My Son the Budding Vegetarian

William has eaten his share of chicken tenders with "fry-fries", his standard meal at any restaurant that has them on the kids' menu, and most do. In fact, he had them today at an Irish restaurant, though the breading was thick and crunchy enough to disguise that it was meat at all.

Lately, he's been analyzing and questioning the source of his food. Perhaps he's heard that spinach can kill? No, he's been asking about meat. Recently, he turned down steak, nicely grilled and seasoned, after we told him in response to his inquiry, that the meat came from a cow. I don't go into detail with the kids when young, but neither do I lie. Someone killed the cow and now, we are going to eat it. Except for William. He refused to eat the cow.

That brings us to this evening. I made fried chicken for dinner. William is eating shredded cheese. He won't eat the chicken after I answered his questions:

Me: It didn't come from one of our chickens. It was a chicken raised for meat.
W: It didn't have a head or feet?
Me: (internal laugh) No, it no longer has a head or feet.
W: Someone cut it's head off?
(I am smelling the wonderful smell of fried chicken and not enjoying thinking about this.)
Me: Yes, someone did.
W: How'd they get all the blood out?
Me: It comes out when they cut off it's head.
W: I'm not eating it.
Me: I'm not asking you to, but it's what you had for lunch.
W: No, that was a different type of chicken. Not real chicken.

As we sat eating our meal, he reached over for one piece. "Welllllllllllll......I guess I'll try one piece." He actually tried two small bites, but his face frowned in ethical objection. He spit it out in a gross gesture to the floor where the dogs waited in eager anticipation of pre-chewed food. Wm ate no more chicken.

Having hand-raised chickens and sat with them eye-to-eye, laughed at them and called them by name, Wm is giving up chicken he says. Will it last? Or is it just MY chicken?

My girls, having had their carnivorous habits firmly established before we had any chickens, have considered the option of vegetarianism, having several friends who are, for various reasons. But both say that though they'd like to be in a way, they like meat too much to give it up. They can, and did recently, devour a whole 2 pounds made into beef jerky in one day.

Wm will still eat meat that he's not recognized yet as having come from an animal. For example, he ate Polish kielbasa yesterday and loved it. Speaking of chickens, it's dark, and I must go shut their cages before something does eat them.

Alien

Now that I've written, recorded and gotten y'all softened up with my platitudes about the wonders of having a four year old, let me tell you about the other side of the coin. Today, it is raining, meaning no playing outside in the limestone sand mountain that is waiting outside our new barn for use in the stalls and around the barn. My mom and husband are coming, Lauren has piano later today, dh is working until late each evening, tomorrow is his company picnic and when we return, dh's father and brother are coming to spend the evening. Most likely, I'll be meeting my dad and brother for lunch on Monday about an hour from home. A busy schedule, but a happy one, surrounded by family for my birthday coming up on Sunday.

Four year olds, however, sense that you have a lot going on somehow, a radar for non-attention by the Mommy. The image that comes to mind is in some movie who's title I've forgotten (is it Alien?) when the octopus-like creature jumps out at the human and is attached to the human's face so that he can't breathe. Today, if Wm. could attach himself to my face, he would. He can't seem to get enough attention or holding. Now, you are probably wondering how I'm typing this? Well, as I type, he is climbing in my lap. He says:

"I love you so much, Mommy. I love you so much I want to be with you."

I guess everything else can wait, eh?

Mis-Communication

Dh watched Wm while I drove the girls to band practice. When I returned home, he told me that Wm had told him that his best friend's dad had died.

No, I replied, he's alive and well. Aiden's grandpa died. The boys had been in the backseat of the car, and I'd heard the following conversation.

W: There's a dead squirrel.
A: My paw-paw died.
W: He did? Why'd he die?
A: He was old and sick.
W: Do you miss him?
A: Yes, but it's okay.
W: I miss Juno (our dog that died).
A: (Nods)

So, Wm. thinking paw-paw meant papa reported that the father, not grandfather died. Dh, somewhat shocked but disbelieving (because surely I would have told him immediately), asked if Aiden were crying, if Aiden's mommy was crying.

"No," Wm reported.
"Weren't they sad?" Dh continued to try to correct the story.
"No, it's okay," Wm answered.

After I explained that the grandpa had died, Dh asked if they were going out of town, would I watch their animals. Well, the grandpa died several months ago (which I had told dh at the time), so no, I wasn't.

Glad to report that Rod is in excellent health.

Communication

Men don't converse the way women do. I'll give you an example. My next door neighbor put his house up for sale. About a month later, the for sale sign disappeared. My husband and the neighbor met over the fence and dh asked if he was staying, and the neighbor replied that yes, they were not moving.

If you are a woman and your dh just told you this, your first question would be "why"? If you had been talking to the neighbor, you would have found some easy, not-too-nosey way to say, "oh? did you change your mind?" and that would open the door to more conversation in which you would satisfy your curiosity.

Returning inside, I asked dh why the neighbor wasn't moving. "I don't know, I didn't ask him. I don't really care."

I guess it's a guy thing. Now, I'll never know.

Conversations with William

We were driving home from the recycle center and passed an old building next to the railroad tracks. The building houses a junk shop that rivals Sanford & Sons. The following conversation occurred on the way home with my four-year old.

Wm: What's that place there?
Me: They sell stuff.
Wm: Stuff?
Me: Yeah, junk people don't want anymore.
(I hear him in the back seat whispering: stuff-junk, stuff-junk)
Wm: I thought you said "skunk".
Me: No, stuff, junk.
Wm: You know if you take a rifle and point it at your neck and pull the trigger, you'll die.
Me: Uh, yes.
Wm: Do people eat skunks? (We're back to the skunks.)
Me: No.
Wm: Why not?
Me: Well, the meat is probably not good, and skunks stink.
Wm: You could shoot it with a rifle.
Me: Yes, but the skunk would still stink.
Wm: You could put confume (perfume) on it.
Me: You could.
Wm: You could shoot a deer or a skunk with a rifle.
Me: Yes, but why would you want to shoot the deer?
Wm: Maybe if someone was hungry. They could eat it.
Me: (bleeding heart animal lover) Won't the deer's mommy be sad?
Wm: (future hunter?) She's probably already dead from someone shooting a rifle. You could shoot either a deer or a skunk with a rifle, couldn't you?

He nods his head knowingly, confident we've completed this train of though which all started at a junk shop.

Foaming at the Mouth

I saw this on one of my email lists, from Louise in Israel:

While you're at it, you can do the wild-animals-foaming-at-the-mouth "trick"- it's the old volcano using baking soda and vinegar, except that you mix together baking soda, citric acid (powder) and powdered sugar (to make it a bit palatable). Add a tiny bit of food colouring and put a teaspoon of it inthe mouth. The saliva in the mouth causes the reaction, and of course youdon't want to swallow this (not that it'll harm you if you do however), soyou just foam at the mouth, in whatever colour you chose. Messy, but fun.

So, being the total fool that I am, I tried it:

Thank you to my friend Christine for being willing to photograph my more glamourous moments. (Anyone have Katie Couric's Photoshop editor to work on my facial lines?)

And my adventurous Lauren also tried it:

I'm not quite sure what learning we accomplished, but we did have fun.

Global Warming

I grew up in the space age. I am just old enough to remember my father getting me out of bed to watch the “giant leap for mankind”. As a teen, I gazed at the stars with a telescope and still wonder what’s out there. I’ve cheered the space shuttle, and agonized over the disasters. I’ve wondered what’s beyond what I can see with a naked eye.

Yet, in today’s world, I cannot help but wonder what we are doing spending billions and billions going back into space. The Europeans are heading to the moon again. We are hoping to put humans on Mars.

There is much news about global warming, but very little news about what they’re doing about it. Alaska is melting, “which may be triggering a self-perpetuating climate time bomb”, Greenland is dumping fresh water into the ocean which may cause Europe to cool, and any day, you can drive to the nearest big city and see a dirty, brown cloud over it.

Yah know what I think? I think the people in power, those with money, those in Congress, are planning to leave. Yup, and though I’m fit for space flight, (Are you? Take a quiz.) I haven’t the more than 20 million dollars it takes to book a berth, like this woman. And do you think they’ll take us peons? No, you’ll have to pay for a spot. The scientists and politicians, they know this planet is doomed, and they’re planning to colonize somewhere else, only they’re not saying, and they’re not taking you!

So here’s my plan. Let’s take all the billions of dollars they are spending on the space station and space programs, and use the money on alternate energy programs. We can start with the government buildings. They sure use a lot of hot air. We could install solar panels on the houses of lower income people, so they can use money spent on utilities for more interesting things, like food. We could build light rail systems. Now there’s a novel idea. We could actually move away from dependence on oil!

Let’s take some of those billions and feed the starving babies I see in the news, give medicine to the AIDS victims, who leave those babies orphaned. Let’s use some to give people clean drinking water. Let’s use it to save what we have now, instead of trying to find a way out.

Immigration

My father said he is tired of having to press “1” to hear an automated system in English. And so opened the door to the topic of illegal immigration. He didn’t disagree with a local politician who promises that, if given my vote, he’ll see that a wall is built along our border to stem the flow of people sneaking over in the night.

And whom, I asked him, do you think will build that wall? The Mexicans, of course. No one else would work for low wages in the hot Texas climate doing thankless work. And did he think that the builders wouldn’t know every inch of it and tell their friends the best place to cross over?

Does he think a wall will stop them? An image flashes of National Guardsmen atop the wall with vats of boiling oil. These people are willing to cross the ocean in a boat made for half the number of people on it to get to our shores. They are willing to risk death in the back of a hot truck. Come to think of it, when did a wall stop anyone? The Appalachian, and later Rocky Mountains, natural walls, did not stem the flow of white settlers into Native American territory even at the risk of a deadly attack.

No, the wall is a breadcrumb thrown from our politicians’ tables to appease us, make us think they have a plan. At the same time, their gardens and houses are kept by Hispanic people. They clean our barns and build our fences. They become part of our community.

Until and unless we admit our need for such workers, and try to become part of a solution to the problem that makes them leave their own part of the world to support their families, they will come.

Dad thinks they’ll take over “the world”, his world. And maybe they will. Maybe, hundreds of years from now, everyone in this part of the world will speak Spanish, just as hundreds of years prior, no one spoke English here. In the meantime, I’ll try to learn a few Spanish words and bring a smile to the face of someone far from home.

On Being a Boy and Four

Someone wrote in an email that they thought four year olds were the most difficult stage. Myself, I love four. Four is wonderful. Okay, I have my moments when I have to do a sanity check but let me list a few things:

A four year old is old enough to do things for himself, yet young enough to still need you.
Four is old enough to play independently, but love still to sit in your lap.
A four year old can communicate well, but still has a few baby words to cherish, like maz-a-gine (magazine), to make you laugh.
A four year old (without a cast) is old enough to walk, but young enough to pick up. Nothing feels like the warm, loving hand on the back of your neck while you hold him.
A four year old can go to the bathroom by himself, but is young enough to still go in the Women's restroom where you can see him.
A four year old can (almost) sleep through the night, but is young enough to still sometimes fall asleep in your arms.
A four year old can dress himself, but isn't old enough to know that orange pants with a purple turtle shirt isn't cool.
A four year old is old enough to not cry when they cut off his cast, but young enough to stir your sympathy when he shakes like a leaf.
A four year old likes to sit in your lap while you read, and can laugh at the book. He's not old enough that you worry yet about how well he is learning to read.
A four year old is still young enough to enjoy finding a cool worm, but old enough not to eat it.

And yes, there are moments when he asserts his grown up self that we all grrrrrrrrrr through our teeth. Still, I see our four year old slipping away into a five year old. It won't be long now and it won't be cool to be your mama's boy. Cherish the days.

Note: William did indeed have his cast removed today. The bone is healing well. He trembled as they removed it, but did not cry. He laughs that it feels funny, and says he can walk now, but has to go slowly. It'll take a few weeks. And, he's shedding his skin (yuck!).

Barn Raising

The Amish don't do things the way ordinary Kentuckians do. A good old boy would tell you he'll be there on Friday, not show up until Tuesday with only an explanation that he had to go fishin'. Here's what the Amish, who we weren't expecting at all until the end of September, accomplished in one day using regular hammers, no power tools:


Notice Chicken Lickin' in the foreground with her three babies.

Archaeology

Yesterday, we spent the day at Riverside, the home of the Farnselys and Moremans in the 1800s. Once the largest farm around, slaves built the brick home from clay found there on the Ohio River. The kids got to actually dig at the site, tour the home, and make their own bricks. Here's William in front of the house:

I was struck by the quietness of the inside of the house. No refrigerator, no electricity. The first man who lived there ran a bed and breakfast. He'd built the house for his sweetheart, but it took so long that she was engaged already when he went to ask for her hand, and he never married. The second family had eleven children, all homeschooled. There is something about the time period that calls to me, although most likely I'd have been a servant or slave!

Here are the kids on the back lawn with the Ohio River in the background:

And here's Wm's first job as an archaeologist:

Chicken Bowling

My friend, Christine, gave me a container of grapes that had seen better days for my chickens. They love just about any fruit or vegetable. William and I sat on the driveway and rolled the grapes, laughing to watch the chickens run after them. Sometimes, the grapes would roll between their legs, and they'd look around confused. Where did it go? Then, they'd turn around and start running. Like little children, they'd fight over every grape even though there was plenty.

We saved some for the next day, and while out bowling for chickens, they all suddenly lost their appetite. At first, I thought the presence of the dogs was bothering them, until a shadow crossed the driveway. Looking up, I saw a red-tailed hawk, trailed by a turkey vulture, both looking for dinner. Minutes later, the hawk was joined by five of his friends, circling our backyard. What am I - the Colonel? We are not serving KFC here.

Dh wondered if we could put fake beaks on the Chins (very small dogs) and pass them off as chickens. The kids would really appreciate seeing their pets being flown off by large birds. Hawks are beautiful and facinating, but from the point of view of a chicken, terrifying. It must make their blood run cold. I wonder if they'll be back?

Notes

Lauren is home, and trying to recover from jet-lag. All went well with her trip, and she reveals a new story each day about the food they ate, the people they met, and of course, the horses they rode. Here she is with friends in front of Notre Dame. Lauren is on the far left.

William reports that he cannot possibly eat his dinner, as his belly is full, but there is room for one doughnut. Two more days until his cast comes off!! Yeah!! He is nervous about having it removed given his history with cutting implements.

Tomorrow, we'll be going on an archaeological dig at the Farnsley-Moreman Landing.

Forgotten

"If you would not be forgotten as soon as you are dead..., either write things worth reading or do things worth the writing."
~Benjamin Franklin

Metacognition

My new word for the day: metacognition. That is, if it is a word, as I don’t find it in my Webster’s Dictionary. I got this out of our county newspaper this week. A well-meaning teacher wrote about how to teach children to read. In a quarter page article, she at length described metacognition as the key to teaching children to read. That is, children must be taught to think about one's reading while reading. During and after reading, teachers will get the kids to work through the process of reading by letting them ask questions and by modeling how to ask questions. Even the thought of sitting through this makes my eyes glaze over.

Contrast this with David Albert in Homeschooling and the Voyage of Self-Discovery: A Journey of Original Seeking in which he writes:

“Let me let you in on a dirty little secret. All children, in a literate culture, learn to read. “

With the exceptions of children with developmental or learning disabilities, children in abusive situations or children in literature poor environments, all children will learn to read. Granted, they will learn at different ages, in different ways and for different reasons. Some children learn early, pleasing their parents with their genius. Others, at age ten, barely read and worry the adults around them until one day, they pick up high school level material that interests them and off they go!

How do I personally know this? William asked the other day for a "maz-a-gine" with just words to read while he ate his lunch. (At age four, he knows a few letters, and definitely cannot read in the traditional sense of the word.) He asked me to give him one without pictures. I tried a Highlights Magazine. No, it had drawings in it. Smithsonian? It has only a few photos. No, he wanted one that had just words.

I had to laugh. He’s seen his sisters sit and read as they ate their lunches, and was imitating them, looking at words that as yet had no meaning. But surrounded by books and maz-a-gines, he knows reading is a desirable and valued activity, even if he can only imitate it.

I am often asked how I got my girls to be such avid readers. I remember being laughed at for reading to Lauren while she was still so young that she could not sit up. And as they got older, anytime they wanted lap time, we read and read and read. I took crates of books from the library, which we visited weekly. They saw me read, they saw their dad read.

As David Albert says:

“Children cannot be taught to read; at best, we make it possible for them to learn to read (and that’s probably being charitable)”

And

“We do not have to train children to learn, or even account for their learning; all we have to do is avoid interfering with it.”

---

Links: Metacognition, What does thinking have to do with reading?, and finally, how to totally take the joy out of reading

Poor Old Pluto

If you have one of those table top models of the solar system, you can just crack Pluto right off. Perhaps you can use it as a paperweight or something. Too small to be of significance, Pluto is being mourned by all of us who, if we remember nothing else from our elementary years, can rattle off the nine planets. The International Astronomical Union (IAU) bills itself the 'internationally recognized authority for assigning designations to celestial bodies and any surface features on them'. And Pluto, cited by IAU for it's erratic behavior and small size, has been defrocked. Given my sometimes erratic behavior and small size, I wonder if I'm next?

I find it interesting that this has caused such a brew-ha-ha. Newsweek reported in it's September 4th issue that the opening of the Rose Center in 2000 with only eight planets depicted in their solar system exhibit resulted in "a flood of angry letters from second graders". Now, really, do you think that second graders initiated this protest? No, adults, reluctant to let go of the surety of the facts they were taught in school put them up to it. Knowing that what you know is exactly the truth is comforting, but not always the truth.

As a homeschooler, over the years one of the most prevalent of the many questions I'm asked about our lifestyle include "How do you know they're learning what they're supposed to?"
What they're supposed to learn decided by professional educators, not how they are to incorporate learning as a lifestyle. Education is often thought of something you attain, rather than something you live. Until we, as a culture learn to view education as a lifelong journey of discovery, rather than a list of Presidents and planets, our educational systems will fail to reach our greatest expectations.

Testing has become a big business, assuring parents that the children are being taught all the right things and how the school is doing. Even in Dr. Seuss' book Hooray for Diffendoofer Day, students shudder that they "must take a special test, To see who's learning such and such - To see what school's the best." Schools not doing well are sent to miserable Flobbertown. But Miss Bonkers assures the students:

You've learned the things you need
To pass that test and many more-
I'm certain you'll succeed.
We've taught you that the earth is round.
That red and white make pink,
And something else that matters more-
We've taught you how to think.

And of course, they lived happily ever after in Diffendoofer after passing the test and exceeding expectations. I can only feel sad, however, for all the Flubbertowners still memorizing the nine eight planets.

Seatbelts and Helmets

I had the pleasure of attending traffic school last night. Yeah, yeah, I did go last year, and it didn’t take. All I can say is that

1. The class was full
2. We were all innocent (overheard from conversations around me)
3. (Learned in class) Our county has government money to target motorists because of excessive fatalities (on the Interstate, which is NOT where I was pulled over). They’ve expanded this to catching anyone two feet over the change in speed limit.

The class wasn’t overly painful, except for the loss of my evening. The “professor” fancied himself a stand-up comic and liberally peppered his presentation with jokes on driving, marriage, and women. His sarcastic jokes on marriage might explain why at 60-ish, he’s never married. I sat unsmiling, the reluctant student, forced to class but unwilling to participate.

Yet, I did pick up a few useful tips and facts that I’ll share with you:

Seatbelts:
In KY, they can now pull you over for not wearing a seatbelt, and you’ll be fined for each person not wearing a belt in your car. You can, however, legally jump on the back of a motorcycle, no seatbelt, no helmet, and no leather clothing to protect your skin, and careen down the highway at 65 mph. Does this make sense?

Car seats:
In our fair state, children under 40 inches must be in a child safety seat. Good law. Saves lives. Yet, you can take a child, put it on a motorcycle, no helmet, and be perfectly legal. Make sense? You cannot put the child in a dog crate secured in the back of a pick-up truck. (Some deranged fool was pulled over for this. I’m glad to be duly warned.)

Buses:
Back to seatbelts, a woman angrily asked why her child’s bus had no seatbelts. The instructor, very tell-it-like-it-is, said that belts in a bus make it difficult to remove that number of children quickly from a vehicle, and you can’t count on the children being able to get the belt undone, due to injury or not knowing how. Therefore, no belts make it easier for rescuers to get them out, or for the children themselves to walk out. Self-releasing devises, such as are used in amusement park rides may not work if the vehicle is damaged, nor fit the variety of passengers. And, he added that if he did have children, they’d never see the inside of a school bus.

DUI
Though no one there could have been cited for DUI, as you must go to court, they spent a good deal of time on DUI or DWI. Did you know you can be arrested for DUI even if riding a bicycle or horse?


Good Tips:
Finally, here are a few tips I heard for the first time and thought ought to be sent on a postcard to every driver:

1. Car seat: Tape a paper to the back of the car seat with that child’s name, vital information and health insurance written on it. If in an accident you are both injured, that child will be sent to a Children’s Hospital while you are sent to a more general hospital.

2. If you have other children in the car not in a car seat, you should have the same information on paper on your visor, in the glove box or someplace easily noticed, maybe in an envelope marked “In Case of Emergency”.

3. You should have a pair of good scissors in your car for cutting the straps holding in the car seat for quick removal.

4. You should never remove the child from the car seat until medical personnel have examined the child.

5. You should never drive through our county going even a little over the speed limit.

War

I’m thinking of becoming a Quaker, maybe Amish, though I don’t think I could give up my computer or dh his blackberry. Okay, Quaker it is. Aren’t they pacifists? I want to have a clear history of pacifism long before my son (or for that matter, my daughters) is old enough to be drafted into the army. With a new war or threat every few months, I don’t see how drafts will be avoided in the future.

It’s not that I don’t support our troops, I do. But each and every face I see, killed in action, is a knife to the heart. Each and every man and woman once laid as a babe in the arms of a woman like me, loved intensely, hope filling a heart for the child’s future. Each life ended is the end of those possibilities cut short. I can hardly stand to watch the news, but I look at their faces and try to absorb the meaning of their sacrifice.

I’m having a hard time with these wars and their effectiveness. A email acquaintance living in Israel wrote: “Unless and until we/someone gets rid of the terrorists, or disarms them, then Israelis are not safe in Israel, Lebanese are not safe in Lebanon, and Americans are not safe in America....”

What scares me about this statement is that I feel, deep down, that this will never happen. It would seem that terrorism is here to stay. There will always be terrorists, whether it is a man shooting Jews in America, or terrorists in Lebanon, there will always be extremists. The difference will lie in how the world deals with those terrorists. As long as we deal with them country against country, rather than humans united against terrorists, there will be war.

I can hardly stand to read the paper or look at news magazines. Photojournalists bring to my home the photos of men and women holding their babies, their little boys and girls the same age as my William, heads bandaged, arms bleeding. Anguish fills the faces of the parents. And I think of my William, and the despair I would feel to not be able to protect him from falling bombs. …and the anger I’d feel at the bombers’ country for hurting my innocent child. I go to him and hug him, thankful that for now, he’s safe and wondering what I, just an ordinary mom, can do for those children not safe. And I wonder how to become a Quaker.

Lauren's Day

We heard from Lauren yesterday that all was well. After finding their hotel, she dined on French onion soup and a chocolate coconut crepe. They saw Sacre Coeur, rode the Metro, and at 11 p.m., were not feeling tired, since their bodies thought it was 5 p.m.

Today, they were to explore Paris, including the Louvre, Eiffel Tower and perhaps ride the Seine on the Bateaux Mouche. She also hoped to see Notre Dame. A very ambitious day indeed.

My Day
It poured down rain all morning, making morning chores very wet. Towards noon, however, it abated and we decided to go to the downtown library for a book Anna wanted, and to the zoo. She has a writing assignment that requires her to sit and observe people for awhile and write descriptions of them. This proved impossible when we found that there were NO people at the zoo today, perhaps driven off by the rainforest feeling left behind by the heat and rain. Instead, she spent time watching a male silver-back gorilla pick his nose and eat it.

When I returned home, I began making dinner but was interupted by a call from the neighbor about her minature horses which are in my care for the week, since Lauren is gone. It seems her stallion mini pushed against a post and found it rotted. He was in the pasture with the mare and baby, and though all were okay, the fun began when they realized I meant to capture them and separate them. After catching the baby, I returned for the stallion who chased the mare, who ran after the dog (Daisy). It could make a kids' book except for the part about the stallion trying to mount the mare as the farmer (me) tried to capture them all. Not G rated. I wasn't killed in the process though, and for that I'm grateful.

Wm is ready to go to bed, so I'll sign off now.

On Sea Turtles

After checking out our beach rental, we were delighted to find that a sea turtle nest was at the end of our walkway to the beach. Even more exciting, there was a crack in the sand, a sign that hatching would most likely occur that night.

After settling in to the house and having dinner, we took our places near the nest, which was sectioned off with orange tape. Nothing appeared to be happening at first, but the volunteers, mostly local retirees who are trained in turtle hatching, assured us this was the night. Sure enough, the ground soon looked like turtles boiling out of the sand.

One by one, tiny sea turtles made their way down a chute dug in the sand by volunteers. When they had crawled about 6 feet down the sand chute, they were picked up by a volunteer, inspected, and placed in a plastic tub. After quite a few were collected, they were carried to the sea and released. This is supposed to give the turtles a better chance of making it to the ocean without being picked off by a seagull or crab or human foot. They seemed so very vunerable, I couldn't help but think of the large sea monsters that were waiting for a midnight snack.

As we watched, the night sky darkened, and lanters were put at the end of the chute to guide the turtles which followed the light. We were cautioned not to take flash photos. I grabbed my digital, set it to "no flash" and took this useless photo:















As you can't see, there are no turtles visible. So, not thinking, I set my camera to "night shot", not knowing it would then turn on my flash, so that I got this shot:















The flash went off like a lightening strike. Immediately, a groans, boos and dismay issued from my fellow bystanders while a volunteer loudly reissued the "no flash" policy. "You've just blinded a baby turtle." I shrank back, muttering in my mind, "I didn't mean to!" Thankfully, the flash was such a shock, that no one knew WHO took that photo, including my sister standing next to me.

So if you ever encounter a blind sea turtle, I can explain how that happened. It was a technology malfunction. Really. I didn't mean to.

Lauren in France

As I wrote in my last blog, Lauren had the opportunity to go to France to compete in a horse competition and do a little educational sight-seeing as well. Travelling with her five team members, a mom who is a travel agent and speaks French, and with their adult female coach, the girls have quite the itinerary before them. I'll write a little each day about what they are likely doing.

Boarding the plane yesterday at 5 p.m., they were to arrive in Paris at around 11 a.m. and proceed to their hotel by 2 p.m. They planned to spend the afternoon touring the Latin Quarter, seeing Notre Dame Cathedral, and dinner. I've not yet heard from her, but as the chaperone said, no news is good news. Speaking of news....

Dh just about gave me a heart attack this morning when on returning from dropping Anna off at her religious ed. class, asked me if I'd heard the news about a plane crash. After picking my stomach up off the driveway, I learned that it was a small commuter in Lexington. Not Lauren's plane. My heart goes out to those that were on that plane, and those left behind.

Letting her go was very difficult. I was emailed, "Is is safe to let her go?" Well, I can tell you I'm likely to lose a year or so on my lifespan, but if you don't take risks, you don't really live. Besides, despite today's crash, it is more common to be injured in a car on the way to the grocery than in a plane. So what, we don't eat? No, I let her go confidently. She's a beautiful butterfly and it's time to fly.

Getting Back Into the Saddle

I've been gone from my blog a long time. It will be difficult to get back into the habit of daily writing, though blogs are starting to write in my head again. When I become overly stressed or overly schedule or in pain, all of which have occurred recently, the part of my brain that writes shuts off. It has been at work again lately, and I've had to make a list of blogs I'm going to write so that they (the blogs) would quit hammering at the inside of my skull, begging to escape to the computer screen. It may take me awhile to catch up with this month's events.

We left for Holden Beach, North Carolina on August 11, driving 7 hours the first day and 5 the next. Our very first stop was in Mt. Airy, North Carolina, the town renowed for being the model of Mayberry of the Andy Griffith Show. I, at least, was excited to see what the historic part of town looked like. We resolved to drive into town, seven miles from the hotel, to eat at "Goober's", which boasts some show memorabilia.

It was a doomed experience. Our three car wagon train (our car, my MIL/FIL's car, and my sister's car) snaked around, trying to find Goober's. We had bad directions from the hotel. Finally, we gave up and ate at a buffet style steak house which left much to be desired but did fill our bellies with what passed as food. We now refer to getting lost as "going on a Goober trip".

Next: Our first night at the beach watching sea turtles hatch.

In the car with wild and crazy girls
Photo by William, Age 4

Backseat Driver

We forgot the cord to the DVD player, horror of horrors. We were now packed like sardines in a tin can travelling 70 miles per hour down foggy roads with no view. Still, we did pretty well. The kids played with K'Nex with William, listened to some audio tapes, and later, composed limericks on person per line.

After hearing complaints about my driving, I wrote my own for dh:

There once was a man named "Dad",
Whose passenger manners were bad,
His comments were snide
to the driver of his ride,
When in fact it's the best that he's had.

So there, backseat driver!

And, Anna wrote:
There was a man with big nostrils....

Well, we'll leave that poem for another time.

Country Roads Take Me Home.....

The heavens opened and bucket loads of water poured down as we made our way through the mountains and tunnels of West Virginia. In front of us, a red SUV slowed, cowed by the rain, and put on emergency blinkers. I am driving.

Me: What is this person's problem?

(We pass the SUV.)

Dh: Oh, it's a woman driver

Me: Hey, you'd better watch it. You've put your life and your childrens' lives in the hands of a woman driver.

Dh: Yes, but I don't think of you as a woman driver.

Me: What? I'm not sure if I'm complimented or insulted.

Dh: (belly laugh and slapping of knee)

The Concept of Vacation

While driving, I told the girls that MY idea of vacation would be to act as if we were actually going somewhere on vacation, clean the house, do all the laundry, have all the everyday tasks done, then, hire a maid for the week. We'd stay home and read books all day, ride our horses, sit on the porch and enjoy our own place.

Both girls started laughing. "Mom, that's what we do now, everyday, " they said. "We want to go somewhere."

Hah. My eyes opened. So I'm the maid. "Well, yesssss," they said slowly in unison. They knew they were walking on very thin ice.

Truly, though, I love where I live. Granted, there is no ocean, but early in the morning, you can sit on the front porch and listen to the cicadas. Lester, the rooster, announces that the day's begun. The sun comes up just over my barn that is no more but is to be. My dogs dance about my legs, making me laugh. I think a bit of heaven is right here, and there is no need to go in search of it.

Ugly Deer

We were pulling the horse trailer down a rain slicked road last night when I spotted reflecting eyes in the headlights. The girls braced and said, "Deer!" The truck locked and slid a little, but I wasn't going very fast. We stopped in time to catch a fat, short, and scruffy grey rear end darting off the road into a yard. Simultaneously, we hear "baaaaaaaaaaaaa".

"Man," I exclaimed to the girls, "that is one UGLY deer."

I made the girls get out (it was dark and they were reluctant) and go up to the nearby house to tell them their goat was loose. It was their neighbor's goat, and they knew it well as it had eaten all their flowers.

Thankful for Good Friends

My posts are often written sarcastically, as such is my nature. But today, I'd like to write a tribute to good friends. Sometimes, being a mom can be a lonely proposition. There are endless demands on our time and little free time. Women, in particular, I, in specific, need to know that there are people out there that not only are there for you, but understand exactly what you are going through.

For me, there is Christine, who I'm sure God put in our life. Her little boy gave William a much needed best friend.


It's truly amazing that they moved in less than a mile from our house, given that we live in the country. And Christine is such a giving person. She has a way of for example, house sitting for me and making it sound like I'm doing her a favor. I can go on vacation and not worry, as she loves my dogs as her own. She's improves me, because I think often how I can be more thoughtful like her.

Becky is the drop by friend I've always needed. When she's not building a house with her own hands, she'll stop by for a cup of coffee. Fun and adventurous, she's a belly dancer part of one day, and out laying floor tile and mowing pastures the next. You are likely to see her with no make-up one day, and with an exotic dress and earrings the next. And she laughs. And I need that. Becky calls me often, even when I've gotten too busy to remember to call her. Her influence reminds me to take time for friends.

Liz has mentored my girls in horses. I probably have not met a more giving soul. She has lent horses to us, taken my girls on international trips, and takes care of our more needy horses when we're away. She'll ask Lauren to ride horses for her, and act like Lauren did her a favor. Liz teaches me to be generous and share what we've been given.

And of course there is dh (dear husband), who is my eternal friend.

Chicken Tractor

What is a chicken tractor, a reader asked? It is not what you might think:

A chicken tractor is a small, mobile chicken pen with a small coop. The idea is that a small number of chickens can be put in the pen, and the pen can be moved around, weeding the area under the pen and fertilizing it at the same time.

Our chickens are free-ranged, but must be cooped up at night or risk being eaten. When we demolished the barn, their coop was also demolished, so I had to come up with a coop rather quickly. I built this rather rough chicken tractor in three days.

As you can see, there isn't much room in the "yard" part of it, but there are roosts made of dowel rods in the enclosed coop which comfortably fits all seven chickens with room for more. We let them out in the morning and at dusk, they put themselves to bed. We only have to shut the door. When the floor becomes littered, we push it to a new location (using PVC pipe underneath to roll it).

Considering I've never built anything of wood in my life, I guess I did okay. I do now understand why men building houses cuss.

Here is a better chicken tractor Dh built one winter, which is now being used to house Chicken Licken' and her three chicks:

The three hens looking from the outside in are not interested in the chicks, as you might suspect. They are checking to see that I didn't throw any nice morsels of food to the chicks that they could steal.

The barn is now completely gone. Dh says good riddance, but I miss it. I have many memories in that barn. It was necessary, given that many of the posts supposedly holding it up were rotted at the base and it was ready to come down. I fear the newer barn won't have the character of the older barn, but will be brighter, easier to clean and healthier for the horses.

Cathy's Laws of Inverse

Law #1: The amount of time a four year old wants you to sit on the floor and play with him is inversely proportional to the amount of time you have to do so.

Law #2: The number of tasks that one has to do before leaving on a trip is inversely proportional to the number of days remaining until you leave.

Law #3: The number of people around to help the main packer for said trip (moi) is inversely proportional to the number of days remaining until you leave.

Law #4: The amount of mess created in the house in packing is inversely proportional to the neatness you are trying to create in the packing of items to bring.

Isn't it cool that there is such order in the universe? I'm sure God is having a good laugh.

What is there to do?

Noticing my stress, Dh asked, thoughtful as always, what there was to do before our trip to the reunion? Give me the list, he said. If you know me, you know there is no list. There is just an endless loop in my mind repeating all the things I must do in order to leave and feel at peace. What was there to do, he asked? One only had to pack a swimsuit, a pair of shorts and a towel. It's amazing the man can still walk.

Was he going to help me accomplish those things on my unwritten list? No, he could cross off those things that were unnecessary. Humph!

Call Me Wonder Woman

Dh takes a lot of ribbing from me because he will fall asleep in most any movie I'd like. If the movie is started late enough in the evening, he'll fall asleep in movies he likes. I noticed, however, that despite the very late hour we watched it, he didn't miss a frame of CatWoman. That's why I was disappointed with my results in the Superhero test.

Your results:
You are Superman

Superman 80% Iron Man 75% Hulk 70% Wonder Woman 68% Green Lantern 60% Supergirl 58% Spider-Man 55% Robin 55% The Flash 40% Batman 35% Catwoman 35%

You are mild-mannered, good, strong and you love to help others.

Well, given that I'm not a MAN, the next woman down on the list (you'd think the test designer would ask one's sex) is Wonder Woman. Well, to hell with that! I want my dh to stay up all night just to watch me move. Wouldn't that be nice?

A Little Bit Slow

I can tell y'all 've been missing my writing from all the comments (NOT) I've been getting this past week. Oh, well, the ego is a grand thing until it's not being fed. Where have you been, you ask? (Okay, you didn't ask, but it is a sign of my mental health these days that I can have a total two-sided conversation with myself.)

It is but a week before our annual trek to the beach for a family reunion. Which member of dh's family originally came up with the idea of going to the beach for a family reunion is unclear. We think it might have been Aunt Kathryn. Imagine though: the beach is one place where you let it all hang out. No makeup. Almost no clothes. If you're lucky, you know someone with a good bottle of wine, so no normal inhibitions in conversational topics.

So I see these people, my inlaws, only once or twice a year and they are going to be able to see every new wrinkle in my face, and every new dimple in my thighs which are beginning to look like slightly dehydrated oranges. I suppose that's why they call them family.

Like other moms, I began making my list of things to bring and things to do before leaving. Unlike other moms, I started my list just this week. Procrastination is my middle name. On my list was balancing my checkbook, which despite having the latest Money program, was two months behind. My list was (is) as long as my arm. Thinking I might get it all done if I work many hours late into the night, I received a phone call from my daughter's piano teacher.

I design his website with his help. His new school year is to start the week we are gone, and could I make a few changes to the site? The changes turned into a major re-design, and though it isn't finished, it is looking good. But, as I labored over it, zoned out, obsessed with getting it done. I am now permanently in the shape of a desk chair.

In addition, the predictions I made about my back have come true. Carrying Wm. has caused some serious damage. Today, I was helping him into his car seat when I felt a jolt of electricity down my spine. I couldn't move. My daughters laughed with me, but it was the crazy kind of laugh, like seriously, this hurts.

To prove my tendency towards procrastination, I've decided to finally answer TC's tag from oh, um, 2005. I've not forgotten, TC, I'm just a little slow these days.

7 Things To Do Before I Die (not in order of importance)
1. Balance my checkbook
2. Clean out my closet and desk so people don’t say, “God, how could she live like this?” and so dh can actually find things he needs to find.
3. Travel with my dh, including to St. John's
4. Become an endurance horseback rider.
5. Volunteer to help underprivileged people
6. Get a book published.
7. Solve the Global Warming thing

7 Things I Cannot Do
1. Solve the Global Warming thing
2. Get my kids to pick up their rooms
3. Get Wm to talk quietly
4. Win a “best dressed” award
5. Shop until I drop
6. Follow directions.
7. Get organized.

7 Things That Attract Me To My Husband
1. He's sexy
2. I love talking with him about all sorts of subjects
3. At a dinner we went to, he actually put his left hand in his lap and had table manners.
4. We laugh together.
5. Sense of humor.
6. He always knows the right thing to say to me.
7. His laugh.

7 Things I Say Most Often
1. I love you, too, baby.
2. Wait until I get off the phone.
3. Did anyone feed the dogs?
4. Whose book is this on the kitchen table?
5. Go to bed.
6. Get off the computer.
7. Will you please read something other than Harry Potter?

7 Books or Series I Love
1. Diana Gabaldon – Outlander series
2. Harry Potter books
3. Janice Holt Giles books
4. Dumbing Us Down by J. T. Gatto
5. The Little Engine That Could
6. The Red Tent
7. Big Stone Gap - Adrianna Trigiani

7 Movies I Watch Over and Over Again (or would watch over and over if I had the time)
Firstly, I would say that mostly, I don’t like watching movies over and over. But if I had to:
1. Dangerous Liasons
2. Amadeus
3. The Ugly Daschund
4. National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation
5. Much Ado About Nothing
6. “House” re-runs
7. Phantom of the Opera

7 People I Want to Join In, Too
1. Dad
2. PitaWoman
3. A Hint of Lime
4. Lauren
5. Chris
6. Polly
7. Gina

Those of you without husbands (or those of you wishing you were) are free to delete that question. And, like me, you are allowed to procrastinate for up to one year.

Barn Demolition

Not much left of the barn, but still some work to do.

Working Like a Dog

I like this phrase, but frankly, our dogs and horses don't do a lick of work. They lay around all day, privates exposed and tongue hanging out. I, on the other hand, am expecting my bones to disintegrate into a pile of dust any moment. Combined with carrying Wm around and working in the heat to finish a chicken tractor, trying to get the garden in order and of course, that doesn't include all the housework and cooking, I'm plumb "wore-out".

I was fool enough to bowl on Saturday night at a birthday party for my mom's first cousin's husband. Bowling is a sport that should be outlawed for old folks like me that don't go often. I have developed the flexibility for horse back riding, but evidently, bowling uses some muscles in my left hip that I don't use on a regular basis. I look like a version of the Hunchback of Notre Dame walking around. To top it all off, Wm gets his cast tomorrow which should add another 10 pounds to his weight.

You know what's worse than having a broken leg? Having a four-year old with a broken leg. For the first few hours when I brought him home, he played the typical male I'm-sick-can-you-bring-me-drink-and-change-the-channel-and-cover-me-with-a-blankie. By that afternoon, we caught him hopping up the stairs on one foot. We've been carting him around in the wagon when possible, but he's learning to get around in the house by scooting on his rear.

At the bowling party, Wm whined, "Why do THEY all get to bowl and I don't?" Um, you have a broken leg, dear. So we improvised. He sat on the lane, spread his legs, and we together pushed the ball down the lane. He got a strike. A few minutes later and three lanes down, I saw that one group had started a game of "sitting-down bowling", a new type of bowling Wm invented. It improved their scores.

Check back later today for progress on our barn demolition and photos of my chicken tractor.

Tim-burrrrrr

We Freecycled our barn. Built thirty years ago by yee-haws who didn't know the first thing about construction, it was coming apart at the seams, literally. So, we planned out a new barn to be built by the Amish, and included in that was the price of demolition of the old.

It costs a lot to destroy something. Though kids are usually very good at demolition, it was a dangerous job. Also, the barn contained some very old, very hard and 2" thick yellow pine that was tongue-in-groove. It is speculated that it was recycled from an old factory floor or perhaps the floors of old railcars. I hated to see it go into a dumpster.

So, I connected with a man and his family that were willing to take the barn down in exchange for all the wood. In addition to being thrilled to have this work done, I've enjoyed getting to know Jim and his family.

They've been working on it all week. Here's a video of a side coming down:



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Beauty Tips

My mother was always very good about giving my sisters and I beauty and longevity tips:

1. Always wear a good moisturizer with sunscreen in it. Don't forget your neck. (You can always tell a woman's age by her neck and hands.)
2. Always wash your face last thing in the evening, first thing in the morning.
3. Splash water to rinse. Pat, don't rub, dry.
4. Always take your calcium.


And so on. Very practical tips.

I thought I should also record the beauty tips I share with my daughters from time to time.

1. If you smell horse pee, it's probably you. Take a shower.
2. Don't walk in the chicken coop barefoot. Chicken sh*t is hard to get off your toes.
3. If you are going to wear a dress or skirt, you should probably scrub the manure off of your ankles.
4. If you are wearing sandles, toenail polish will cover the dirt under your toenails.
5. Wash your hair frequently to avoid blemishes, and to check for ticks, burrs and so on.
6. If you want to live a long time, don't stand behind a horse.

And so on. As you can see, there is a generational difference.

Trampoline Story

A witty friend of mine wrote by email:

This story will grow over the years until William is a teenager, at which point you will hear him telling someone about the time you “made” him go on a trampoline so that he broke his leg…….

Stick to Your Guns

In the next few weeks, if you see walking down the street a little old lady, hunched over with her hand on the small of her aching back, it's probably me. I'll be carrying an extra forty pounds with me for the next six weeks. No, I didn't win a role in a movie requiring me to eat loads of ice cream to play a larger woman. I wish.

It happened this way. We were headed to my friend's house for dinner. On the way up their 1/2 mile gravel driveway, while concentrating on not running off the side of the road, William began a litany to get me to allow him to use their trampoline.

"No," I told him. "I don't like trampolines. Did you know that most emergency room visits..."

"We know, Mom," the girls said in an exasperated tone. "Trampolines."

I drove on, neatly turning around a 180 degree turn.
William began again.

"Oh PLEAAAASE can I go on the trampoline. OH PLEASE OH PLEASE Why can't I go on the trampoline I'll be careful and jump careful oh please why can't I Mom other people do they have trampolines please why not can't I jump just once please let me jump on the tram-po-leeeeeeeen."

Finally, in a moment of weakness, I said, "OKAY! If you'll shut up for just one minute, you can jump ONE time."

He broke his leg. One time on the trampoline. We spent most of today in the Children's Hospital Emergency room getting an xray and waiting. Can you tell me why it takes HOURS to take and read an xray? Gees, I felt like saying move aside, I'll do it myself. All around us kids were hacking with germs that probably were deadly contagious, but we were trapped.

Anyway, the crack is so tiny I'd have missed it as a shadow had she, the doctor, not pointed it out. He'll be casted and immobile just in time for our annual trip to the beach. Sand in the cast ought to feel good, eh?

My friend felt terrible, but she shouldn't. It was all my fault. I commited the mommy cardinal sin and gave in to achieve a moment of peace. My new mantra is "stick to your guns" and we will definitely be avoiding trampolines.

Developmental or Just Mental?

Boys can't read as well as girls, says one study reported by Fox News. Several reasons are cited including that girls mature more quickly, that boys tend to have more learning disabilities, and that boys "disengage" from school as they get older. Why?

Perhaps, in doing their own thing, homeschoolers have found the answer:

"Here's a fascinating fact," she said. "There is no literacy gap in home-schooled boys and girls."

"Why? In school, teachers emphasize reading literature and talking about character and feelings," she said. "This way of teaching reading does not turn boys on. Boys prefer reading nonfiction, such as history and adventure books. When they are taught at home, parents are more likely to let them follow their interests."

Perhaps this explains a few things about reading to my boy. When I read a story, I enjoy the flow of it, the sound of the words, and like to read it uninterupted. Recently, I read Stone Soup to him:

Cathy: Three soldiers trudged down a road in a ...
Wm: What are those things hanging on their sides?
Cathy: Swords. ...Strange country. They were on their way home from the war.
Wm: What are those things on their backs?
Cathy: Backpacks. Besides being tired, ...
Wm: Wait, wait! Go back, what's in the backpacks?
Cathy: I don't know...they were hungry. In fact, they had eaten nothing for two days.
Wm: Why hadn't they eaten? Why?

This continued sentence by painful sentence. We finally made it to the third page, where the peasants are hiding their food, as they don't want to share it with the soldiers. Of course this elicits Why don't they want to share, Mommy?

As he is more interested in the details, and less in the story, I find it easier to read non-fiction books to him. I have, however, recently added to my knowledge of the inside of my car engine and the names of all the contruction machines. To make matters worse, I am supposed to understand it all.

I recently was quizzed in the car about the sizes of gears as they relate to the speed we are going, and of course, I have no clue. I don't want to give the wrong answer and permanently etch his brain with misinformation, but when he asked if the gears were red or blue, I was able to confidently lie and say they were definitely blue.

Tractors

How you know that your little boy spends too much time thinking and talking about tractors:

We were having spiral noodle salad for dinner.

William asked his sister, "Lauren, can I have some more of those noodles shaped like post hole diggers?"

Underachiever

My private high school alma mater periodically sends a glossy magazine crowing about academic and sports awards of their current and past graduates. They include a list of marriages, births, and deaths, and awards to alumni who exemplify the ideals of the organization. As the years go on, I’ve noticed that my graduation year has, for the most part, ceased to be mentioned in the marriages and births, and is more likely to have an alumni mentioned as newly-made grandparents, obituaries, and awards recipients for lifetime achievements.

Thankfully, I’ve not made it into the first two categories yet. Neither have I made it into the latter, which is leaving me feeling a little deflated. I am at the age when women who have been achievers have started being awarded “Woman of the Year” type awards. You know what I’m talking about. While I’m at home wiping butts, emptying containers from the ‘frig that look like a science experiment gone bad, and scrubbing toilets, she’s out saving the world.

Case in point: this year’s recipient grew up within walking distance of my house. Like me, she has a Chemical Engineering degree and worked for a bit after getting married and before kids. She quit to adopt SIX special needs kids, whom she home schooled (she, of course, was running the homeschool organization for eight years) until they were mainstreamed. She has, amongst other things, taught Sunday school, Baptismal classes, organized committees at church, visited the homebound, worked with teens on Right to Life (taking them to Washington, D.C.), worked at a pregnancy center and on a hotline, speaks at churches and is President of her local Right to Life organization. And in addition, she got a full scholarship to get her masters’ in physics, graduated with honors, ya know. Now, she is a research assistant at a university and has taught high school physical science, geology, and chemistry.

Well, I’m going to slink back to making beds and fixing the break in the septic tank line later today (using my Chemical Engineer’s knowledge of pipes and all). I did get an “I love you” from my fifteen year old the other day, and that, from what I hear from other moms of teenagers, is worth all the “Woman of the Year” awards that exist.

On the Radio

If you happen to be reading right now, go to http://www.wfpl.org/listen.htm and hear me read a commentary about dh's purchase of a grill. It should air around 8:35 a.m.

Potter Finger

When I awoke this morning, the ring finger of my left hand hurt. It felt as if I had smashed it the day before and it ached. I looked it over closely and could find no injury. I was stumped. (Not literally, of course.) I mentioned it to dh before he left for work. He suggested maybe I slept on it? Possible, but to just have one finger bent back?

As the door closed behind him, I got my coffee and most recent book for a brief few minutes before my little taskmaster (Wm) woke. As I picked up Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (Book 6), a light bulb went off. I had Potter Finger. Not from working hard at the pottery wheel, but bent-finger syndrome from holding the massive book in my left hand as I drank my coffee with my right. The ring finger of my left hand supported the greatest amount of weight.

I am reading this because Anna LOVES Harry Potter books. In an effort to keep in tune with my daughters' interests, I thought to read it, too. As a homeschooler, I guess you could say it's like part of my job. I wonder if I can get Workers' Compensation?

The Political Nature of Education

In a recent Smithonian Magazine article, it quotes author Vaclav Smil as saying that "two of every five humans on earth today would not be alive if not for [this man's] invention". This inventor won the Nobel Prize in 1918 for drastically altering the future of humanity and probably had an effect on the opening to China to the West in the Nixon days when they recognized that this technology was necessary to them or the country would starve.

I have had a decent education, as had dh who also holds a degree in Agricultural Engineering, yet neither of us had ever heard of Fritz Haber. Neither have you? It may be that your world would have been radically different if not for this man, yet no one seems to know who he was. His contributions have also radically changed the ecology, some of it not for the good.

But Fritz Haber used his brilliance for both good and evil. He used his knowledge of synthetic nitrates to make bombs for the German war efforts, made poisonous gases with other chemicals. He later used his knowledge of synthetic nitrates to produce synthetic fertilizers, which is where the change to our world comes in. The combination of synthetic fertilizers with the development of hybrid corn around the same time revolutionized not only food production, but our entire economy.

I find it interesting that someone who had such an impact on our world would have been written out of history. It is true, a good deal of what he did was used in evil ways, and I am not saying he should be glorified. The truth is, however, that he was an inventor who changed our world, and we should have been taught how this invention has revolutionized our world. It make you wonder how the rest of history has been passed over or re-written for similar reasons. Are we taught in schools the real story?

The article itself has much more to offer about how corn is vital to the American economy and how it is tied to the petroleum industry and how it is affecting global warming. I highly recommend it and the Magazine.

How Do You....

...find the time to blog? I am often asked this rhetorical question at the end of an email with positive comment about a post. The answer is quite simple: time has to be made to do it, and some things go undone. Like housework, for instance. Cleaning cobwebs. Cleaning out the linen closet. Some people can't stand it unless their house is neat and orderly. I can't stand it if I don't write.

These blogs, like this one, write themselves. As I go about my day, a topic will enter my head, perhaps something that happened that day. As I work about the house or drive the kids to various activities, the blog writes itself using my brain and by the time I sit at the computer, I mostly just type out what is already written. Since I've started blogging and made it a habit, not writing causes the words to go into a spin cycle in my head and they won't go away. Once I've written them down, the words quiet.

Often, my family will say things like "this isn't going in the blog, is it?" or "that's blog-worthy", knowing that any occurrence is fodder for my blog. Often, I'll be at the computer and the girls will be ready to leave.

"Are you almost done?" I hear this question many times a day.

"Are we going to have any dinner?"

"Mom, William is peeing in the front yard." I keep typing. Right now, for instance, I am supposed to be getting everyone going to get the horses ready for a parade this morning. But, I must finish this first.

There is much written about the blogging phenomenon. There are now over 30 million bloggers. There has been condescension about blog writers, particularly mommy bloggers, but the truth is we are writing. It may or not be important writing, but it is an important process.

As a parent, it is important for my kids to see me write. How many of us expect children to learn to write, to learn the writing process, to turn in paper after paper, only to see that their parents, released from schooling, never write for pleasure or profit? Never make it a priority? Often people ask me how to get children to read more and write more, eat better food. My answer is always the same: model the behavior.

Well, this blog wasn't particularly well written but was begging to be put in type. Now I can move on to getting everyone up and ready for the parade, which should provide plenty to write about. Tell me, what possesses grown men to wear a fez (hat) and ride around in cars sized for their grandchildren?

Birth Announcement Part II

This birth announcement is a little late, but I know that Chicken Lickin' has her fans. She hatched two more eggs last Monday evening. One, whom I named Caesar, was born by caesarian section, after being pecked by his two day old sibling. Bleeding, we hastened him out of his shell to see if we could help the injury. He was okay. It was a dramatic moment in the chicken world. Caesar was soon followed by another chick, both removed to save them from Cain, their murderous sibling.

Chicken Lickin' had moved off the hatching eggs for some reason, and appeared confused as to whether these were her own hatchlings. When we showed her the chicks, she tried to peck. So for two days, the two new chicks were separated in a separate chicken ward. We then re-introduced them to Cain and Chicken Lickin' and the family is once again happily reunited.

Renaissance Faire IV - And then on to other things

I had hoped that the RenFaire would prove to be an educational experience, count as a "field trip", but I must admit that though it was a fun mix of mud fights, booty-licious outfits, and weird sights, there's a good chance it gave a false impression of what life might have been like. It was just good fun, though, I'll admit and gave us a taste for looking for more of them.

The girls, I do think, learned more in preparing for the faire. What time period was this? What fabrics were "authentic" and what colors? What strata of society would the clothing we made represent? For example, we learned that the lower classes would have worn linen, the higher classes cotton. Now, it it reversed in terms of cost of the material. The girls had learned that the bodice should be very tight, because Queen Elizabeth was flat-chested, and so a lady would want to imitate that (although spilling out the top because of it.) Well, I guess I'll close this chapter and move on.

Renaissance Faire III

My greatest impression was that the "Faire" was a most impressive display of boob-age. Were people of that time so immodest? Well, the bodice was their "bra" of the time, worn on the outside and providing support (or not, as I saw several times). The bodice often barely covered the breasts. I saw more of some of the participants than I desired to. It did give us something to jab each other in the ribs about: "Pssst. Look right, woman in red skirt." One rather well endowed and substantial older woman sat in a stall of goods. "See anything you like?" she called out. Her sisters were trying to escape her very loose chemise. "Uh, no," I'm thinking to myself, "seeing something I'd rather not see." Still the long skirts hid a good deal of flaws and were a refreshing change from today's world of displaying one's backside crevice.

The grandest thing was that the people "working" there appeared to be enjoying every minute of it. Set in the woods out in the country and with a wooden wall surrounding the entire towne, it felt realistic, though I'm no historian. Okay, there were a few times when I thought that a few of the people were missing a few French fries from their happy meal, but mostly, people just seemed to be having a good time. Without TV! Without electricity! Just the sound of music from instruments and the laughter following a good joke.

Had I lived in those times, I'd be considered old, being over forty years of age, and likely would have my physical complaints and no teeth. Yet, there was something about the simple pleasures and being outside. We laughed with the boy who laughed each time his dad threw the hatchet at the target and missed. We enjoyed the mud show and laughed at the people in the front row who got splashed (we were pre-warned). The joust was fun, as the girls ride mounted games that have similar activities, though thankfully do not try to unseat the other riders.

Many vendors were there, and like vendors of those times, were desperate to sell, calling to us, "Come, my lady, and look." The food was good. I had kettle corn unlike any popped corn I've ever had. Delicious. I had fun looking at all the clothing for sale.

Simpler times. Better times? I don't know. Less stress maybe. Less things. Only a few things to take care of. Closer to nature. More respectful of the few things we do have, maybe. It think of this today as I do laundry. If everyone only had one work outfit and one good dress......

Yet - I've never gone hungry. I've not watched my children die from what are now preventable diseases. I don't have to be hot or cold. I can take a shower. I can read and write. We have BOOKS! Yes, I enjoyed the faire, and maybe there is some of it I can incorporate into my life. I do think it would be fun to do a whole week living in such a place. But I'll stay here in modern times, stress and all, thank you.

More information about the faire, which will be held annually in Eminence, Kentucky at http://www.kyrenfaire.com I will make a web page of more photos when I get a chance and link here on my blog.

Renaissance Fair Part II

Okay, I don't have time to blog at the moment, but I'll leave you with a photo of Lauren and one of the characters in the Muckmasters, a bawdy play involving a good deal of mud. More later.

Renaissance Fair

The date we'd set aside for the Renaissance fair was approaching. Two weeks before, the girls had decided that to get the full experience, they'd like to go in costume. We looked on eBay and other sources and found that while there is quite a market for the clothing, it is also expensive. Very expensive. So, the girls decided that they could make the costume.

"I don't sew," I said decisively. Sewing is torture. All those patterns and directions written in English but somehow sounding to me like someone Chinese wrote them just after completing ESL class.

Chorus:
We know, we know
but just help us get started.

"Just take us to Wallyworld to get the pattern, just help us get the fabric."
"Okay, but you'll have to get someone else to help you sew." Right.
As they looked at the pattern, Wm. danced up and down. The toy department was strategically (sadistically?) placed next to the fabric department. "Can I have this (4 foot) Superman doll? Please? Can I have the little one, then? Please, oh, please oh please oh please, oh, pleeeeaaaaase!"

"I can't do this," I said, giving up. We left. The girls understood, but they hadn't given up. After a search of the internet which yielded some, uh interesting, costumes (people are WEIRD! do ya know?), we found the Tangled Web site that had how to make the costumes simply and without a pattern. Did I mention that I DON'T SEW??

Chorus:
We know, we know
but just help us get started.

We got the fabric (sans Superman aka Wm.) and started sewing. Did I mention I don't sew? The skirt actually was rather easy, and the girls did a lot themselves. This was a learning project, I kept telling myself. But by Friday, (the fair was Sunday), all they had were the skirts. So Saturday, I told them to step aside, I'd have to work quickly. They helped with some of the hemming and ironing, but we actually got done! My whole day, the whole thing, sun up to sun down, was spent sewing. I guess now I can say I sew a little, but don't plan to repeat the experience.

Here are the costumes and more later on the next blog about the festival.

Sleep Study

Did you miss the sleep study blog? No, I hadn't written it yet. I'm still trying to catch up on my sleep. Why is it that a place, designed to study sleep is the least conducive to getting any? It was quiet and clean, but cold enough to hang meat. I knew that the evening was going to be long when I viewed my bed that looked a good deal like a marble slab with one thin blanket. William, of course, had a regular hospital bed, which was no more comfortable but then he can sleep sitting up in a car seat. But he snores and can't seem to get enough air at night, so we hoped that this study would give us answers.

The nurse was kind, but also not conducive to sleep. She was a nurse on caffeine, no doubt, as she had the enviable job of working third shift and watching people sleep. Can you think of a more monotonous job? What her job lacked in excitement she made up for by talking as much and as fast as she could. Calming she was not. After hooking William up to look like a human carburetor, she left us to go to sleep.

"What's that red light up there?" he asked. I told him that it was a night light, which it was in a sense, to help the camera see in the dark. All he needed to know is that people were watching us. It was eerie enough for me to think of sleeping under surveillance.

Then began the long night. Used to the quiet of the country and the sound of crickets, I couldn't sleep to the sound of car horns and the vibration of mega-stereos. William pushed the nose piece off his nose repeatedly throughout the night. I'd hear the machine noise change, and so I'd wake up and wait for the nurse to come fix it. Several times, she didn't show, most likely counting a few zzzz's herself, and so I did it. It was a miserable night.

The worst of it is that after a month of waiting for the appointment, it's another month's wait for the answers. I'll be dead of exhaustion by then.

Birth Announcement

After much sitting, Chicken Lickin' hatched one of seven eggs. This little one is very strong and growing already. William, as you can see, is very enthralled with the new arrival.

You might be interested to know that the very first day, chickies start eating and drinking. Unlike some helpless baby birds, they find a lot of food on their own.

Chicken Lickin' does feed him a little from her beak, but mostly, she'll make a special sound that says "this is food". The chick will come out from under her and start eating.

The sound she makes is similar to the rooster's sound he makes when food thrown to them. He'll pick up a piece, put it down, make the sound and point it out for the hens. He won't eat it, but goes around pointing out choice pieces for his harem. When he's satisfied that everyone is eating, then he'll take a bite.

Chickens, lacking teeth, have to peck food, to break it down into smaller pieces. I had to laugh at one chicken that had found a particularly nice morsel, but too big to swallow. All the hens were chasing her down for a share. She could not eat the food because she had to put it down on the ground to eat it, but she could not put it down or it would be stolen. What a dilemma!

He Sure Knows How to Hurt a Gal

William and I were driving last Thursday to Kosair's Children's Hospital. He was to have a sleep study for snoring. I didn't want him to nap along the 30 minute drive, so we were talking.

"I wish I lived with Grandma and Grandpa."

"Oh, why?" I asked, prepared to hear more about the golf cart.

"Because then, I could play with Aunt Kaffy [Kathy]."

"That would be fun," I replied. "But, I would miss you if you lived there."

"Wouldn't you just get over it?" he asked.

"No, I'd never get over losing you," I said in my best Mama, Do You Love Me? book voice. Then, I ignored the adage to not ask a question unless you're prepared to hear the answer: "Wouldn't you miss me?"

"Well," he replied, "I'd have [sisters] Lauren and Anna." Ouch. Stab to the heart. I guess I should be happy that he has confidence he'll survive in my absence, but would I?

Notes of All Sorts

Heard from William: "I wish we could live with Grandma and Grandpa." Why? "So Grandpa could ride me around in the golf cart all day."

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More or Less

We went to the county fireworks display on July 4th. For a small area, it was a big display, over 30 minutes. I noticed, however, that many people left before the "grand finale", perhaps bored after seeing "Thunder over Louisville". It is sad how it is so hard to impress people these days.

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It Must Be the Weather

It is strangely cool this morning, so much so that it was too cold to drink my morning coffee on the front porch. But I noticed that it is an egg hatching day. Yes, we heard a peep from Chicken Licken's basket this morning. (I admit I'm the only person I know with a live chicken in my kitchen.) Sure enough, an egg is hatching. It is taking a long time, but progress is being made.
In the barn, a swallow laid eggs in our box of rubber gloves. Two have hatched so far today.

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Snore

William has snored since birth. It has gotten so bad that finally, with sometimes a pause in his breathing, that I took him to the ENT, who referred me to a sleep specialist who gave me appointement with a sleep clinic. All these referrals, months ago, bring me to tonight's sleep study for him. Of course, according to Wm., he's not going. And of course, after waiting and losing sleep over his losing sleep, he seems to be not snoring hardly at all anymore. Doesn't it figure?

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Like Being in a Candy Store

After recording another blog at the radio station today, we went to the downtown public library. The girls and I had a hard time stopping ourselves - all this "free" stuff. We could hardly carry it out to the car. So much fun!

Beetlejuice

He came over the day after the reunion, and though we were not home, left several containers of maple syrup (one of the family businesses) and an invitation to a barn party that he would be having the next day. So Monday night, we went to see Beetlejuice and his friends. He is, I have to say, one of the nicest guys you could ever meet, but I can only describe our evening as a cultural exchange.

Dh advised me to wear my jeans, a t-shirt and my gym shoes. This time I listened, for the most part (I did wear my sandals). We'd have to walk through who-knows-what, he explained, in the dark. Pulling into the residence, we passed the old, white farm house and several old barns, parking near three campers, tilted at odd angles and quite a few pickups that were being used for parts or were vehicles of party-goers. It was hard to tell. We picked our way to a barn-like structure. In the dark, we found a 10-foot (at least) stairwell to the second floor.

Children, dogs, men and women were all over the unfinished room occupied by a pool table, bar, amplifiers and electric guitars. A bearded, older Willie Nelson wanna-be sang to himself in the corner as he played the drums. My brother-in-law had pre-warned us not to go on the balcony if there were a good number of people out there, for he wasn't sure of it's structural integrity. I stood with one foot out the door, and one inside, not venturing out where several were gathered to watch fireworks and set off their own.

I watched in disbelief as long-haired and bearded men, holding a beer in one hand, held bottle rockets lit from their dangling cigarettes and watched them sail into the sky. No one was seemingly concerned about the fact that children were darting in and about this balcony which, evidently unfinished, did not have a railing all the way around. Dh discussed barn demolition with our host, another of the family businesses. In fact, this building was made of wood from dh's family's barns that they'd dismantled.

I moved back into the building sipping my now warm beer. I wanted to get into the middle of the building because I could feel it sway. I prayed that my children would not be deprived of their mother and father, buried in rubble of a collapsed building. This concern gave way to a fear of fire, as the band members began what I think was tuning their instruments, and the lights occasionally flickered from the amps being pulled. Still, I sat on my vinyl ottoman, which was missing one wheel, and tried to look non-plussed about it all.

After checking wires and mikes, re-assigning who would play bass and who would play acoustic, I thought at least I was going to hear some good, maybe not great but good, music. I have never heard such caterwauling in my life. The thought crossed my mind that I wished I knew rock lyrics, for I certainly could do no worse.

After the second song, I began regretting having two beers and politely asked where was the potty room. I was told it was anywhere you wanted it to be outside. #$#@^%). Now what was I going to do? Dh offered to stand guard but I declined. I tried to ignore the pain of a too-full bladder while having my ears assaulted at the same time. A great furry dog tried to burrow under my legs, scared by the fireworks outside.

Finally, a woman came up to me and asked if I needed to "potty". Yes, I nodded gratefully, and as she led me down the steps, she said, "It won't be pretty, but it'll do." I pictured an outhouse or port-o-let. Gross, but I could handle it. Maybe one of those run-down campers. Dirty, but serviceable. We got outside, she handed me a Kleenex and directed me to the rear of an old pickup truck.

"I'll stand here, honey and no one will see you." I looked up and saw children and men leaning over the balcony, twirling sparklers.

"No, thank you," I said and briskly walked back toward the "barn".

"Oh, honey," she called after me, "you're making me feel bad."

"It's alright, really. I don't have to go that badly, and I'm just not a potty outside type."

We returned to the room, and me to my cantilevered ottoman, and I wondered how long I'd last or if the whites of my eyes were yellow yet. The next song began, and I vaguely recognized it as "Tequila Sunrise". I looked at dh pleadingly. It was late for us, and I hoped we could leave. He made our excuses, and we slipped out.

Well, you might think, she lives in Kentucky, what can you expect? Come on now, how many of you were thinking that? Now that I'm home, I can tell you that the Reunion and party were in northeastern Ohio, where dh grew up. I don't think I'll tolerate Kentucky jokes ever again!

The Reunion

I knew that dh was right about the dress code the moment we pulled into the parking lot and I saw Beetlejuice. He was dressed in a black t-shirt and jeans, with a chain dangling from his pocket to keep would be pick-pockets from stealing his wallet. I was momentarily distracted from the presence of celebrity while I counted the tatoos on his wife. I dragged my eyes away to the couples slowly making their way to their 25th high school reunion.

"Oh, no!" I gasped, taking off my killer (literally) shoes. I slipped on my casual sandals I had prudently brought "just in case". Nearly all the attendees were dressed in capris, jeans, and shorts. When they said casual, they meant Casual. As in Picnic Casual. Still, I was happy to be in my skirt and blouse, which weren't too dressy. Better over dressed than under.

It was the usual reunion: people checking nametags before speaking, trying to match the face before them with the memory of a face. One woman walked by. "Did she have those in high school?" I asked dh. He didn't know who she was. I saw from her name tag that she was in their class, and surmised that her new figure was purchased along with her orange miniskirt or dh would have remembered her.

We had a nice dinner and enjoyed the "awards" ceremony. They had the typical awards - longest married, travelled farthest to be there, most changed. "Who is most recently divorced?" the MC asked. No one wanted to admit to this dubious honor, but one man, dressed in a yellow tank top and sporting a pony-tail, yelled out that he might be the longest divorced. When people laughed, he again yelled out that if they had an award for youngest second wife, he might win that, too. We would have won an award for the youngest child except that dh did not want attention drawn to himself and wouldn't claim it.

I had to admit that dh was right (boy, that hurt! but he was gracious about it)- capris or jeans and a t-shirt would have been okay. Live and learn.

Some Like It Hot

I was on a search and destroy mission. Shopping. It's right up there with mucking stalls for me. Take that back, I enjoy mucking stalls compared to shopping. Perhaps it's because they don't make clothes that fit my short petite frame. Or maybe, because my feet, deformed with bunions, don't fit the sexy type of shoe that my friend Becky says screams "take me now". (Okay, she used a different word that won't form in my mouth or my fingers won't type.)

But, shopping with an agenda was my assignment today. Dh's 25th reunion is tonight. Right after shopping, I list going to parties where I don't know anyone in my definitions of Hell. But, I wouldn't think about sending him there without a woman on his arm. Me, that is. So, off I went.

Hours later, dh called my cell phone. Was I lost? Was I okay? I was almost finished after dropping an obscene amount of money. My idea of a good buy is a Hanes Her Way t-shirt from Walmart.

It was a difficult assignment. An outfit that looked smart and rich, slightly sexy but not sleazy, and definitely not below my age. This was an impossible combination. Oh, and it had to make me look taller. Finally, at one store, I saw a jacket that I loved. It exuded good taste and style. Alas, it was also $178 just for the jacket. Although it retailed for over $500, it still was outside my price range and size. Plus, I would have looked silly just wearing the jacket for I couldn't afford the rest of the outfit.

Yes, I had found what I needed and I'm late for getting ready. At least the time tonight won't be wasted. I'm sure it will provide loads of good blog material.