Recently in Authors' Homes Category

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Done! Easy parenting coercion 101.

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

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

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

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




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




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

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





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

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

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

Today, President Obama met with British Prime Minister Gordon Brown. As much as I support and admire Obama, his glaring diplomatic misstep in the press conference afterwards was a bit embarrassing. And I quote BBC news, 

"Asked about their personal rapport, Mr Obama said they had 'spectacular wives and wonderful children in common'."

That's all fine and good, but I'm afraid Obama was merely showing his neophyte understanding of interpersonal and political dynamics by citing such a transparent and superficial connection. Proof? Well, when George W was asked about what he had learned after a crucial first meeting with Tony Blair, he was ready. Relying on all of his years of international experience and personal charisma, Dubya stunned the world with his incisive grasp of the relevant when he responded: "We both use Colgate toothpaste."

To his credit, however, Obama recovered somewhat when he noted: "Great Britain is one of our closest and strongest allies and there is a link and bond there that will not break."

To what bond is Obama referring? Some might think it's our common heritage under British rule. Or, perhaps, our shared preference for English muffins over a breakfast bagel. It could simply be the use of the English language (or a semblance thereof in the case of US leaders that make me wax nostalgic).  But, all true policy pundits immediately know what Obama was getting at. The real tie that binds us Americans to our British compatriots -in-spirit is one thing and one thing only: really bad jokes.

(Could it be that Bush was inadvertently and unwittingly more astute than we all realized?  I guess we'll just have to do like he says and "See what the history books decide." Oh, I can hardly wait.)

Obama clarified: "This notion that somehow there is any lessening of that special relationship is misguided... The relationship is not only special and strong but will only get stronger as time goes on." Gordon Brown concurred, stating, "I have come here to renew our special relationship for new times. It is a partnership of purpose born out of shared values."

They both went on to warn about the dangers of isolationism and the prosperity that is certain if we all refuse to "'project inwards' by encouraging protectionism." I wholeheartedly agree. If we cannot come together with our English cousins in fair and equal comedic commiseration, with an unfettered exchange of goods, services and puns in particular, how can we ever expect to find common ground on other, less significant issues like preventing world economic disaster? Let's learn from our past. It wasn't called the Great Depression for nothing.

I didn't really need this segueway to discuss bad British humor as a means of excusing my own. I admit I've been feeling sheepish and somewhat apologetic about my pun-laden prose since this blog's inception and have been mulling how to go about redeeming myself intellectually ...  But, just yesterday, I caught sight of this headline on BBC's front page news:

            Wheely bad: Thefts hit Paris bike scheme

With that, I feel absolutely no need to recuse myself from future blogging and the lofty heights to which I pun. Besides, even Shakespeare includes a healthy smattering of puns in his plays, so I figure I'm in good company. (True, his use of such undignified humor was an attempt to amuse and thereby quell the low-class, raucous urchins who occupied the pit of his Globe... But, then again, how is his writing so different from mine?   Now, if you keep reading, blame only yourself.) 

I am not asserting that England has any claim to superiority in comedy. For instance, despite calling myself an English major, I never ever could tolerate Monty Python marathons - any clever allusions in Holy Grail are unmercifully negated by chauvinistic slapstick that fully escapes my sensibilities. And, despite his eerie resemblance to my husband (at least according to several of my admiring/bewildered students), Mr Bean does little for my desires to relax heavy & punitive protectionist taxes on imported humor.

But, in terms of "the man on the street," in our travels thus far, we consistently find the grandest rapport with the gentlefolk we meet in Great Britain. (No slight intended to Joe Six-Pack, Main Street America, you betcha!) Sure, part of it is our common language, but it is also a shared willingness to use language for inclusion, nuance and a certain joie de vivre. (Mais oui, bien sûr, that is borrowed French...  but the French too often miss the point, so it's okay to appropriate their phrases. Besides, the girls and I actually speak French, but, in our months there, we enjoyed little in the way of repartee or outreach beyond our being repeatedly corrected on the pronunciation of Juuuuuules Verrrrrrrne. Quel dommage. Zut alors!)

Two examples of England's convivial conversationalism occurred in Dorchester. We'd gone there on a quest for Thomas Hardy, but then got sidetracked by King Tut. (Isn't that always the way?) We'd arrived a little later in the afternoon than we'd hoped, meaning we'd just missed the admission hours for Hardy's home tour, so we found ourselves with an unexpected Hardy hometown respite.





We strolled over to the Mayor of Casterbridge's house, took an obligatory photo while we tried unsuccessfully to recall the plot of said novel, & wandered around until we serendipitously entered the world-famous, two-roomed Dorchester Museum. (Travel tip: The exceedingly friendly receptionist talked us into purchasing the more economically-advantageous family annual membership, so that, in the likely event that we did not complete our perusal of their expansive collections, we could enjoy unlimited return visits.)














To my young Egyptologist's delight, the touring exhibit on display was that of actual replicas of King Tut objects, most of them in the ultra-realistic medium of wax (allowing us to skip a visit to Madame Tussaud's, so it was worth every pence). Lest you doubt the thrill of this experience, let me brag on and say that the ticket included an added sensory bonus - when we entered the makeshift tomb, it was exactly as it had been the moment Howard Carter broached it in 1922, down to the odiferous supplementary whiffs authentically discharged from a retrofitted Glade plug-in.  This diversion was not on our planned itinerary, but it was nonetheless edifying. Indeed, before that moment, I'd never known King Tut was a Hardy boy...






I know, there's no humor in that. I'm getting to the funny part now.












When reentering the light of day and 2007, we squinted and rubbed our eyes only to find ourselves amid festive preparations for the Queen's grand procession. Apparently, Dorchester is the only town in all of merry England still permitted to assemble a queen's volunteer militia.  We found a place among the waiting throng of Dorchester's multitudes, when my husband loudly quipped, "What are we all waiting for? A public hanging?" From the elderly gaggle of ladies next to us came: "Certainly, of Tony Blair." With that introduction, they graciously forgave us for being Texans, and we all immediately and with ease proceeded into a discussion of the merits of public beheadings and the foibles of the various King Georges on both sides of the Atlantic.  We were having a jolly old time, but weren't sure if they were just humoring us Yanks from o'er the pond, when we suddenly realized our amusement and delight was genuine and mutual. While we were passing the time in anxious anticipation of seeing one of the women's husbands marching by in his regiment, I'd glanced up just long enough to become disconcerted by a man passing us with a ridiculous, leering grin aimed right for me and my young daughters. I dismissed it, as our little group's hilarity and social protocol regained my attentions. It wasn't until we looked out onto any empty street that the woman realized the whole parade was finished and she'd forgotten to even notice her husband...  we quickly exchanged pleasantries and cheerios as she ran off to find him. It was only much later, when I got our pictures developed and again saw that scary old man so intent on catching our eye, that I realized I had seen her shining knight-at-arms after all.

After such excitement, we elected to pass that night in Dorchester and resign ourselves to a drive by (photo) shooting of Hardy's home at dawn.  I'd read in my handy guidebook that Max Gate, the name given Hardy's residence, was now a National Trust site, as well as a semi-private residence occupied by a couple who were esteemed members of the Thomas Hardy Society. Visiting days and hours where very limited, with tours seldom offered, and we'd missed our chance due to being so understandably caught up by the festive regalia and charms of Dorchester. Arriving that morning outside of the gated compound at the edge of town, and finding that its sign verily confirmed that we were not welcome until 3 days hence, Chris consoled himself by stealthily trespassing to snap a memento (we are Americans, after all). Fortuitously, in the garden, he tripped over the cord of the electric weedeater wielded masterfully by Sir Andrew, aka custodian of the estate.  We've all read enough Hardy and Dickinsonian English tales to know what happened next, have we not?  That's right. We were all invited in for tea and a spontaneous, gratuitous, private tour of Hardy's home. We flipped through pages in Hardy's personal photo albums as we were regaled with as much Hardy lore as we could heed.


Much to our surprise, we were told that Hardy was a sentimental man. He loved animals and had several pets. In fact, the caretaker continued, when a pet died he carved and engraved a tombstone for each of them with his own hands.  In particular, he recalled, Hardy had loved a cat named Snowball. But one day, tragically, Snowball had made his way over to the railroad tracks and was fatally struck. Hardy was devastated. My girls listened intently and nodded somberly. Oh, to be privy to such intimate details, we all felt privileged. He next insisted that we follow him outside and around the grounds to Hardy's pet cemetery, a quiet, shady grove scattered with a few small, stone markers. It was tranquil and humbling to stand there, where Hardy had taken such care of those dear to him. Our guide pointed out the names - a lap dog there, his wife's favorite collie here... Finally, he carefully directed our attention to a headstone which read "Here Lies Snow." And, a few feet over, "Here Lies Ball."  Only then, did he emit a hardy laugh at our expense.

As his wide smile displayed his gleaming white teeth which glistened in the English sunshine, it made me wonder, "Could it be he uses Colgate, too?"

How did it ever occur to us to study such a radical subject as gardening? It could not have anything to do with the fact that every single "What your child should learn" syllabus lists it as a mandatory science item for alternating years until graduate school (or the 5th grade, whichever comes first). Our approach to the subject was surely more original & organic than that...  

Katrianna was the one to push seed sprouting as part of her academic agenda this year. But, in the interest of full disclosure, please note: We do not claim to have invented the lima-bean-in-a-ziplock experiment. As far as I know, kids have been doing that one since around the time man first discovered fire. Only they used those other baggies, the old-fashioned kind, with the fold-in flaps. That's right, the kind we parents used to pack our pb&j in for summer camp, the ones made from the lining of goats' stomachs instead of the "zipper seal." But same idea. (Note to Homeschoolers: add this bit of trivia to your homemade world history timeline, charted on scrolling butcher paper, which winds its way around your dining room and down the hall.)  

Really, if you want to learn more about lima bean sprouting origins, just take the guided Lascaux cave tour in France. (Did you think they painted all the time?)

And, as much as I'd also like to claim Katrianna's gardening interest was an offshoot of my playing Audrey Hepburn and our touring around the Gardens of the World, that's just not so either. It was not the result of seeing Monet's Giverny, British Columbia's sunken gardens, Portland's famed roses, or even Stratford-Upon-Avon's very own "Shakespearean herb garden" (bet Shakespeare wished he'd thought to capitalize on that back in the 1600s - he might not have had to struggle with playwriting & instead could have turned his father's glove making business into a gardening glove making business, thereby assuring his future success).

No, none of those visits made my daughter green with envy. The real impetus for Katrianna's verdant desires was simply sibling jealousy (but I do claim quite a bit of credit for fostering that whenever possible). When looking through Mikaela's old portfolios last summer, Katrianna found her sister's original flowers & seeds section, completed when Mikaela was 5 and she was 2. Exactly what was the attraction? It wasn't the nifty construction paper seed parts with their movable flip-up features, or the labeled diagram worksheets, or the still life watercolor renditions à la Georgia O'Keefe, or even evidence of her sister's kindergarten attempts at flower-themed Wordsworthian sonnets. 

The pure motivational factor in this sudden passion for gardening was to acquire her own set of pages with seed packets & seed samples glued beside them. That's it. They were colorful, commercial, tactile, and as close as our family comes to displaying glitz & glamour.  And, most importantly to both girls, it was that subtle "I have something you don't have" quality, repeated in singsong delivery week after week, that made it a must-do school project.

Leading us back to Shakespeare, who captured the universality of this phenomenon when he penned that famous, so oft quoted line from Romeo and Juliet:

          Do you bite your green thumb at me, sir?     (Act I, scene i)

So, with that, we will Candide-ly continue to tend our own gardens...