April 2009 Archives

"Who's gonna win this week?"
"Who's y'alls' favorite?"
"Can you believe she got kicked off?"

We're bombarded with these questions at the park, at coop classes or at the Y. We know the librarians like Adam, the plumber is pulling for Allison, and our neighbors' bracket is betting on Kris. Each week at the grocery store, we listen attentively as our favorite checker argues the singers' merits with the less critically acclaimed (but more vocal) baggers. It's really all very exciting!

Of course, we're not watching.

But we did. Once. Season 5. It was thrilling! So much so, that it has apparently sustained us for the three seasons since... 

The girls began watching the show, I'm happy to say, after succumbing to peer pressure. Friends in their homeschool hiking club were big fans and made it clear that, if M&K wanted to interact in conversation of any kind from January through May, they would have to fan the flames of idolatry. Discussing books, science experiments or poetry was out. "Normalcy" was in. For once, M&K decided to give that a try.

Honestly, we were all a bit skeptical. And, after the first audition episode, M&K's reluctance grew. But I only saw opportunity. When they announced that there was "no way" they were watching next week, I declared a national (ok, familial) emergency and imposed an executive order stating that American Idol was officially, from that moment on, part of our spring 2006 school curriculum.  I justified it on intellectual grounds: it would serve as a much-needed impetus to study music theory, a subject we'd long neglected.

Besides that, I had a hidden agenda (I am a mom). I cynically judged the worthiness of American Idol for its potential to expose the kids to something much more important than musical styles: namely, it could enhance their Jerk Identification Radar. I told a bewildered Chris, "This is great! Real, live jerks, so now I don't have to feel guilty for overprotecting them anymore!" (Sure, Chris and I do our best, but we're only two examples of jerks. . .  How limiting is that?)

Truthfully, my strongest reservation about homeschooling M&K was that they might miss out on the most important lessons school could provide. No, not trigonometry, macroeconomics or physics. But, the study of human nature: "reading" people's body language, "calculating" others' ulterior motives and, basically, honing essential skills in the survival of the finesse. (Perhaps I was also overcompensating due to the haunting voices of former private school students who stated, "We may not be book smart, Ms. Sarkar, but we're street smart!" Irony on so many levels, I never could think of a suitable response... If that sounds too haughty and judgmental, blame it on months spent with Simon Cowell.)

American Idol could supplement my innocent, sheltered children's education in condensed, 60-minute weekly classes that encouraged them to survey all aspects of American culture and social nuance. Together, we would watch many "types" of vulnerable folks parade across our tv screen and exercise our God-given right to judge them without mercy. And, bonus, it was fully sanctioned, socially acceptable scrutinizing that even scored them points at playgroup!

There were some halfhearted attempts to tie this into our academics. We did learn to identify whole, half & quarter notes and taught ourselves to play "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" on the girls' recorders.  We rewatched Sound of Music - the 'do re mi' part - several times. We conducted ourselves admirably when reviewing the sections of an orchestra and even attended the symphony - and not just because there were fireworks. We listened to almost two classical music cds. And, finally, as Idol's singers exited each week to the tune of "You Had a Bad Day," I likened it to Aristotle's theory of tragedy and gave them an enlightening 30 minute lecture on identification with and empathy for the iconic tragic hero and his fatal flaw of hubris. I mean, isn't that what comes to everyone's mind upon hearing that song? Anyway, it counts because they took notes. Oh, and about halfway through the season (once we found out it was free), the girls loved haggling over the performances and calling in their votes - that was democracy in action, so I jotted it down under 'political science.' Who knew pop culture was so cross-curricular?
 
But, my original "social studies" mission didn't turn out as I expected. What I hadn't counted on was the preponderance of unbelievably nice and nerdy people wanting to be our next American Idol, many of whom were also quite talented. Pretty quickly, even before the final 24, the "mean girl" was eliminated and all we had left to ridicule were the country singers, Bucky & Kellie. They weren't very good, but still seemed too endearingly naïve to incur much of our wrath.

Plus, there is no way to express my relief or Chris' parental bliss when the girls did not swoon for the sultry Ace or, at the opposite end of the spectrum, the squeaky Kevin. Mikaela's top crush was the clean-cut crooner and Sinatra crony, David, and Katrianna fell for Will, the Brady Bunch's lost sibling. Other than that, there was the very sincere Elliott (and his mom), the marvelous Mandisa, the effervescent Paris, the naturally graying & soulful Taylor and even the cool but dependable rocker dude who had married a single mom (thereby automatically securing the votes of many moms I know). 

I heard that season 5 was the most watched in Idol history, ratings no doubt buoyed by our cutting edge, trendy family of 4.  It showed that real life - at least as portrayed on a tv 'reality show' - is schmaltzy, heartwarming and generally the good guys & girls win in the end. Really, American Idol was chock-full of virtuous role models for the kids and it restored my faith in humanity. So, now you see why we stopped watching.  Who wants a repeat of that?

My first encounter with fin de siècle Vienna was in a wonderful college freshman Humanities course which explored the connections in art, literature, music, architecture & politics at the turn of the 19th century. We debated the merits of Gustav Klimt and Oscar Kokoschka and their artistic license or licentiousness. We played with Arthur (Weiner) Schnitzler and learned what makes the world go La Ronde. We listened to the atonality of Arnold Schoenberg which, to my untrained ear, sounded like he kept losing his composer. We admired architect Otto Wagner who stated "Something impractical cannot be beautiful" and was the Ringstrasse's biggest proponent (until he was awarded the city's post office as his only commission and became its biggest detractor). Finally, our studies culminated in a field trip to see an opera in Cleveland, Ohio, the reputed home of the world's second best opera company and a cosmopolitan mecca where the more flamboyant professors could whip their scarves about in urbane fashion. But as much as I enjoyed learning about it, I never thought I'd visit Vienna.

A few years later, I taught a Viennese thinkers course to high school students. To buttress my weakness in architecture, on the fly I invited the math teacher's architect husband to lend us his expertise on the construction of the Ringstrasse. He also brought along his apprentice, who just happened to be from Austria and could provide invaluable verification, primarily through head nods, that indeed a particular building existed and was significant because he had seen it himself. Apparently it meant so much to him that we were studying his homeland, he "borrowed" my text and nostalgic sentimentality must have prevented him from ever returning it (even though he invited himself to all of our subsequent meetings). After such broadening cultural experiences, it crossed my mind that some of my students might one day visit Vienna in person, but I still never thought I would. 

Then I had kids. And repressed thoughts, or at least those which related to Sigmund Freud, Vienna secession or intelligentsia of any kind. Even after finding out we'd get to spend a few months in Europe, my focus was solely on Salzburg, Mozart & the Sound of Music. A typical protective mother, I was more than willing - when it came to my own little girls - to put Modernity on hold indefinitely.
 
But then 9 year old Mikaela read a Marie Antoinette biography, and then another, and then another. Schönbrunn Palace became, in her mind, the equivalent of visiting Disneyland. Above all other places in Europe, she wanted to go to Vienna on her birthday and eat cake with Maria Theresa, Maria Antonia & Franz Josef. (I know - because Mikaela told me - Marie Antoinette didn't really say "Let them eat cake." Sorry, I guess I just lost my head. . .) But still (Bastille?), it got me out of preparations for a usual kids' birthday party - you know, making those tiny guillotine-topped cupcakes or a homemade papier-mâché Marie Antoinette head piñata (which I'm sure would have been a bust). So I agreed. We would celebrate her fin-de-décennie in ten year old decade-ends.

Inside Schönbrunn Palace (which Marie Antoinette claimed was far superior to her shabby digs at Versailles), we took the Grand Tour and saw 40 of the 1,441 rooms, including countless trompe l'oeils that were absolutely necessary to give an illusion of spaciousness to the place, blue porcelain and silk tapestries aplenty, the Mirrors Room where 6 year old Mozart gave his first concert before plunking himself down on the Empress' lap to smooch, and all else that glitters and is gilded. But, mostly, we saw the backs of the other 1,441 tourists who were also let in during our 15-minute assigned entry time slot.
 
Mikaela served as our very informed tour guide, correctly identifying Maria Theresa's 16 kids in the Children's Portraits Room and explaining the advantageous political marriage-alliances engineered by their empressive mama. We saw Franz Josef's historically important billiard and walnut rooms where he held minutes-long audiences with hundreds of dignitaries in a day. In his Spartan study, we couldn't help but wonder at his incongruous, dedicated work ethic - he awoke to splashes of cold water in his face at 4 am each morning, knelt on a stool next to his iron cot-bed for lengthy prayers and denied himself all extravagance with the one exception of a built-in ashtray in the otherwise austere wooden toilet bench in his bathroom (installed only after he realized he could devote the saved time to state affairs - yes, both kinds).

Outdoors in the "back 400," the girls were thrilled to run through two hedge mazes & puzzle out the giant Labyrinth, which proved nearly as challenging as the game of constantly jumping out of the way of poorly skilled carriage drivers and their galloping horses on the crisscrossing walking paths. Adding to the drama, police cars, ambulances and firetrucks kept roaring by, sirens blaring, across the groomed grounds to places undiscovered. We never figured that one out, but eventually realized no one else found it extraordinary, so we went to the zoo.



We also climbed to the viewing terrace of Maria Theresa's home office (aka The Gloriette) and staggered kilometers and kilometers to "hit the wall" at the Roman ruins (rebuilt for the sake of tourism). When M&K realized the Privy Garden was aptly named, more for its smell than its secrecy, we were ready to call it a very long day.
Back in the van, a cranky Katrianna serenaded us with "The Blue Danube" on her souvenir Johann Strauss mini music box and we felt inspired to look for a romantic spot to spend the night waltzing (ok, camping) along the river outside of the city. We gave up after finding only industrial-lined tributaries in all directions within 50 kilometers of Vienna. Well, sometimes it hapsburgs and you just have to rococo with the punches. 

The next morning was spent cruising in dizzying circles around the Ringstrasse. Finally, we just decided to ditch the van and go on a fortifying walk. We strolled through the Heldenplatz gardens to Hofburg Palace, the royals' winter residence, and checked out the books at the Nationalbibliothek. We even saw the exercise field for the famed Spanish Riding School, but not the Lipizzaner stallions since they were literally put out to pasture at the time of our visit and no doubt had gone on holiday to horse around at the Cannes film festival. It was a let down after our rigorous preparation for seeing a live performance - we'd watched a whole Disney movie.

Of course, every museum along the Ring had must-see exhibits featuring Klimt, Kokoschka and Egon Schiele. We skipped in concentric circles around them all. Long ago M&K had seen works by these Austrian greats in a traveling 20th Century Art Masterpieces show at Houston's MFA and it had been a limited success in terms of enhancing their art appreciation. After five minutes of observing Jackson Pollock's Number 1 amid complete silence in a room full of art elites striking poses of profundity, a two year old Katrianna loudly proclaimed, "Mom, if he was gonna just scribble anyway, how come he only used black and white?" Even if those impressions had faded, I figured revisiting Gustav so I could deliver a more sophisticated explanation that his little black rectangles were phallic symbols of potent sexuality wasn't going to prove any more edifying for M&K this time around. So, we Kissed the chance goodbye, despite it leaving me feeling noticeably ver-Klimt.

Similarly, outside at 19 Bergasse, my Id dreamed of going in and seeking the famed analytical-psycho Freud (hysterical, isn't it?). But my Super Ego said no. Sigmund is unacceptably Beyond the Pleasure Principle, especially when in the company of minors, so I talked myself out of it and was cured. (Or maybe I just couched it in the unconscious, I can't remember.) Anyway, the Anchor Clock chimed that our session was over and I knew my time with the good doctor was up.

Along the murky brown Blue Danube, the road out of Vienna was a mess of torn up asphalt, construction cranes and traffic jams. However, it did allow plenty of time to observe the city's ubiquitous contemporary art: graffiti tags spray painted on every railroad trestle, bridge overpass and roadside wall. After not "being moved" by the fine art or the bumper-to-bumper bouchon as the thermometer hovered at 35 Celsius, we took a 90 degree turn into the fast (food) lane.

We pulled into a McDonald's to wait it out, get some drinks with ice cubes (unheard of anywhere in Europe except McDonald's, Pizza Hut or KFC - yes, they are all there) and appreciate the "architectural realism" of 21st century Austria which had fully embraced the structural form of golden arches. McD's was more crowded than any spot in Vienna, but this time it was not fellow tourists but locals who jammed in to criticize, and all the while enjoy, the restaurant's fine ambiance where they could listen to the American top 40 tunes - played nonstop there, without the interspersing of Austrian heritage music required of state radio stations. There were no seats to be had in the red & yellow booths below the hanging works of iconic portraiture, exquisite renditions of Elvis, Marilyn Monroe and James Dean. So, we sat out in the parking lot beside the Blue Danube and watched a stream of guys in business suits who came after work to rakishly lean across their little cars and eat big macs. Along with fries and soft serve ice creams, M&K got a "biggie size" order of Vienna's modern realism.

A few nights ago, Chris finished telling another episode in the months-long adventure saga that comprises "bedtime stories." His tall tales are simply an amalgamation of all the "boy books" that he read growing up, but that our girls have rejected reading on the grounds that they are totally uninteresting and too "dhishoom - bhishoom" (Bollywood for "Zap-Pow! Kabam!"). Of course, that makes them perfect plagiarism candidates in Chris' mind and he happily takes all of the enthusiastic credit and eager anticipation from the none-the-wiser M&K. It's truly riveting stuff... that is, when he can stay awake long enough so that his snoring doesn't drown out the refrains of "C'mon, Dad, wake up -  tell us what happens next?!"

But this time, when he ended with the usual cliff hanger, a drowsy Katrianna asked if she could share a story she'd been thinking of. It went something like this:

Once upon a time, my pet lion named Sandy - who lives in the attic - began practicing customer-driven innovation.

So he started his own consulting company to tell everybody else how to do it. 

But then, he began to challenge his assumptions.

And now he won't listen to anything I say...

All he does is sit around & eat Valentine's Day conversation hearts and drink orange soda. Most lions in Africa weigh 250 to 420 pounds, but Sandy weighs 700 pounds due to good care -- and conversation hearts.

Sandy won't go into the center of the room because he wants to keep his cutting edge perspectives.

He's also getting into cloud computing, so he just bought his own server. . .

And, with that, she fell asleep.

Some children nod off counting proverbial sheep jumping over the clouds. Others are lulled to slumber imagining that they are princesses with their heads in the clouds. But our kid floats out into cyber space Neverland dreaming of cloud storage. . .

I think we are discovering the consequences of homeschooling while Dad is home working. So this April 23 I would like to propose the "Banish Your Daughters From Work Day." Or, better yet, the "Banish Your Husband From The Family Room and Make Him Take His Work Calls In His Office Month."





Or maybe we just need to compromise and set up one of those soundproof phone booths in the kitchen pantry. That way, after a "quick" three hour conference call, Chris can emerge - just like the caped Super Hero protagonist in one of his 'original' stories - to save our day. And Sandy the lion can give the consulting business a rest and finally get a good night's sleep.

During much of our time spent in the Pacific Northwest, the girls couldn't see the rainforest for the trees. Or maybe it was just that they saw way too many trucks with what seemed to be most of the forest's trees loaded onto them and headed for the sawmill. You guessed it - they fell for those tall, evergreen & handsome beauties and then embarked on a sort of tree-mendous crusade.

Anticipating a strong reaction to witnessing the infamous logging up close, we discussed both sides of the issue - environmental concerns versus commercial pressures - before we made our trip to Washington state. We tried to be as fair and unbiased as green saps can be. We studied the temperate rainforest ecosystem & the history of the battle to protect spotted owls' habitat, but also learned about the realities of struggling local economies & jobs that depend on forest products. Yet even Chris and I were unprepared for the spectacle of those giant log-overloaded trucks careening incessantly down the road.

Just about everywhere on the Olympic Peninsula, when we pulled over for a scenic overlook or headed off for a hike, eighteen wheeler rigs stacked with newly felled trees whizzed by at regular five minute intervals, all day, from dawn to dusk.

Even the land preserved in Olympic National Park is not old "virgin forest" growth, since much of it has been logged two or three times in the 1800s or early 1900s before being "saved." But, it is recovering, verdant & lush compared to the surrounding private lands or US National Forests where clear cutting still occurs and whole hillsides are left barren or strewn with rejected logs, limbs & stumps of trees.

Nearly as distressing, in other parts of the upper forests where logging is not viewed as lucrative, the trees are being attacked by beetles and various diseases or fungus - things that have always existed but are now multiplying in epidemic proportions because of global warming. Winter temperatures no longer periodically drop low enough, plus there is significantly less rainfall year round, so the trees are "stressed" and much more susceptible to attack. On our hikes, we have seen the effects of pine beetle destruction on white bark pines and lodgepoles in the Rocky Mountains, including ranges reaching far into Canada, as well as in the temperate woodlands of the normally wet and cool Northern Cascades.  As you climb in elevation, the dense and healthy trees slowly begin to darken, then thin, look increasingly anemic and rotten, and finally you're in the midst of a dingy and gray wooded graveyard. It's surreal - like moving from a gorgeous and exhilarating full color photo into a sickened and decaying daguerreotype printed in sepia or black & white tones. But, primarily, it's all startlingly lifeless and mostly in shades of ashy gray.


The result has been that M&K are now hyper conscientious about not wasting paper. They became consumed with writing editorials, boycotting wood & paper products and doing all school & journal writing electronically... It's not all bad, especially since the girls' idea of creativity as toddlers (and, truthfully, for many years after) had been to scribble one single item on a lovely, clean sheet of paper and then cast it aside as unworthy. They repeated this process with great merriment, possibly 10 or 20 times a day: ahh, the satisfying sound of perforated pages being ripped from a new spiral notebook and, bonus, the leftover squiggly pieces that rained down like confetti all over the floor! Or, there were the countless paper airplane-making contests where they folded dozens of prototypes for each design. I'd waver between being pleased with their ingenuity & enthusiasm and perturbed by their lack of restraint and the piles of "wasted" paper. 

But, lo and behold, Katrianna has reformed and, like any new convert, she has become evangelical and presented us with new challenges that must be patiently "borne again" - mostly by the rest of us. For example, since Mom and Dad cannot seem to summon the courage to completely abandon their evil usage of paper towels, she has taken it upon herself to ration our sins - whether we buy the "pick your size" style rolls or not, she tears off each towel and proceeds to rip it in half and then in fourths and, if we don't stop her, in eighths, sixteenths... Then, when we want one, she dispenses - in grandiose disdain - a little one inch square of what used to be a paper towel and we're supposed to dry or clean or mop up with that.
Yet, despite their dedication and sincerity, M&K themselves fell off the conservation wagon fairly quickly. Reality set in: Where would Katrianna the gardener be without her paper cups and wooden toothpicks?  And, though Mikaela is all for hugging trees, she also wants to sketch them with wooden colored pencils on pads of drawing paper, compose odes to them in her beloved poetry journals and sit underneath their branches to read book after book after book. . .

So, they reneged on their personal vows to give up all paper, especially after that well-known temptress of gluttony (school) required they do so. But they've devoted themselves to a new, more attainable goal: to squeeze a week's worth of math problems onto both sides of a single piece of paper and to draw five or ten miniature sketches per page in their sketch books, going for quality over quantity. Admittedly, it's not exactly chaining themselves to trees or protesting by climbing up & sharing residence with a spotted owl come rain or sleet or lumberjacks... But, still, it's a little constructive contribution to show that they give a hoot.       


We've tried to use this as an opportunity to discuss finding a balance: buy products made from sustainable sources when possible but always be aware, less wasteful and generally much more appreciative of the value of our natural resources. It's been a lesson in moderation as much as activism. On Earth Day and every day.

This blog post is made from 100% recycled electrons & creates a minimum of post-consumer waste (IMHO)  

Katrianna's efforts in botany have led to the inevitable --- that's right, Sex Education.  Yep, she's discovered the Joy of Pollination!

The little Luther Burbankette is doing her best imitation of a honeybee and experimenting with cross-pollination in great earnest. Talk is all about anthers and stamens and the ripeness of the pollen. It's really been quite stigmatizing. She's become obsessed with all that is prolific in her plant kingdom.

As an added bonus, she  studied the fine art of "pinching back" and picks certain prospects for a little branching out inducement - there's just no stemming her excitement. She estimated this morning that she has over 1,000 plants in some stage or other - that includes sprouts, seedlings and all. It's likely closer to 100, but she is quite pleased regardless.    
 
Her amaryllis finally bloomed, proving my anxious worries that we had somehow chosen the one & only "dud" bulb were for naught. Indeed, it surpassed our expectations by producing six beautiful flowers, which she interpreted as an indisputable testament to her horticultural omnipotence. She then proceeded to reward her worthy subject by dismantling it, clipping it leaf by leaf, snipping it root by root, until she had reduced it to a mere replica of its former self, a light bulb. Her madness did have a method, however, for it allowed the dissection of one unfortunate soul - wherein she conscientiously adhered to the sworn principles of the Hydroponic Oath - but also uncovered several baby bulblets which she tenderly added to her nursery. I guess that'll teach her to be such a "cut up."

Lately, she's also been urging me to eat as much guacamole as possible - my parental pit-tance perhaps? No, simply a pit-ifully disguised desire for more avocado pits for toothpick skewering & observational purposes. So, now she's raising avocado plants - well, at least that's what they'll be if they reach their full potential, but at the moment they seem to be woeful underachievers who spend their time in stagnant wallowing and self-pity.

For Easter, she did surprise us all with magnanimous gifts of our very own personally decorated and exorbitantly scotch taped alfalfa seed packets, complete with homemade watering cans (paper cups with toothpick holes punched in the bottoms). Accompanying them were detailed instructional booklets which warned of the deleterious consequences of waterlogging, root overcramping & the exact technique for turning young plants regularly (which means on the half hour) toward the sunlight so they can perform photosynthesis. A staunch conservative in these matters, she expects the seedlings -once she's provided them a healthy environment- to make an honest living and earn their own food. 

But, with the exception of the paperwhites which emerged early and in showy profusion so they could have the pond's reflections all to themselves (they are so narcissistic), most of our backyard looks a bit seedy. Last week, Katrianna enriched the soil with peat moss, blackened banana peels and other organic fertilizers to sow lettuce, cucumbers, tomatoes, alyssum, sunflowers, cosmos & marigolds. She's also added a lot of Miracle Grow to her watering can as an antidote to revive the numerous shrinking violets and withering wall flowers.  Yet, she seems confident that she will ultimately sucseed and reap a plantiful harvest due to her willingness to get her hands (well, her gloves) dirty, along with her matchmaking 'natural selection' expertise.

Meanwhile, when dusk overtakes the remains of the daylight and forces her back indoors, she passes the evenings poring over vegetable guidebooks & flower encyclopedias in growing impatients for a bloomin' garden of her own.


Either that, or she plots in poetic couplets:
                                         by Katrianna

               Plants are nocturnal, they wake up at night,
               If you woke at nighttime, you'd be in a fright,
               To see plants who are running, plants in a hurry,
               Plants dropping their leaves in a flash and a flurry,
               Plants from your garden, coming inside,
               Plants who are humble, plants of great pride,
               The African Violet's running, thus,
               He's in a hurry to catch the bus!

[Poem reprinted here with her permission & her insistence that it is "officially quadruple copyrighted." Violators will no doubt be paid back in spades.]

Some of our past Easters have been spent at church. Some with relatives. Some on day-long hikes. Some at Eugene O'Neill's house. No, not really, there was only one Easter at Eugene O'Neill's house.

I didn't plan it that way. Last year, I'd called to schedule a reservation at the Eugene O'Neill National Historic Site & specifically asked about "off hours" so we could avoid being added to a crowded tour group. "Oh, well then, you'll want to come Sunday, March 23. We're going to be open & no one's scheduled that day. All of the other times and days are pretty much full." Then she added, a little tersely I thought, "You could come that Sunday if you want. We have to be open anyway."

Perfect, we'll take it! I hung up thinking how lucky I'd been to not only get a spot, but to get one all to ourselves on such short notice. We weren't going to be in California for long, so this was our chance. I ran to my calendar to jot down the particulars when I finally understood her tone. That Sunday, just a couple of weeks away, was Easter Sunday - in March this year, not April, I'd forgotten.

I picked up the phone to cancel, but then I reconsidered. When would the girls get this opportunity again & how could I, their loving mother, deny them the joy of modern realism, abject pessimism and unresolved tragedy? I did make sure Aunty Monica would accompany us, and then assured myself that it was indeed a relatively festive way to celebrate Easter, after all.

Katrianna was not so easily persuaded. I tried to convince her that, since we weren't going to be at home in Houston, the Easter Bunny might have difficulty finding us. So, he had told me to meet him at Eugene O'Neill's house on Easter day at exactly 1:25 pm. Wasn't that neat? And, didn't she want to get her presents?

She didn't buy it, not even close. OK, go with a different approach:

"Well no, honey, I know we haven't read anything by Eugene O'Neill yet... But, he did write a play called The Hairy Ape! It is almost exactly like Richard Scarry's cartoon where Bananas Gorilla finds and eats all of the bananas in the hold of that ship, then has to swab the discarded banana peels off the deck as a punishment. You really used to like Bananas Gorilla, remember?...

"Well no, Eugene didn't draw comics. He kinda preferred the format of dreary one act plays or four-hour long modernist sagas that examined the savagery and despair of humanity. But, other than that, it's exactly the same as Bananas Gorilla!"

She told me she had been over Bananas Gorilla for several years now & she didn't have any interest in Richard Scarry, this Eugene O'Neill fellow or any other "baby stuff" anymore. As an alternative to breaking out my anthology of O'Neill's one acts, I suggested, "Well, we could go out for pizza after the tour?"  

Done! Easy parenting coercion 101.

The Easter Bunny did in fact find us in the morning that became electric with egg hunts, baskets of chocolates & brunch before we had to drive over to Danville. We arrived in the parking lot with time to spare and it was blissfully empty. Until another car arrived. And then another. And then another. And then the van, which we all just barely squeezed into so it could shuttle us up to the Tao House. Mostly I was upset our private tour had been usurped. But, I chose to focus instead on the weak moral character of these heathens who would so readily violate the sanctity of a holy day by going on a literary tour. They obviously had no sense of pro-piety.

Our guide was extremely knowledgeable and also clearly felt that there was no better thing to do on Easter Sunday than discuss Eugene O'Neill. He did take a moment to acknowledge that there were 'some younger than usual visitors with us this afternoon,' but he was a purist. That segue way over, he proceeded to display his exhaustive and intimate knowledge of O'Neill's life, including but certainly not limited to: alcoholism, child abuse, abandonment, collegiate suspension, depression, extramarital affairs, divorces, drug addiction, excommunication, banishment and multiple suicides of just about everyone connected to O'Neill in any way. Of course, he didn't realize it and nothing would have constrained our devout guide anyhow, but all of this was "old school" for my 7 and 10 year olds and they barely blinked - well, unless a big yawn sort of forced them to.

However, they did perk up when talk turned to O'Neill's daughter. Because they finally saw some way to relate perhaps? Was it the mention of a child or the father-daughter dynamic? No, it was because Oona had run away with and married Charlie Chaplin, 36 years her senior, and had been disowned by her dad forever after. He never saw his little girl again - very sad. It was hard to gauge M&K's reaction, however, because they were too busy nudging each other repeatedly, giggling and pointing at their own dad who had made them sit through hours of Charlie Chaplin movies saying, "Now, just wait, it does get funny. . .  the good part's coming right after this!" It brought up such nostalgia in them for Modern Times, I mean their quality-filled 'Dad Times.'  Still, at least the Noble Prize laureate's life had finally become relevant in their eyes. Plainly, Oona was wrong for what she did. Not the marrying a much older man part. But, the part about choosing to spend the rest of your life with someone who thought slapstick (not to mention silence) was funny.
 

A few other things caught their attention, too. The fact that inside the Tao House, which O'Neill had specially built based on the principles of Taoism, mirrors were strategically placed to ward off evil spirits and were tinted a disconcerting shade of green (perhaps to reflect the envy of all onlookers?). The fact that his third wife had changed her name from Hazel Neilson Taasinge to Carlotta Monterey to appear more exotic.




The fact that their dog was dotingly referred to as their "baby" and, unlike the husband, got to share its room with Carlotta. The fact that the neckties hanging in O'Neill's bedroom closet matched those of their dad (proving that Chris is at the height of 1940s fashion). The fact that his study was designed and decorated to replicate a ship captain's quarters. The fact that they were the only ones on the tour allowed to sit in his chair and fiddle with his vintage pencils, always kept meticulously sharp on his two desks. The fact that, in his last years, his handwriting was so tiny that the guide supplied us with magnifying glasses so we could make out the words.




And, the fact that the outside of the house had stairs leading straight into walls, going nowhere, prompting Mikaela to observe that the Tao House seemed a lot more like the Winchester Mystery House than a soothing, feng shui environment.
 

But, what about the fact that he was born and also died in hotel rooms to which he reputedly decried from his death bed, "I knew it! Born in a hotel room and, Goddammit, died in one!"  Or, the experience of overlooking the same hills and scenic views that had captured his imagination? Or, what about perusing his personal bookshelves full of literature and philosophical works? Or, how's about seeing his actual Nobel Prize for Literature award?   Ehh, not so much...





Back outside the kids went, much more interested in the fact that all of the garden walkways and paths zigzagged to throw off the 'negative powers' that, we were told, could only travel in straight lines - which, of course, induced M&K to 'positively run amok' and play tag in the estate's backyard until it was time to leave.

Still, they had given their mom a memorable Easter present - the certainty that one day this would mean something to them, too. Or, even if not, that they might at least know enough to avoid life's (and/or ENGL 401's) Strange Interludes as a result.

After our Long Day's Journey into Easter, we were playfully ushered Into Night with the help of large pizzas, sodas & tunes on the ipod shuffles that the Easter Bunny had managed to slip into a couple of eggs found at Eugene O'Neill's very own Tao House.

Today is Jane Goodall's 75th birthday!
In 2004, Mikaela spread the news of Goodall's 70th with a front page cover story in her paper:
At that time, Mikaela was in fact torn between wanting to be President of the United States & wanting to be the next Jane Goodall. Initially, it seemed she would go with being the most powerful person in the world. During playgroups, she split her time between her playmates on the swing sets and their moms at the picnic tables where she canvassed for votes (merely requesting signatures on a contractual agreement to vote for her in 2032). And, since we homeschool on the slightest provocation, we also read biographies of all of the past presidents and memorized as much White House trivia as we could. (But we were limited by the fact that my kids' couldn't tolerate being virtually toured around and talked down to by "Barney," George W's schnauzer, for more than 5 minutes. Doggone it, we're really gonna miss him!)  The lure of the White House was undeniable and she had extensive redecorating plans, such as turning the oval office into a playroom. . .

But, ultimately, she instead elected to devote herself to full time motherhood, "adopting" Golden and Glitter, twin chimpanzees, from Jane Goodall. Naturally, I used her wanna-be naturalist aspirations as a chance to have us learn everything we could about Africa and encouraged Mikaela in her Tanzania itinerary travel planning. We compared and drew chimpanzee and human anatomy, read Jane's biography In the Shadow of Man plus her other observation journals and all of her children's books, along with Dian Fossey's Gorillas in the Mist. We knew that, as a young girl, Jane had a beloved stuffed animal monkey, so Mikaela acquired 7 stuffed animal monkeys since obviously that was the key to becoming a professional naturalist. Finally, Jane Goodall's Wild Chimpanzees IMAX easily trumped Jungle Book as her new favorite movie, opposable thumbs up!

Late one night, however, Chris was overcome with worry, unable to sleep, fretting that his little five year old girl would immediately need to start rounds of immunizations, apply for a passport and take machete bushwhacking lessons all before her sixth birthday.  Of course, I laughed off his concerns and he went back to bed, ridiculed but relieved.  I then stayed up wide awake til sunrise wondering if all this monkeying around might truly have dire consequences for our daughter -  all the while dabbing at my Leakey eyes. But, by dawn, I'd regained my composure and perspective, whereas Chris, after his full night's rest, was refreshed enough to deliver a lengthy and heartfelt speech exploring each and every danger posed by living among wild animals - all the way on the other side of the world, did she realize? - in frightening and excruciating detail. Luckily, Mikaela was not so easily deterred and, most probably as a direct result of Dad's little intervention, she declared her choice very soon afterwards. That's right, she fully abandoned her presidential campaign and decided with complete certainty that she would absolutely, positively follow in Jane Goodall's footsteps. (Thereby making Chris a monkey's uncle?)

Mikaela then took up the cause of wildlife around the world with admirable fervor, collecting 1,690 "Pennies for the Planet" and even - after trick or treating exclusively for pennies one Halloween - convincing one of those pre-K teachers (who'd negatively said Mikaela was too participatory and eager a year earlier) to add Pennies for Pandas to her class' kindergarten curriculum the following fall. [In fact, she ended up being  Mikaela's biggest sole contributor, making my little sisterly lions wait inside her front door for a good fifteen minutes while she searched through every purse, change jar and even her son's backpack for pennies to donate.] From then on, all relatives' birthday present inquiries were answered with requests for cold, hard cash - Mikaela's "fun"ds to be put toward chimp adoption fees, land purchases around Gombe National Park or bamboo reserves for pandas in China. And, after our hundredth viewing of Goodall's IMAX dvd (a most cherished Christmas present), Chris finally came around to accepting his daughter as the next Jane Goodall. Just in the nick of time - right before she changed her mind and decided to become a pastry chef.


   














Now it's Katrianna who wants to be the naturalist. . .  Or, after being wowed by Planet Earth, a roving wildlife photographer. And that, too, might evolve into something else before Chris has to learn to fly helicopters so Katrianna can hover above a lion and film its thrilling pursuit of a wildebeest. . .  

But, in whatever goals our kids set for themselves, we hope they can do as much Good-all around as Dr. Jane.
 

Send Jane Goodall your Happy Birthday wishes!
 

On our extended trip to Colorado, a different sort of snow job commanded the attention of our family of flakes in the form of a blizzard. We don't ski, but we easily could have been mistaken for a bunch of lugers out there chillin' on the mountain. (Really - and I don't mean to brag - I could have sworn I heard a couple of snowboarders call us just that when they swooshed by...  true, it was a little muffled in the 70 mph winds... Down South, by the way, we call those gusts 'hurricanes' instead of 'wind resistance.') We went sledding down a perilously slippery slope that extended for quite possibly a whole 40 feet (even the bunnies were laughing at us - from their vantage point about 500 feet up).

And, not once during our outing did Ethan Frome's "smash up" slip slide away into the recesses of my psyche...  but, luckily, our day involved no desires under an elm, shattered pickle dishes or zeena-phobia.  [I hated that book when I read it at 16, but no amount of topical Wharton remover, applied liberally to my prefrontal cortex twice daily ever since, has proven effective in eliminating its imagery.] Overall, however, it was a very (very) cool experience!
  
During our time spent in Boulder with Bob and his wife, Chaya, we also went to the Dushanbe Teahouse, where the fine service, like the fine tea, apparently cannot be rushed. Once you enter the doors, time stops and all is at rest. We arrived just when we should have - not even close to tea time - and the place was nearly empty with tables plentiful, yet our seating preparation and the ceremonious setting of utensils took at least ten very consciousness-inducing minutes while we stood waiting at the cusp of enlightenment (which is located just inside the entryway, wedged between the hostess stand and mere millimeters from the swinging door - which I can only assume to be intentional and symbolic of our precarious position in the universe).  The unanticipated respite provided us abundant time to examine and accept the futility of our rushed lives and overly eager expectations, as well as gave Bob ample opportunity to select and purchase a tasteful souvenir. When Chaya asked if she could have milk in her tea, the waiter deliberated and answered philosophically 'Why, yes, he thought she might' which he emphasized by agreeably nodding his redhead. It took quite a bit more prompting to move him out of the realm of possibility and into the actual delivery of the milk, but the result, of course, was our deeper appreciation of each and every aspect of our tea time, as well as a savoring of the teahouse staff's superior understanding of the subtleties of service. Truly, at the famed Dushanbe teahouse, my cup runneth over.  

And, now, a final metrospective: Boulder is, due to a tremendous amount of concerted effort on the part of its citizenry, just a bit quirky. Everybody drives either a Prius or a VW van converted to run on veggie oil, conscientiously rehydrates with only organic beer after Bolder Boulder training runs, climbs rock walls in 100% hemp laced birkenstocks or spins around on their tandem bicycles (outfitted with a modified second seat to accommodate their dog who pedals like mad in an effort to reduce its carbon pawprint). There is also a plethora of "Keep Boulder Weird" bumper stickers & paraphernalia, yet I am required by Texas allegiance (& the desire to avoid another scuffle with state patrol border guards on the way back in), to take umbrage and point out that their beloved mantra was plagiarized, lifted verbatim from Austin, TX. True, it is hard to blame Boulderites since that wording is so profound and evocative. May I humbly suggest they try something more local, a pithy summation that is indicative of their own region instead? I got it, how's about BOULDER: WE'RE FULL OF CROCS!

I don't know, it might need some tweaking...  Perhaps Austin just had beginner's luck coming up with our so emulated slogan & no city should expect to coin something that achieves transcendent, world famous status. Oh, shoot, I just remembered the Alamo... Guess it's time for us to return to the only state that can rightfully claim to have the highest density of original weirdos in the nation!




Great (Dave) Scott! I didn't mean to resort to Lance strong Arm tactics there...







P.S. For the record, during our visit to Boulder, we did not once catch sight of Mork nor Mindy. But, I did see several characters who I suspect might be aging backwards... either that, or they're new aging. I admit I can't tell the difference.

Because we homeschool, I've always been a little hyper aware that Mikaela & Katrianna don't have the variety of teacher role models that I enjoyed and Chris drove into early retirement. So, like many overcompensating homeschoolers, we've supplemented with teachers for extracurricular classes in music, art and writing, participated in ongoing educational programs at science or history museums, nature centers & the zoo, plus had the tutelage of a couple of little league coaches. We've also discovered "positive influences" in many of the other homeschooling parents who have surprisingly diverse and interesting careers, such as NASA rocket scientists, professional artists, architects, doctors, ranchers, airplane pilots, supercomputer engineers, landscape designers & geologist 'rock stars.'

And a final, unexpected way we found mentors for our kids is through interaction with and learning from Chris' clients. We just spent most of March in Boulder, Colorado, so Chris could meet with colleagues with whom he has consulted for a few years now. Over time, we all have gotten to know many of them and several have become significant role models for our girls. Their greatest qualification? They are nerds who found a way to make it their life's work!

Now, before Chris gets fired, let me explain. In our family, "nerd" is a term of endearment, a complimentary title reserved only for those we most admire and idolize (and, obviously, what we aspire to be ourselves). Nerds are people who have been able to turn their passions into action. Bespectacled or not, they fully embrace and fixedly pursue whatever "turns them on," become specialists in their fields and, eventually, find a way to put their education, enthusiasm and expertise into practice. (For us, this applies to traditionally "nerdy" intellectual pursuits, but also to excelling in sports, politics, music, art ... ) At first they might seem too geeky or unconventional, but ultimately they become, often as a direct result of their previous "misfit" status, the coolest and most respected extra-ordinary people out there.

Really, it's quite similar to Ralph Waldo Emerson's call for "The American Scholar," only we prefer the ring of "The American Nerd" (pə-tā'tō as opposed to pō-tot-ō?). We constantly point out historical and contemporary examples of this phenomenon to M&K, who are true believers now due to an innate propensity to nerdiness [nature] as well as exposure to as many nerds as I can find to teach them about [nurture]. So far, our daughters' nerdy-cool heroes have ranged from Br'er Rabbit to Ben Franklin, Daniel Boone to Clara Barton, Martin Luther King to Mother Teresa, John James Audubon to the first dog astronaut (along with the lesser Neil Armstrong), Hatshepsut to Louisa May Alcott, Robin Hood to Nelson Mandela, Joan of Arc to Jane Goodall, Sacagawea to Eleanor Roosevelt, and Abe Lincoln to Barack, Michelle, Malia & Sasha Obama. That's all good, since these are laudable legends studied in textbooks, newspapers or from afar, but meeting and befriending real, live "pal"-adins is, of course, even better! 

Stephen Mitchell is an author who readily admits that initially he had no idea he could actually earn a living by writing. But, to date, he has 38 published books and has gained a large and appreciative audience for his translations, poetry, fiction & non-fiction works, children's books and philosophical writings. He was in the middle of an eleven-city tour arranged by his publisher when we met him and attended his reading for The Second Book of the Tao. Many receptive thinkers and fans were gathered there to hear him expound upon its chapters, as well as to get a few moments to chat with him while he signed copies of his book.

In preparation for the reading & seeing Stephen again, the girls and I read his book and incorporated it into our studies for school which included a year-long unit on China (where we focused on all the typical cultural facts & wrote historical research papers, plus partook in protest demonstrations favoring Tibetan independence & watched the Olympics as "homework").  Even before the book hit bookstores' shelves, we had a sneak peek and discussed such concepts as accepting things as they are. Our perceptive daughters' understanding of this idea mostly centered around its application to Mom - their prime examples being my gracefully accepting the "perfection" of their untidy bedrooms, lackadaisical tooth brushing or school papers that are found everywhere except in their portfolios. Enthusiasm for their particular interpretation of "the way" then extended into the minutiae of our daily routine, as in 'Are not a correct answer and an incorrect answer to this math problem equally worthy and virtuous?'

After the reading, as we all strolled down the blustery Pearl Street Mall, Chris was the personification of "yes chasing no endlessly in circles" as he orbited in hyper leaps about the ever composed and serene Stephen. (The allusion would be a good one, except for one thing - I am the one who sits up all night sweating ethical dilemmas, while Chris peacefully snores right through - clearly demonstrating that he is much further along in his journey to Zen than I am.) Finally, we found ourselves ensconced safely inside the Dushanbe Teahouse and enjoying a moment's peaceful silence when Katrianna, the existentialist, suddenly piped up: "Could it be that I'm a butterfly just thinking I'm having tea with Stephen Mitchell?" Well, at least it showed she'd taken a fancy to chapter 5...

Not long after that, coincidentally I'm sure, Stephen mentioned that he enjoyed doing the book tours and meeting people but that he would rather be home spending time with his wife, Byron Katie. His affection and respect for Katie, who he had also mentioned fondly several times during his reading, moved me to such an extent that I immediately gave Chris an elbow to the ribs and said "See?!" before I realized I wasn't Loving What Is...  

Understandably, Stephen then expressed a desire to get back to the hotel and work on his next book, a highly anticipated translation of The Iliad. Just as the cab was about to mercifully whisk him off, Mikaela eagerly called out, "In your next book, remember when you're formatting not to align the text to the right - it has to stay centered!" By then, however, I believe he'd successfully plugged his ears with beeswax, so he just graciously smiled and waved goodbye. Certainly it had been a productive day, one that no doubt illustrated Chris' invaluable worth as a consultant, especially in his ability to fully test Stephen's resolve to adhere to the Taoist tenet of remaining calm and unaffected by worldly strife and drivel.

Another client we met last week was Robert Freling, who was in Colorado to receive the King Hussein Leadership Prize presented by Her Majesty Queen Noor at the Aspen Institute. Previous recipients have included Archbishop Desmond Tutu, Doctors without Borders and Muhammad Yunus, founder of the Grameen Bank.   

Bob was introduced to our family over the phone a few years ago, when he called Chris immediately after returning from a trip to Rwanda where his team had been busy installing solar electric systems to replace diesel generators used in several community health clinics.  My interest was piqued when I overheard Chris saying "No way... How many ribs?!"  Turned out, a couple of very dark nights before, Bob had decided to take in a view of the stars, stepped out onto his bungalow's nonexistent back porch and promptly plummeted down into the wilds of Rwandan jungle. (Demonstrating the need for some solar lighting, no?)

He broke some ribs but still managed to hike several miles the next morning so he could fulfill the fun, relaxing part of his visit and see some gorilla families, descendants of Dian Fossey's beloved buddies. With that, he instantly became our family's latest hero and was thereafter affectionately dubbed "Solar Bob" by my admiring kiddos.

Bob, who also happens to be a native Texan, leads a charitable organization called Solar Electric Light Fund, based in Washington DC. They install solar panels in remote villages around the world, providing essential power for hospitals and vaccine storage, fresh water and drip irrigation systems for crops, lighting & electricity in local schools and personal power units for individual homes. Among SELF's many impressive projects are those for the Jane Goodall Institute in Tanzania, for local schools in Nelson Mandela's birthplace, for the Vietnam Women's Union, in partnership with the Clinton Foundation HIV/AIDS Initiative for numerous medical clinics in Africa, with Brad Pitt's Make It Right project in New Orleans, and alongside the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation to provide reliable technology access for the Navajo Nation.
It's been a fun and ongoing inspirational lesson just trying to keep up with and learn about all of the places Bob has been to and that SELF has helped.It makes those places "real" and the world becomes, as a result, smaller and more accessible - if not physically, at least psychologically.  Certainly it underscores the theme that one person (even a kid who grew up in Dallas, Texas) can make a meaningful contribution toward "making the world a better place." 

Stephen and Bob are examples of "regular guys" whose natural interests and strengths became integral to their work and lifestyles. They do what they love & they make a living doing it. But, they are still nerds...  after all, despite all of their accomplishments, look who they ended up hanging out with in Boulder.