Clifty Falls

The "clifty" part should have warned us that the hiking was uphill - both ways. Or so it seemed that we were mostly always hiking up huge hills. Interesting, isn't it, that you don't much notice the change in elevation going down. Going back up is a different story. And, who would guess that flat Indiana has enormous drops and cliffs?

We consulted maps and looked for landmarks, and somehow, still ended up hiking a trail we had decided was too long and rugged - over 4.5 miles. William would be revitalized when we came to a creek or rocks to climb up. In between, he kept up the chant that his legs just wouldn't work much longer. At over fifty pounds, he had the choice of walking or remaining behind for bear food. He decided to keep going.

The day ended at a large creek where the kids all played in the water and threw rocks, and then climbed the observation tower to see the Ohio River.

Notes

Anna has an alternative suggestion to home-based learner: self-taught genius.

A Rose By Any Other Name....

Amid threats of thunderstorms and hail, fire and brimstone, we are going hiking today at Clifty Falls. We'd visited it last September and because of the drought, found it Clifty but no Falls. We hope to have a bit of water to view, but in the stream beds, and not on our heads.

In my small mind today is the thought that I've always been uncomfortable with the term "homeschooler". It implies school desks, textbooks, an American flag in the corner of a room complete with blackboard whiteboard (lest I show my age). I am asked about my "qualifications" and grade books, how I keep track of attendance (uh, if the student doesn't report to class I would call the police). It's the "schooler" part that bothers me, though certainly, we have times when "home" doesn't really apply either, since we are often on the go.

When we faced the decision as to whether to send the kids to school or not, we decided to take a positive approach and choose to learn at home because we thought it best, not because it was the only alternative to a bad situation should it develop. As we proceeded, we liked it enough to not change. Yet, it never really looked like "school" and all that implies with the mindset, the paradigm of school culture. It was more about "learning" and less about structure of "school".

Often, adults ask my kids questions like "what grade are you in?" or "what school do you attend?" because they are unable to formulate real questions that show interest (and that you would use with an adult) like "do you have a hobby?" or "what interests you these days?". It is with these limited questions that we end up replying that we "homeschool". There's that word again, school, reinforcing all that it implies.

I've decided that "homelearner" is a better description and answer, for we don't do "school" the way the word implies and learner gets more to the heart of the change I'd like to see in and out of schools. Still, the home part conjures again the poor isolated child that is never socialized. Ah, how about "home-based learners". I may try that on for size. Perhaps, it is only a name, but sometimes, Mr. Shakespeare, words can change things.

Notes:
Thanks to It's All Nurture and her post on being a "non-schooler" (also a good choice) for the blog topic.

We're out of chicken food, so I'm off to get more quickly before we leave. Buffy, who is our very oldest chicken, has decided to lay again. Miracles do happen. Just to be ornery, the two Aracaunas decided to not lay eggs since Buffy is.

You can't grow flowers in pots if miniature horses get up on your deck and eat them.

Science Friday - Flagging

Recently, we noticed a number of dead branches in what are otherwise healthy trees in our yard, particularly the weeping willows. We correctly suspected cicada damage. The female uses her oviposter like a tiny saw, making two parallel lines that split the twig and there she deposits her eggs. This causes the twig to die and hang down, which is why it is referred to as "flagging".


The above photo shows the slits in the twig. Using a compound microscope, we were able to view the little rice-like eggs that were in the holes. We put the branch back outside so that after the eggs hatch, the nymphs can burrow down into the soil and grow for the next seventeen years. By the next time we see them, William will be twenty three years old and will, like the cicada nymphs, also have transformed into a different creature altogether.

An Open Letter to Tiger Woods

Hi! My name is William. I read in the newspaper that your leg is broken. I wanted to make you a card so you feel better. I am your big fan. Get well soon! William

Guest Blog Contest

This week's contest is for a $5 Stuffmart gift card. To enter, simply post a comment about your most horrible-est or funniest customer service experience. Please make a fake name up for the company or business, because I don't want to get sued and neither do you. If no one participates, I get the Stuffmart card, since I spend our entire paycheck there anyway.

Wordless Wednesday - Opposites

Renaissance Man

William continues to refine his list of future occupations: 'struction worker, fencer (meaning professional sword-fighting fencer, not fence builder) and piano teacher. He sees no reason why he cannot be all three, and perhaps he can. He also would like me to arrange lessons in swimming and diving because he's going to dive on the Olympic team (he saw the US tryouts on TV), gymnastics (ditto), tae kwon do with use of the bo, and fencing. For him, the sky is the limit.

I find it ironic that he is trying to see how many things he can get in to while I am trying to see how many things I can get out of.

Farm Notes

Two black roosters were given away this past weekend to a family in the country that had 18 new hens that needed a little male companionship. They also took one of the comet mixes that seemed roosterish. This left four that may or may not be hens. I moved them outside with the remaining black hens and they all seem to get along okay.

William, of course, told me that the comet mix that I gave away was his favorite and why did I give him away? At least I'm not a true farmer: A rooster? Off with his head!

Errata

For those of you that receive RSS feed of my blog, you should know that I often publish my blog and then look at it online, only to see a glaring error that I somehow missed while writing it. Often I'll be reading it and "Doah!" as Homer Simpson would exclaim, I see a grammatical error or completely stupid mistake.

I would compose it on MSWord, if the *&^$%* manufacturers would sell the program with the computer like they used to in the good ol' days. Now, you have to pay an additional untold number of dollars, the down payment on your house, the money you were saving for a new car, to be able to interact with the real world with .doc files. (And yes, I do know about Wordpad but it's just not the same, you know? It's like decaf coffee.) Just a pet peeve.

And the Winner Is.....

Rod! of Flockfold Kids! with the answer to trade the minivan. Several of you came to that conclusion, but Rod had an element in his answer that the radio story suggested: that our vehicles should be rated in gallons per mile, not miles per gallon if we are to save gasoline.

Remember, you were given that:

1. The vehicles are driven the same number of miles per year.
2. There was no mention of load and it is to be assumed the same load - i.e. you don't haul feed bags in your minivan, weighing it down.
3. How "cool" the vehicle looks while being driven isn't a factor.

The only objective was to save gasoline. To get this answer, Rod converted the miles per gallon of the minivan (18), the station wagon (28), the sedan (30), and the hybrid (50) to gallons per mile: 0.056, .036, .033, and .020 respectively.

There were two possible combinations, the minivan with the hybrid, and the station wagon with the sedan. By looking at the gallons per mile, you get .056 + .020 = .076 gallons per mile if you keep the minivan, and .036 + .033= .069 gallons per mile if you trade the minivan. As Rod says, "bye-bye, Eugene". You use less gallons per mile (.069 versus .076).

Neither miles driven nor the price of gas was necessary to determine this answer of reducing the number of gallons of gasoline used. Of course, in real life, it is more complicated - highway versus city driving, who is in the car, maintenance of the car. All things being equal though (as in this problem), we could reduce our oil consumption by getting the biggest gas guzzlers off the road as soon as possible.

So, congratulations, Rod, winner of the McD's gift card! Bon appetit!

Why Every Dad Needs a Little Boy

William asked his dad, "Dad, is Tiger Woods as good a golfer as you?"

Science, uh, Saturday

This week on Science Friday Saturday (okay, so I missed it by one day, sue me), moths and butterflies seem to be everywhere. My young son as yet hasn't discovered that I don't know everything. "What kind of moth is that?" he asks.

I'd like to have encyclopedic knowledge and spout off "Oh, that is a Grammia Anna from the Arctiidae family of moths" because William no longer is satisfied with "it's a black and white moth!" He wants to know what kind it is. My answer usually is "we'll have to look that up when we get home". And so lies the problem with being an older homeschooling mom - busy and preoccupied, I forget to look it up. Several days later, here I am, scanning the internet, having long lost the teaching moment.

Do you know how many butterflies and moths exist? Do you know how many images I had to look over to find it? The creatures aren't at all catagorized like I would: Yellow Moths, Brown Moths, Moths with dots on their wings. No, we get Thyatirid Moths, Doid Moths, or Prominents, like I'm supposed to know what those are. That's why we moms say "It's a black and white moth. Eat your french fries and shut up."

But find it I did! The moth in question was beautiful and I'd never seen one before. It is an Anna Tiger Moth . We also found the following and I've not yet found its image on the web. Anyone care to help identify?

Stuff This

How did we get to this? I wondered as I checked out at StuffMart. Somehow, customer service has slipped to all time lows. Jogging around a store of a couple of acres, I select my items. The milk is in the far back right corner but the dog food, equally important, is in the front left. After getting in my morning workout just doing a little shopping, I put the items on the conveyor to checkout. Having done that, I must then stand by as a bagger.

The cashier puts the items in the bag, turns the turntable so that I can reach the bag, and I'm expected to load my own cart. As I stood doing this the other day, the cashier told me that she was "running out of room here" but I was still loading the conveyor. Hurry up, I'm sure she was thinking. HOW have we women, who do most of the shopping, allowed ourselves to be treated so? How is it that they've managed to get us to do all the work and pay for the privilege? After spending over $300 (I used to think a good day was getting out under $100), does anyone ask if I need help out? No, I now have the task of gingerly steering the cart with bags that don't quite fit as well as the unbagged cart, watching that William doesn't get run over, and then loading the car myself. Something is wrong with this picture.

Learning to Think

We are all concerned about rising gas prices. I enjoyed listening to NPR today (Car Gas Mileage May Not Be All It Seems) as they talked about making the correct choices to reduce the amount of gasoline we use. Are we making the right decisions as we choose the vehicles we drive? Here's a math puzzle presented on the show.

A family has two vehicles both driven the same number of miles per year.

One is a mini-van which gets 18 miles per gallon. It could be traded for a station wagon which gets 28 mpg, gaining 10 miles per gallon of gasoline purchased.

The other vehicle is a sedan. It gets 30 mpg but could be traded for a hybrid car that gets 50 mpg, gaining 20 miles per gallon of gas.

Which vehicle should be traded in to minimize gasoline consumption?

(Answer to be shared soon. Please leave your answer and supporting theorems in the comments section. Anna solved this problem in under a half a minute, while I sat and figured a more, shall we say, roundabout way to get to the answer.)

The problem should be more complicated though. You have three vehicles, two of which are paid off but pitiful. These two are driven at sporadic times, sometimes on the highway, sometimes through town. You don't know how many miles you drive - it depends. While pulling horses, increase gas usage to only 10 mpg. You don't know how many miles you pull horses, only that you have to and this vehicle can't be traded because new trucks cost more than houses.

The minivan is paid off, but about 50,000 miles over the expected life of vans of this model. It has a name, "Eugene". You can't possibly trade it because (did I mention it was paid off?) it is like part of the family, even if it does have a peculiar odor to it. How could we do that to Eugene?

Trading in vehicles isn't a math problem, you see. It is a logistics problem - how many people you need to cart where and with what equipment or animals. It is a cleanliness problem - Eugene isn't picky and in a new car, well, spills just wouldn't be taken quite so calmly. Trading cars just simply can't be reduced to a math problem.

Anyway, take a pot shot at the above unrealistically simple problem about saving gas.

Priorities

When I woke up, my first thought this yesterday morning was that the hot tub repairman was coming. It had taken two weeks to get this appointment. I had also, the night before, promised the kids that I'd take them to the science museum, library, and William's piano lesson in the morning. Obviously, I didn't check my calendar first. (Well, actually that wouldn't have helped, since I'd forgotten to write it down.)

After several tries, I finally was able to reach Mac, the repairman by phone. He'd left a message that he'd come between 2:30 and 3:00 p.m., right in the middle of William's piano lesson, but when I talked to him, he was unable to say what time he'd be here.

"Can you give me a ballpark?" I asked, frustrated. "I have my day to plan and can't sit around all day waiting for....."

Mac* interrupted. "Ma'am, I can't tell you when I'll be there. Honestly, I don't know how I'm going to do this."

His voice was choking and he was beginning to cry. I am thinking at this point that wow, this must be a really difficult employer and who knew that being a hot tub repairman was so stressful? Then, Mac told me that he'd just found out that his step-daughter had been murdered six months ago, and he didn't know how he was going to get through the day. He choked out that he'd come if he could and hung up on me.

I looked at the phone, stunned. I quickly hit caller ID and called him back. "Look, Mac, I'm really sorry for your loss and what you're going through. I'll be praying for you today. My hot tub can wait. Maybe, you should take the day off and be with people you care about."

Mac then told me that there wasn't anyone. How sad. He had composed himself somewhat and said that if I called the store and left payment information, he could come without me being there. I again told him I'd be thinking of him, and hung up.

When I called the store to pay, I asked if they knew their employee had a serious situation going on, and she said that yes, she did but they'd told him to just "do his best". I told her that they needed to check on him, that he had relayed there was no one in his life to care, and that he didn't seem to be doing so well. She said she would, and thanked me.

We went on with our day, seeing the dinosaur exhibit at the museum, eating lunch at Subway, stripping the library of all it's children's books, and attending William's group lesson at piano. Mac called as the lesson ended; he was at our house. When I got home, he was sitting cross-legged in front of our hot tub, most of the repair completed. I crouched down beside him and asked him how he was doing. He'd made it through the day, and said he wouldn't know until he got home and told "the other one", I'm assuming another step-daughter. I asked, not wanting to pry too much but wanting to be there to listen, if they'd just discovered this news. No, he said, "they'd" known in December, but had just "seen fit" to tell him. He didn't share who "they" were.

As he left, I again said I'd be praying for him, and offered him a tip, which I usually do for repairmen, so they can get a bite to eat in the drive-through before the trip back. Mac declined.

"I don't mean to offend you..." I said.

"No, it doesn't offend me, but I can't accept it. Not today."

Some days, money and hot tubs, they just don't seem so important.

*Name changed.

Roosters

He's not the first Lester, but rather Lester Jr. The name seems to stick to all our roosters as the phrase "Lester the Molester" just seems so apt. When it comes to his hens, Lester is not at all concerned about their romantic desires. He's all business, the boss, and in return, he will point out the choicest morsels of food and fight off any intruders to death if necessary (which is what happened to Lester Sr., killed by a dog through the fence).

I'm always amused to hear about people that are about to have "the talk" with their thirteen year old kids. At our place, the talk starts about age two or three when the child laughs, "Look, Mommy, Lester's riding on the back of that chicken!" And, I say no, Lester is fertilizing her eggs. At that age, you usually get an "oh" and that's the end of it. Of course as they get older, the questions require a more detailed explanation.

Having farm animals teaches so much, science, bringing life into the world, death, how to handle emergencies, how to love. We've lost something in our culture by being disconnected from our food sources. For example, I've many times been asked if we must keep a rooster in order to have eggs. I then explain to the adult that no, hens have eggs daily just as humans do monthly, male or no. I am happy to field such questions, such as do we eat the fertilized eggs (we do) because I'm happy to share what we have.

I hear Lester now, crowing his head off, waiting for me to release them from the coop. He starts this time of year at about 4 a.m. Two of the five ugly black chickens (an unlikely mix of one quarter Arucauna, one quarter Cochin and one half black Silkie) are roosters. They will easily be re-homed through Freecycle, though I try not to think about their fate once they leave here. I try to find them homes at horse farms, where they are prized at eating bugs. The yellow chicks (I still don't know what breed) are as yet unsexed.

Farm Notes
On NPR, I heard a story about a farm that uses horses for pet therapy, something I have wanted to do with our minis. To my delight, it is about 20 minutes from my house. How fortuitous!

I got a load of hay yesterday. We made it through the winter with what we had bought, though perhaps had Bay lived (the boy liked his hay) we might not have. When I called to buy more, it wasn't yet ready or "cured". It looks to be a good year for hay so far.

Who Dunnit?

Country-style living magazines always impress me with photos of covered porches casually decorated with rocking chairs and pots of flowers. Though limited in time, I try to put out a few flowers here and there in unusual pots. Lately, I've noticed disturbances in my flower pots. Someone has be flattening my petunias. I was even more distressed to find the dirt from my impatiens scattered all around. (see photo to left)

Who was to blame? Daisy shows little interest usually, though I asked her to smell the pot to see if she could find the culprit.

I was inclined to blame the cats, though not Jack (pictured) but Lazarus who likes to mess with things. It never dawned on me to blame the chickens, who are usually penned up, but I had let them out to hunt cicadas! They were the criminals. They have been successfully penned up again, and the flowers are now staying put in their pots.

Helmets

"There are things worse than death," said our neighbor as he trimmed our horses' hooves. He was thinking of his son, "Nick" After a safe tour of duty in Iraq, Nick was in an ATV accident while out riding with his buddies late at night. He wasn't wearing a helmet. The blow to his head changed him forever. His mom sits by his side every day, measuring a good day by a twitch in his eyes or a movement of a finger in response to a question. It could have been so different.

A young motorcyclist once told me that he chose not to wear a helmet. It was his life, he said, and if he died, he was the one to pay. If that was true, I'd call that "natural selection". Don't let the dumb ones reproduce. But, the victim doesn't always die. Sometimes, the victim's family has to watch the injured lay there and hang onto a shred of hope that he'll recover, knowing as the days pass so passes that chance.

Lauren called me in a shaky voice last Wednesday. Anna had been bucked from her horse and had hit her head. She was physically okay, but she was developing memory loss. After a long day at the hospital, it was confirmed that she had suffered a concussion but with no bleeding. The lining of her helmet was cracked right up the backside. Dh wondered if it had a warranty on it. I told him yes, that we'd just cashed it in: it saved her life. (The photo shows the crack on the inside shell of the helmet.) Today, she is fine with a few scrapes to show for her ordeal.

I don't understand, really I don't, why I still see adults ride ATVs, bicycles and horses without helmets. Aside from the poor example you set for children, you risk everything you are and your child's mom or dad. I myself would be dead or worse had I not been wearing a helmet 10 years back when my head hit the road when I fell from my horse. And for children, it should be a non-negotiable set-in-stone rule of riding anything, including casual sitting on the horse or vehicle in the yard.

And for all you folks that want to send me (again) the email about how when you were a child in the "good ol' days", you didn't wear a seatbelt or carseat, jumped off roofs, ate lead paint and generally took no safety precautions, you were the lucky ones. Some people aren't here to forward those emails because they didn't survive. Wear your helmets!

Lost in Translation

"Boys have a way of humiliating a parent," said my friend. To illustrate, she wrote the following guest blog. She felt she could not post it on her own blog, wanting to protect her son (and possibly herself?) from further embarrassment. I consented to share her story anonymously. Luckily, she and the characters in the story have a great sense of humor.

This past weekend, my parents offered to watch my son,"Joe." Since my parents were working at the local church yard sale, Joe joined them. Making himself very useful during the unseasonably HOT day, Joe went from around the yard sale pouring cold water for the various workers.

After pouring numerous cold cups of water for one group of older ladies, my son politely inquired, "Is there anything else I can do for you all?" One of the ladies answered, "Yes, it is so hot! Please, pour that cold water on my head."

Well, my 10 year old son is VERY literal. He is also a pleaser. Have I told you that my innocent out-of-the-box son is VERY, VERY literal? Combining these traits, when he was asked to "pour the water on the woman's head" -- he complied -- by "POURING THE WATER ON THE WOMAN'S HEAD!"

As the water dripped down the front of her head onto her pants, and she squealed in surprise, I can only imagine Joe's response. As surprised as the nice little old lady was -- Joe was just as confused. She DID ask for him to "pour the water" on her head after all. Thankfully, she had a great attitude about it. It makes me wonder if she too raised a very literal son.

The moral of the story is BEWARE of what you say around 10 year old boys!

To protect the innocent from embarrassment, the name in this blog has been changed.

Italian Concerto

My daughter's recital on June 6, 2008 at Comstock Hall at the University of Louisville. She's playing the Italian Concerto: Allegro by Bach.

Encouragement

I placed my hand on the shoulder of HC's mom, and told her that she must be doing a wonderful job with her daughter, as I saw a tremendous improvement in her attention span and behavior from last year. After she picked her jaw back up off the ground, she said, "Really??" I assured her that though I know that she continued to have challenges with HC, that not having seen her in a year, I could see the difference. I told her to hang in there, that her hard work and love would continue to pay off. I could see that the woman had tears in her eyes.

I wonder how often this woman receives a bit of encouragment from other parents. It is more likely that other parents look at this beautiful, bi-racial child adopted by older parents with disapproval of her interactions with the class and other kids. Even without training in early childhood behavior, one can see that HC marches to her own drum. Yet, how often does our society judge rather than encourage and support? God has great plans for HC.

Note:

Look in the right margin, and you'll see a new button that says RSSFWD and invites you to enter your email address. If you do so, you'll receive this blog by email. This replaces the Blogarithm service that did the same thing. Blogarithm was bought out by RSSFWD. If you prefer to have it sent to your email address rather than checking the actual website, you have this option.

Dalcroze

In one week, William went from not wanting to play the piano to deciding that he would become a piano teacher so that he could have "Mr. Jeremy" as his boss. Mr. Jeremy is Dr. Jeremy Dittus who taught Dalcroze Eurhythmics at the Suzuki Piano Institute. And William loved the class. The fancy name is a method of teaching, literally, good rhythm, using experiential knowledge.

Using only his piano and singing voice, Jeremy had the younger class moving the whole hour, listening for when the music stopped and when it began again. The melody when up and then down again. He taught the idea of a musical phrase. William loved the movement and activity of the class. You can read more about it at http://www.dalcrozeusa.org/

The older kids took Eurhythmics at a higher level. The concepts presented in Lauren's class were well above my ability to understand. Who knew that there was a 9/16th time signature or a 12/16th? Not me. My music education didn't go much beyond 3/4 or 4/4 time. Particularly interesting to me was watching a bunch of (predominantly) white kids used to sitting still at a piano trying to use their bodies to find the rhythm of the music and feel the music.

One down side to this class is that I will have to do a week of listening to my own music to get the "Elevator" song out of my head. "Elevator, why don't you take me up, up, up, up, up....."

Farm Notes

Roxie and Chiron are getting along famously.

My new chickies are growing fast and I need to fix up a yard and some kind of roosting box for them. I still don't know what kind they are, and need to call the neighbor who gave them to me for that information.

Last year, I had some gourd or squash plants that never did turn out any produce. That's because they weren't gourd or squash at all, but hollyhocks. My sister identified them and said that it took them two years to bloom - this being that year. Sure enough, two days later, I have pink blooms.

I bought two bales of hay at $7 a bale to get us by until I can get some early next week. It has to "cure" before I can put new hay in my barn, or I run the risk of burning down the barn.

Really, I don't mostly mind the sound of cicadas nor am I freaked out when they land on me - except I really don't like them crawling up my neck. I feel for the people in the Bible plagued by locusts. I'm letting the big chickens free-range this week to go cicada hunting. All you can eat buffet!

Cicada Ringtones?

Okay, what brilliant person thought that one up? My adsense ad (see to the right) is currently advertising cicada ringtones. First of all, I refuse to pay for another ringtone even were my current ringtone to play the Beverly Hillbillies theme song. Sorry, I'm not adding yet another feature for a small fee. And why I ask, would I want to hear even more cicadas?

Today, we were stopped in town by the slowest moving train. We turned off the car to save gas, rolled down the windows, and had to throw out cicadas that kept flying in the window. At least they were the lucky ones. Moments earlier, several had smashed themselves on the windshield leaving white smears as I hurtled down the highway . That reminds me of a cicada joke: What is the last thing that goes through a cicada's mind as it hits your windshield? Its butt.

P.S. Arg! And so I publish this post and the adsense ad is now something else. Well, it did advertise cicada ringtones. Really.

Wordless Wednesday - Quarter Pounder (Really!) with Cheese

Barely a Whisper

My sister, Diane, turned and looked at me with an expression that silently said, "Is this guy nuts or what?" We were in a "Master Class" for Pre-Twinkles, kids that were going to begin piano lessons but have not yet played, and the teacher, Bruce Anderson, was whispering. The whole hour.

His whispering was intended to illustrate a very Suzuki idea - that modeling behavior and setting the correct environment was critical in getting the behaviors and learning outcomes we adults desire to achieve. For example, he said, you don't yell at your children to get them to be quiet. By the end of the class, not only were all adults whispering our responses, but the children had sat quietly for an hour.

Outside the room, Diane asked if he was planning to do that all week. Agitated, she remarked that she had adult ADD and didn't think she could take a whole week of whispering. I agreed it was a bit unusual, and aggravating. Surprisingly, by the end of the week, it didn't seem to bother either one of us as much. Still, it was difficult for two people who are multitaskers in motion to just want someone to tell them a lot of information quickly so that we can move on. Yet, on the last day, Bruce raised his voice slightly above a whisper to talk to observing teachers and parents. Little Allie, a four year old, tapped Bruce on the arm and whispered, "You're supposed to whisper!"

So we did it, my sister and I. We tolerated one hour a day of whispering, and saw clearly the illustration that setting the environment (quietly playing the Suzuki music, turning off background noise, taking softly) all resulted in behavioral changes in the children.

My purpose in bringing William to the Suzuki Piano Institute was to see if by being around other children playing piano, he would finally consent to even approaching the piano. He's been resistant in the past, I think due in part to the embarrassment of having attention focused on himself. By the end of the week, as you see in the photo, William not only played notes but asked to do it. For a more traditional approach, this may seem insignificant, but for us, it was big. He wanted to do it. We are hoping that by starting lessons this week in a group with two boys of similar age, he will continue to be motivated to play.

Hottern' Blue Blazes

Whoo, is it hot! And I went out in it! Had to go to StuffMart to restock after a week of being on the go. Dh says he doesn't know why they even bother to print him a paycheck. We ought to just have it direct deposited to StuffMart and we can just go over there and have our purchases deducted from our account.

We are about out of hay, but luckily, the middle pasture has some grass. We are slowly letting the horses onto it and will let them eat that until next week when my hay guy promises that he'll have the first cutting. Likely, I'll have to take a number to get some.

My writing time is short today, for even though it is late, I promised William that he could run through the sprinkler before bedtime. Maybe more writing time later?

I'm Back!

...and you didn't even know I was gone! The week went by in a blur as we attended the Suzuki Piano Institute in Louisville. In addition, I happily hosted my sister and two nieces who attended with us. For homeschoolers, getting out the door at an early hour on a daily basis was a challenge. Planning wardrobes, packing lunches, getting animal chores done, and eating breakfast was challenging enough. Being on a full-day schedule, talking all day to people (!) and attending classes was both rewarding and exhausting. (We are so spoiled!) Both William and Lauren gained many wonderful learning experiences.

I have many little tidbits and thoughts to share from the week, but it is late, and I just wanted to check in.

Quick Farm Notes:
I imagine that the audience who congratulated Lauren on her recital performance didn't realize that to attend the institute, the girl had to get up very early to care for dogs, horses, chickens and cats. Anna was kind enough to help and to attend a few days to share it with Lauren and William.

Maggie, the miniature horse that foaled Roxie a year ago, has been sold along with her "husband" to a family in Indiana. You might remember that although Roxie was given to us, Maggie remained the property of our neighbor. She wanted Maggie to stay with her husband, Easy, as they'd been together since they were very young.

It will be very sad to see her go, but Mags is a broodmare, and will be happiest being with Easy and raising babies. However, this week, of all weeks, we had to wean Roxie so that Mags could leave tomorrow for her new home. We've let them be together at night, and Roxie, at nearly a year old will be fine. Chiron and Roxie could keep each other much wanted company, but Chi tries a little too hard and hasn't learned yet that chasing a girl without stopping around the paddock does not endear her to you.

We are about out of last year's hay. I hope our hay guy has some more.

The humidity has arrived along with the cicadas. Speaking of which, I hear Jorgen (Gotland pony) ate one today. Yuck!

More tomorrow.

Science Friday

As a homeschooler, I am often asked about what curricula I use. For example, how do I teach science? For this subject, I am amazed that anyone can think that science can be found in a book exclusively, particularly a textbook. We use "real" books from the library and things we find in our environment mostly. I decided to make Science Friday a regular feature of my blog, inspired by one of my favorite radio shows Talk of the Nation: Science Friday and post something we've studied that week. This week: Cicadas.

Brood XIV of the seventeen year cicada is here, and while feeding chickens, William discovered them crawling out of a stump of a tree.

Once we started looking, we found they were everywhere.

Here is one shedding its brown nymph shell to become
an adult cidada with wings.

As it emerges, the cidada is white at first, with very red eyes.

William would like to comment that with the black spots, it looks very much like General Grievious (Grievous, actually but he insists it is Grievious) of Star Wars.

We found them in various stages of emergence. Here Daisy is investigating a nymph that has just come up out of the ground and is rock wall climbing to find a good place to begin its transformation. Next to it, is one that has begun splitting it's shell.

When they first come out, they are very white. An unnamed teen in our house said they were gross and they looked naked.

Having successfully gotten out of its shell, the cicada now sits and dries its wings. I wonder what process occurs to change it from the white cicada above, to the finished black cicada below.

This cicada we took back to the house to watch it "hatch". It is a very slow process. The cicadas seem to be very vunerable at this stage, as they can't really move once they start the final process. We found that the chickens loved eating them. In fact, did you know that cicadas are eaten by humans? In case you are inspired to cook up a batch, I found many recipes on the web. I can just see it now. Mom, what's for dinner? Cicada tacos. Right. Perhaps if I were starving and it was like, oh, 1100 A.D. and Kroger wasn't down the road with perfectly good chicken breasts all cleaned and ready to cook.

From the recipe: "Before you start your cooking you need to remove all the hard parts: "Before you start your cooking you need to remove all the hard parts: wings, legs and head. These parts don’t contain much of the meat either but may be very sharp, so its best to get rid of them. Right. Now, I don't eat things I have to coax out, like oysters, crab legs, etc. Call me spoiled, but I just don't visualize myself pulling the wings off of live insects and popping them in the oven on a cookie sheet for a tasty treat or frying them up in a pan. Gag. I did find a recipe for chocolate covered cicadas, which maybe would be a possibility. Nah, why spoil a good thing?

Back to science lessons, we downloaded some good diagrams and information from EnchantedLearning.com and spent the day hearing from William, "MOM. COME LOOK!" He determined that he could not climb his favorite tree without squishing cicadas, or really even walk in the grass. The most amazing thing to think about for me is that this variety of cicada laid the eggs for this brood before my kids were born, before we moved here, and when I was newly married. All done seventeen years ago on days when I was busy in my life, unknowing that 20 miles from where I lived, insects were busy preparing a science lesson for me and a little boy not yet born.

In a Dead Faint

William frantically called me away from my desk work. Something was wrong with one of the chickies. We had tried picking them up for him to hold, and though William is gentle beyond his years, the chickies are not very socialized yet and were very hard to hold, flapping and carrying on. So, I had put their crate on the floor for him to pet them rather than hold.

"This chickie is dying, " he said. I thought there was no way, as I'd just put the crate on the ground. But sure enough, one of the chickies was limp in my hand, its neck lolling around, eyes closed, and it had the "pant" that I've seen many times on injured baby fledgling birds. It was dying. William claimed no injury from him and I could see no visible trauma.

I held it, wondering what to do. Did it inhale some sawdust? Something in its throat? I massaged its neck, held it up. Nothing. I blew on it. Nothing. I tried mouth-to-mouth to Lauren's disgust. No really, I just blew in its beak. Still nothing. So, I returned to my desk, holding it against me thinking at least I could hold it until it died. It then began to jerk every now and again, and suddenly, it was okay though shaky. I put it in a box under my desk lamp for warmth, and short story, after awhile, it was fine and returned to its mates. Today, I cannot tell which of them it was.

This story is perplexing because last week, my sister Diane and my nieces were visiting and reported the same exact thing had happened with one of the black chickies outside up by the barn. Reanna had picked one up and it had virtually "died" in her hands. She put it down, thinking she must have done something, and it popped back to life. Can chickens play "possum"? I've googled and googled and can find nothing on it. I will continue to search for the answer. Perhaps like fainting goats, I have fainting chickens. I can only think they were "chicken" and were frightened literally to death.

Farm Notes
Daisy proved last night she's as worthy of a scavenger as Kiara by stealing half of a turkey breast (about two pounds) from the counter last night and eating the whole thing.

The big chickens are on strike, though Chickin' Lickin' continues to lay steadily.

Wordless Wednesday - Cicada Casings

My Week in Review

Please excuse my lack of blogging lately. I've been busy with pet shitting. No wait, make that pet sitting, although this particular time, it actually has been both. A dear friend and I exchange pet sitting with each other, and I love their animals like my own. It is even (normally) a nice little get away a few times a day to a quiet, clean house.

Scratch clean this time. Lauren best described it as a crime scene. If you are reading this at breakfast, you might want to navigate away from this page and come back later. Really. Or maybe I should temper what I say, as I've been told by known sources that I can be crude. (Excuuuuuuuuse me!) So I'll be a bit more circumspect.

This beautiful dog to the left, Kiara, is a lot like my Daisy. Both are imposters, masquarading as one breed all the while they are really Beagles inside. Both having abandonment issues, they need a lot of love and reassurance, and love their food, eating everything quickly and totally. Given that I know this way of thinking, I should have predicted ...well.

As I've done myself, the owners left a treat for the dog, something to assuage the dog's sadness over their departure. In typical Kiara (and Daisy) fashion, she finished the footlong rawhide bone in one day. This resulted in days of digestive upset (which is putting it mildly). To top it off, Kiara also somehow managed to get an entire canister of soft dog treats off the counter and eat the entire can. The results of that - you don't want to know. As I said, think crime scene. After a few days of boiled hamburger, rice and cottage cheese, she is all better. Thank goodness.

During this time, we also were trying to increase Chiron's (minature horse) training and exercise. One day, Anna and I walked him around "the loop", a two mile walk. Because it started raining, we walked quickly. Later that night, Wm came running from the barn. Chi wasn't doing so well, laying down and rolling, which is a typical sign of colic. He seemed, however, in no pain, had gut sounds, had manure even. He was also doing a strange stretching out with his back legs.

Lauren suggested that he was "tying-up", a condition sometimes seen in horses that have over exercised due to release of lactic acid from exercising into the muscle. He seemed to be having muscle spasms. I'd worked the poor little guy too much. I called the vet and he didn't agree - said it was colic. The prescription for both was the same, however, a bit of banamine (pain killer). After twenty minutes, he was doing well. I, however, got no sleep that night as I had to get up every two hours to make sure he was making manure (I told you this week was crappy) and on his feet. He's fine now, and on a more gradual exercise schedule.

Wordless Wednesday

Lessons for William

On the way to StuffMart, I outlined our errands for William. They included voting. He asked what that was and after a brief explanation, he asked if I was running for President (bless his little heart). No, I replied, it would require me to be away from him for much of the day and that would not be what we wanted. So, he asked if Daddy was running for President then. No, Daddy is not running for President, as he isn't a politician. What is a politician? Well, it's someone who helps to run the government. What is the government? Well, it is the structure that makes the laws and such that help run our country. A lot of lawyers are polititians for that reason. What is a lawyer? Well, .....and so on. He can exhaust me in under a minute.

We proceeded to StuffMart where he perused the Star Wars aisle in need of spending his allowance. Allowance is the best thing ever invented for a little kid. I am often now asked, "I want this, but am I paying or you?" which often determines whether the item is really all that desirable after all. He's been saving weekly for some time to buy a costly Lego Star Wars ship. It bothered him, however, that he would have to use all of his money to purchase it. He settled for a ship that cost half of the desired ship, as he can't stand the idea of using all of his money.

Allowance also allows for the idea of trading smaller bills for larger, counting the available cash and subtracting the cost of the purchase. We came back to the subject of the government when I explained that he not only had to pay for the ship, but also pay tax on it. What is tax? Well, taxes are what the government collects to build roads, schools...."Well, I'm not going to school. I'm going to homeschool." I guess that settles that!

Farm Notes
A retired neighbor took four loads of manure from us, which was a favor really. Yet, he thought we'd done him a favor and wanted to give something of himself back. He brought five newborn chickies to us. I don't know the breed, and will have to ask him. Pray for hens.

Dh cut some of the taller grass this past weekend, including an area where our ailing septic system has left a "slick". We laughed that we'd had the same thought - of boys using the black slime as a "slip-n-slide".

Today, I noticed policemen all over town pulling over cars, though I could see no violation myself. At my volunteer job, I found out that two separate cases of an escaped prisoner were being worked this morning. In one case, it was 40 miles away, yet the guy used to live here. No details on the other case. I hope they got them.

Can I Have Your Breakfast?

Full House

My days are very full, often of music coming from the piano, boy sounds of blasting rockets coming from ingeniously constructed plastic toys, and spaces taken by painting easels set up in front of my windows, books spilling out all over the tables. My kitchen is my one refuge, my one space I try to keep cleared and clean, yet even there, activity hums and no sooner is it clean, but another meal is needed.

Yet, I've heard moms rejoicing in their pending empty nests. Though I'm certain that I'll fill my time with just as much activity when the days come that scissors stay where they are put and clutter doesn't grow in corners, I'm just as certain that I'll wish for those days of seeing Anna painting next to the piano where Lauren plays. I'm certain that I'll wish for a little boy that still admires me and doesn't yet struggle for independence.

There are times, pet sitting for people with newer houses with nice furniture that I wonder if I ever will get to the point of having a neat, tidy home. And then again, I hope not.

Lauren in Japan

Here is a link to an article in today's paper about Lauren's trip to Japan.

My Margin: Hanging from the Cliff with One Finger

God has a wry sense of humor. Over the next few days, I have activities and responsibilities back to back. Just as I was contemplating this, a friend brought over the book Margin: Restoring Emotional, Physical, Financial, and Time Reserves to Overloaded Lives. Hah! I won't have time to read it until at least Monday. I also got the book Organizing Plain and Simple: A Ready Reference Guide with Hundreds of Solutions to Your Everyday Clutter Challenges from the library which I will read as soon as I remember which pile I threw it in. My daughter is telling me "do you really need to be doing this now?" which is my clue to get moving and get to work. It should be an interesting day.

Wordless Wednesday - A Spring Crop of Babies

C'est Vrai?

In our French lesson today, Anna and I came across the following quote from journalist and writer Françoise Giroud:

La femme sera vraiment l'égale de l'homme le jour où, à un poste important, on désignera une femme incompétente.

(Women will really be men's equals on the day when an incompetent woman is appointed to an important position.)

In light of our current political races, what do you think of this quote?

Bad Horse Month

It is definitely not the year of the horse, at least for me. This has been a bad horse month. First, losing Bay. Attended Rolex next, a competition involving cross-country jumping where two horses were euthanized that day. Then, miniature horse "Maggie" who resides on our land as a favor to a former neighbor, escaped and hit a car. She survived unscathed - the car racked up $1100 in damages. We heard a friend's beloved favorite horse is gravely ill. And then the Derby and the loss of Eight Belles.

And I wonder - will I feel that same connection again with a horse? Oh, yes, I have Roxie, but as a mini, she's really more like a dog. Horses do not sit in your lap as Roxie does. Still, as I watched the Derby and saw Big Brown run, and even despite the tragedy, I marvelled at his strength, his power, and the beauty of a horse at his prime. Someday....but not just yet.

A Load of .....Well, You Know

Lauren and I are pet sitting this week for a young couple and their baby who are in Paris and then London. Another job starts in two days for a woman traveling to Israel. And of course, my own dear daughter just returned from Japan. Myself? I am moving manure.

Over the winter, we've accumulated a good amount of, shall we say, fertilizer? An elderly neighbor loves all that we can give her, and so her husband dutifully brings a trailer over for me to load with our tractor.

It is good timing. The house next to ours, built behind our barn and near the manure pile for what reason I'll never comprehend, was sold and a "middle-aged woman and her mother" (according to the selling couple) are moving in. I've not had to deal with neighbors much at all, but each time I do, I wonder if they'll complain about our rooster crowing, my kids in the yard all hours of the day, or horses that churn up the dry paddock that is next to the intensely manicured lawn.

The house and yard in question are beautiful. Lauren described the cleanliness of Japan. Yet, how could I live without the animals? What could be more satisfying than a good tractor and a pile of manure to move. Okay, I dream of a Caribbean vacation with dh and my girls before they grow up and fly the nest. And yes, I'd like to travel. And yes, a new house with a working septic system and new roof would be lovely. But right now, in this place, we've worked together as a family, felt joy and loss, learned to appreciate small things - like how little chickies love to fight over and rip apart a worm, or how foals make a funny face to older horses that says "I'm a baby - please don't hurt me". I wouldn't change our lifestyle for the world.

As for the photo, William continues his paternal family's farming tradition by learning to drive a tractor from an early age. Dh claims to have driven a tractor standing up, well before he could reach the pedals. (Warning: Do not try this at home!) You can see that Wm has the same photosensitivity that runs in our family. I offered sunglasses, and he claimed he did not need them.
"But, you are squinting," I protested.
"It's only because my eyelashes are sweaty," he replied.
Okaaaaay.

Lauren's Home!

Adolescent Brains are Works in Progress

Giedd hypothesizes that the growth in gray matter followed by the pruning of connections is a particularly important stage of brain development in which what teens do or do not do can affect them for the rest of their lives. He calls this the "use it or lose it principle," and tells FRONTLINE, "If a teen is doing music or sports or academics, those are the cells and connections that will be hardwired. If they're lying on the couch or playing video games or MTV, those are the cells and connections that are going to survive."

Ohayou

Good morning!

My daughter, who is in Japan, and I were talking over the internet. She made the statement that returning home will be such an "adjustment". Why so? Because "everything here is so neat and clean". Was I just insulted?

I offered to help her apply Japanese principles to her bedroom. I also offered to get rid of all the animals and move to a house with no yard, both of which are our major source of dirt and time-consuming work. We could implement a "no shoes" rule, and I'm sure that it would help, but I'm just not very disciplined at following through with rules like that.

In Japan, one takes off ones shoes at the doorway, replacing them with your own indoor-only slippers. Guest slippers are provided for visitors. This seems okay, but I am astounded by the requirement that when entering the bathroom, one must exchange one's slippers for the community slippers for the toilet only. I can just imagine, wanting to go to the bathroom and the toilet slippers are missing. "Okay," I yell out loud. "Who forgot to take off the toilet slippers?" I investigate the house slippers left behind for signs of the perpetrator. Likely, it would not work here.

Notes:
For those of you that have inquired about "poor" Chiron, he is doing quite well. As the doc told me, he was a bit humble for the first day or two, and gave up rearing in favor of just plain biting.
He and I need to have a talk.

It is sunny! I've dug the garden and need to get to work.

Today is my busy day - getting Anna to her work at a stable with her horse, my volunteer job for a couple of hours, back to get Anna and her horse, fix dinner and then Anna to art class and back. Very full, but oddly satisfying.

Commenting: My own blog seems to think I am a spammer, and though I'm trying to turn off word verification for comments, a real person (is there such a thing in the blogosphere?) must look at my blog and verify me. I wonder which post made them think I'm not real? I wonder how many years it will take for a real person to get around to me?

How You Know It's Spring

You find a sprite on your doorstep wearing an

ivy wreath and a dandelion necklace.

Chiron is Now a Gelding

Today's science lesson is in horse anatomy and removal of said anatomy. It may be that I saw more winces today from human males than I've ever seen.

WARNING: This video is very graphic in nature and bloody. Do not watch it if you are bothered by footage of surgical procedures or blood. It is not appropriate for young children or older ones unless you've have the birds and bees discussion! (Or unless you want to have it today!)

A Clean Start

As I sat at the computer, I heard the washer start up and inquired as to who was doing laundry. It turned out to be Anna. When I exclaimed my disbelief, she stated that she had also cleaned her room.

"Wow, the world must be coming to an end!" I exclaimed.
"I hope not," she said quickly. "Because if it is, I just wasted a whole lot of my time."

Wordless Wednesday

Lessons from a Cat

If you don't run, they can't chase you.

Chiron

The vet had an emergency today, and Lil' Boy was spared becoming a gelding until Friday.

It seems some males think that I should have some sympathy for the colt. He tried to bite me in the chest, okay? He tried to bite the family jewels when dh was in the paddock. He thinks he's God's gift to the stallion world. I have no sympathy.

Rearing and screaming his way into our barn, he declares that it's him or me. And I say - it's him.

He does now have a name: Chiron. Optimistically named, pronounced kye'-rən. From D'Aulaire's Greek Myths:
There was one centaur who was kind and wise and was fond of children. His name was Chiron. Though he looked like the other centaurs, he wasn't related to them at all. He was the son of Cronus the Titan and was immortal. Chiron was famous as the greatest teacher in Greece. Kings brought their small sons to him so he could raise them in the true spirit of heroes.

In his quiet cave on Mount Pelion, he taught them manly sports and how to use the healing herbs of the earth and how to read the stars in the sky. All his pupils returned to their homes exceeding their fathers in courage and knowledge.

Best In Show

Congratulations, Anna!

Best in Show for Self-Portrait

First Place, Oil Painting

Second Place, Still Life