GlobeSchooling™

Mesa Verde National Park's Cliff Hangers

2010-08-08T13:08:03Z

"Why do I haveta have such a baby sister?" moaned Mikaela.

Hundreds of miles earlier in our Southwestern US road trip, Katrianna quit defending herself. And simply scrunched further down in her booster seat. Yet her older sister's taunts ticked off with regularity, keeping steady pace with the highway's mile markers before finally crossing the [CO state] line.

"You're just scared because you're so young!"

Not really, I interceded, I'm frightened, too. Good thing Katrianna's backing out since otherwise I'd definitely be taking the fall for it....

"Oh, c'mon, it's only 50 feet!"

Actually, that was another of Mikaela's tall tales. The Balcony House ladder was a mere 32 feet high, though the hike to reach it also included a 12-foot tunnel crawl & a 60-foot open rock face ascent.

"And the travel guide said it's the very best one. On their 'Not To Miss' list! But now we're gonna skip it -- all because of scaredy Kat ~rianna!"

As we passed through the entry gate into Mesa Verde National Park, Chris 'helped' by suggesting we might turn around & go right back to Houston if Mikaela didn't stop. Huh. Nothing quite as effective as an idle parental threat, is there? True, this strategy maybe works if one's traveled 5 miles away from home... possibly 15... but, hmm, exactly how credible is this: So, Cathy, whaddya think about driving us a thousand miles & then we'll pull a U-ie?

"Besides, there's nothing hard about it! I could easily climb that ladder wearing all 4 of our backpacks, a water bottle in one hand & Skittles in the other! This is so unfair!"

It so was! Mikaela was determined to show that she was officially a Tween now. And, perhaps even more importantly, that her sister was officially not. Accordingly, she sulked.

Well, I reasoned, unfortunately we'd arrived too late to reserve tour spots anyway...

However, we had timed it perfectly to take solitary, dusky strolls among deserted (even by modern tourists) Mesa Top farming villages, choose to casually overlook Cliff Palace all by our lonesomes, view a gloaming sunset from Park Point's 8572-foot advantage, and finally eat & sleep by starlight in Morefield Campground amid the soothing sounds of chirping crickets, crackling campfires and ~~purring~~ ~~sputtering~~ choking carburetors in sundry RV generators.

The next morning, while other guests queued outside the Far View Visitor Center for guided tour tickets to Long House, Cliff Palace or the acrophobic-exclusive Balcony House, we busily got ourselves all spruced up instead. Yup, in order to get on down to the Spruce Tree House at the break of dawn. It was misty-cal, all right, as we made our way along the dewy path with glimpses of the overhanging cliff site beckoning. Even more so when we realized we were the only ones there. Well, except for two Ancestral Puebloans who greeted us in that peculiar, primitive headgear of theirs, ie the "funny hats" worn by all natives of the National Park Service.

Hospitably, they offered to show us around the place & began with a rote set of queries intended to engage, pique interest & inform. However, in preparation for our visit, M&K had studied the NPS website, making those rhetorical questions not quite so rhetorical after all:

The ranger ~                                                                  M&K ~

Does anyone know what 'Mesa Verde' means?                   Green Table!
And who lived here?                                                       The Anasazi!
How long ago?                                                                1400 to 700 years ago!
Why did they leave?                                                        Don't know!
That's right! Truthfully, no one knows...

OK, so what did they eat?                                               They farmed on the mesa!
What type of structure did they live in?            Pit houses!
And later?                                                                       Under the cliffs!
What are their bricks made out of?                                  Sandstone!
Why are these ceilings black?                    Umm... not sure?

Pshew, that made everybody feel better. Happily, the ranger led them to correctly guess "Oh, yeah, it's cause of the smoke from their fires!"

The rangers exchanged a knowing nod. "You're homeschoolers, aren't you?" they stated in agreement, as though plainly this was another rhetorical device. Wow, I humbly noted, how effortlessly we make our lil' contribution to reinforce the image of homeschoolers everywhere....

Next, they invited the kids to partake in the usual daily grind, skillfully demonstrating how to keep one's nose to the ol' grindstone (at least until M&K got the grist of it). Sure, it's corny, but it seemed the girls thought it was grate & could go on like that all day. In fact, everybody was having such a good time, it was hardly noticeable when M&K kept inching away from the edge of pit where the second ranger stood expectantly.

Clearly with well ingrained excitement, she segued to the climatic moment, "Of course, I bet ya'll already know what a kiva is!"   No answer.

"Yes, good. And that small circular hole in the bottom is called a 'sipapu.' Step up here a little closer so you can see it!"   No movement.

"OK then," she declared, "the awesome part is that you get to go down into it now!"

Evidently overcome with repentance for yesterday's teasing, Mikaela benevolently offered the first turn to her little sister. "No, that's okay," declined Katrianna, "you can go first."

But Mikaela-the-Elder insisted. She helpfully pushed Katrianna forward, ever closer to the rim. "No, I don't really wanna..." Katrianna admitted. "Cuz I think... I might be scared."

Would it help if I went first, I wondered, & jumped onto the ladder.

"Mom, NOOOOOOOOO!" M&K gasped at my Dante-esque descent, certain that the 3-headed Cerberus awaited my demise below. Heeding Mikaela's dire warning -- "Don't step in the hole, Mom. It leads to the Underworld!" -- I dutifully performed a thorough kiva inspection, reported it safe & sound, and invited Katrianna to join me.

Trustingly, she backed up another foot & a half. So Chris clambered partway down and held out his hand. Still Katrianna wouldn't budge. "Sorry, Dad," she whispered as he resurfaced.

"Guess it's all yours, Mikaela!" I called up. "Come on in, it's the pits!"

Suddenly, it was as if the intrepid Tween wouldn't touch that kiva with a ~~ten~~ six-foot ladder. "Mom, can I just jump & you'll catch me?!" Mikaela suggested at a volume [with the tre(m)ble turned up] guaranteed to reverberate through its shadowy depths.

After 10 minutes of urging, waiting, pleading and stalling, I made the arduous ascent solo. To the welcoming, joint embrace of our dear anxious daughters. Once again, the rangers exchanged a knowing nod. Wow, I humbly noted, how effortlessly we make our lil' contribution to reinforce the image of homeschoolers everywhere....

So what's there to say? It's not surprising, really. After all, we're homeschoolers, not social climbers.

Without a word, it was immediately understood -- time for us to take a hike. We headed out on the Petroglyph Point Trail which winds through & often clings to the walls of Spruce Canyon. Here, too, we were the only ones on the single-file track and soon found it challenging, as well as truly delightful. The canyon is coolly invigorating, verdant, with striking views in contrasting oranges, browns & greens. It's filled with narrow passages that require squeezing through rocks and grabbing onto centuries-smoothed hand holds pecked into the canyon walls by Mesa Verde's original inhabitants. There was an overwhelming sense of the past and its people each time we stepped into the foot wells formed by their ancient civilization, stony testaments worn away by daily use, comparable to the age-old depressions made in marble stair steps throughout Europe....

And then the incredible happened! Unbeknownst to the rest of us, Chris started seeing folks on every bend, at every turn, literally hanging out all over the place. Apparently, the cliffs were speaking to him from the omnipresent formations eerily resembling rock faces. (Not that he isn't always on the look out for two-faced impersonators. Or stone-faced posers. Perhaps the Rolling Stones? Plus Rocky I.. II.. III... no, can't malign his reputation like that - implying he watches Sylvester Stallone movies is going too far.)

Eventually he revealed not only their existence, but also his conjectures as to the obvious meanings of their Anasazi-chiseled features. Take this one with the particularly menacing expression - would give cowardly aggressors pause, no? Or that one with curlycue vines overhanging its brow & the silly grin - aha! "killed 'em" with laughs. What about him, over there, with the quizzical expression - meant to baffle & discombobulate the wary trespasser (seemed to be working on Chris, anyhow). So convinced was he that he filled our camera's photo card with pictures to document the find, in disbelief that no archeologist before him had dared look this phenomena in the face...

Although it was well before noon when we climbed out of the canyon, the heat was stifling, the mesa's piñons & junipers woefully short on shade. However, Chris rushed us onwards to the visitor center, eager to share his discovery! Another kind & patient ranger received the news. And diplomatically suggested that Yes, many people see things in the rocks... Uh huh, the lighting creates some strange effects... Interesting indeed, but ever heard about a thing called 'erosion'?...

As we drove out of Mesa Verde National Park and I tried in vain to soothe Chris' disappointment (by searching for my new favorite song - Smiling Faces Sometimes* - on the car radio), his confidence spontaneously rallied. For he did what most sensitive parents do under similar circumstances. And remembered to bring up his child's previous mistake.

"Hey, Miks, don't you have something you should say to your sister?"   Silence.

"About being wrong? You know, the Balcony House?"   Continued silence.

"And," he goaded, "ladders?"

"Okay, okay, I suppose it's not really all your fault, Katrianna..." mumbled Mikaela. "That you're 3 whole years younger than me!"

Ahh, lesson learned. No sense cliff dwelling on it.

*Beware, it's one of the most irritating songs ever. And that's The Undisputed Truth.
And, tho it's the much disputed truth, a "Tween" is generally defined as an 8-12 year old.

The World Cup: Madiba Magic Champions at Last!

2010-07-11T15:07:37Z

The World Cup series: Part 4 of 4
(Begin with Part 1 The World Cup: Get Up, Stand Up!)

Preposterous as it sounds, M&K began to assert themselves & discover personal connections to the world through means other than sports. Naw, really, no foolin.' Alongside the Sports Illustrated for Women's Mia Hamm poster, thoughtfully handpicked & affixed to her bedroom wall by Dad, Mikaela scotch taped a glossy spread of her actual hero, Jane Goodall, taken at the Gombe Reserve in Tanzania. (Indeed, Chris' is a common mistake - this parental urge to Hamm it up - often referred to as a Mia culpa.) Then, during her little sister's soccer matches, if not passing the time by conducting sideline interviews for the Texas Gazette, she'd pull out her supplemental reading, Peacemakers: Winners of the Nobel Peace Prize. Once the game finished, we'd go further afield to the Houston Museum of Natural Science, which just so happened to have a temporary exhibit on Nobel Prize recipients. (Though their display was rather small, the kids still thought it was dynamite.)

Whoa! no way, how could we ever have let it come to this? Now see where being lax about little league legacies leads? Well yeah, straight to the Nobel Prize! Via the Declaration of Independence, US Constitution, Bill of Rights & Civil Rights movement. With the United Nations + Africa in hot pursuit...

It started out innocently enough, merely when Mikaela decided she'd grow up to be President of the United States. Naturally, that necessitated a quick homeschooling unit dedicated to a perusal of the US Constitution, in order to acquaint herself with its tenets & thereby allow ample time to strategize ways to circumvent them. (Never too early to start the process, after all... just ask Dick Cheney, that trailblazer.) This coincided with The Declaration of Independence's American tour, which we heard was putting on quite the live show, so we caught a performance at the LBJ presidential library on the University of Texas campus. (This original copy of the Declaration, one of just 3 privately owned, was bought at auction by Norman Lear, who might've just kept it All in the Family but instead sponsored a cross-country 'road trip' to bring democracy's most esteemed document into fair & equal-opportunity viewing for all the people. Subversive Hollywood liberal. Gee whiz, could he learn a thing or two about patriotism... from an Archie conservative, am I right?)

Wrapped it up with a visit to the Houston Print Museum, so M&K could roll out some d-i-y D-o-I broadsides (now that's impressive), intently watched democracy in action on ~~C-SPAN~~ Schoolhouse Rock, drafted new & improved versions of the Constitution & Bill of Rights (eg, voting rights extended to 4 year olds & optional horse ownership guaranteed), read a few books like Fritz's Shh! We're Writing the Constitution before getting popped (quizzed) by a testy Miss Mikaela, skimmed some nuts 'n bolts explanations of how government works, and completed several pages from the US History & Presidents workbooks picked up on clearance. And, just like that, simple as sayin' uncle Sam, we were done -- Finito with Freedom!!!

But no, wouldn't get off that easy. Couldn't seem to shake those pesky discussions about the meaning of "justice for all" with its nitpicky nuances, ie does "all" = sum or some? (Alas, proving that smart as they were, even the founding fathers had difficulty with equations.) So it was on to Seneca Falls for a consultation with Elizabeth Cady Stanton & Susan B. Anthony about women's suffrage. Soon followed by study of segregation and the Civil Rights movement. Although M&K already knew quite a bit about Martin Luther King, Jr, it seemed a different civil rights leader might best resonate with our young daughters. In particular, a courageous giant of the movement who marched at the very forefront of integration, but was of slightly lesser stature. Primarily because she was 6 years old & around 3 ½ feet tall. We read Ruby Bridges' own account, Through My Eyes, as well as Robert Coles' analytical insights, plus watched & talked at length about events depicted in the movie. It was also the kids' introduction to Norman Rockwell, his poignant portrayal of Ruby taking on even greater meaning after an afternoon first spent viewing his many endearingly lighthearted depictions of the American lifestyle & human interactions worth celebrating.

OK, after describing listening to a perturbed Rosa Parks recount her experiences in person* & then convincing Mikaela to check out Jackie Robinson's story (ha! snuck in sports), it seemed we had the faltering progress of equality covered. Not quite. From there, our focus expanded to the concept of universal human rights, the efforts of the United Nations, and finally Nobel Peace Prize winners. We read more about its 1964 recipient MLK, adding his sister's remembrance My Brother Martin to reading the Heroes of America chapter book + DK biography, but also learned about Ralph Bunche, Mother Teresa, Clara Barton's Red Cross, the Dalai Lama, Amnesty International, Jimmy Carter and, because even altruism recognition is political, Mahatma Gandhi's notable omission.

Here was another link in the natural progression of our studies. Gandhi was not only the leader of the Indian Independence movement against British rule & one of MLK's models for civil disobedience (in 1959, King visited Gandhi's birthplace to gain insight & inspiration), but the young attorney initially solidified his commitment to satyagraha (firmness in truth) and ahimsa (total nonviolence) strategies to resist the discrimination he faced while living for twenty years in South Africa. A noble, prize-worthy philosophy carried on by Desmond Tutu, '84 recipient, and dual '93 awardees Nelson Mandela and - for his willingness to acquire power in order to cede it - FW de Klerk, winner of the Golden Boot (out Botha).

Meanwhile, amid all this, life was constantly stepping in to distract us. Consequently, we'd investigated aspects of Africa quite inadvertently, by pursuing interests that had evolved independently of any "academics," eg origins of early man & civilizations, archaeology, geography, and everything animals, including wild games of every description; hundreds of "Safari" identification cards, sorted & classed off by their Latin surnames (found that one particularly taxaing); voluminous tomes of Vertebrates so massive that simply picking one up risked spine-snapping invertebrate transformation; and weekly zoo visits timed to attend keeper-led talks or, even better, synched to the newest baby giraffe's or infant elephant's bottle feedings. Thanks to the Kratt Brothers & PBS' Zoboomafoo, Katrianna also became enthralled with lemurs -- oops, excuse me, "Coq-uer-el's Si-fak-a," she'd insistently enunciate. Her mad about Madagascar two year phase was all-encompassing & threatened consultation with travel agents until finally, and not coincidentally, it subsided with the premiere of DreamWorks' Madagascar animated movies, which no billboards, toys in cereal boxes or Saturday morning cartoons could persuade M&K to care for one bit. Topping it off was that zany Tanzanian troupe-r Jane Goodall, Rwanda's own famous band member Dian Fossey, as well as the continuing adventures of Chris' client & our family friend who leads charitable projects throughout Africa, aka Bob, The Solar Power Superhero! Granted, these were wholly elective activities, quite enthusiastically thought up & guided by the children, thus quite reasonably cannot be considered valid "schoolwork."

So began our formal study of Africa. As usual, we started with books. Still in recovery from of a bygone era when encyclopedias & nonfiction titles were dense, dry deserts of text relieved only with an isolated, illusively blurry b&w photo mirage, I'm continually amazed that we get to choose from today's inviting, well-written & color-filled kids' books that are as good as or even better than National Geographic. What results is a mix of light & heavy reading, from 2-page per country summations of essential geo-political info to dozens of in-depth library books dedicated to individual countries like Nigeria or Kenya, specific cultures like the San & Maasai, and ancient history. Add in some super websites, such as Phillip Martin's, and sharing the world becomes instantly exciting.

For straight up geography, memorizing the country of Africa can be daunting even for the experts. (O, sure, it's fun to act superior to Sarah... yet, honestly, who hasn't suffered with occasional in continents problems?) Therefore, in order to meet our goal of correctly identifying Africa's many nations, it became a contest, the challenge to find 2-3 phenomenal facts unique to each. Eventually, however, we discovered that the most mundane or oddly irrelevant statistics proved surprisingly entertaining, too, as outdoing one another in mind-boring minutiae has its own irresistible appeal.

Nevertheless quite a few countries remained, demanding we employ a slightly different memory trick technique:

Where do folks go to settle a dispute?   The Rift Valley
What's Ethiopia's all-time favorite show?   I Love Lucy
Who was trippin' over Dr Livingstone, I presume?    Queen Victoria Falls
Where is Zoboomafoo not just a passing fady?   Madagascar
Who's the biggest band in Nigeria?   Indigo Girls (they're to dye for)
Where's Al Gore's least favorite place for hanging out?    Chad
What river runs between Zimbabwe & Zambia?    Aw, that's too Zambezi!

Or these, just 'cuz they're fun to say:

She sells seashells in Seychelles.
I'll be Dogon. Siriusly? (Well, it's got a good Mali-dy.)
I'll match that & raise ya a Timbuktu.
An elephant, a rhino & a cheetah ~~walk~~ sail into a Zanzibar... No lion.
C'mere, my sweet baobab-y.

Suddenly, recalling locations was easy, familiar & most effective. (Uh huh, never underestimate the motivation to make Mom's 'helpful hints' stop.) We drilled each other in all sorts of spontaneous games using wall, book & homemade political and physical maps. Plus, M&K really enjoyed "demonstrating mastery" (showing off) by surfing for numerous online timed quizzes to identify countries by outline shape, natural features, famous landmarks or customs.

Pretty soon, this morphed into an engrossing unit study ~~

Writing: preparing & presenting reports on endangered animals, native insects & plants
Reading: folktales - summarize, illustrate, plus practice oral storytelling with & without props
Art: craft traditional masks based on virtual tour of masks representing 100 ethnic groups; loom weaving; experiment with dyeing fabrics naturally; bead bracelets based on traditional patterns; charcoal, pastel & color pencil drawings of animals
Home ec: Mikaela researches vegetarian dishes & cooks
Math: play strategy games such as mancala, butterfly (Mozambique), Senet (Egypt) & others found online or in Games From Around the World; create Kente cloth geometric designs; write & exchange facts 'n figures-based word problems; interpret animal stats charts & graphs
Science: review classification system & make pop-up charts for variety of animals; sketch representative biomes on posters & then place 3-D animal photo stickers in correct zones; watch Planet Earth dvds & PBS programs about wildlife (+ culture + history) paying renewed attention due to the region's greater resonance; consult numerous African national parks & reserves guidebooks to plan "someday" trip
Current events: read about Obama's journey to Kenya to visit his grandmother & other relatives in Dreams from My Father & ~~stalk~~ google map his ancestral village (no street view, only satellite images); follow news stories, esp environment-related
Field trips: zoo & museum exhibits, particularly the Menil Collection and HMNS' Lucy

Finally, while reviewing the symbolism of the African flags' colors, M&K decided to make a few mini flags for their binders. So blown away were they by this flagging interest (winded its way into their hearts, did it?) that they produced enough for Katrianna to turn it into yet another game, writing the countries' names on back & taping them onto theme dividers as look-see, interrogation-ready décor. (Not to be flip-up-pant about the thrill-a-minute excitement that is homeschooling, but for us this was a Banner Day.) Wanna play? At the top of this page, rest cursor on each flag til its name appears.

Of course, as usual, the very best part was sharing the music. Tracing the roots of American tunes - spirituals, blues, rock 'n roll, peace music, protest songs, zydeco - back to African rhythms & messages, a rigorous curriculum requiring listening to a variety of traditional African groups (tho I'm ashamed to admit, at that time we somehow overlooked indigenous blond Shakira) & crossover 'pop' artists including Ladysmith Black Mambazo with (or w/o) Paul Simon, Alpha Blondy, Majek Fashek, King Sunny Ade, Fela, and Rocky Dawuni, mixing in The Specials, Steel Pulse & Sweet Honey in the Rock for good measures. Yet the overriding instructional incentive was even more fundamental to providing M&K with a proper education: Got to regale them with an epic tale known as The Legend of Mom's Fall.

Exhilarated by a Johnny Clegg & Savuka** concert celebrating Nelson Mandela's freedom in 1990, I was graciously demonstrating to an appreciative audience (our dog, Picasso) several of the moves gleaned from close observation of that evening's performance. Duly impressed, Pico immediately began his own show of solidarity by running ever-accelerating circles around the perimeter of the backyard. As you can imagine, it was a revelry of merriment! That is, until my glorious finale - a flurry of dead-on-authentic Zulu kicks - came to an abrupt, spinning-heels-over-head halt in a spectacular collision of centripetal force. An unanticipated audition for Dancing with the Stars, my hip-stir status was validated upon landing, dislocations notwithstanding. "Once again, kids, demonstrating that the personal sacrifices Mom has made for South Africa are truly stunning."

So this extra meaningful World Cup, we honor Madiba Magic, responsible for bringing the World Cup to South Africa and Africa to the world. It's been a chance to celebrate not just nationalism, but internationalism! (Hey, wait just a second, doesn't MLB do the same thing in its aptly named 'World Series'? Why, take last year's contest of global proportions, spanning the widely disparate ends of the New Jersey Turnpike -- going the distance, Philly to NYC! Aw, c'mon, just sayin'... no assault on battery intended.) Overall, it was a hugely successful tournament, Fate's failings aside. (Struggling to cope with misinterpreting Destiny here... thought for sure they were Ghana go all the way.)

Plus it's also infected each of us with our own symptomatic cases of World Cup fever. For Dad, it's all about soccer. His primary goalie now being to call in the ~~plays~~ posts for soccerblog.com from a ~~bench~~ couch-warming position. (Altho to ~~Chris'~~ his football-lovin-pals-turned-bloggers' credit, it does fit the inclusiveness criteria, receiving 5,000+ visitors a day from all over the world. Hardly a blip compared to that psychic octopus' reach, but still.) For Mikaela, it's been an opportunity to relive her soccer days of yore - yup, she took along a library book for our communal (big screen) sports bar visits, content to be chaperoned by The Vicar of Wakefield. For Katrianna, it's served as a great culmination to our studies, an occasion to display global geography preeminence while actually watching some games, as long as we kept those pub fries & pineapple Crushes comin.'

And, lastly, for me -- well, isn't it obvious? As no doubt this World Cup blog series underscores, I believe we homeschooling parents deserve a lot more credit than we're given. For clearly it demands an enormous amount of dedication & patience... to bring each & every subject around - sooner or later - to a story about me. "Organic learning" at its finest! Truthfully, why else would we so self~~ish~~lessly homeschool our children? Oh, that's right, to teach them to embrace connections, understand that ultimately everything is related, and realize that discovering the ties that unite us all is what makes learning worthwhile, fascinating & fun. Yeah, well, I guess those are OK reasons, too....

*Ironically, this occurred at that same 'liberal' college freshman year... Her bold reaction to its audience was much more outspoken than mine, after which she collected her speaker's fee, thank you very much.

**Clegg was repeatedly jailed for performing in a racially mixed band, an illegal act in apartheid-era South Africa. Banned by state radio, "Asimbonanga" ("We haven't seen him") called for Mandela's release & named activist martyrs Neil Aggett, Stephen Biko, & Victoria Mxenge. In 1988, Michael Jackson cancelled his Lyon, France concert due to Clegg & Savuka's attracting a larger audience. Savuka translates "We have risen/awakened."

And now for an extra Specials treat:

From his BMOC days, the song Chris cranked up on his Chevy Chevette (whenever it would start) ~

The World Cup: Soccer It to Me

2010-07-03T22:22:12Z

The World Cup series: Part 3 of 4
(See Part 1 The World Cup: Get Up, Stand Up! & Part 2 The World Cup: United We Play)

After the thrill of being Brazil's invaluable 12th man (tho in his mind he got Peléd), Christiano was determined that soccer would remain a permanent fixture of our family life, its principles passed on to our enthusiastic children. Well, anyhow, to the original set of kids [hereafter referred to as 'The Premier League'].

The firstborn was a natural defender & trapping skills perfectionist who positioned himself at sweeper to tackle any challengers (particularly those charging his supper dish). The next two, a daughter-son duo, constantly begged Dad to kick it around and doggedly ran their drills all day. Or most of the day, until the pressure simply got to be too much for our precious Pizazz, who'd inevitably air it out by sinking a fang into the leather & thereby earn herself a bye week....

Not surprisingly (at least for those well-versed in birth order theory), the baby of the family, a last-minute draft choice acquired from the SPCA Juniors division, was an extroverted crowd pleaser. Christened Cameroooooooon, the dynamic dribbler was admittedly not the most disciplined athlete, impatient with set plays & preferring to improvise. Yet, just like Cathy's all -It's Milla- time favorite World Cup contenders, she was by far the most entertaining to watch. What's more, that Indomitable Lion uniformly marked any snakes in the grass and, without thought to risking her career, willingly took to the attack for the sake of the squad (garnering a record-setting 6 garters in a single outing... including one gut-checkin' overtime). But, most significantly, Cameroon revived - at least for her cheerfully sidelined soccer mom - that beloved '70s fad: Red, Yellow & Green Striped, Polyester Knee-Highs. Stylin'!

Now inexplicably, when they finally joined our team's roster, the second string of Sarkar progeny wasn't nearly so goal-oriented. Mikaela & Katrianna resisted Chris' every attempt to raise them into football fan addicts, which I believe might've been previously mentioned in passing. (See Homeschoolers Are Such Bad Sports.) (Plus Happy Dad's Day: Father No's Best.) (And Life Cycles: Spinning Our Wheels at Le Tour de France.) (Also alluded to briefly in Spring Equinox Fever Sows March Madness.) (Oh, and again, just casually, so as not to belabor the point, in On Your Mark, Get Set, GOld! to the Olympic Training Center.)

As conscientious parents -- simply trying to bring up our kids to be well-adjusted, socially-conscious, responsible citizens who are confident in their identities, life's purpose & place in the world -- we were at a loss. I mean, aren't we obligated to compel the girls to take part in something larger than themselves & thus recognize that a greater force is at work? (Illustrated exquisitely, for instance, when "doing the wave.") To be both humbled & uplifted in cheering - or booing - the cause of humanity? (Greatly facilitated by following the crowd cues flashing on the scoreboard.) Furthermore, as Phil Knight suggests, without a solid foundation in commercialism & springy shoes, could we really expect them to be adequately equipped for the game of life? (Sure, unless setting them up for failure as Nike goddesses is an acceptable option in your household.... Personally, I Just couldn't Do It.)

And, ultimately, how would our daughters ever achieve self-actualization - as in "find their centers" - if not through tuning in to ESPN's SportsCenter? Indeed, this universally acknowledged, inextricable link is clear not only to The Worldwide Leader in Sports, but was most incontrovertibly & resoundingly recognized by the Queen of Soul herself, Mz. Aretha Franklin, in that globally-renowned, empowering feminist rerererefrain: "R-E-S-P-E-C-T, soccer it to me!"

See Part 4 The World Cup: Madiba Magic Champions at Last!

The World Cup: United We Play

2010-06-26T11:18:44Z

The World Cup series: Part 2 of 4
(See Part 1 The World Cup: Get Up, Stand Up!)

Back in Texas, the humble, state-funded university had already adopted & even moved beyond the Sullivan Principles without any help from hardball political operatives like me. Akin to the magnetic inclusiveness of my public high school, the diversity of students and campus culture promoted natural connections, an environment where all ethnicities, races, religions & classes belonged. Which was certainly a relief. For it allowed everyone to focus on the really big, world issues. And funnel their energies into what's most important. Uh huh, that's right, talkin' bout Kickin' It Ol' Skool!

That's where Chris - a guy who made a persuasive political yet somewhat controversial fashion statement by wearing his $5 'Free Nelson Mandela' ANC t-shirt a minimum of twice weekly - made his pitch. He proudly played for "Agony of De Feet," an intramural team composed of mates from such exotic lands as Lebanon, Syria, Egypt, Nigeria, Greece, Iran, Cambodia, Mexico, Ghana and California. In the heralded semifinals, this left-leaning right winger earned acclaim by scoring the go-ahead goal on a penalty kick, his cleat striking a glancing blow to the ~~ball~~ ground which sent the opposing goalie leaping into the air for a desperate save as earthshaking tremors (aka, 'incidental contact') propelled the ball's torpid-o charge into the net. Another of his citywide clubs, "Albion," was predominantly made up of Brits, a few Scots and a couple of Irish blokes whose brilliant strategizing (when the refs weren't looking) expedited the squad's phoenix rise from 4th division dregs to 1st division victors in only 4 seasons. It, too, was a culturally broadening experience, especially when they'd invite him to partake in postgame draughts at the Richmond Arms pub. There, after discreetly requesting that he please put away his checkerboard, they'd commiserate over what aled 'em by ordering another round of pints, plus a second bottle of Crush pineapple sodapop for their favorite rookie sidekick.

Once forfeits due to injury exceed the number of actual matches played, it's time to quit. So how swell is it that the World Cup was so accommodating, showing up in our very own backyard just in time for Chris' ankles' retirement party in 1994? The first round-of-16 match, pitting Sweden against Saudi Arabia, proved rather uneventful despite the 3-1 result & those swingin' Swedes' much-anticipated raucous scoring celebrations (e.g., firm handshakes, kindly pats on the back, mischievous hair mussing... Buncha Viking punks). Yet, for us, just being there & sharing in the World Cup communal spirit was a no header. For instance, we gladly paid $20 to discover the 4-wheeling capacity of our Honda Accord when coming to an abrupt, final resting (parking) place mid-wye in our tracks due to all those partially dugout railroad ties crisscrossing the officially sanctioned dirt lot; waited out a thunderstorm in the Dallas zoo's Wilds of Africa aviary (conspicuously absent of football fanatics, who must have been going incognito); and learned why Texas-sized, ten gallon baseball hats never caught on with soccer players. Overall, it served very nicely as a warm-up friendly for Game 2.

Which Chris felt certain would be "the one," Brazil vs. Holland in the quarterfinals. The first half was classic, riveting soccer, a purist footballer's delight: After 45 minutes, still 0-0! Wholly unadulterated by scoring, the definition of "Fantastic!" Thus, given those fraught-with-suspense circumstances, Chris' Whirled Cup Spilleth Over Incident in the 43rd minute was perfectly understandable. Not that he didn't immediately "Beg pardon!" once he noticed the Coca-Cola cascading onto the fellow's head and frothing in foamy profusion under his collar. Plus offer assistance by fastidiously dabbing at the chap's furrowed brow & magnanimously presenting the now-empty souvenir cup to him by way of making conciliatory amends. Momentarily, it seemed, the day wouldn't be a complete loss in terms of real, interactive soccer spectacle! However, the guy was obviously not a legit football aficionado, for no requisite brawl ensued, but merely a miffed & international-mayhem-averting "No worries." Honestly, this WC experience was proving to be quite a let down.

Of course, during halftime, lesser fans found themselves fearing that Brazil was Dunga for. Or perhaps musing, in an offsided sorta way, Wherefore art thou, Romário? But no doubt due to head coach ~~Carlos Parreira's~~ Tom Landry's pep talk in the Cotton Boll locker room, Romário came out striking, then proud papa Bebeto rocked the joint, and finally a buckin' Branco embraced his inner Texan, delivering a free KIKKer for the win! In celebratory cacophony, everybody simultaneously struck up their belongings -- drums, horns, fifes, tom-toms, kazoos, cowbells, bongos, accordions + bagpipes -- and morphed into anaconda-like oneness to exit the stadium singing "Olé, Olé, Olé, Olé, Brasil, Brasil!" Afterwards, no one admitted they'd rooted for Holland's Lost Boys (sadly, Tink, it's 'cuz they dwell in Never Netherlands).

Turned out, this 5-goals-all-coming-in-the-second-half match was considered "the game of the tournament" (even by those who didn't realize we were there) and led the way to an unprecedented 4th World Cup title for the Seleção!

See Part 3 The World Cup: Soccer It to Me

The World Cup: Get Up, Stand Up!

2010-06-24T01:12:27Z

The World Cup series: Part 1 of 4

"Get Up, Stand Up!"

Only one professor glanced over long enough to reveal her slanted smile. The rest of the faculty filed past in velveteen caps & satin hooded gowns without acknowledging anything, save their tams' golden, dangling tassels tickling against their tightly clenched lips.

"Stand Up For Your Rights!"

For today's dignified procession was honoring the university regents' annual meeting, a staid rite of passage to uphold the trustees' traditional rights to forever withhold the passage of time at this small, private, liberal arts college in the east...

"Don't Give Up The Fight!"

Lining just half of the short sidewalk leading to the assembly hall, ours was a paltry protest, a smattering of undergraduate rabble-rousers futilely trying to infuse sixties-style enthusiasm into tired, decades-old chants: "What do we want?" DIVESTMENT! "When do we want it?" NOW! We held up hand-scrawled, slogan-filled signs to an audience of silent onlookers who mocked our sincerity from across the green. (Yup, nobody there at all besides some exasperatingly unresponsive trees, pruned to remain rigidly neutral & unperswayeded by the blowin' winds of change.)

"It's not all that glitters is gold; Half the story has never been told"

By the time our lil' dedicated core of agitators reconvened -- coincidentally enough, in the school's newspaper offices -- journalistic integrity rallied the cause with unbiased, factual reporting of glorious, indomitable dissidence. (Following a quick, unanimous decision to omit superfluous details, such as the one about an as-yet-unidentified sophomore who panicked and unplugged Bob Marley & Peter Tosh's First Amendment rights -- emanating from a ~~hifi~~ defiant 12" dual-cassette boombox -- mere moments before the college president's impending advance.) The editor-in-chief made the additionally daring decision to run "Out of South Africa" as the week's lead story, front page & topped with a photo taken at the precise angle to appear jam-packed with no less than 20 laudably heroic students, 18 of whom also happened to be news staffers.

"We sick an' tired of your ism-schism"

Cogent testimony to these overwhelming pressure tactics, the board members did, most likely, put the item on their agenda. Just long enough for it to be formally dismissed as irrelevant. Apartheid had no place here, in our harmoniously homogeneous community. Clearly, this was a black ~or~ white issue.

(Really, arguing with that type of logic is of no hues... sometimes it's simply a matter of Caucasian & effect.)

"You can fool some people sometimes, But you can't fool all the people all the time"

The finance committee could find absolutely no reason to alter course on their winning investment policies. Well, maybe with one exception... regarding accrued interest in a certain puny(tive), out-of-state investment. That's okay, at the end of freshman year, I packed up my scholarship & went home. Quite successfully divested, I might ~~add~~ subtract.

"Whoa yoi, whoa yoi, whoa yo, yo, yo, yoi!"

*For 18 of the 27 years he was imprisoned, Nelson Mandela lived in this cell on Robben Island. While there, he earned his Bachelor of Laws degree from the University of London & encouraged other inmates to pursue their studies. The jail guards, as well as those he inspired, referred to his cell block as "Mandela University."

See Part 2 The World Cup: United We Play

The Easter Pax Play: When in Doubt, Drop Back & Pun

2010-03-14T19:00:49Z

My grandmother never liked me much. At least that's what she told me.

That was okay. It was the one thing we had in common, the strongest proof of our familial bond: Mutual Disregard.

Mostly, it had to do with onions. They bring tears to your eyes, ya know. The onions, I mean. Well, and the grandmothers who insist on serving them up in every single dish at every single meal. Sliced, diced, sautéed or raw -- I'm afraid I put up a thoroughly leeky resistance. Predictably, she resented her granddaughter's rapscallion behavior, threatening to withhold dessert: "And it's your favorite - caramel!" So I fell for it once... fyi, caramelized onions are not the same thing.

Or could've been grammar. She would send back thank you notes or birthday greeting cards with my grammatical mistakes circled in red - yes, really. She was a former Latin teacher and upheld the stereotype with compunc(tua)tion. It was my earliest introduction to the deterrent power & effectiveness of the zero tolerance correctional system. Particularly, the syn tax.

But, as you might have suspected, her bitter disdain toward me was not limited merely to onions or handing down verdicts of punishing, diagrammed life sentences. In fact, it was bigger than the both of us, harking back to that historic North-South, Mason-Dixon great cultural divide. It began months before Grandmother was to arrive in Houston from her adopted home of Connecticut in order to supervise & cook us kids (oops, meant 'for us kids') while Mom partook in the ~~women's~~ moms' lib movement for two 'away' weeks during summer vacation...

On a sleepover at a friend's house, one of the moms I especially liked was waxing eloquent on the subject of manners. This evening's lecture was about the dignity, nay, the ultimate respectability conveyed by addressing all elders as 'sir' or 'ma'am.' Then she switched feet. As I watched her clippered toenails sail through the air in majestic arches before sinking into an oblivion of burnt orange (Hook 'em Horns!) shag carpeting, followed by a skillful application of maroon (Gig 'em, Ags!) nail polish & the meticulous positioning of delicate, silvery appliqués of stars, hearts + crosses, I contemplated this etiquette lesson. (Briefly, one of the brothers sauntered past in his 'casual attire,' creating a trifle disturbance in the flow of her stream-of-refined-distinction-consciousness: "Good Lord, go git some clothes on, bubs, we got company!" An admirable demonstration of ladylike grace under somewhat trying circumstances, it recalled & fortuitously exemplified last week's 'Thou Shalt Not Take the Lord's Name in Vain' session.) The righteousness of her divine message was undeniable. Right then & there, I converted. From that moment on, I went about freely dropping 'yes, sirs' or 'no, ma'ams' at will. It made me feel clean & good & extremely polite all over - verily, 'twas the Southern Baptists' answer to confession! In heretofore childish ignorance, I'd been operating under New England-bred WASPish constraints. This was a revelation. I was pretty sure it was the next best thing to being born again....

Well, ma'am, on her very next visit, Grandma put an end to that. "Cathleen, I am neither a 'ma'am' nor your "Grandma.' You may call me 'Grandmother.' Now go wash your hands for supper."

I caught myself just as I was about to ask, "Yes, ma'am, but don't you mean 'for dinner,' Grandma?" Instead, I complied with Grandmother's directive. And, whenever I again felt the need to achieve that fresh, clean feeling, I did what all virtuous Episcopalians do. I scrubbed with Dial antibacterial soap.
But, eventually, when I became an adult and Grandmother retired & moved back to reunite with her sisters in Nebraska, we discovered our shared, unabashed love for each other... Ok, to be accurate, make that my love for punning & her love for punditry. Close enough. She explained it to me later, "When you were little, you were just 'a good kid.' You always did everything your mother told you to do." Absolutely unforgivable! 'Nuff said. Yet she continued, "Then you finally starting speaking up... and your puns were better than mine." A greater admission of adoration she'd never uttered. She retreated to her room to recover, not to be seen again until she suddenly reappeared at 10:01 pm anxiously throwing on her windbreaker and urging us to take cover with her in the shower stall. Visions of Dorothy and being swept off to Oz spun through my head. Just before we realized that deafening tornado siren was the same testing of the advanced warning system that sounded nightly, 365 days of the year, at, yessiree, 10 pm. Methodically, she removed her jacket, hung it in the closet, and wished us a good night.

She even tolerated Chris, once he discovered that the best way to interact with his grandmaw-in-law was to rile her by debating etymology. Not that Chris has ever been an authority & he usually lost handily, a fact which made her persnickety, rancor-ravenous intellect appreciate him all the more. Several times a day, they'd dash over to the bookshelf to consult her gilded 1950's unabridged dictionary with its 500 to 5000-year-old word origin notations. (He wasn't permitted to touch it otherwise. Neither was anyone else. But, before Chris, no relative had the ~~audacity~~ ~~courage~~ slightest iota of inclination in that direction.)

Of course, bets were wagered. To everyone's dismay, one time Chris won. His prize: her much admired childhood pocketknife with its authentic, decoratively-carved, inlaid cow horn handle. Grandmother pretended not to care. So Chris would spend those long drives to the big town -- undertaken on the pretense that it boasted the best all-you-can-eat fried chicken buffet in the county (it did) (but, more importantly, it also had the county's biggest liquor store, allowing ample restocking options for the sisters' daily happy hours) -- pulling out his new acquisition to admire its fine workmanship & challenge Grandma to a game of mumblety-peg right there in the backseat. Duly baited, Grandmother would mumble some characteristically captious retort, forcing the frazzled chauffeur, racing over rollercoasters of sandhills in this vast farming country, to intervene, "All right, you two, settle down back there -- I'm trying not to plow into a combine here!" My great aunt riding shotgun in the passenger seat would sadly shake her head; the other unfortunate aunt sandwiched between them would dutifully confiscate the knife.

Quite often, we'd go on Platte river picnics. In a brilliant strategy designed solely to avoid odious odorous onion conflict, Chris and I would provide victuals. Grandmother didn't seem to mind, for she'd given up most cooking by then and genuinely embraced reprieve from such onerous tasks & the freed-up opportunity it afforded to focus on life's finer pastimes - namely, critiquing others' cooking. Such as, while observing Chris' attempt to cut open a watermelon one afternoon, "You city kids certainly are green when it comes to choosing ripe produce." Snapping the knife blade back into its authentic, decoratively-carved, inlaid cow horn casing, and then ceremoniously slipping the treasure back into his pocket, Chris replied, "Aww, no need to thank us, Grandma. Just let me know when I can slice up another piece fer ya!"

No matter where else in the world Chris & I visited, those annual trips to Nebraska were the favorites of our pre-kid travels. But, invariably, after depleting typical old lady talk -- like discussing the weather, or the potential of Tom Osborne's latest recruiting class, or the sweetness of this year's corn crop, or the nuances of Blackshirt defensive formations, or how Chuck Hagel was the right kind of Republican ('cuz he was the only one Left) -- their attention would turn to children. And it's easy to guess the gist of those hints, no? That's right, they couldn't stand babies! Enormously grateful that part of their lives was done & didn't possess the patience to deal with youngins now & what vexation 'n tribulation they wrought, o my!

Therefore, expecting cool politeness and an inevitable distancing of our relations -- far exceeding the 1,000 concrete highway miles already separating us -- to coincide with the news that I was expecting, we were completely unprepared for Grandmother's reaction. First, there was her admonition that I should hold & cuddle our newborn constantly. She regretfully reflected that she'd been a poor mother, believing the child-rearing experts' advice of her generation to let babies cry it out & limit affection in order to avoid spoiling them at all costs.

Then the phone calls began. Which, given her telephone-averse tendencies, were already extraordinary. However, on top of that, her nascent great-grand maternal devotion compelled her to withstand the tortures inflicted by our answering machine -- as we preferred to screen calls by initially letting Al Green, Bob Marley or Black Uhuru pick up for us. That really pushed her ~~buttons~~ rotary dial! But, for a chance to chat with the infant Mikaela, she endured. Stipulating sworn oaths that no tickling occur to produce such sounds, she listened while the newest 'just a good kid' & perpetually buoyant baby razzed, cooed and incessantly giggled through the receiver into her great grandmother's delighted ear. My tech-savvy (had a computer) grand aunt received our regular email updates, which they read aloud at happy hours, laughing over Mikaela's antics while downing highball spritzers and schnapps.

Ever practical, Grandmother & her siblings had long ago disavowed any desire for presents, even on Christmas and Easter. "We have enough. Don't want anything. Don't need anything. Can't abide the thought of having more things to look after," they insisted. Thus launched a new tradition. We sent the only item still in constant demand, requiring minimal dusting & flexible storage options:
Gifted Conundrums. Their ~~intrinsic humor~~ ~~amusing allusions~~ relative demerits were debated among the 3 sisters in intimate speakeasies of contentious contentment. Those that made the final cut were then prominently featured at the Kensington Society Club's cold salads & casseroles holiday luncheon.

Since we indoctrinate 'em early 'round here, M&K joined in the fun as soon as they were able to meet the high level of punning standards set by our family. Yup, right around 18 months of age or so... Honestly, though, it took them until approximately 2 1/2 to equal their folks' utmost erudite efforts. Not that we were tracking it. Well, alright, just casually. On their What To Expect hourly growth charts lining the halls. Fostering such a pressure-free environment is the key to inspiring creativity. (Plus, imho, witnessing your children's emerging precociousness so seamlessly converge with their father's not-so-latent immaturity is truly one of the greatest joys in parenting... as any mom of a preschooler could confirm.)

"I'm glad we became friends, Cathy," Grandmother confided on our last visit together, "I like you." Which clearly was her subtle way of saying, "You're like me. I like that about you!" (It's true, definitely there are parts of her in me. But upon doing some further solecism searching, I must admit, they're fragmentary at best.) And then, overcome with such sentimentality, she added, "Oh, and you're OK, too, Chris."

After pausing a respectful minute or two to make certain that hadn't activated the tornado warning system again, I suggested, "Hey, wanna go to Dairy Freeze? I feel like having some onion rings."

"My treat!" ordered Grandmother, splurging for double scoops of soft serve choke(d up)cherry ice creams all around before managing to fully regain a proper sense of decorum.

*Easter Eggs Hint: In accordance with our stringently highbrow punning criteria, plays are only on "egg"- no "ex" - words. For instance, the ex-ample at right would be disallowed. Granted, it might suggest hilarity at 2 in the morning, but who could respect themselves if this cracked up them in the light of day?

Caution: Further scrolling will reveal all the answers!
(To the puns.)

Health Care Reform: An Easter Story

2010-03-01T12:00:22Z

It was Easter eve.

Katrianna, then five years old, announced that it was bedtime. She'd just completed a rapturous hopping-on-the-mattress performance of that Easter classic "So jump in bed and cover up your head 'cause the Easter Bunny comes tonight!" at a decibel level certain to scare off any bunnies within a 500 mile radius. Now she was desperate to turn out the lights & begin pretending to sleep.

Yet, as I tucked her in & kissed her goodnight, she asked,
"So Jesus had to die, right, so we could go to Heaven?"

"Yes," I answered.

But before I could elaborate, Mikaela added with dramatic import,
"Yeah, and because of the people who did that to Jesus..."

"Ohhh," said Katrianna, clutching her stuffed lemur a little tighter
while absorbing the implications. "You mean the doctors?"

"What doctors?"

"The doctors who were upset because they couldn't make any money with Jesus going around healing and curing everybody," explained Katrianna.

Obviously, Katrianna got a little mixed up on her impassioned play, didn't she?

Of course, it wasn't the doctors!

Nope, it was the insurance companies.

Note: My dad sold insurance for a living. Which led to his desire to impart to his children all that he'd gleaned from his hard-earned years of experience in the industry. So, what was that single golden nugget of wisdom? "Remember, kids, the surest way to throw away your money is to buy insurance policies!" Yep, rest insured, those health care reform school dropouts can be heelers.

Vancouver, Canada: Going North of Borderline

2010-02-23T12:00:29Z

"You's guys needing something, eh?"

The customs agent looked us over with that characteristically Canadian attitude of friendly suspicion.

Or maybe it was guarded alertness. Bordering on vigilant complacency? Hard to pinpoint precisely.

Anyhow, our behavior was positively suspect. So we'd gotten past the security clearance checkpoint, that proved nothing. No one else was out of their vehicles. No one else felt moved to pause for peace. Or dwell on the overarching commonality of our countries' half-sibling status. Or overtly take a shot at it.

We answered quite matter of factly, "No, thanks, just wanted to snap a photo here."

Well, that certainly raised a red flag! With a red maple leaf emblazoned upon it? Not to mention bumping the international threat level up to high alert.

But was it our fault that the immaculately manicured lawn stretching out so invitingly compelled such reckless abandon? Unencumbered by rules of diplomatic protocol or any obstacle that dared restrain us (in this case, it was a border of bloomin' petunias), we barely felt the chill of early morning dew drops soaking through our sneakers so intent were we on picking out a path which avoided stepping on muddy, aerating sod plugs laying in wait deceptively on the ground. We must have looked like clods. But if ever there was a grass-is-always-greener-on-the-other-side moment, this was ours!

We explained to him that every year we take a 1st day of school picture, complete with signature flag waving. Simply to prove that, although we are homeschoolers, we can wave flags & pledge our allegiance right along with the best of 'em. Yet we'd arrived unprepared for this symbolic monument to sibling arch rivalry. So M&K improvised & grabbed the homemade flags we just happened to have on display in our car's rear view window, even though they'd - the flags, I mean - become faded after months of spreading subversive messages & infiltrating the minds of gullible people throughout the west coast. (Irrefutably influencing the outcome of the 2008 presidential election, plus exerting enormous pressure on China's Tibet policy. Golly, and in such callous disregard of how it might hurt China's feelings?)

Dutifully satisfied with his inspection of our dubious intent, the shrewd investigator shook his head at such a pathetically fabricated borderlie & then methodically retraced his steps to the command control center (immigration booth), glancing back occasionally lest we make any sudden moves. Like, say, hopping back and forth across the imaginary borderline dividing our two superpower nations? Well, how else are we globeschoolers gonna claim to have visited Canada over 40 times, huh?

It must have been a slow day there on the border. But, then again, ya can't really blame him for wanting in on a peace of the action, can ya?

In anticipation of this 2008 venture to British Columbia, Mikaela & I studied Margaret Craven's novel I Heard the Owl Call My Name. But once there, as much as we'd hoped to see Keetah & Mark's hangouts in the remote setting of Vancouver Island, we decided to skip the pricey ferry fare + an expensive three day stay in the touristy capital city of Victoria, where visiting artist Emily Carr's house was the only nerdily worthwhile attraction. Ok, ok, so it's also because we're cheapskates -- but that fits with the winter sports theme, does it not? (Actually, and here I go bragging again, I'm a world-class short track cheapskating champ.)

Instead, we wanted to spend the time exploring the gold rush era "Wild Horse Trail" on the touted International Selkirk Loop, which runs through Washington state & Idaho before winding along Canada's Kootenay Bay. And then camp in the more pristine Pacific Northwest rainforest of British Columbia's interior. (Hey, Kokanee Glacier Provincial Park is a good 40 miles north of the border. That counts!) Indeed, we found the wilds there, but in the form of very large groups of twenty-something campers sharing one tent (& several bottles), blaring American rock music & setting off fireworks over the bay until 4 in the morning.

So the majority of our time was spent ~~skimming~~ skimping the surface in the mainland city of Vancouver. Instead of Victoria's famed Butchart Gardens with its $61.90 entry fee or Vancouver's own VanDusen Botanical Garden's family of four $22.75 deal, we romped through Queen Elizabeth Park, which, after an exhaustive in-quarry, we found to be delightful and absolutely free. (Got that sunken feeling at no charge!) And, instead of Capilano Suspension Bridge's $26.95 per adult & $15.65 per child admission bargain where you get to jostle hundreds of other tourists for the privilege of walking once across "Vancouver's Most Popular Attraction," we took a pass & opted for Lynn Canyon's free bridge in North Vancouver. Not only is it a full 10 meters higher than Capilano, but when the 256 feet of suspension got too intense, there was no pressure. Having it completely to ourselves allowed as much time as needed to chicken out repeatedly before finally closing our eyes & traversing "Clubbuddy Crossing," so dubbed by our hand-~~clasping~~ ~~gripping~~ wrenching daughters after their 15th successful attempt.
On the other side, a short hike to Twin Falls awaited, though the Canadians' love of chain link fences -- which we discovered well before all those 2010 Olympic cauldron viewers -- obscured much of its scenic appeal. (Ya know, the Olympic torch elected to do the very same thing a couple of years after us & made a pass above troubled budgeting waters by routing through Lynn Canyon, and not Capilano. Miserly flame!)

Stanley Park was also fun, with hiking trails throughout its 1,000 acres of firs, cedars & spruces, plus great cityscape views from the Pacific seawall path. We watched float planes taking off & landing at Canada Place and proudly boasted that Houston's "Little India" trumps Vancouver's, at least in terms of that all-important veggie samosa test. (Though the vegan cooks at Richmond's Buddhist Temple all-you-can-eat lunch buffet might silently disagree.)

However, at the edge of UBC, our college campus touring streak was sadly broken. Due to the girls' fears of inadvertently spying a streaker, fresh off the university's own nude beach, flashing past. And Chinatown wasn't exactly the enriching experience we'd hoped for either, although the kiddos did get to gawk out the car windows and get quite a good look at an authentic Chinese apothecary shop as we circled the block 3 times. It was more like drive-by cultural immersion. We wanted to stop, but - despite some exposure to Seattle and downtown Portland's homeless problems - Gastown's overflowing & vocal presence filled all available parking spaces caddy corner to Chinatown and caused that proverbial putting of pedal to the metal.

Which led to our favorite trip in all of British Columbia -- a drive along the Sea to Sky Highway. As Katrianna noted in her travel log, there were "Lovely views of the Coast range meeting the sea. It has waterfalls, lakes & hills meeting the ocean all together in one." Due to the ongoing road construction in preparation for Olympian traffic jams, stopping at the overlooks wasn't allowed but its views of Howe Sound's fjord were as pretty as the travel reviewers promised.

So we arrived at our final Sea to Sky destination whistlering a happy tune. Whistler, site of the 2010 Olympic skiing events, was at that time a sleepy little village. Really sleepy. Apparently it was nap time for all the frustrated snowboarding teenagers who lounged on bus stop benches or atop decorative flagstone walls while anxiously awaiting the season's first snowfall. Occasionally, they'd rouse themselves to perform skateboarding tricks across stairway railings & attempt death-defying jumps over strategically placed Adirondack chairs borrowed from hotel cafes. All before settling back down under a tastefully trimmed hedgerow to catch some z's. Well, truthfully, that's when demonstrations of their even more elaborate smokin' skills began. And, dude, before we realized it, it was 4:20 - imagine that - and certainly high time for us to cut out.

As soon as we walked into Whistler's 2010 Olympic visitor center, we could tell that their welcome committee, in the form of a solitary greeter, was indeed prepped in the spirit of the winter games. Normally it's sorta part of the job-volunteer description that these folks are extra friendly. But this fellow was, appropriately, the polar opposite: he was an arctic blast of icy cold Freezie. We could have wisely let it go. But it was either find my entertainment with him or go back out to the snowboarders, so he got another try. Giving him the benefit of the doubt that he'd simply mistaken us for naïve skiing novices (when the truth of it is that we're actually freestyling know-nothing moguls), I faked it. I mentioned some pertinent Whistler Mountain trivia that I'd read just the night before and then merely alluged to the fact that we might like to visit the nearby Sliding Centre venue to see the progress they were making on the sledding track. Ha, lured him in alright! And then spent the next 25 minutes nodding, concurring and listening intently to the intricacies of bobsled strategy & track construction. It was all downhill after that. But at least I showed him not to judge American tourists quite so hastily, didn't I?

Not that we globeschoolers weren't glad for these experiences. Whenever a Whistler-related news story appeared afterwards, we got to reflect and think 'Skookum, and we were there!" But, luckily, not on the very day that gondola tower fell smack-dab in the middle of the Village. Thank goodness, nothing was smashed. Well, except maybe for some potted plants...

But I blame the US. And the American invasion of British Columbia during the Vietnam War. When all of their tiny towns' populations swelled with our very own homegrown conscientious objectors. Of course, that was a long time ago, during the throes of the peace movement and amidst a recognized moral quagmire, so we really can't judge them for their (in)actions then... But is it really okay that they're still there conscientiously objecting to this day? For, in this, the new millennium, it seems their primary objection is to moving beyond 1968. And that goes for their cars, too.
Or at least conscientiously removing their rusted out automobile frames from the driveways. Or front yards. Or streets. Or green public open spaces. It's kinda like Woodstock meets Carhenge, only with ancient school buses, VW campers & a stray Pontiac Bonneville or two.

Yet this gross generalization is perhaps unfair. And overlooks many of their second & third generation blond-dreadlocked progeny boldly practicing civil disobedient defiance at the local Walmart. No, these youngsters, as they roam barefooted down the aisles munching on Cheezies & looking to replenish their tie-dye supplies, are not protesting against a corporation's renowned socially unconscious stance. It strikes much further than that, to the very core of liberty & freedom of individual expression: they rage against The Man's "No Shirts, No Shoes, No Service" dictate. Yep, the fight the power vibe in Squamish is not for the squeamish.

Lastly, to provide a completely unbiased view of our journey, we prepared a little audiovisual montage. What follows is an exacting duplication, a verifiably authentic recreation of the sounds & sights one encounters when traveling into the depths of British Columbia. So please imagine, if you will, that you've just crossed the US-Canadian border. And there you are, at first hearing the familiar crackle of radio static & then desperately rotating that dial to discover:

OK, to be fair, that video is not really representative of Canadian radio.* Cuz not once did we hear their native singers Paul Anka, Neil Young or kd lang... in fact, there was one dire point when Bryan Adams might even have been welcome. Instead, suffice it to say that something downright magical happens as soon as you reach within 100 yards of the Canuck border -- all AM/FM frequencies disappear. And you're left with 3 options: Depression period folk fiddling, counting down the top 40 evangelical sermons of 1957 with Casey 'Billy Graham' Kasem, or Hindi music.

Of course, the choice is obvious. An unexpected opportunity to practice my jammin' Bollywood dance moves with side-shaking head bobs & open-palmed quarter turns?! That's right, a highly recommended way to pass the time while waiting in endless border customs queues, we had our own lil' Holi right there in the car. Frankly, I don't think anyone would've blamed them if they had waved us straight on through, but they didn't. (Bet they felt sari afterwards, eh?) Eventually, it got to the point we looked forward to forays into Canada solely for its superb stereophonic selection of big Indian musical numbers.

*Yeah, yeah, it's not nice to insult our Canadian neighbors' music. Or totally ignore that Los Angeles' 1984 Closing Ceremonies headlined Lionel Richie singing All Night Long in a sequin & polyester pant ensemble. Which then led to his infamous Dancing on the Ceiling debacle in '86 -- where he disregarded the gravity of a consequent fall from R&B soulful grace. Now, as far as I'm concerned, The Commodores & their horn section could do no wrong, but what was Lionel thinking going solow like that? Sure, Peter Ueberroth, you were the first commissioner in modern times to turn a profit on the Olympic Games, but, honestly, at what cost?

On Your Mark, Get Set, GOld! to the Olympic Training Center

2010-02-09T00:21:58Z

"Wanna wrastle?"

M&K's smiles froze. Ever so slowly, they turned around to face their grinning challenger.

"Umm, no... umm, thank you."

The captain of the US Women's Wrestling Team laughed and trotted back to the mats. After watching them toss one another about for a bit longer, we all huddled up to share a few pointers on holds & [over]hear the coach's pep talk. It had been a good workout, several of the prospects had done well, but the others shouldn't be too thrown off by this try-out session for the Olympic training squad and better keep at it. Remember, ladies, eliminations next week!

And, to think, just like that, our girls had passed up an open invitation to be Olympians!

Well, ya can lead 'em to the ring, but ya can't pin 'em down for the count, I guess. [Just throwin' in a little ~~towel~~ advice there.] In my never-ending quest to ~~brainwash~~ ~~muscle~~ encourage the girls to experience the joys of athletics, we'd entered the Colorado Springs Olympic Training Center.

OH NO!

Oh yes! The very place where Apolo Ohno trained before winning gold & silver medals in 2002 and then returned to for its monastic, distraction-free appeal to get ready for the 2006 Olympics, in which he earned another gold & 2 bronzes. (This time around, for Vancouver 2010, Apolo & the other American short track skaters prepped in the newer Olympic facilities at Park City, UT. That's where the other guy who won 5 winter games medals - all golds - has been Heiden out. Now as a Stanford M.D. graduate + orthopedic surgeon + team physician for the US speed skating team. But only after first pursuing a road race cycling career & setting up America's premier pro bike team & competing in the Tour de France. Poor underachieving Eric, if only he could've done something with all that potential. Bet he has a Placid bedside manner, though.)

Our tour of the former military base turned Olympic training facility continued. We strolled through the students' study room, crammed with computers situated next to air hockey tables wedged between vending machines, further confirmation that we homeschoolers are well on our way to attaining Olympic glory (uncanny, for it's exactly the kind of scholar-athlete nurturing environment we'd created in the kids' playroom back home).

We also saw some weightlifters - that took a load off. And then it was on to the men's gymnastics facility where our tour group was warned to NOT step on the specialized springy floor, as demonstrated repeatedly by the enticingly bouncy tour guide. Sure nuff, when he turned his back and we were to file out, two apparently non-English-speaking German tourists leaped in pliés, grand jetés & arabesques across its padded expanse in order to film a short rhythmic gymnastics routine with their camera phone. The guide was not amused. Neither were we. At best, their performance only earned a 6.5.

But before we judges could confer &/or accept bribes under the table from corporations & foreign entities (I know, how gauche, quite passé ... but understand this was before the US Supreme Court ruled that sort of thing is perfectly acceptable... since they're staunchly transparent... about allegiances, you know. Ehh, scruples, who needs 'em?), the escorted portion of our tour abruptly concluded & we were set adrift.

Back outdoors & on our own, we blended right in with the elite athletes & reveled in the Olympic atmosphere. We fogged up the glass wall windows outside of their cafeteria while they ate lunch, coolly nodded when several of the more flexible fellas dexterously avoided our attempts to rub shoulders, and generally intimidated everybody by sprinting new, astounding PRs. Admittedly, we went a little off track by dropping our batons on 50% of the handoffs - as everyone knows, you'll never make the US relay team that way. Not until ya can get that up to at least 70%, right? (Sorry, but c'mon USA Track & Field, what was that in 2008? Time to get it in lane & start splitting seconds again!)

Suddenly, Katrianna exclaimed, "He's here!" She'd spotted the one, the most exciting of all those we'd encountered thus far, decked out in a sleek, breathable, all weather shell, a patriotic red & shimmering designer jersey that even Ralph Lauren would envy. It was the fulfillment of her ultimate dream right there in Colorado Springs Olympic Training Center: she was touched by a ladybug! The festive frenzy was contagious. Finally, spontaneously, the competitive flame ignited in both of our daughters: "Gimme! My turn! N'uh, it's my turn!" Until, inevitably, he flew off as fast as Greeced lightning, promising to reappear 4 years later. And with that ceremonial pomp, our games were brought to a subdued and humbling close.

But it kinda worked. At least the girls agreed to try ice skating after that trip. And, by about the 12th visit to the rink, Katrianna even declared, "Hey, look at me! I'm the next Michael Phelps!!" (OK, so she used a mixed metaphor there... but whaddya expect from a jock, huh?) She zipped around in dizzying laps, blazing quite a trail of thin ice as she visualized victory in Vancouver!

Of course, 2010 won't be her year. They have age minimums, ya know, so the old folks don't get humiliated by some junior phenom... so she's adjusted & set her sights on eventual Olympic gold. And it seems she very well might have a shot! 'Cuz I did a little research. They have absolutely no rules disqualifying the use of those -- excuse the technical term -- "pushy things." And, not to brag, but she really is a speed demon behind them! Meanwhile, I'm passing the time by working on nicknames... how d'ya like the sound of 'Ice Scorcher'?

Just so you know, by the 17th visit, Katrianna did successfully circumnavigate the ice rink solo, without aid of any pushy things (well, except Mom's urging). Yet, in a demonstration strangely counter to Newtonian physical laws of motion, the absence of its resistance actually slowed her down considerably... Currently, she is awaiting patent approval on her more aerodynamic pushy thing redesign. Coming at cha in 2014, Apolo Ohno!

Before approving this blog post on mom's Olympian efforts to tap into the girls' innate athleticism, my proofreader-editor-daughter Mikaela suggested, "You know, Mom, Ralph Waldo Emerson said, 'In skating over thin ice, our safety is in our speed.' Don't you think it would help a lot if you fit that in here somewhere?" Gee, how very sporting of her. See, she is a proven ~~medal~~ ~~mettle~~ meddle contender!

Valentine's Day for the Young at Heart

2010-02-01T12:01:00Z

I've never been a big fan of perfume. Or jewelry. Or cut flowers. Nope, on Valentine's Day no need for those symbols of romance. Unless there's some dirt attached. And roots. And how-to care instructions. After all, should love be allowed to wither & dry up like a bunch of thorny roses in 7-10 days?

Or should love, like a rare & exotic specimen (found at Home Depot's nursery center), be transplanted and nurtured to grow. And flourish. And, given at least the minimum amount of required sunlight exposure, spread. So that eventually it can fulfill its destiny. And become an invasive species....

Yep, it was with some relief that we had kids. And could return to celebrating a pressure-free Valentine's Day the way it's meant to be: Sweet. Creative. Poetic. Filled with love stories. Yet, sometimes heartbreaking. Even puzzling. Or full of cross words. And, quite often, cutting.

With scissors, that is. For snappily ~~sniping~~ snipping construction paper hearts in homemade valentines. Made out to relatives, playmates & their very bestest buddies, ie Jane (Goodall), Ben (Franklin), Ozma (of Oz) & Zoboomafoo (of Madagascar).

Originally, it started with a fella who was all heart(s), my grandmother's handiwork, saved & passed down to the girls. I wasn't too fond of him, but Mikaela was smitten. So together we came up with new versions, adapted to fit our particular family's peculiarities: We love each other, true. But we -- work at home/school at home/stay at homers -- also bug each other, no denyin' it. Obviously, we're a family of LoveBugs!

Ahh, the enigma that is love. How confusing. With multiple, elusive variables. And seemingly endless unsolvable problems? Sounds like MATH! So M&K became matchmakers, pairing up brokenhearted equations. Some were real, to reinforce subtraction or multiplication practice, yet others were more algebraic & abstract, for instance OX/X = O (hugkiss divided by kiss = hug) or Mom = Super Cool (huh, too easy?). In addition, we played the usual weekly arithmetic games, but with sweet tarts as the tokens of our affections, plus the spoils of victorious conquest. When we really wanted to strike at the heart of the matter, our coordinated strategic attack was to rally the troops by playing Valentine Battleship with heart stickers as targets. The girls put their whole hearts into making puzzles of all kinds, out of stray pieces of cardboard as well as pre-jigged varieties, and incised increasingly intricate labyrinths of love (masterfully minute mazes). And, for our math club's Valentine's Day party, we rearranged tangram hearts & then figured out their irregular-shaped areas. (Now if that doesn't ~~combat~~ affirm stereotypes about the exciting world of homeschooling socialization, don't know what will...) Finally, to introduce the idealistic youngsters to that all important lesson that love is a gamble, we dealt them ~~life's~~ their hands & taught them to toss out their Hearts with abandon while making it a point (ten, actually) to protect the diamonds in the rough & ignore the others ('cuz they're all cards).
But equations - even learning them by heart - wasn't enough. One must also be well versed in the language of love. So we started -- as do most of the world's great thinkers, recognized philosophers & gurus d'amour -- with conversation hearts. First, M&K composed unique messages, such as My Sweet Jabberwocky, U R Spooky, Hug a Turkey, Got Heart? Next, they picked 5 random candies to use in a short story. Katrianna's was about two lovers (an orange & a banana) who are trapped in a chilling ivory tower (fridge) & must escape in order to achieve their shared burning desire (hiking the entire Continental Divide trail in one sultry summer).

Traditionally, every February 14th we recite a selection of loveworthy poetry, perhaps Linus' favorite How Do I Love Thee? by Elizabeth Barrett Browning or that more oft quoted (well, only by Chris) My Cheeseburger, originally performed by the gourd-eous Mr. Lunt of VeggieTales fame. Then we write our own. For example, a couple of years ago the result was Mikaela's poem about an oatmeal canister's unrequited love for a shapely bottle of vanilla extract:

In the pantry, on the shelf,
Sat - and sighed - an oatmeal jar;
It loved the vanilla with all its heart
And so it wished upon a star.

Though the door was fastened shut,
The oatmeal wished so much, so loud,
That the mango heard and laughed so much
He attracted quite a crowd.

The vanilla sat on the cupboard shelf
In oblivion to all;
The oatmeal wished and wished in vain
All for his sweetheart tall.

The vanilla was a container large
As was the oatmeal, too,
But the vanilla knew not of the oatmeal jar
Whose heartbreak grew and grew.

The oatmeal languished in the dark
And pined the whole day through;
Yet of her lover, sighing so,
The vanilla never knew.

When the flax moved in, with flaxen curls,
The oatmeal smiled, and shook, and gasped;
Though the vanilla remained on the cupboard shelf,
It was now a thing of the past.

Of course, soon it became clear that our daughters needed to gain some historical perspective on love. And its tormenting capabilities. Ya know, the general, pervasive misery it's inspired throughout the ages? (Oh, sure, and the joy, too.) So they read books about Saint Valentine and the Romans' Lupercalia festivals and the quaint courting customs of America's pioneers. Mikaela even created a crossword puzzle to honor the holiday in her newspaper.

Down
2. It is sometimes used to trim paper hearts
3. A type of candy with messages written on it
5. Venus' son
6. The Greek goddess of love
7. Another word for embrace
8. Roman festival where boys meet girls
9. These can be pink, white or red
11. You pucker your lips to do this
12. Lovebirds

Across
1. A gift that is an expression of love
3. Feb 14 was named for _____ Valentine
4. Heart-shaped boxes of _____
5. Another word for dating
10. This _____ symbolizes endless love

We also had heart to heart talks about Greek mythology. Taking heart (notes) & learning about love's hospitality through Baucis & Philemon, the dangers of idolatry from Pygmalion & Galatea, and the woes of Romeo and Juliet's precursors, Pyramus & Thisbe. Echo & Narcissus urged reflection on vanity's futility and we admired Daphne's ability to remain chaste while being chased, though her ultimate fate seemed unnecessarily treesonous. But primarily we were intrigued by Cupid & Psyche, eager to see what happens when 'Heart' & 'Soul' unite!     O my, whatever occurs?! Not much, not after their mother-in-law gets in the way. (Hey, this isn't coming from me. I'm merely repeating what that ol' scholar-woman Edith Hamilton said. About Aphrodite, Cupid's mom. If literature teaches us anything, it's that it would be wrong to apply these universal truths to all situations, right? Grossly eros-neous, imho.)

But most importantly for our little red-haired girls, the majority of their Valentine's Days are spent with Charlie Brown. As in Be My Valentine, Charlie Brown & You're in Love, Charlie Brown & It's Your First Kiss, Charlie Brown. Or, for a radical change of pace, Snoopy's Getting Married. These toons cut straight to their hearts sparkying more elaborate paper~~cuts~~ cutting ventures, as well as "Love Is..." sentence completion exercises based on Schulz' Happiness Is... series. A sampling of their efforts: LOVE IS... snuggling your gorilla, cinnamon toasts, sharing a full box of crayons, an evening without baths, a good book, an Indian summer day with caroling birds, a Shipley's chocolate iced doughnut with extra nuts, a hard challenge, and...

Jam-In Valentine Butter Cookies
3/4 c softened butter
1/2 c white sugar
1 egg yolk
1 tsp vanilla
1 3/4 c all-purpose flour

Roll dough into 1" balls. Place 2 inches apart on ungreased cookie sheet. Flatten & shape into hearts with raised edges. Fill with ¼ tsp fruit preserves. Bake at 375 for 8-10 minutes, until golden brown on bottom. If desired, sprinkle with powdered sugar after cooling. Makes 2 dozen.

Lastly, for parents - or should I simply say "those currently experiencing a post-Romanticism era"? - Valentine's Day offers the perfect excuse to expose your children to love's loftiest heights. In the form of 24 consecutive hours of mushy Motown love song classics by Marvin Gaye, Al Green, Stevie & Smokey. And don't forget those maudlin Temptations, the Supreme sentimentalists or the cheesy Chi-Lites. What about the saccharine Spinners, the gushing Commodores, the 4 tottering Tops, and Earth Wind & Fire's global heartwarming (or has that been dissed proven lately?)... Wait a minute, sorry, there's nothing special here. I already make our kids listen to this stuff monthly. Ok, weekly. Ok, ok, daily. But it doesn't seem to exalt Love irrationally. Instead, M&K perceive Love to be omnipresent, yet somewhat analogous to background noise. Now that's putting love in its proper place...     with the mute button just out of reach.

CROSSWORD ANSWERS
DOWN: 2.lace 3.sweetheart 5.Cupid 6.Aphrodite 7.hug 8.Lupercalia 9.roses 11.kiss 12.doves ACROSS: 1.valentine 3.Saint 4.chocolate 5.courtship 10.loveknot
M's poem, drawings & crossword puzzle are used here with her grudging permission & retain her copyright. Or else.

To Everything There Is A Cézanne

2010-01-19T15:51:49Z

In France's Aix-en-Provence, nicknamed "The City of 1,000 Fountains," we tirelessly sought out their celebrated symbols of overflowing abundance & watery romance. And, after wandering 5 kilometers or so along the Cours Mirabeau, with labeled brochure in hand, we saw approximately 12 of them. Four of which worked. Or, anyhow, held water.

Yet & still, Aix did add to our fonts of knowledge - in the abstract form of spontaneous math exercises: Kids, what's the probability we'll see actual cascading droplets at the next one? "Mom, that's not a fair question," they figured. "Do trickles count?" "What about algae buildup?"

But what we were really there for was Paul Cézanne. This was his hometown. His artsy, if brick paved & congested, turf. We saw the houses where he lived. Or visited. Or probably stopped in front of. Or even might have painted, had he ever felt like it. It was moving, all right... and just like Cézanna ho!, we were anxious to move out & into the surrounding Pays d'Aix to see the natural places that inspired him instead.

So we stopped at the city's L'Office de Tourisme, the sure way to save time & get the definitive answer to our pressing query which no internet site or guidebook seemed to know:    Where is Cézanne's studio?

"A little ways down Cours Mirabeau," they informed us.

1 kilometer? 2? 3?

They nodded agreeably, "Oui."

Yet, after a couple of hours & the disturbing disappearance of those shiny Cézanne route symbols along the promenade, we astutely surmised "A little ways" required more than a stroll.

We slogged back to the car, drove out of the old city & stopped at the outlying regional welcome center. Again we asked,   Where is Cézanne's studio?

"A little ways down Cours Mirabeau," they explained.

1 kilometer? 2? 3?

They nodded agreeably, "Oui."

So on we went, several more kilometers until the dense ville gave way to a last building on the outskirts of the suburbs. Ah, this must be it! After reversing & finding a parking spot about a half mile back, plus dodging oncoming traffic because apparently we'd also discovered Shel Silverstein's Where the Sidewalk Ends, we triumphantly walked in. To a hospital clinic.

How Rue-d.

But, for the Lauves of Paul, we wouldn't give up! (We're so studio-us.)

And, indeed, we eventually determined that they'd been right. It was a little ways back down Cours Mirabeau. Then turn right onto Boulevard Carnot, turn a slight left onto Cours Saint-Louis, hang another left onto Boulevard Aristide Briand, turn right onto Avenue Pasteur, U-turn onto Avenue Paul Cézanne and "Oui," there you are, a little ways down Cours Mirabeau. "C'est simple, non?"

Grateful to have finally arrived, we were only mildly disconcerted by the fact that there was no parking lot. Or that when Chris ran inside to ask, the staff directed us to the back of an apartment complex where we were, no exaggeration, greeted by an old woman tossing dirty water out of a second floor window (aha! more of those famous fountains?), a man in a soiled undershirt emerging from a rusty car resting upon two very flat tires and a premium, if unmarked, spot reserved especially for L'Atelier Cézanne customers, wedged between a dumpster & piles of broken glass.

We'll take it!

We then excitedly picked our way through littered shrubbery to dash across the highway & through the studio's gate just in the nick of time, deftly avoiding the rumbling trucks that sped around the curve and were about the only vehicles heading out of town down this otherwise empty road. Well now, this was excitement!

Once inside the yard's thick walls, we casually paused. Yes, to try to sense Cézanne, the Master's, presence. And/or to catch our breath while thoughtfully reconsidering the standing (loitering) offer of those friendly 10 year old security guards who'd circled round to attentively watch our car. No doubt well versed in foreign tourists' language barriers, they didn't bother to ask, but willingly accepted the self-appointed job as they'd been outside finishing off their cigarette stubs anyway.

Ambling down the extremely well trod dirt paths of the garden, Katrianna was enchanted by its shady turns & twists & hide 'n seek possibilities. She delightfully darted behind brambles, trees, low stone walls, a tool shed, mounds of squishy mud, piles of exposed pvc piping, several extra large clay vases and a few forgotten & discarded crackedpots of various shapes and sizes (and nationalities) strewn about the garden. All waiting impatiently, like us, for timed admittance into the house.

Buuutttt it wasn't fair, 'cuz we were there first! Followed by two pairs of straggling couples & some nerdy art lovers. We all bought tickets for the next entry. And then a busload of a tour group descended. Assuming that we weren't fluent speakers -- not exactly erroneously, btw, although a few tense (past perfect) moments don't necessarily preclude one's ability to comprehend others who can speak French well enough -- the tour leader conferred with the admissions' director who agreed to let the whole bunch, sans reservations, go ahead of the rest of us. She then explained to us that this was unavoidable since they'd scheduled their tour far in advance, "comprenez-vous?" Before retreating to the outdoor patio to continue a much more satisfying conversation française with Cézanne's cat, I thought 'En principe, oui, je comprends, bien sûr!' but elected not to say anything lest I garble a vowel & thereby risk losing her respect.

We'd experienced this sort of group mentality in Europe before and would again (and again). The interests of the many consistently outweigh recognizing the value or desires of individuals. Admittedly, theirs is nearly the antithesis of that stereotypically selfish American mindset. You know, like the American practice of allowing a person with 3 or 4 items to skip ahead of those with full carts in line at the grocery store... or stopping at an intersection to let someone make a left turn against heavy traffic. Quite often, we actually choose to inconvenience the majority, if necessary, to pay common courtesy to the few. (Yeah, yeah, I realize those are pretty trivial examples... but, evidently, what we Yanks might construe to be "grand gestures," like, say, lending a hand during WWI and II, don't really count all that much.) Thank goodness there are still places left in the world that don't cater to such blatant preferential treatment.

Moreover, I'm obligated to add, it wasn't fare either. Especially for us. At many tourist sites throughout Europe, we discovered that Americans have to pay a different, higher price of admission. We arrive on their welcoming shores with no European Union citizen benefit &, as they say, pay the price. Of course, we learned -- thanks to that additional thirty minute wait which provided plenty of time to peruse the tourist offices' informational pamphlets -- that Cézanne's studio wouldn't even be there if Americans - two guys & the 114 donors they recruited - hadn't saved it in 1952, restored it and then donated it to the Université d'Aix-Marseille. Shouldn't that entitle us to some sort of discount? Or at least make ~~them~~ us pause before giving us them the Aix next time??

So, in the spirit of international cooperation, I'd like to propose that when people from the EU visit our Smithsonian Institution, for instance, which has always been free to all Americans & the rest of the world, too, we begin checking passports and assessing Europeans a reasonable 10 euros per room (600 sq ft) surcharge, generously applying the going rate at l'Atelier Cézanne. By my calculations, that would make a regular priced EU-exclusive-privileges-only ticket to see the National Air and Space Museum a very fair €5570 (or $7947 after converting for today's exchange rate of 1.4268, variable customary service fee not included). This equitable policy aligns nicely with their disdain for greedy capitalism & fits snugly into a socialist redistribution of wealth system, plus could very well be the US' answer to eliminating our national debt. (Remember, the Smithsonian alone has 19 museums!) Oh, and they'd be let in promptly, as soon as everyone else, as a group, was done.

Meanwhile, back at Lauves studio, both the brochures & our esteemed directeur predicted the time to 'take it all in' when we ultimately ascended that stairway to art heaven: 30 minutes. They were absolutely correct, once you divide that number by 10. Three minutes & we were done. We lingered another 6 or 7, so as not to appear unappreciative, but fyi, for itinerary planning purposes, it's safe to allocate 5 minutes, give or take 30 seconds.

For what it's worth, the rest of our Route de Cézanne tour was très magnifique! Not only was it essentially free, minus several liters of gazole, it was blissfully empty of crowds & tourists. And was scenic, relaxing & fun. It seemed we'd gotten all of the hard times out of the way: A time to get lost, our time it did cost, a time to get had, a time to feel sad... plus all of those "Turn, Turn, Turn" refrains that just about drove me -- not to mention the car's gearshift -- crazy (ok, so perhaps I had a bit of an Aix to grind back there).

But now we were left with only the good times to be had in the rolling Pays d'Aix & could finally appreciate the unencumbered beauty of the fall-ing for Cézanne. Now there was a time for cordial chatting with Le Tholonet's mill-turned-art gallery curators and a time to pause at the crossroads of Beaurecueil, a time for exploring up & around Mt. Sainte-Victoire and ample time to easily locate his other favorite painting haunts. Mostly, there was time to absorb the sights of the pines' deep green needles stretching into the sky's cloudy blues, contrasting in sunlight-refracted rectangles with the meadows' oranges & the rocky reds. All within view of his beloved mountain, which he described, with each painting of its changeable nature, as the expression & illustration of his own soul. Enfin, we'd caught up with Cézanne's spirit & Victoire was ours!

Can We Speak Franklin: Where Have Ya Ben All My Life?

2010-01-14T22:09:16Z

January 17th is my son-in-law's birthday. He'll be 304. Oh, that's right, you probably didn't know about our son-in-law... OK, ok, ex son-in-law.

Actually, it was Mikaela's second marriage.

Her first relationship lasted only a few months, a steal-your-heart-away, whirlwind romance with a wild fella by the name of Tigger. The nuptials were surprisingly staid, infused with ceremonial pomp, striped of oozing sentimentality. Yet, soon enough, Mikaela would learn that old lovers' lesson the hard way: An affair with just another pretty face can't sustain itself forever. Sure, even if he makes you laugh...

It wasn't long before she sought truer substance (& less fluff). Someone with standing, as opposed to bouncing. A Frank kinda gent who you could build a real ~~future~~ past with...

And that's when she met Ben. Eventually, they'd go their separate ways, but, oh my, it was something to behold while it lasted!

The initial attraction was typical: she was drawn to his senior letterman [book] jacket. She fell fast for his rags-to-riches story, in its accessible, easy-to-get-to-know-you, abridged autobiographical style. Here was a guy who wasn't afraid to communicate, plus his doing so in 240 pages allowed her to boast she'd read him like a book in only a week. Thus, they'd formed a hard-binding commitment - for who can resist someone who sets you up to achieve a new personal best?

After that, she began seeing him constantly. And she wanted it to be exclusive, willingly dropping friends or dates if they (playgroup) threatened to interfere. So much so that Chris & I discussed limiting their time together to just 30 minutes a day. Precisely from 4:00 to 4:30, because, after all, PBS' strict curfew also had to be taken into consideration. As far as Mikaela's loyalist devotion was concerned, it was Give me "Liberty's Kids" or give me "But I'll die if I have to miss a single episode!" Of course, we encouraged her to see other shows... as if there was a remote chance that it was within our control.

So, once again, we watched a rerun: Mikaela walked down the aisle (hallway) to the chapel (playroom) to vow eternal love until death do they part (?). As ~~you~~ Mikaela might imagine, it seemed a match made in Heaven. Her dad & I tried to be receptive to her wishes and set the right tone... Whosoever has just cause that this occasion should not be joined in music, click now or forever hold your peace:

Regrettably, only later did it occur to me -- I should have hired a professional armonica band!

It's with sincerest compunction that I admit it now, but at first we parents were skeptical. We predicted the numerous potential problems that life would bring this unConventional couple, yet their united Constitutions were resilient in the face of such adversity. For instance, we reasoned, her young man had quite a reputation. Was she aware of his previous activities, like when he was 18 (-th century) and quite the lightning rod about town?
Yes, yes, she countered, he'd told her every electrifying detail (excerpt what the Kids' Classics editors left out to make room for illustrations), &, besides, she wasn't naïve. She'd read the other tail-all accounts penned by his hangers-on, like Amos (that rat), or poor, pithy Richard Saunders (who notoriously suffered from an Almaniackal complex). Moreover, if she gave us a piece of her opinion, we would Do good to Silence our Mrs. reservations! (Ben suggested we could Master them Posthaste if we followed his General example -- he had such a humble way of stamping out mailstroms.)

And, as it turned out, those two crazy kids were right! Theirs was a remarkably productive partnership. Certainly he was inventive and, with time, his Franklin Institute-ion proved that he was an experiment that would last. He was a brilliant mathematician (further confirmation he was a total square, magical as he was in our daughter's eyes) who prompted Mikaela to accelerate the pace in memorizing the multiplication tables, thereby raising her expectations for a happy future -- as well as her math grades -- exponentially. (Finally, evidence he's not a D-ist?*) True, we did discover that he was a player, but his Morals of Chess merely entreatised us to make the next strategic, and simultaneously altruistic, move.

Indeed, he was the ideal checkmate for our girl. Following his example, she acquired a requisite "little book" to chart her progress (nifty graphing practice) & then allotted one week per virtue in her quest to expeditiously attain moral perfection. But, as the weeks wore on, she tired of it, experiencing such easy mastery over them all -- "child's play," I think she called it -- that she felt no need to continue past week 12. (Really, who orders a Baker's dozen of virtues anyway?)

THE VIRTUES OF BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

1. TEMPERANCE. Eat not to dullness; drink not to elevation.
2. SILENCE. Speak not but what may benefit others or yourself; avoid trifling conversation.
3. ORDER. Let all your things have their places; let each part of your business have its time.
4. RESOLUTION. Resolve to perform what you ought; perform without fail what you resolve.
5. FRUGALITY. Make no expense but to do good to others or yourself; i.e., waste nothing.
6. INDUSTRY. Lose no time; be always employ'd in something useful; cut off all unnecessary actions.
7. SINCERITY. Use no hurtful deceit; think innocently and justly, and, if you speak, speak accordingly.
8. JUSTICE. Wrong none by doing injuries, or omitting the benefits that are your duty.
9. MODERATION. Avoid extreams; forbear resenting injuries so much as you think they deserve.
10. CLEANLINESS. Tolerate no uncleanliness in body, cloaths, or habitation.
11. TRANQUILLITY. Be not disturbed at trifles, or at accidents common or unavoidable.
12. CHASTITY. Rarely use venery but for health or offspring, never to dulness, weakness, or
the injury of your own or another's peace or reputation.
13. HUMILITY. Imitate Jesus and Socrates.

But their most prolific collaborative effort was the stuff of legends (which they thoroughly investigated & only then reported in their newspapers). His Pennsylvania Gazette was the journalistic inspiration for her Texas Gazette. Further, he served as her opinions' column editor and certainly provided as much valuable input in that capacity as do most advisory committee board members. (What'choo talkin' 'bout, Michael Moore?) So, she began building her publishing empire -- as a community service, you understand -- which soon led to her wanting to scope (scoop?) out the competition. A field trip was arranged to tour a small, local paper where she compared typing wpm speed with the owner-managing editor, took turns interviewing & being interviewed by staff reporters, and laid out - as straightforwardly as she could - headlines on the copyeditor's light table. (Unfortunately, Ben was unavoidably 'otherwise indisposed' on that particular day, but he went with her, as they say, in spirit.)

Yet then love accomplished the impossible! It was Ben, alive & in person! (And, if I may be permitted to acknowledge, their supportive mother-in-law had a lot to do with it.) Leafing through a Houston Kids' magazine, it was as if an arrow struck. For what was on the agenda February 14th? Hold onto your heart, it was a lovely surprise rendezvous at the Museum of Printing History! I'm still not sure why Ben Franklin made an advertised appearance on that particular day... not that a print museum isn't the first place most people think of for romance. And back then, it seemed, he'd be Imprinted on her forever...

But, alas, rekindling
an old flame, even
with a candlemaker's son,
can be wicked. There came a day -- right after that Valentine's Day, actually -- when she told us that she'd simply outgrown him.

So we no longer celebrate the Printer's birthday in the old (Goudy?) style. Not after she threw Benny over for Robin Hood, anyhow. The attraction of an older man - roughly 400 years that young whippersnapper's elder - and a British accent was too much for her to resist...

*Some recent biographers have purposefully mischaracterized Franklin, both historically and intellectually. His family attended the most liberal Puritan church in Boston, Old South Church, home to many rebellious spirits who later led the American Revolution. As a young man, he advocated Deism & throughout his life stated that "the most acceptable service of God was the doing good to man." Although even he took some liberties with his autobiographical image, it's inaccurate to rewrite history to fit a religious agenda (I mean, that ain't Right). Franklin, like the majority of Americans today, held that belief in God, virtue & patriotism are inalienable rights for all Americans, Left for each of us to value & express in a "liberty of conscience." Now that's a founding, Father!

Answering The Call of The Wild: Jack London & Wolf House

2010-01-06T16:37:26Z

From The Call of The Wild's chapter 6, "For The Love of Man" ~

"Now, MUSH!"

Thornton's command cracked out like a pistol shot. Buck threw himself forward, tightening the traces with a jarring lunge. His whole body was gathered compactly together in the tremendous effort, the muscles writhing and knotting like live things under the silky fur. His great chest was low to the ground, his head forward and down, while his feet were flying like mad, the claws scarring the hard-packed snow in parallel grooves. The sled swayed and trembled, half-started forward. One of his feet slipped, and one man groaned aloud. The sled lurched ahead in what appeared a rapid succession of jerks, though it never really came to a dead stop again... half an inch ... an inch... two inches... The jerks perceptibly diminished; as the sled gained momentum, he caught them up, till it was moving steadily along.

Men gasped and began to breathe again, unaware that for a moment they had ceased to breathe. Thornton was running behind, encouraging Buck with short, cheery words. The distance had been measured off, and as he neared the pile of firewood which marked the end of the hundred yards, a cheer began to grow and grow, which burst into a roar as he passed the firewood and halted at command. Every man was tearing himself loose, even Matthewson. Hats and mittens were flying in the air. Men were shaking hands, it did not matter with whom, and bubbling over in a general incoherent babel.

But Thornton fell on his knees beside Buck. Head was against head, and he was shaking him back and forth. Those who hurried up heard him cursing Buck, and he cursed him long and fervently, and softly and lovingly.... Buck seized Thornton's hand in his teeth. Thornton shook him back and forth. As though animated by a common impulse, the onlookers drew back to a respectful distance; nor were they again indiscreet enough to interrupt.

But we were never the kind to let a little indiscretion stop us. "Whoo-Hoo! Buck did real good, right?!" cried Katrianna, relinquishing her grip on the dining table's edge & jumping from her chair to race about the living room in a fury of exhilaration. While pushing the table 3 feet back to the original position from which Katrianna had propelled it while listening to this last scene (her moving response to rising action), I had to agree. "Yep, Buck was fantastic! And Jack London's pretty amazing, too, isn't he?"

"Well," declared Mikaela, from where she stolidly sat, "he's no Louisa May Alcott!" But at least she was in the room when she said it.

Knowing that the girls wouldn't have the heart to embark upon manly man Jack London's writings on their own, for the first time in a very long time I was reading aloud to the kids (and to Chris). Just a few pages or a chapter at a time, usually when we were finishing up with lunch or dinner. In the last few days I'd even found the book waiting on the table for me, placed there by Katrianna, instead of the usual preceding groans from both girls.

Indeed, there had been progress since page 1 when Mikaela literally ran from the room. That was OK, she didn't have to listen, I told her, fully accepting of her literary discernment and autonomy. I read just loudly enough for her to hear from the hallway, yet softly enough that she didn't catch on it was intentional. Worked! She had to strain mightily to catch each word and, as soon as we stopped, would reappear so the rest of us might patiently endure her long-winded explanations of how superior Alcott's Eight Cousins is in every way. Finally, she saved herself the trip, sometimes even forgetting to grimace, and excused her presence by citing a desire to leisurely enjoy dessert... before summarily assessing London his just desserts. (Eh, her bite is worse than her bark?)

We were answering London's Call of the Wild for two reasons: 1) to expose the girls to a recognized classic in a "boy book" genre that I knew they'd otherwise try to Pass the Buck on, and 2) because we were then in California, not far from Jack London State Historic Park. That's right, I was plotting for an imminent visit to Wolf House -- cuz, ya know, The Buck Stops There.

And Jack's Ranch really was a Beaut! A mix of oaks, redwoods, meadows & vineyards, with pretty views all around. There were gardens growing the practical & experimental plants he cultivated, such as Luther Burbank's "spineless cactus," which never completely lost its spines, a thorny non-development for the evolving gentleman farmer (and his hungry cattle).... And thick groves of imported Australian eucalyptus saplings that he planned on harvesting to sell as pier pilings or hardwood lumber, an unforeseen technicality being that their wood was deemed "too soft" (poor JL, always barking up the wrong tree... actually, 81,000 of them... turned out to be a shady business at best... he couldn't hardly stand it). But he did manage to reap record-setting oat hay crops from the previously over farmed acreage, plus personally design palatial pigpens that enabled one man to feed 200 swine simultaneously, a feat that would understandably inflate any male ego. Hmm, he found success sowing his wild oats & going hog wild - guess those accomplishments speak for themselves...

In the House of Happy Walls, built by his "mate woman" (aka, second wife) after London's death & now a museum, we saw many of his papers & letters, photographs, boots and a grand piano roarin' with vintage '20s tunes thanks to a genuinely genial volunteer (no, his name wasn't Charles, but he was a ton of fun, plus had an easy speaking style, was ready to Lindy an ear & didn't make no flapper about our rather Raggedy foxtrot). Throughout the mansion were numerous souvenirs that he & Charmian had acquired on their South Seas sailing adventure, an around-the-world trip for which he'd allocated 7 years but ended after only 27 months due to health issues, a disappointment which made him sea-sick. (He'd always adored the ocean, even in his earliest days as a reputed "Prince of the Oyster Pirates" who, under fear of incarceration, suddenly morphed into a prodigal California State Fish Patrol deputy.) In the dining room, beside a long, narrow table with pine benches & chair seating, were the white china dishes that London acquired secondhand in Samoa, after learning that they had belonged to Robert Louis Stevenson during his stint on the islands. Artifacts were abundant, including statues displayed at nearly every turnon the wide staircases, featuring a recurring motif of the couple's entrusting to well-endowedments (?). Charmian's bedroom & bathroom also revealed a procleavity for noteworthy busts, such as those of Venus de Milo & Nefertiti.

After that, we were anxious to get some fresh (or perhaps less fresh) air & began a half mile hike to see the ruins of London's 15,000 square foot Wolf House. Moss-covered walls and deteriorating bricks are all that remain of his dream, creating an atmosphere very much like that at Tintern Abbey. Dampness, steeped in the towering Redwood trees, imbues a natural mist & mystique pervading the foundation of the gutted 4-story, 26-room, 9-fireplace structure with its once indoor, but now open-air, rainwater-harvesting swimming pool. Nearby, his gravesite, marked by a lichen-sprouting boulder & surrounded by a gray weathered picket fence, holds his & Charmian's ashes. Before leaving, M&K whispered their Secret Club password to them both, as they had to the spirits of Eugene O'Neill & Robert Louis Stevenson, two more authors with northern California connections who shared such an honor.

We walked back through the woods and past the London-made lake where he liked to swim & canoe with his many invited guests, that is when he wasn't too busy playing pranks on them. And then on to the cottage where he lived and wrote during his eleven years at Beauty Ranch. He couldn't afford to fulfill his promise to rebuild Wolf House after the fire (hard to believe, but he'd made just 750 bucks for Buck's tale spin), so he added a study annex on the groundskeeper's cottage where he'd first started out at Glen Ellen.

There, his sleeping porch was the most intriguing place of all, for it was where he spent his nights after staying up late with the company he kept (Charmian had her own bedroom) and where he woke early to complete his "profitable chore" writing allotment for the day.

Strung across the small, sun-drenched space was a thin wire dangling slips of paper clamped on with wooden clothespins -- his novel filing system for jotted phrases & story ideas -- the original post-it notes? Nearby was his study, adjoined by another nook filled with books, a gramophone & a typewriter, the space often used by Charmian while she typed + edited + added descriptive passages to his manuscripts (sorry, Mr. Whipple, it seems he couldn't help but squeeze the Charmian).

Which leads to a 3rd, unanticipated reason that Call of the Wild was such a special book for us: It spurred conversations and memories of our own family's wolf-dog. Though in appearance he resembled White Fang much more than Buck, we couldn't help but get taken in by London's (or Mrs. London's?) description. The story's violence and dogs' poor treatment are, as expected, very difficult to take. But since we'd already studied a lot of historical accounts about the Gold Rush & learned about London's own trip to the Yukon (where he got such a debilitating case of scurvy that the doctor forbade him from working his claim & promptly sent him home), the truthfulness and reality of the experience helped offset, a little anyway, the brutality and inhumane aspects. Yet, it was the portrayal of Buck & his transformation that got us -- his depiction is so well done and provides such comic relief at times. When Buck finally finds Thornton, his last, nice owner, London shows his stuff by perfectly capturing ~~the~~ our dog's character, playfulness, and pride & nearly redeems himself for all of his 'dhishoom - bhishoom' author sins. As a result, long after we'd finished the novel & trip to California, thanks to Jack London & much to M&K's delight, we continued the ritual of sharing stories about our lauded hero - in the form of a family dog - while finishing up dinner desserts.

There were a few other, lingering effects on the kids, as well. Three days after our visit to Jack London State Park, Katrianna lost her first front tooth. She hopped around clutching her tooth fairy pocket, filled with hopeful prospects of the "gold" she might discover under her pillow the next morning. And for two or three months, inspired by London's next dog adventure story, she proudly referred to herself as "No Fang."

And the following Christmas, Grandma gave the girls sweaters. A bright, multicolor, striped one with a hood for Katrianna, but a light gray-green, "old-fashioned, ladylike Louisa" cardigan was Mikaela's pick. The aspiring author then began waking very early in the morning, when it was still a bit chilly, to don her sweater & take pencil in hand to write 1,000 or so words before breakfast. Mere coincidence, certainly, that she settled on that number... For she'd never readily admit that Jack London could offer any good writing tips.

The Sound of Music to Our Ears: Get Thee to a Salzburg Nunnery!

2009-12-24T18:00:06Z

I never liked The Sound of Music. Not exactly sure why. But the opening scene with Maria singing about live hills & twirling around in a dress certainly didn't help any. What sort of dramatic action was that? Now, if Evel Knievel was jumping across some of those hills on a motorcycle, especially if there were some school buses set ablaze to add suspense (in lieu of an errant bonnet that needed retrieving), that might have been worth watching! Also, I couldn't see its connection to Christmas despite the fact that every year TV networks reran this never-ending movie during time-precious school holidays. There was nothing sacred about it. After all, it wasn't the Peanuts' Christmas special. Probably the crux of it was simple resentment. No doubt it was preempting a favorite primetime show which I counted on for continuity and moral guidance. Like, for instance, The Dukes of Hazzard.

Sorry to say, but when Maria sang, froid was what it left me.

But then I gave birth. To two girls. And, apparently, to a previously undisclosed yet infinite capacity for schmaltz, as well. In the early years, I rebuffed Chris' annual suggestion that we enjoy this "Greatest All-Time Family Film" with our little ones (for their sake, ya know, to avoid recurring night mères). Eventually, however, I agreed. For the purpose of exposing the kids to cultural literacy, thereby satisfying that core academic component for the homeschooling year. I figured 15 minutes tops would suffice. We settled down. And 2 hours + 54 minutes later, we got up.

To clear more floor space for M&K. Who were singing. And twirling. And Austrian folk dancing. Well, after first sprinting to the bedroom to change into their most billowy dresses, thereby enhancing those mandatory fru fru effects.

What a ridiculous movie! How contrived! Quite blatantly, unapologetically hokey! Why, it's a veritable medley of mush. My Favorite Things: Corny. Edelweiss: Patriotic propaganda. The Puppet Show: Herd it got your goat. And what about the cute, chubby-cheeked five year old scooting up the stairs while bidding us So Long, Farewell: Say Goodnight, Gretl! You've got to be kidding, who would succumb to that von Trapp?

Yep, it became our family's new, all-time favorite movie! As I dabbed my weepy eyes for the twentieth or so time that evening, Chris & I watched our spinning daughters in a revelry of perfectly goofy contentment. And only had the heart to declare it bedtime when Katrianna, imitating a leaping Liesl, came up a little short on her 16^th going on 17^th jump from the couch to the arm chair to the dining table....

The next morning found her still keyed up, kneeling at a mini electric piano playing the Do-Re-Mi-Me-Me scales by ear. M&K then spent the next several weeks in dual yodeling-guitar lessons with Dad, checking out every How To Waltz video from the library and performing elaborate puppet shows with several stuffed animals & one marionette that they'd previously ignored.

Compared to all that, our actual visit to Salzburg was pretty uneventful. In fact, I began to wonder if skipping the authentic Austrian Sound of Music guided tour, led & narrated by affable Australian expatriates, was a mistake. I'd seen the promotional videos, I knew what we were missing: It wasn't just the opportunity to enjoy an 8 hour bus ride in air-conditioned comfort. Nor the tourism superiority afforded by a tinted-glass advantage point 15 feet above the supposedly Smart cars. Neither was it the chance to chuckle at the Aussie's gentle comedic gibes aimed at tickling Midwestern American sensibilities. Fun! But what we were really missing most was the campy camaraderie of the sing-alongs. Where every single one of the fifty passengers broke into rounds of Climb Ev'ry Mountain, inhibitions be dammed, as they forded ev'ry stream to follow Maria's dream. (Not to be irReverent, but, oh Mother, that one really is irredeemable.)

We did our best to improvise on our own. Experiencing each sequential Sound of Musical setting elicited impromptu performances of How Do You Solve a Problem Like [Insert Choice of Family Member Name Here]? And, perhaps it's divulging too much, but Chris and I got a bit swoony beside Leopoldskroner Weiher, staring deeply into each other's eyes as we crooned, "And somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something wrong." Finally, when we longed to pay tribute to Dad by dedicating The Leder of the ~~Band~~ Hosen to him, accompanied by a suitable souvenir purchase on the Getreidegasse, he considered breaking up The Sarkar Family Singers in pursuit of a solo career.... It took an appeal to his greater sense of Schtoompah (Richard Scarry's "Funny Austrian") to suspender his indignant oompah. Will he never learn Das ist Jacke wie Lederhosen?

Lastly, one destination, though convent-ional, did prove especially memorable. Because we ended up trespassing (yes, again) while earnestly searching for a way to Get thee to a Nonnberg nunnery! Our first stop was the Maria Himmelfahrt Church, where we listened to the nuns chanting vespers. Honestly, they were out of sight, though their voices could be heard floating forth from the balcony on high. The chapel itself was empty, so M&K seized the wedding day, reenacting the marriage ceremony with Mikaela as the whistleblowing Captain and Katrianna playing a post-feminist Maria (sans wimple, yet demure).

Outside, as we wandered around the grounds trying to identify more Sound of Music-significant details, we found the gates open, the cloistered welcome mat seemingly beckoning us onwards. We were merely looking for the refectory, not being refractory. But just try telling that to the Head Nun, who rushed out to chastise us and replace the ORDAINED PERSONNEL ONLY sign to its rightful front & center order (it had been pushed aside... Nope, not by us - couldn't divine its meaning anyhow).

Yet what intrigued us most was that she'd been on the phone when we inadvertently glanced into her office. Surprisingly, it wasn't a cell phone, as one might expect at an abbey. But, a rotary dial, clunky receiver, crimson telephone with those lit up buttons. Similar to the Cold War red one at the White House -- and, rumor has it, at the Batcave? -- with its singular, blinking push-of-a-button omnipotence.

And then it occurred to me, who could she be talking to?

Whoa, did she have a direct connection, or what? But before I could ask for a turn, just to say a quick hello (can you imagine those long distance charges? then again, she must have the unlimited calling plan... think that includes free texting?), she sensibly shooed the barbarians back outside the gate (making short Stift of us). Truly, we hadn't meant to in-nun-date or upset her. And it really wasn't our fault, it's just a bad habit we'd gotten into.

So, anybody up for another showing of The Sound of Music? Albeit, I still contend it's not really a Christmas movie. Now that we have the dvd, we tend to watch it on Thanksgiving & Easter, too.

And just in case you're not one of the original 13.5 million world viewers, here's Belgium's take on The Sound of Music. Of course, we Americans aren't expected to have any discriminating taste... But what's their excuse?

Chaim Potok's The Chosen: Minding the Heart Brings Peace

2009-12-13T02:00:28Z

Jane Austen is Mikaela's favorite author. Well, unless she happens to be in the Middle of marching through a George Eliot novel... In fact, because of our pre-teen, who continues to find the gaping holes in my graduate school literary education, I'm cutting my wisdom teeth on The Mill and the Floss right now (actually, have been for the last 3 months). Her laughing repeatedly & for crying out loudly at Eliot's "the best sarcasm ever, Mom!" was humiliating. No, not because a young girl is devouring novels thirty years before I ever started them. That is mildly threatening. But not nearly as alarming as the thought that my acerbic wit preeminence might be usurped in my darling daughter's heart. By George, that Eliot is taking it too far.

Yet, every now and then, Mikaela humors me. And we read a novel together. Slowly. One or two chapters at a time, followed by an in-depth discussion where she asks me lots of questions. And then goes on to answer all of them herself.

Last month was my turn to pick, so I'd chosen The Chosen. It was a favorite book in junior high, introduced by an English teacher who tossed out the regular 7th grade textbook in favor of bombarding students with excellent 'young adult' novels, class periods spent debating the morality of characters' decisions, and weekly, intensive essay writing tests. (She could only do such an irresponsible thing because she planned to quit teaching after that year anyway. Between classes, we drilled with the 1,000 handwritten vocabulary flashcards she'd made for the upcoming GRE. That is, when she wasn't busy in an administrator's office receiving poor evaluations for her unacceptably slacker teaching methods.)

The Chosen is a wonderful and challenging book, with layers of meaning and an intensely nerdy appeal. It's about the joy of learning. It's about friendship. And it's about the arduous, often tedious, phases one must endure for the sake of both. But, it also has kids as its main characters, so, compared to Mikaela's usual fare, is accessible and at the "appropriate reading level" for her age. Moreover, I could actually contribute something to the discussions, further explaining the numerous detailed passages regarding Hasidism, orthodox practices and the subtle distinctions in various sects' beliefs.

But the most significant theme in the novel is the necessity that intellect be complemented by the soul. It is a powerful concept when reading the book and identifying with its teenage protagonists, both Reuven, who seems to have a natural inclination to empathy, and Danny, whose brilliant mind often hinders his emotional insights. But it is equally poignant when rereading it as a parent, with the added responsibility of guiding a ~~child~~ young woman to achieve - and yearn for - that balance.

After wrapping up our study of the novel, we happened onto this article in The New York Times: Yes, Miky, There Are Rabbis in Montana. It was a neat summation to our talks, as well as a reminder of how the history of Judaism comes into play in today's current events. The reporter prays upon readers' expectations in the post-9/11 era, toying with biases and perceived prejudice, both toward a Hasidic rabbi and the dogged police officer. The premise serves to provide contrast to commonly held preconceptions, by revealing a community in Billings that creatively fought intolerance, for example, as well as to set us up for his surprise ending.

Yet, it was not so very surprising to Mikaela. In part, this was due to our reading of The Chosen. But, its relevance went further, into homeschooling experiences that we never would have connected to the novel on our own.

We, too, had met a K-9 policeman and his dog. Back in 2004, Mikaela wrote about it in her own news article:

Her interview with Alpo came about by chance, on one of our many, many visits to the Houston Police Department's stables. At the time, our lil' National Velvet was in a typical, horse-crazy girl mode, memorizing everything equine, briefly taking riding lessons, and primarily devoting her energies to corralling her folks into weekly field trips to call on her HPD favorites (neigh, she loved them all). It soon evolved into a regular family outing, including a ritual first stop at a local Latino grocery for bags of carrots & apples for the horses and fritters & churros for us, followed by lazy afternoons spent watching & petting the horses. But, when we arrived early one morning instead, Alpo and his best friend were working out on a dog-sized obstacle course. In addition to learning all about K-9 duties, M&K's attentions turned to trying to coax Alpo into accepting a carrot and, with it, a vegetarian lifestyle.

More recently, we traveled to Bozeman and visited several small towns in Montana, including Libby, where we stopped for lunch. To our dismay, it perfectly fulfilled our every notion of the Wild West: As we stepped out of the (station)wagon, air thick with smoke & cinders stung our eyes... due to a wildfire raging on the ridge right above town! However, besides an occasional airplane pilot circling round to drop fire retardant, no one else seemed to notice. People were doing their grocery shopping, cracking jokes at the gas station or lingering over Subway sandwiches, with nary a glance at the looming orange flames. We city slickers got right back into the car & hurried on as fast as the 25 mph speed limit would allow to Glacier National Park, with a quick detour through its three gateway towns, one of which is Whitefish. Little did we realize then that being awed by Montana's scenery would also let us in on a sophisticated NY Times inside joke. (A rabbi, a cop and a German shepherd walk into a capitol building...)

None of these events were essential for understanding or appreciating The Chosen. And all happened independently of each other, with no foreseeable connections amongst them. But, one of the most exciting things about learning is seeing the relationships between what at first appear to be disparate things. And one of the greatest benefits of homeschooling is that it allows the time & opportunities to delve into topics of interest, engage in thoughtful conversations, build a one-reporter newspaper publishing empire, stroll around some quaint & heretofore obscure small town, or just pass the day horsing around. And, by doing such random things, find the connections between them. And, by doing that, see the connections to ourselves, as well.

My hope is that Mikaela has absorbed The Chosen's lesson that intellect must include compassion. It is a philosophy that applies to us as individuals, yet also necessarily extends to all levels of interaction. The conflicts facing the Middle East are just as complex and divisive now as they were when Chaim Potok described them sixty years ago. The need for an approach to the peace process which balances reason and compassion for both sides concerned, and the ultimate worthiness of engaging in talking rather than silence, would be well chosen.