"It's simple," Bo said. "Don't take him anymore."

"Bo, I can't DO that."

"You can. See this?" He pointed to the dates on the white board calendar where I have the care center appointments written in dry-erase marker. With one finger, he erased the words "care center."

"Don't take him anymore," he said. "Don't talk to him about it. Don't remind him about it. Don't say a word. After a while, he'll say, 'Why don't we go to the care center anymore?' Tell him that if he wants to do it, he'll have to prepare, make the call and make the arrangements to get there. Tell him you'll drive him, but he has to make the plan."

"It won't happen," I told him. In my mind, I could see it all falling away. I could see Houdin spending his summer sitting around watching the Marx Brothers or playing with army soldiers.

But even more, I could see the residents. I see Bob, who has very little control over his arms and legs, and I see him reach out his hand to pick a card and smile when Houdin shows him that card at the end of the trick. I see Kyle, the young basketball player who was the cream of the crop, rendered quadrapalegic after a horrible car accident that caught the community's attention and propelled them into prayer. I can still see the look on Kyle's smiling face today while we played Black Magic, hear his broken, struggling words as he called my son's name and said, "You...you...did...a...seriously...good...job. I...I...I...like...this...game. I...like...this...game."

I can't let Kyle down. I can't let those residents--gathered in the dining room with ice cream dripping off of their chins, their childlike, expectant faces staring, waiting--I just can't let them down. They love to see Houdin walk through the door. Even with his broken tricks and missing pieces and slurred speech and ripped jeans and forgotten routine. They love him.

Maybe that's all that matters. Maybe that's all it takes. I don't know. Maybe he really doesn't need to be as prepared as I'd like. Maybe I should just let it go, let that willingness to show up and perform be enough. It seems to be enough for Houdin. It seems to be enough for Kyle.

Maybe it should be enough for me, too.

What do you think?

"Where have you BEEN?"

life has been so full, that i haven't taken the time to blog. of course, i kick myself for this, because when life is full, that's when the most interesting and blog-worthy things are happening!
~Carrie from A Day in the Life of...

"Where you been? I mean, you didn't come back with a tan or anything..." ~Paraphrase of David Wilcox's Spin.

You've heard it before. Someone you love hasn't seen you for a while. Suddenly, there you are, standing face to face with each other in the grocery store near the Noxema and Sea Breeze. You exchange gasps and one of you shouts, "Oh my gosh! What are you doing here? Where have you BEEN?"

And you think about it. Hmm. Where HAVE I been? So much has been going on. But you know, you say, I just can't put my finger on any one thing right now!

So here we are, you and I, standing in the Health and Beauty aisle of the local Piggly Wiggly and you're asking me, "Where have you BEEN?"

And I'm thinking about it.

The truth is, I've been all over the place, physically AND mentally. I mean, is it just me or do essays come in floods and droughts? Like now, I've got about a gazillion topics flooding my brain and can't possibly take the time to sit down and write them all. Plus, people only read the top entry in a blog anyway. Don't lie to me to make me feel better. I know it's true. I have stats, ya know.

So I kinda try to keep it down to one blog entry a day. Kinda. On some days, I'm thinkin' that writing's a bit like manna. I should take it while it's there and don't even THINK about storing it up.

But other days, like today, I'm thinking I should take more of the boy scout tack and be prepared. Write down all those essays and thoughts that are rattling around in my head. Save 'em for a rainy day. Or a writing drought. 'Cause sure's shootin' there will come a day when I sit in front of this transistorized tormentor and the computer in my head will flash nothin' but a great big cursor. Then, if I were a good boy scout, I'd have a ready-made essay, all set to cut-n-paste into the "compose" field and we'd all be happy.

Somehow, though, I feel like that's cheating. So I just don't do it.

Meanwhile, your feet are probably getting tired, and you're getting a bit weary of standing in the Health and Beauty aisle, so I start to rattle out loud instead of just in my head.

"Well, hmmm. Where have I been? Okay. Lessee. When did I see you last? Ah! That's right! The last time we talked, I was telling you how I met with The Happy Housewife who tried to teach my how to sew, but my sewing machine wouldn't work! I kinda lost my tail wind after that, I suppose. We haven't talked much since then. Or have we talked at all? No? Wow. I can't believe how time flies.

"Okay. Huh. Lessee. Oh! I know! We went on a field trip! Did I tell you about the field trip? It's been so long, I can barely remember. I'll have to show you the pictures. We went to the NASA Glenn Research Center in...what's that? Oh, I told you about that? Sorry.

"OH YEAH! Now I remember! Here's where I've been!"

And then I list all the stuff I've been doing. Like:

"I went to this homeschool support group meeting with Blue (Pensive Wanderer) where they were having an arts and science fair. I was mortified to see that at least a half-dozen of the displays had major misspellings and misuses of apostrophes, like in 'Question's and Answer's.' Maybe I'm just hypersensitive after reading the first half of Eats, Shoots and Leaves." And then I think about that for a minute.

"Nah," I say. "I really was just mortified by that."

And then I go on. You smile politely.

"I've been working on a course on baking for Bard. It's based on a book by Lora Brody called Basic Baking. I'm just kinda cutting the book into readable chunks and giving her a notebook full of questions based on the reading material. It's really a great book. The copy I'm currently using is from the library, but I just found one on eBay for $4.00. It really does go through the basics of baking and then takes the reader through a series of baking categories, like bar cookies, quick breads and coffeecakes, cookies, cakes, pies, etc., explaining what can go wrong and how to correct the problems.

"I've also been working on applying the things I've learned in Home Comforts by Cheryl Mendelson. I can't believe how much I didn't know before I started reading this book! In addition to creating a series of weekly duties for each child in our family, I've been applying some of the principles and methods presented in Mendelson's book. It has made a big difference, though I still feel as though I spend a good portion of my day cleaning." You offer some sympathetic wisdom, and I agree.

And even though you're a good friend, by this time, you're kind of glancing longingly at the toothpaste, wishing you could just go on with your shopping and get out of the Piggly Wiggly. But, hey, you asked. Right?

"I've been doing a lot of driving, too. The Amish don't drive motor vehicles, but they don't mind paying someone else to do it for them. Did you know that? So, I've set myself for hire to earn money for my daughter's trip. Did I tell you that she's going to China in June? I didn't? Well, she is. She's going with her choir, and we have to raise about another $1,200 before she can go. She's cleaning and babysitting and I'm driving neighbors to the store, the doctor, church, where ever. It's pretty fun. I get to know my neighbors, help them out a bit, plus I get to earn money for Bard's trip. Yeah, I think so, too.

"Houdin, he's my thirteen year old...what's that? Yeah, he's thirteen already. He'll be fourteen in June. Yeah, growin' like a weed. Anyway, he and I have been butting heads like you can't believe. Today he dragged his feet doing his chores and just couldn't get his attitude straightened out, so he missed out on going on a field trip. Where'd we go? Oh. Um...it was called MAPS. Stands for Military Aviations Preservation Society. Or something like that. I think.

"Anyway, it was interesting. It fell in line with the stuff we've been learning about Neil Armstrong and other aviation-type stuff. But because of Houdin's bad attitude, he missed out. I wish I could get on the same level with that boy. Please pray for me, will you? Thanks. "

And because you're a good friend, I know you will.

"Hey, I should be letting you go. I didn't mean to keep you this long. Aw, man. I'm sorry...aw, man! Your ice cream's melting all over the floor! Here, lemme get you a new one. No? Okay. Sorry. "

And I'd still be thinking of things I'd like to tell you, because we're friends and I know you're interested, though maybe not right now. And even though my mind has started to recall all kinds of things I want to tell you, I wouldn't say any more about me. I'd just think it. I'd think about my creative writing classes and the kids' piano lessons and how I really want to make it to the music store I heard about to see if I can learn to play banjo or mandolin, and I want to tell you about the art classes I have coming up and how perturbed I am that someone cancelled out on me at the last minute and how thrilled I am that someone else just signed up. But I don't tell you about all that.

And I don't tell you about the argument I had with my husband for coming home too late to get to tonight's library program or how I think I've gained ten pounds but don't know why. I don't tell you about how I taught myself to make mitered corners on my bedsheets or how I've started airing my bedroom out every morning because Cheryl Mendelson says it kills dust mites and freshens a stale room. If I told you all that, it would be too much information.

So instead we exchange promises to get together soon, and we say it's been too long, and we musn't let it go this long again. I tell you that I have this idea for a mother-daughter book club and another idea for a homeschooler's baking class based on the lessons I'm working up for my daughter. And maybe you'd like to come? You'd probably nod politely, because that's the kind of person you are. That's why we're such good friends, even though I'm one poor correspondent. You're just so patient with me. That's why I like you.

And then I remember what a heel I truly am. "I'm so sorry," I say. "I spent so much time talking about me that I forgot to ask you how you've been doing. Maybe the next time," I say.

And there is a next time. And I look at you and gasp and say, "Oh my gosh! Where have you been?"

And you tell me...

SparkNotes: Today's Most Popular Study Guides

I mentioned SparkNotes: Today's Most Popular Study Guides in a recent post. Looks like an interesting site.