Continuing to Excel?

My county is reputed to be one of the best in the state. (Admittedly, given the state, that's not saying much.) Recent reports, however, have me questioning if it is valid to say even that. In a recent publication by the county, an article headlines "Students Continue to Excel in Academics".

Based on results, it does indeed look like progress is being made, tests scores are improving. They claim to be meeting "No Child Left Behind Act" guidelines. Now, I am no statistician, but the results for high school as I see them say that with the exception of "practical living vocational studies", the percentage of students that were proficient or above was no higher than 65%. I found that astounding. In one of the richest counties in the state, 35% of the high school students are not reaching "proficiency" (not excellence, mind you, just "good enough") in any subject. On Demand Writing was a dismal 17%.

In addition, it is reported that:

Overall, 53 percent of first-year students entering
Kentucky's public colleges and universities in 2004
were not prepared, compared with 54 percent of those
entering in 2002.

Tell me, what business could survive with such results? If the money did not come from taxes, but came directly out of the pockets of parents, would they expect more? Are we expecting too much?

Kindness

Today, Lauren went to interview for a pet sitting job in a new subdivision near our home. In a beautiful, large home, the woman and her husband live with their four pampered cats and a rescued golden retriever. The house was spotless and magnificently decorated. Her two boys, now grown, had moved on.

Eagerly, she showed us about the house and introduced the pets. What struck me, however, was that a number of times, she mentioned how lonely she was. New to the area, her husband went off to work each day, and somehow, she'd not yet fit into the community or connected with friends. How sad, I thought, that our world, so connected was so isolationist, that is is so easy to live so close to other people and be lonely. We've lost our social connectiveness somehow.

And yet, maybe it's not so hard to be the one that helps to fix that. Maybe, it's a free pancake breakfast for one person that begins the changes that can cure what ails this world. Maybe its just the reaching out to care. Perhaps I'll get Anna to make her a pumpkin pie.

The Time of Their Lives

The ponies raced around the field with their riders, the champions of the Master's B Division of the Bluegrass Finale. One raced with my daughter along side of her friends on a sunny autumn day. My eyes misted, thinking that this was the time of their lives. Good friends, agile bodies, beautiful weather, and without the weight of responsibility that comes with adulthood.

Another daughter watched from her pony, member of the second place team. Having ridden with the team for the first time, and the first time on the Masters level, she was very happy with the results. She sat on Stealth, her mount for the past two years. It was her last competition with him, as she's outgrown him, both in size and ability. Her sadness was cushioned by the prospect of another horse which we ended up buying. Though needing more training, the mare appears to have the temperment, size, and speed needed.

It's the time of their lives, these girls. Riding at one of the most beautiful places in the world, the Kentucky Horse Park, sharing the experience with wonderful people of all ages, seeing the generosity and good sportsmanship of the competition, it doesn't get any better than this.

And dh is what makes it possible. Driving a beige mini-van to work and explaining his recent purchase for new work shoes, he didn't blink when I said that I again wanted to buy a horse. (He did ask when I was going to be sending Morty on to his new home. Answer: less than a month.) Riding horses is expensive, though this particular discipline of riding is less than other disciplines, dh and I could be taking cruises or at least driving a car with under 100,000 miles. But, as he often says, it is an investment in their character and childhood, and who can put a price on that?

Weekend Consumed

From this moment until Sunday evening, we'll be consumed with the Bluegrass Fall Finale, the final official event of the Mounted Games circuit in the United States. I didn't want to leave my blog readers without reading material, however, so I am posting the following links.

Firstly, a story that I heard on NPR one day while driving to get hay for the horses. It's about a Toad Sucking Dog. Now, why would a dog do that, you might wonder? Read it here.

The following links are to International blogs that I've found meandering around the blogosphere. Often, I think about how circumstances and choices bring us to the life we lead, but there are so many other lives and views out there which we'll not experience, except maybe through the eyes of someone else. So, I check in now and again on the lives of these people, not celebrities, not newsmakers, but real people living real lives. I'll eventually put those that I check regularly in a links section on my blog.

France: Poppy Fields
Italy: italian trivia
China: One Child Policy
Korea: Here in Korea
Mauritania: Planet Nomad

And speaking of celebrities, the Madonna adoption controversy is getting a lot of press. I cannot help but wonder if it has occurred to her to help the father with this little boy, so that the boy can be raised knowing his biological father, who seems to have not enough sophistication to handle this situation. Certainly, she has enough money to do so. Lifting parents from poverty lifts the children, and keeps the family intact.

Batman

Batman went to the zoo last night. It was a nasty night, cold and raining, but I'd promised. The girls were invited to dinner at a beautiful home of a well-to-do couple in honor of the English riding team. But, I'd promised, and it was the only day we could go.

It was well worth it. His cape dragging on the wet pavement, the drizzle abated long enough for us to enjoy walking through the park. He looked around for a disembodied voice (recording) in the vegetation.

"Hey, you! You in the costume!" it called. "You're scaring me!" another voice wavered. William looked all around, smiling tentatively. Where were they?

As we traveled station to station, he would look in his pumkin bucket. "Look at all the candy I'm getting!" he'd say as I mentally took note of what I could steal later without his notice.

We all later rode the little rip-off train (designed to get my last dollar as we exit the zoo), and it, too surprised me. While the headless horseman just waved at the train, not daring to race it in the slippery mud, the erie lights in the tunnels flickered. "Was that cool or what?" Batman exclaimed as we got off. It was. But only through the eyes of a child.

The Phone, The Phone is Ringing!!!

"The phone, the phone is ringing!" If you know the melody that goes with this line, you too have a preschooler that likes the TV show Wonder Pets. Wm has a fit when I sing along, though. My voice isn't that bad, is it? Don't answer.

The phone is ringing though, off the wall. I think dh and I are registered with different parties, not that it matters for neither of us are extremely devoted to either party and change with the candidates we like. But, since both parties want to reach one of us or the other, the phone rings continually at dinner time. This is the time of day most people are home, I suppose. UNKNOWN makes frequent calls, according to Caller ID.

Do they really think that interupting my dinner will make me more inclined to vote for their candidate? I'd love to complain but usually it's a recording, which I discover if I make the mistake of answering.

One call I made the mistake of answering was for the Fraternal Order of Police. Afraid I'd be put on an APB for a ticket if I didn't support their donut fund, I gave them a donation. Unknowingly, dh also gave to the State Police Retirement Fund or some such thing. Now, we are on "the list". I have had at least five calls this month from ambulance drivers, police, and fire departments. Evidently, word's gotten out we're an easy target.

I think I'll have to take the phone off the hook as elections draw nearer.

Fun Website

Okay, I know that my puns and limericks bring out moans from my family, but I can't help it. They write themselves. Evidently, I'm not the only one out there! I found this website, http://www.oedilf.com, that gives you the definition of a word, along with a limmerick to tickle your funny bone. We were looking up the pronunciation of "adenosine" when I found it. They take submissions, so add your own!

Only she thinks the limericks are funny,
Only she laughs when something is punny,
But it brightens the day,
When words become play,
Making gray skies a little more sunny.

Blogger...

...is acting up again!!!! It won't publish a paragraph in the last entry so, here it is, out of order. I just may have to move my blog if the service doesn't improve.

So, I wasn't at all surprised upon hearing that a taping of Dr. Phil on homeschooling didn't go as an invited guest thought it would. Rumor has it that the episod may/may not be aired on October 27th.

Dr. Phil on Homeschooling

Last summer, we were invited out to a farm of acquaintances that were participating in the reality show (an oxymoron if ever I heard one) "Wife Swap". It was a real eye opener as to how TV shows are filmed and how little the viewers actually see of what goes on behind the scenes. It is all staged to provoke emotions, nothing more. Truth and reality have nothing to do with it.

So, I wasn't at all surprised upon hearing that a taping of

Snow

Yesterday, it was bitterly cold. Anna agreed to Lauren that it was and that she wouldn't be surprised if it snowed. Shortly thereafter and to their surprise, we saw the first flakes of the new season drift to the ground. I couldn't believe it! It's still October! It's going to be a LONNNNNNNNNNNNG winter.

Getting Older

There have been times that I've found myself dreaming about getting older. Like last Friday, as I cut the last rubber mat for the last horse stall. I thought to myself that someday, I'd be too old to do this kind of work and wouldn't that be nice? No, I couldn't possibly go out in the cold and couldn't possibly load and unload 40 bales of hay (like I did today). Someone else, someone younger, will have to do it. Me, I'll retire with my book and a cup of tea to the sunroom. Call me when they're finished!

But now, still young enough but not young enough, I try fantastic feats of home and yard repair. Yes, I can climb up into the attic and fix that wiring. No problem to help move that couch. It all seems so reasonable at the time. My back and shoulders scream the next day "na-na-na-na-boo-boo, you're getting older!"

Yesterday, Anna and I volunteered some time doing yard work for a disabled woman. Normally, I don't do fallen leaves. And, I tried to stay away from them as I pulled ivy from her brick house, but somehow, the leaves got me anyway, and today, my head is pounding. I don't know what it is in leaves, but my head doesn't like them. Thank goodness for aspririn.

I Believe...

As I wrote this past month, the local public radio station is ending it's local commentaries and replacing them with a program they are doing with LEO magazine and NPR called "This I Believe". The idea is like gravel in my transmission, to be told what to write, to be told the format. And, beliefs are... more serious, more heady, more, well, not funny.

Or are they? Recently, some beliefs have been gathering in my mind:

I believe I am the only person in my house who knows where the light switches are and that they turn OFF lights. The fact that electricity powers those lights and costs money does not seem to enter anyone else's mind.

I believe that I am the only one that believes in shutting and locking the doors when leaving the house to go somewhere. When it is time to leave, everyone heads down the stairs, lights blazing, doors inviting robbers in.

Speaking of doors open, I believe that kitchen cabinets and doors ought to have automatic door closers so they aren't all open all the time. Wait a minute, that's my job.

I believe no one knows how to change out a garbage bag. Instead, it is a time saver to just smush the garbage down further in the can until the bag breaks. At this point, it becomes "not my problem".

I've not seen anyone yet replace toilet paper on the holder. Forget "over" or "under". In fact, forget even putting it on the holder. Let's just get some out of the supply closet when we're out in the bathroom. I believe in toilet paper.

I believe my dh doesn't have a clue of a mom's daily frustrations. Today, a weekend, he came up puffing because he couldn't find Wm's shoes, coat, etc. and it was taking him a long time to get out the door to his weekend errands. Talk to the hand, man.

I believe my teens would sleep into the next day if I'd let them. I believe they'd rather build a bridge over the dirty (and clean) clothes on their floor than pick them up.

I believe a clean kitchen inspires appetites and causes teens to start cooking, assembling foods, dripping jelly on the floor.

I believe that putting a horse in a clean stall acts as a laxative.

If you are five minutes late already and trying to get everyone out the door, I believe that is when your four year old will tell you that he needs to go to the bathroom, and "I need a magazine".

Speaking of four year olds, ever try to tell one that it is cold outside and you need a coat and shoes? I believe that after giving in, letting him go coatless and shoeless up to the barn, that I'll be walking back down to the house ten minutes later because he's cold. I believe I'll bring the coat and shoes under my arm everywhere I go.

Well, shooo, I'm outa breath! I guess I do have a lot of beliefs to write about!

Cheating

Recently, Lauren's piano instructor thought over whether to give us the answer booklet to Lauren's theory book. I'd offered to correct her work myself. (Though I can't understand any of it by now, I can check it against the answer key.)

"Do you have some place you can keep it under lock and key?" he asked.

Lauren and I looked at each other and smiled.

"Well, if I cheat," she answered, "how will I pass the test?"

See, she's studying this music theory for the next leg of her RACE level. The book helps her to learn the theory that will be tested in a proctored room at the University. If she cheats on the study workbook, she will have no chance whatsoever of passing the final test and she understands that.

This pointed out something so very different between the approach we are taking to education and maybe the more traditional view of it (with which I was raised). We are not comparing ourselves to other people in our abilities to learn new material. The grade is not the ultimate measure of self-worth, not worth attaining at any cost or by cheating. In the end, the only thing that matters is whether you learned and have the knowledge that you have the knowledge.

Instructions

It's a big joke around here that I never read the instructions. I'm more of an intuitive, let's just put it together type of person, jump right in and figure it out. Who needs instructions? This often gets me in deep doo-doo, but sometimes lets me do things faster and easier than stodgy, old instruction-reading people (you know who you are!)

I suppose, as Meredith found, this could get you locked up if you are in the wrong place at the wrong time. But she escaped at the last minute.

Yesterday, I received a compound microscope I'd ordered for the girls' biology class. I was as excited as Christmas to see the UPS truck, but disappointed when he found the box containing slides, but the package with my microscope was missing! What good are slides without a microscope??

Late in the evening, I found an email in my spam folder telling me that the package was on the back porch. It was raining! Luckily, he'd covered it with plastic, but why, tell, did he not put it on the covered front porch?

Digressing.....

I opened the box to find the microscope must be assembled. A thin booklet poorly described how to use the microscope, but no instructions were given to put it together. In fact, it says on page 1 "Do not take down or assemble yourself." Well, pretty hard to use it then, isn't it? Good thing I have my "no instructions" gene, so I was able to get the microscope together anyway.

The kids were off watching TV as dh and I happily looked at slides.
"Look at this one! Mouth parts of a mosquito!"
I think we were more taken with our new toy than the kids, but Anna did come in and look at slides for awhile. Today's lab is "Mystery Slides" in which I choose slides for them and they have to decide if they are plant or animal cells.

A Dust Explosion

No, I'm not going to talk about my terrible housekeeping skills. Did you know that horse barns are considered an explosion risk because of dust? Neither did I, or didn't until our electrician recently failed to get our electrical inspection passed. The items listed all required that every box, switches, and outlets be dust proof.

Now, I will say that the barn, being open and free of knicknacks, kids shoes and toys on the floor (no, I take that back, Wm already has a few of his tractors and cars in the aisleway), and floorboards, is in general cleaner than most houses. And yes, we'll be using shavings to bed the stalls, but not sawdust as in a lumber mill. I will not be storing vast quantities of grain as in a granary. The electrical inspector insists, however, that someday, some dusty horse owner may own the barn if I sell it.

So it is with some great frustration that I see all the outlets and switches covered with plastic boxes that will crack off like a dry twig the first time my girls go to turn on the lights. This will keep my new barn from burning down? I have to laugh because many barns that I visit have not only no dust covers, but exposed coated wire or open boxes. In fact, my old barn was wired from my house, and every time I turned on the microwave and the electric skillet at the same time, the breaker would trip. We found out that was because the barn fans, lights and heaters were also running on the same circuit. At least we've made some improvement!

George, the 90 year old father of the electrician, stood in my barn with the caulk gun, dribbling caulk all over like an old man eating cereal with milk running down his chin. The white special caulk was supposed to be used to dust proof the boxes that were in the barn. It looks like some giant bird has pooped all over our barn. I was devastated. Dh said it was like having a new pair of white tennis shoes that someone stopped all over and got dirty the first day. But, they insisted that they had to use this butyl rubber caulk.

Just now, I spoke with the inspector who told me that clear silicone caulk was okay, so I guess I'll be scraping and recaulking the worst of it. If you want to reach me, I'll be in the barn.

In the Early Morning Light....

...one of the three chicks, now nearly full grown but not quite, couldn't contain himself and crowed, revealing his true identity. Actually, we suspect two of the three are males, but I can't prove it until I SEE him (them) crow. But there it is, we have another rooster. We need eggs, not roosters.

The Weekend Report

The stalls are mostly done. We worked hard all weekend cutting thick rubber mats with a box-cutter to custom fit them to horse stalls. I feel like a ninety year old. I'll probably feel worse tomorrow. We have one more stall to do, due to a (uh-hem) measuring error by yours truly.

Last night, we worked until dusk and tired, went to the local Mexican restaurant. While driving there, I laughed aloud to my family that a politcal sign proclaimed a guy with the last name "Kidney" was running for local office. Perhaps his opponent can run an ad, "Kidney, he hasn't the stomach for the job". Dh laughed and comment that another person named "Bowel" could run with the slogan, "Bowel, he gets shit done."

Ah, such is the camraderie of family life, laughing all the way.

Saturday Morning

I heard it snowed in upstate New York, and here, we are getting frost already. I'm seriously NOT ready for cold weather. I'd like to ease into temperature drops. Here in Kentucky though, it went from the 60's and 70's to the 30's in one day. My body can't adjust that fast.

Today, however, it is going to get into the upper 50's, perfect weather for the day ahead. We are going to be working on the horse stalls, preparing them for the rubber mats that we'll have to lay and cut to size. The mats are heavy, but should make cleaning stalls a breeze compared to having dirt floors.

It's Boring

Thinking that much of my time is spent driving to or arranging activities and lessons for the older girls, I purchased two tickets to yesterday's performance of Alice in Wonderland by Stage One. We would have a mother/son date. We would mingle with other children his age at a cultural event. Are you following my destructive thinking pattern?

Myself, I've never quite enjoyed Alice in Wonderland, thinking it was more like a drug-induced hallucination of some adult. Evidently, the producers also picked up on this as the stage props were largely psychadelic, reminiscent of the 70's. In fact, I enjoyed the music they used, including the Beatles and the Monkeys, a little nostalgia for the old folks in the audience. Perhaps it went over the tikes' heads, but more than one dad in the audience chuckled at the caterpillar-man that was blowing bubbles on a bong.

Checking William's facial expressions periodically for signs of enjoyment, my son dashed my dreams of his appreciation of my efforts with "Can we leave now? I'm hungry." To his defense, he hadn't eaten breakfast, as he rarely does, waiting until about 11 a.m. before his stomach awakens. That was just about the time that he expressed the desire to leave.

"It's almost over," I pleaded. "We'll leave soon."
He turned his head into his seat, mad at me for not leaving right away.
As we left, he stated loudly, in front of other attendees that he had found it boring. I asked why.

"Well, the kids don't get to do ANYTHING! You just have to sit and sit and do nothing. And it was boring." He then went on to declare the costumes unbelievable, particularly the man with a rabbit mask.

I would have bought this argument had we not passed our local movie theater on the way home.

"I wish we could go to a movie," he said wistfully.
A movie. Well, don't you just sit and do NOTHING at a movie? I don't suppose I'll ever understand the mind of a 4 year old. Anyone need tickets to an upcoming play?

Changes at the Radio Station

WFPL's Director of News and Programming emailed today that they'll be discontinuing the local commentaries on our local public radio. Instead, they are joining NPR to produce a series resurrected from the 1950's by Ed Murrow called "This I Believe". Transcripts of those selected will be published in LEO (http://www.leovia.com/?q=issue/section/view/25) (sorry, hyperlinks still not enabled. You can read how to submit an essay at http://www.leovia.com/?q=node/2828.

I am a bit sad about the change. I've enjoyed catching the regular local commentators in the morning, finding out what they were writing as a clue to what I might write. I enjoyed the fantasy of having a voice on the air. Though I'll probably one day write an essay for "This I Believe", by it's nature, how many essays can one write about what one believes? It looks as if the essays pay well, $200 each, but not much if you consider that the essay can be used in any form, including books that will go out like Chicken Soup books most likely. Chicken Soup for the Chicken Lover's Soul.

If you believe they should continue the local commentaries, you could write to Heidi Caravan at hcaravan@wfpl.org and let her know.

Right now, I believe my four year old is impatient with me because he wants yet another tuna fish sandwich, so I believe I'll go make it.

Chicken on a Stick

Back at home, while we were away enjoying our campfire, my dear friend Christine and her children were trying to get our chickens to go to bed. I had told Christine that the chickens normally put themselves to bed, and that all that was required was to shut the door of the coop, locking out predators. Not so this particular day, of all days.

And Christine, city-born and raised, was perplexed to find that five of our chickens, one of which was the precious “Chicken-Lickin’” had settled themselves for the night on a tree branch. And, not any old tree branch. They’d scooted out along the limb to the end, which hung over our creek bed eight feet below.

I’d told her before I left to not worry if chickens somehow came to an unfortunate end, as they were aging chickens, rarely laying, and hey, raccoons have to eat, too. Except for Chicken Lickin’. Chicken Lickin’ is the small black Silkie cross that we have who broods our eggs and lets young children catch and hold her. She’s a therapy chicken, if you will. And here she was, dangling over the creek.

Bless her heart, Christine positioned her daughter, Crisann, below on the banks of the creek. She grabbed a long pole and began pushing the chickens one by one out of the tree. Christine’s mother, visiting from Virginia, was also along, and they all got to laughing. I’m sure she was thinking Christine has surely moved to the ends of the earth, for here was her city daughter climbing out over a creek bank to catch chickens in a tree. She called Christine’s dad on the cell phone to report on her daughter’s exploits. He then took the story to their church, which spread the news all over town. I’m sure it won’t be long before it hits the local papers.

Successful in their attempts, the chickens were retrieved one by one. Worried about a repeat episode, Christine called to let me know that Chickin’ Lickin’ was not given the liberty of free-range the next day, but remained in her cage. Can’t say’s I blame her!

NOTE: I'd add photos but it seems blogger is having difficulties this a.m. and my task bar and html tab is missing. Arrgghhh!!

First Place

The comraderie of Mounted Games is what I love. It's not that there isn't any rivalry. There was whooping and hollering when two horses neared the finish line together. GO!! we'd shout and jump up and down, laughing if a younger rider beat out a more experienced one. Each race was a chance for fun and excitement.

In many sports, its all about winning. Despite the large commitment, we've continued in this sport because everyone seems more focused on how they are progressing, how well they rode that day, or how well they are doing on their horse. Each rider and team can progress, and be congratulated for it.

Even so, it is fun to win. Anna and her partner won first place in the Novice division! Anna has been amazing at her progress, only learning to ride two years ago.

See the horse she is on? She can lean down and pick up a ball off the ground without leaving the saddle. It's so fun for her that they've won first place, though now that means moving up into the next division, where she'll have to work her way up again.

Here is Lauren and Quid. Quid is going to be a terrific horse for Lauren. They turn perfectly, and rode brilliantly the first day. The second day, Quid came up tender-footed and had to be pulled from the race. We hope that she just caught a stone, as she seemed better yesterday. Lauren finished the races on another borrowed pony, one she wasn't used to riding, so the competiton didn't turn out the way she wanted, riding her new horse. Still, she and her partner enjoyed the weekend.

Many thanks to all the kind and hard-working people at USMGA for making the weekend happen.

Camping

A lone coyote sent up a howl at an almost full moon. Soon after, his pack joined him in what sounded like puppies screeching in protest at being left behind. We looked up from our sputtering campfire at the near full moon. What was that, we wondered? After distinguishing the howls from the barks of two dogs left behind in a camper, we decided they were coyotes.

Only after returning home this evening from a weekend riding competition, could I appreciate how quiet our backyard is. Camping should be a quiet experience, a oneness with nature. Not so at the Hoosier Horse Park. A western horse show was in progress (that's another blog!). Loud speakers announced the winners well into the evening. One of the horses on the western show side whinnied all night, missing a companion or anxious at being away from home. The participants arrived at intervals with enormous trailers that had both living quarters and horse trailer. After dropping the trailer, the monster trucks needed to pull these semi-sized trailers pulled in and out of the camp area all night. The Western riders do like a night on the town and they like to camp in heated trailers.

Between the rumble of the diesel trucks, the coyotes continued to howl all of Friday night. Saturday night, they were a bit quieter, though the moon was now full. Might it have been that the National Guard was patrolling the field just east of us in their tanks?? Perhaps it was the large remote-control vehicle track in the adjacent campground, where the cars of boy scouts sent out a constant high pitched whine. No, they were probably put off by the flock of Canadian honking geese at the pond. Or maybe, just those trucks pulling in and out. But I didn't hear the coyotes again Saturday night until about five in the morning.

Sunday morning, I awoke in the frigid tent air to the sound of a man shouting. Should I be concerned? You hear stories of people murdered because no one paid attention when someone shouted. I listened. Getting louder, I could hear voices in response. A sing-song of response to the "a-left, right-a, a-left, right-a, left". It was the Guard, out marching. I pulled my covers closer, thankful that I wasn't in the army.

My mind began a sing-song of it's own:

I don't know but I've been told,
Camping out is mighty cold.

Still, we enjoyed the night by the fire with friends, laughing at our attempts to cook hotdogs on sticks, the full moon, and the fog of the morning.

Next: more on our weekend.

On the Air

Outside of the recording booth, a light declares "Recording" in red letters. All around, I can hear people going about the business of running a radio station, but soon, the door closes and it is utter silence. Ah, I wonder if I can have one of these sound-proof rooms installed in my house? I could hide in there with a good book and block out the sounds of everyday life for just a moment. Just a brief moment. The relief of the lack of sound washes over me, but doesn't last long, as I start hearing myself breathe. Finally, I hear the hiss inside my headphones that say that we're about to begin.

Reading my piece was a little harder yesterday. Bobby, who records the commentaries, says that this Ohio Valley climate affects our voices. My voice was either getting too dry or it sounded weak after water loosened not only my voice, but the gunk that collects from the air. What I needed was a good swig of whiskey, which would really clear it all out, but I suppose that wouldn't be compatible with trying to speak crisply. So, I struggled on, trying to clear my throat without blowing out the large mike in front of me.

You might think that reading 350 words without a mistake would be no problem, but it is really rather difficult. It takes one read through for me to calm down, and one or two more for the one I like. Some words are difficult, and you realize that until you try to read them in a paragraph. Yesterday, it was "the disasters" (in reference to the space shuttles). I get a lot of practice, however, reading aloud to Willliam, who will sit for as long as the voice holds out.

What Possessed Me....

....to think that I could go camping when I've not been in years. Yesterday was a beautiful, gorgeous bright orange fall day. A day that makes you think of apple cider and pumpkins, sitting in front of a campfire with friends. The weekend camping will be perfect, I think. S'mores, hot dogs. I'll save a considerable hotel bill. You get the picture. That's when I broke my cardinal rule - Never have expectations of the perfect weekend. Never dream about how it wonderful it will be.

As we gather the items we need to camp at the girls' riding competition this weekend, the temperature has dropped significantly and a light rain has continued all day. My resolve is beginning to drop with the temperature, and I wonder what I've done.

The last time we went camping, the girls were much smaller, four and two, to be exact. William was but a dream. We were city dwellers, hoping to find some solitude. We drove to Indiana, set up our new tent, and started a campfire. It all went well at first. The girls were asleep, we had some wine and sat at the fire relaxing, a romantic moment. That's when the skunk waddled into our campsite. We crept backwards, not knowing what to do, and retreated to the tent, firmly pulling the zippers. So much for romantic.

We tried to go to sleep, though the rednecks next door, closely resembling the relatives from Christmas Vacation, kept their radio on loud, guns propped against a tree. These same campers were our concern when Lauren woke up in the dead of night, screaming from a nightmare. We worried that they might put their rifles to good use. That was the last time we camped.

So, now I'm giving it another try. Sleeping on the ground will also be a challenge with my aging back. Whatever possessed me?

Riding

It was a beautiful day. I actually got to go riding with a new neighbor, who showed trails to me that are open to the public and just down the street. "Bay" behaved beautifully, but was somewhat the show-off for the woman's mare.

Lauren has found her horse for Games finally. Her name is "Quid" (for Quidditch, the game in Harry Potter books). She's about 5 or 6 years old, is a POA (Pony of the Americas) breed, and is smart, yet quiet, and she and Lauren just match.

Monkey Bananas

Cookies don't last long in our house. Wm has learned to try to bargain for more than one, and his sisters are not known to pass one up either. Wonder who they get that from?? So, I was amused by the book No More Cookies in which a mother tells her boy that he can't have any more cookies, but he could have Monkey Bananas.

So of course, we had to make Monkey Bananas. To make your own, cut bananas in half, push in a popsicle stick and freeze. (This varies slightly from the book's recipe, in which they did not freeze the bananas first. The advantage to freezing the bananas first is that they can then be eaten immediately, and we all know that pre-schoolers like "immediately".)

Melt chocolate, carefully to not burn, in the microwave. (Spoken from experience.) Then, dip the frozen bananas in the chocolate and add sprinkles. Eat! Put extras on wax paper and into the freezer. One variation of this recipe is to dip the banana into honey and roll in nuts. Wm ate a lot of bananas this week. One advantage to this project is the opportunity for the mom to steal bites of chocolate in the name of education.

Division of Labor

Some people might slap me for even having a husband that's willing to go to the grocery. We alternate the chore on Sundays. One of us takes the girls to church. Taking William to church at the moment is about as peaceful and prayerful as having someone stick your backside repeatedly with a straight pin. So, while one goes to church for a peaceful hour, the other takes Wm to the grocery. This isn't such a bad chore, because the grocery is usually not very busy yet and like most males, Wm's affections can be bought with the right food.

At any rate, this morning, dh and I discussed who would take which role this morning. It is tempting to take the church-going role. Though it was my turn, dh offered to do the shopping.

Okay, I agreed, if you'll do the groceries the way I do groceries. What did I mean? Well, before going, the dishwasher must be unloaded, loaded, the refrigerator cleaned (to make room for the new groceries), and the diswasher started. When he returned, he was not to deposit the groceries on the counter like a fisherman who's returned home with a string of trout that he expects the little wife to clean and fry up for dinner. No, he would have to put them away, too. Just like I would. Dh rapidly agreed that he'd go to church. And, bless his soul, he did help me put away the groceries.

I'm off now to watch the girls ride in a mini-competition while dh cuts grass and Wm plays in the dirt. Now there's a good division of labor!

Dark Brown

My new son, Dark Brown. Yes, I returned home yesterday to hear that Wm has renamed himself "Dark Brown". Where did this come from? He and Anna were playing with some Halloween capes from last year. His was black. I think he settled on this because he often hears us say his eyes are dark brown and it maybe sound a little like Darth from Darth Vader, only Wm still has a little trouble with the "th" sound. He's William again today, and feeling better after a weird temperature spike one afternoon.

A Real Looker

We were sitting in Friday night mall traffic, cars four across. No, I didn't lose my mind and decide to shop; I'd dropped Lauren off at dh's work so he could take her to the symphony. So here we were, waiting at the red light and I look over three cars to see a young man looking back. I looked away, but each time I looked, he was looking.

Now, I'm old and humble enough to know it wasn't me that he was looking at. If he was, it was because my shirt buttons had popped open (nope) or my hair was sticking up funny. OH, it dawned on me, he's looking at Anna! My 13 year old Anna.

"He's looking at you, Anna," I said.
"Yeah," she smiled. "I know."
"Gees, and he has a woman in the car with him. Quick, smile and flash your braces at him so he knows you're jail bait."
She laughed.

Lord, I'm in for a time of it, aren't I?

Sexy Hooker Shoes

On my radio transcripts blog, I noticed a GoogleAdsense ad pointed readers to "sexy hooker shoes". Intrigued, and scared at what ads my readers see, I had to go check it out. Imagine my delight to discover that they had light up shoes! My son has always had light up gym shoes and I wondered why adults can't get them. WELL! We were looking in the wrong places! Check these out!

And they make you taller to boot (no pun intended)! I won't have to have that operation to stretch my legs longer after all! Wonder what the ladies at church would think?

I had to go browsing on this site. What a hoot! Look at all the dress up clothes for women. Lots of fantasy stuff there for the guys. You can dress your woman as a maid, school girl, geisha girl, bunny, cat, French maid, pirate wench, and on and on. Now, look at the men's selection. Of the very few costumes, there are only six variations, whereas the women's section has multiple pages. (And a Hugh Hefner outfit? Yuck! Can you get any more icky than that??) Obviously, it doesn't matter what the guy wears. Rather amusing. Evidently, there are too many people with disposable income.

Biology

Nothing irks me more than to be told I can't do something. Recently, I tried to buy seemingly innocuous chemicals and was told that the company, Flinn Scientific, would not sell to homeschoolers or individuals. I suppose I could understand if I were trying to buy hydrochloric acid, but I was trying to locate pectinase, an enzyme that when added to applesauce, causes more juice to be released from the sauce. It's used in food production, for goodness sakes. The other was cellulase, used to soften jeans material. I wonder if the terrorists are planning to drive us insane by ruining all our jeans and making our applesauce runny? Whatever could I do with these two items that makes them restricted? I'll have to study on that one.

What really made me mad though is that with a chemical engineering degree, and just two students, more likely the chemicals would be safer with me than in a room full of thirty teenagers and a biology teacher. Oh, well, it's a crazy world.

I ended up buying a forensics lab from Carolina Biological that covers the concepts we are studying right now: carbohydrates, polysaccharides and enzymes. Lauren, who loves the show "Bones", will be much more interested in detecting saliva on "evidence" than she would be seeing if she could squeeze more juice out of applesauce. It looks fun.

I'm, in the meantime, trying to find my humor that's gone missing with a husband in the middle of peak season, gone most days dark to dark, teens that consider me their personal driver and social director, and a little boy that suddenly developed a fever this afternoon.

Another Birthday

It would probably be a kindness to ignore birthdays for women that are past a "certain age", do you not think? Yet, they still keep coming. The alternative to growing a year older (not growing a year older) is not attractive.

So, yesterday I submitted to adding another year to my age. It was an enjoyable day spent with my family. While I took the girls to church, dh and Wm went to the grocery and returned with steak, corn on the cob, salad and "a surprise" for my birthday.

Wm announced as soon as they returned that they had a surprise for me but he wasn't allowed to tell what it was. I was impressed with his ability to keep the surprise. I tried several times to trick him into telling me, but he was on his game. I was reminded of my sister, many years ago, who also was told not to tell her Daddy what his present was. Immediately on coming into the house, she ran to Dad and said, "Daddy, I'm not allowed to tell you that we got you socks for your birthday! It's a secret!" My secret prize was a DQ chocolate ice cream cake which calls to my expanding waistline even as I type this morning. It screams to me telepathically to be released from it's freezer prison.

Before dinner, we all went to ride at a nearby arena, all five of us riding at one time, a dream of mine I'd had for a long time, come true. My daughters treated me to a back and foot massage as their present to me. All in all, a perfect day. Perhaps birthdays aren't so bad.

Soggy

Saturday was the second day of rain and the date of dh's company picnic. It was a light rain as we left, and the company sometimes gives good door prizes. In the middle of their peak season and with moral lagging, it was important to show up at this event.

Sometimes, such events are hard for me. On the one hand, it is the company that pays the bills, the company that in normal times, gives dh the job he really likes. Yet, in this peak, pre-Christmas season, it's the company that steals his time, takes him body and mind. Here's the manager, sitting across from me in the large white tent, who I've heard stories about, who sometimes makes waves that ripple across dh's desk. I smiled my plastic smile, but I didn't have to like him.

A crisis was in progress even as we looked at snakes and spiders in the HerpAquarium. The blackberry on his belt beeped and called him away. I listened as he tried to rearrange schedules and deal with another crisis and the vampire bats in their glass cages drank blood. I could not help drawing a comparison. I wish I could save him from this stress.

We walked outside to view other animals and the heavens opened and it poured like a monsoon in the far East. We admitted defeat and returned home. In the end, we got six inches of rain. Dh's father and brother came to visit that night, and we went to an Irish restaurant for dinner to warm our insides with good, thick carbohydrates to try to banish the rain from our bones.

Biker Chick

My first mistake was in going to Walmart to buy a new purse. I've not had one in years. I generally just stuff everything in my jeans pockets to be hands free to hold onto Wm. Yet, as the years go on, one doesn't want to draw attention to the hips area, making them even wider by stuffing everything you own in them. I know guys do it, but they don't seem to care about their hip width.

Anyway, I'm at Walmart and see that all of their purses fall into the teenage genre of purses. Either impossibly tiny or enormously big, I can just see the girls with their bellybutton piercings, bleached hair and these purses. Where are the purses for the I-don't-want-to-look-like-a-mom-but-don't-want-to-look-14-but-don't-have-$50-to-spend-on-a-purse purses? There were several that were large enough to hold a laptop, if I had one, that is. I finally settled on a not too large black leather purse that had a pocket for my cell. It matches my black leather jacket but I fear makes me look like a biker chick. Perhaps I'll get a tatoo.

My mom visited yesterday and looked at it in dismay. I don't have much in it yet, and it hangs limp like a bra someone bought too big and no chest to fill it. She held up her proper brown alligator skin bag, and suggested a little more taste in my selection next time. Well, I'm not quite ready for the alligator track yet. Maybe I'll get a motorcyle to go with my purse.

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?