Recently in France Category

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!

In honor of Claude Monet's birthday, based on a song first performed to wide acclaim by the O'Jays -- fine artists in their own right -- may we now present our rendition of "For the Love of Monet."

Uh huh, that's right --
                                    As everyone knows, Monet always souled out.

And, just for the record, we have plenty of water lily gardens in Texas, too:

     But, perhaps, they leave one with
     a slightly different impression?













Later, gator.

Fresh off the heels of a Bastille Day do-si-do, the next day was devoted to that even more universally understood, unquestionably patriotic and supremely worthwhile national pastime: waiting 7 to 10 hours queuing up in anxious anticipation of 7 to 10 minutes of spine-tingling, if blurred and/or obstructed, Le Tour de France excitement.

Mildly despondent over my girls' lack of athleticism or even feigned interest in traditional sports, I thought what better way to inspire them than for us to become part of the esprit de corps celebrating the quintessential triumph in the Wide World of Sports - man's conquering of mountains atop a bicyclette. It was disappointing that we wouldn't get to cheer on Lancelot "C'est moi" Armstrong and that the American presence, however loathed (or reluctantly lauded), was absent that year. But, at the same time, I was spared from having to explain those insidious daily headlines accusing LiveStrong of taking illegal supplements and, besides, my travel-size
75' x 125' Texas flag hadn't fit into my carry-on bag anyhow... So, early the next morning, we set off to find our place along the Stage 8 route between Le Grand-Bornand and Tignes.

After several false starts & time trials, we finally ended up at a sweet pâtisserie in the little town of Seez. No one was astir here, there were no signs of impending Le Tour like we'd passed in previous towns - RVs lining the sides of the road, women liberally sunning (all of) themselves in lounge chairs, Smart cars jamming into hardware store parking lots along the route, police cars circling in anticipation of the riots sure to erupt any second - all a vicious (bi)cycle that we were eager to avoid. At the bakery, in exchange for our convivially in treating ourselves to some tarts, the éclair-voyant women assured us that indeed the Tour was supposed to pass down Main Street (which doubled as the highway) and that they wouldn't mind if we parked our van there for the day (we try to avoid tortes - unless they are drizzled with chocolate - whenever possible... mostly, we stick to our just desserts).

Mere minutes later, we emerged to find numerous Tourists staking out spots alongside ours, their hatchbacks popped up, vast smorgasbords being assembled on car hoods. Tout de suite, two different groups offered to let us share their hastily constructed shade tarps and picnic bounty. Vraiment, we had found the festive spirit that had eluded us the day before - Tailgating!

Of course, we did what international protocol demands: We thought it quite odd, politely declined and hurried away. (Mais oui, it seems rude, but not only are we Texans, we're also vegetarians and we don't drink - Mon Dieu, we are a Frenchman's worst nightmare. In our experience, this is truly the least offensive way to proceed, lest one takes pleasure in being pummeled with a baguette. Ok, it's not fair to generalize - in Bavaria or Austria, make that a hearty German sausage instead.)

We spent the afternoon lingering - very uncharacteristically for us, common Americans who unabashedly eat & run - over a leisurely lunch in order to secure a table &, with it, a spot alongside the route. As expected, the meal served its purpose, keeping the girls occupied for quite some time as they debated the intricacies of how to fairly divvy up three forlorn whole olives wallowing in a scant amount of fromage on our "sans viande, s'il vous plaît" pizza. That fractious repast over, our attention turned to ordering another round of drinks and predicting just how long each beverage's single ice cube could valiantly resist melting. Would the sparkling Perrier's bubbly action increase or decrease the rate of dissolution in comparison to the Coca-Cola, which flatly refused its reputed effervescence?
 

Though these math & science lessons already exceeded what we normally consider a week's worth of homeschooling, we were in luck. Out of thin air, the Alpine sky opened up (actually, a random pre-peloton truck rumbled by) and tossed a newspaper for our complimentary perusal. So, we discussed European politics, scrutinized the latest in Parisian haute couture and practiced our flawless French (by translating the comics). Tireless (yep, still no sign of the bikes) overachievers, M&K then calculated the riders' cumulative elevation gains (pneu math) and began making up those time-honored word problems, such as "If Pepé Le Pew pedals east from Paris at 30 km per hour and Mickey Mouse comes cycling 'round the Space Mountain from the wild West (EuroDisney) at 70 km per hour, how long will it take..."

... Too easy, 0 seconds! For there he was, the leader of the Tour! Wait, it was hard to tell - was he a man or a mouse? But then, it was clear - to the Mickster go the spoils! Mickey was floating our way & tossing out coloring books. "Me! Me! Throw it to me, Mickey!" He whisk(er)ed right by us with nary a glance. Color me blue, what kind of Mickey Mouse outfit was this? M&K consoled themselves with the fact that, on principle, they never would have wanted a Mickey anything in the States and did their best to ignore the adults high-fiving across the street.


Although we knew about the peloton - the main group of riders, plus their entourage of cars loaded with extra bikes, news vans full of perilously clinging photographers & satellite vehicles transmitting intermittent tv signals - the caravan was a surprise. Long after the road was blocked off so team buses & logistical equipment could pass and the t-shirt vendors had come and gone, a grand procession of sponsors came parading through strewing free merchandise. Immediately, things took on a festive spirit, with folks vying to attract attention and catch prized items. Très gauche, but who wouldn't succumb to temptation with rewards so dear: sample size packages of laundry detergent, mini beer bottle key chains, sacks of pretzels, paper pizza fans, single-serving tea bags & Aquarel bottles thrown to replicate air-to-ground heat-seeking missiles. Granted, it's not as though they were as valuable as colored plastic beads... No, sorry, that's Mardi Gras - but it was much the same thing. Once, long ago in New Orleans, I found myself among the throngs jostling for those precious purple (or green or gold) pearls when, all of a sudden, I was grounded. I looked down to find a little boy with a pocketknife sawing at my shoelaces (intertwined with strings of beads) -- apparently, this was a much more lucrative approach for the under 4 feet tall set. Similarly, the Tour worked its magic - people jumping up & down, madly waving their arms about, generally behaving in ways for which they would necessarily need to repent. Oh là là, to live in the fast lane today, who would not willingly fast tomorrow?

With the capture of their first trinket, M&K were also hooked. Not long into their bountiful hunting, a driving Hotel Etap receptionist caught Katrianna's eye & a gentle, underhanded throw, along with an errant gust of wind, sent the gift skidding to her feet. Juggling other treasures, Katrianna failed to retrieve it immediately. Quel dommage, she who hesitates... With remarkable speed, a white-haired old man teetered over, deftly reached around her and grabbed the tantalizing gem! He quickly shuffled off to regain his original derrière position several yards away & carefully examined the hotel chain's logo emblazoned on its discounted key chain. Like taking Haribo bonbons from a baby, he slipped it into his pocket and then seemed content to let his wife collect the remaining loot. A difficult blow, Katrianna regained her composure after recognizing the bitter truth - this ain't no church-sponsored Easter egg hunt, this was the Big Leagues! Time to put away childish things & up her game. Had we not realized it before, we now fooly understood -- this was a world-class event.
 
Finally, the motorized recycling dumpster signaled the fin du fin de carnival. M&K happily bent over to admire their amassed good fortune when, to cap it off, the key chain culprit abruptly etapped Katrianna on the shoulder with the day's most esteemed giveaway - a polka-dotted cycling hat, the crème de la crème of Champion's (a grocery store chain)! Despite Katrianna's attempts at refusal, he insisted she accept his hat trick and left only after she'd finally granted him "Merci." Our hats off to him, he was rather a good chap-eau, after all.

And then, without further adieu, the real, live Tour de France raced by! In front of the first set of riders, we saw Michael Rasmussen, the man who would win the day's stage and, with that, don the yellow jersey for the remainder of the Tour. Amazingly, in this 15 minutes (make that seconds) of fame, we'd witnessed the most critical moment in the 2007 Tour de France! Le directeur sportif beaucoup modeste de Team Sarkar, I took a victory lap.

For the next 10 days, Rasmussen retained his lead & we reveled in the glory of being part of history every time updates came on the news. There was none of the chauvinistic divisiveness like when Lance was winning - in one afternoon, all nations had united in global camaraderie. Sports really were rewarding, the girls had to admit, as they played Crazy Eights with their Télé 7 card deck or passed many a pleasant hour deliberating the true identity of a bank's stuffed animal mascot dangling from yet another key chain: marmot, squirrel or chipmunk? The virtue of athletics was redeemed, though some of the lustre diminished slightly when the wheels literally fell off the little plastic axles on their little plastic Kleber car... (How deflating is that?)

We were even inspired to explore more destinations along Le Tour's hallowed ground, following in the bikers' stirrups. We visited the cycling-friendly towns of Le Bourg d'Oisans and Briançon. So encouraged were we by the red & white ALLEZ! messages spray painted on the roads, that it was almost possible to pretend we didn't see the cycling purists' cigarette butts or the many fans' scattered trash littering the Alps at every hairpin turn on the scenic Col de Galibier. Forevermore, we'd be able to watch future Tour coverage and fondly think back to these affirming experiences...

Then, four days from the favorite's ensured victory on the Champs-Élysées, we got one last French translation lesson. On its front page, the newspaper ran an unexpected obituary - the passing of Le Tourch -












Leaving behind grieving past winners (relatively speaking), the Tour de France died on Thursday, July 25, 2007,  'at the age of 104, after a long illness.' 













Rasmussen was kicked off his team and removed from the Tour due to drug allegations.
[Alberto Contador, now Lance's 2009 nemesis - and teammate - would go on to win.]

Duped again, we sure felt like dopes.

On July 4, 2007, we were in transit. Much to M&K's disappointment, we had to skip going on our annual patriotic picnic hike, listening to the symphony play John Philip Sousa tunes & watching fireworks from our usual, strategically-placed-blanket spot.
 
Not to worry. I assured the kids that missing the Fourth would soon seem less pitiable on July 14 when we would get to participate in France's Bastille Day activities and merriment. Every French teacher I'd ever had drilled it into our heads (it was perfectly tense) how superior and spectacular Bastille Day was in comparison to America's festivities. So, I suggested we rest up and Basteel ourselves for a rousing celebration de la Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité! (ou la Mort?)

It started off well enough with a hike through the mountains to the gnomadic alpine village of Valmorel for Corte D'Or ice creams. Its single strolling lane was lined with plenty of shops selling mementos decorated with Mickey Mouse or Hello Kitty, which was okay - we immediately understood that all trinkets are suitably French because, after all, they are called "souvenirs." Plus, the town square's morning program was full of endemic celebrations that likely could not be replicated anywhere else, such as displays of Balkan folk dancing against the idyllic backdrop of the French Alps.

But that's not all. There was also the nearby, larger town of Moûtiers which drew us with a promised "fête formidable with dancing in the streets, bien sûr." Turned out that its bustling avenues reminded us most of those found in Western ghost towns, as we aimlessly wandered across eerily quaint but abandoned bridges (bedecked with cascading flower baskets on the outside, and graffiti & litter - and, ever so momentarily, us - on the inside).

Eventually, we did find some townsfolk when we wandered into the seemingly empty Cathédrale Saint-Pierre of the Archdiocese of Chambéry. Yet, to our dismay, the devoutly dapper were not seated in attendance on the beautiful, heavy wooden pews fronting the gilded main altar or absorbing the delicate, multi-colored light filtering in through the church's windows. No, they were not in the side chapel either. Instead, Mass was taking place in what appeared to be a lean-to church annex - a low ceiling, windowless, wholly unadorned small room with folding chairs (similar to the set up in some start-up, strip center American churches). It was not due to heating or air conditioning concerns or for any other reason apparent to us, who sat in the airy main chapel in our blue jeans contentedly contemplating our faith... as well as the big, meaning-of-life questions that can only occur in the midst of centuries of organized religion's showy splendor, to which we concluded: 
Hey, if you're going to go to all the trouble of exacting tithes and exploiting medieval serf labor, you might as well get your money's worth - go ahead & live it up, take the plastic off the cathedral seat cushions & enjoy going gothic in the main chapel! Really, even many villages' "small" cathedrals are often awesome in the true (meaning, not George W's) sense of that word: the interior columns and arches are designed to make one automatically turn eyes upward to God, to put one's puniness in proper perspective & thereby inspire Heavenly thoughts, and, perhaps most importantly upon stained glass-reflection, to cause the humbled pilgrim to lay back in wonder just far enough so all the loose change spills from his pockets onto the floor (cha-ching! gotta fill those coffers somehow).
 
Undeterred, we set our sights on a night of feu d'artifice back at Valmorel's ski resort, its influx of party-seekers seeming to confirm it was "the spot" for a national bang-up gala. In reality, theirs was a modest fireworks display (some might term it a blasted bomb, pyrotechnically speaking). But Mikaela caught the spirit of the evening anyway & lit it up all the more by accompanying each explosion with graphic historical accounts of how the bourgeois' good intentions went somewhat astray. (Now isn't that just like homeschoolers? They really know how to completely ruin all the fun in a good, old-fashioned revolution!) 

Our revelry continued well into the enwee hours. In front of the fountain, a rock band played American covers and Katrianna verified its Americana authenticity by clapping her hands (over her ears & adamantly refusing to remove them - something she automatically does for similar music in the States). Finally, just as we were about to declare our Independence and go home, the dancing in the streets indeed began (actually, to be honest, it was square dancing) - of course, we joined in, all the while telling ourselves we think we can-can.

Overall, Bastille Day was an enlightening change of pace from our typical July 4ths in the U.S. We were happy to partake in all of the new cultural experiences France had to offer on this special occasion, despite the fact that there were none of the traditional amusements we'd originally expected - like frolicking games of Pin the Head on the Aristocrat (much anticipated by Mikaela), Storm the Prison & Free our Comrades sack races, or the undeniably thrilling, though life-threatening, Running of the Boules (probably for the best, as everyone knows boules fighting is justifiably frowned upon by PETA). Well, we globeschoolers continue to live & learn. Anyhow, as I recall (with a knitted brow, Madame?),
it was the best of times.

For most of my student years, I was not fond of history. Too many teachers had focused solely on dates & famous leaders and, in even the most challenging classes, tests were mere measures of meticulous memorization. The 'story' in history was lost, taken over by war generals, names of battles and what I suspected were some teachers' overwrought compensations for their own frustrated machismo. Even in college, I was bothered to find that friends, who seemed quite nice otherwise, were in fact history majors - what sort of deep seated psychological issues were they hiding? Who wanted to spend all their time delving into the gory details of madmen, power trips and world destruction? 

Well, I'd eventually discover, my kids did. But, tyranny was only a minor part of their enthusiastic attraction to history, so they ended up - in ways much more persuasive than any teacher I'd ever had - taking me in and showing me the excitement that could be had by studying history. In a way, their tabula rasa innocence allowed them to accept the past 'as is' and skip the moral judgments which made me categorize things as 'good' or dismiss them as 'bad.' More effectively than Shakespeare, they put the play-fulness into historical drama, bringing individuals' personalities, the fascinating interplay of flaws & virtues, back into the stories. Of course, we also end up learning "the lessons" - both academic and ethical - intrinsic to the events, but without our primary concern being the weapons used or detailed listings of physical wounds inflicted (and without the requirement to demonstrate ultimate subject mastery in the form of a unit chapter test).

When Mikaela wanted to learn about WWII in fourth grade, I initially practiced my usual evasive maneuvers & put it off, hoping she'd forget about it until she was "old enough to handle it." I'd taken a college course on Holocaust literature that was thought provoking, mostly depressing, yet sometimes uplifting, and I solemnly looked forward to the time - when she was in high school, maybe - that I would be able to share those books with her - Night, Schindler's List, Survival in Auschwitz, Judgment at Nuremberg, What's to Become of the Boy? But, there was no way I felt she was ready for that now... or seeing war footage...  or watching the compelling but brutal movies that even overwhelm adults... 


I couldn't figure out how to teach WWII to the under-10 year old set besides the pedantic "just the facts, ma'am" approach, so I did what any thoughtful parent or teacher would do in that situation: I stalled. But, it wasn't long before Mikaela started independently building her own reading list and surreptitiously checking out WWII books from the library. She'd easily defeated my curriculum-setting axis, so my next strategic move as a homeschooling mom was clear: I allied myself with her efforts and she immediately began teaching me and her sister.

Freed from my preconceptions or didactic objectives, I was soon able to find excellent, age-appropriate resources & made several suggestions, but mainly I relied on Mikaela's instincts. Some books she started and then stopped after a few pages or a couple of chapters because they were "too scary." And, although I very anxiously put aside my apprehensions about letting her read The Diary of a Young Girl with its abrupt, wrenching conclusion, in an outcome I couldn't have foreseen, she never reached the end. Stopping halfway through, she declared that Anne was "too boy crazy" for her to continue. Since she had read other accounts of Anne's fate (including letters by Anne's father) and I know she will one day reread and finish the diary, I found this temporary assessment rather telling - it was clear that she saw Anne as a full person, not just a symbol of war, and, ironically, that genuine identification made her realize (even inadvertently) that she would better understand Anne's situation when she was more mature herself. She put Anne Frank's diary back on the shelf "for the next time we study World War II, Mom."

In the time we devoted to WWII, Mikaela learned an enormous amount and taught me even more as we followed her student-led syllabus (recorded in my teacher's log):

HISTORY - JANUARY: WWII for Mikaela, brief overview for Katrianna (studying dinosaurs instead)

Create collage of WWII drawings & symbols for portfolio theme divider
NY Times The Complete Front Pages & NY Times Greatest Stories collections: read 'real time' newspaper articles leading up to war, during war & victory celebrations; discuss tone of war-time ads in paper; read current articles about Pearl Harbor 65 yr anniversary & google for more info
Read fiction & non-fiction books: One Eye Laughing, The Other Weeping: Julie Weiss (Dear America); Number the Stars; Lily's Crossing; Sadako & the Thousand Paper Cranes; I Am David (too scary); American Girl: Molly on the Home Front series + A Spy on the Home Front + nonfiction study guide; The Devil's Arithmetic; Introducing Shirley Braverman; My Secret War; Diary of Anne Frank (1/2) + Nonfiction book w/photos, Anne's report cards & various info about her; The Causes of WWII; Witnesses to War: 8 True-Life Stories of Nazi Persecution; WWII Days: Projects ideas + background, facts; The Bombing of Pearl Harbor; A Time to Fight Back-Stories of Resistance; Growing Up in WWII; Memories of Survival; Children & War; Rescued Images: Childhood in Hiding; Hey, Don't You Know there's a War on?; Ten Thousand Children: Kindertransport; Carrie's War; Early Sunday Morning (Pearl Harbor); Journal of SP Collins, WWII soldier; Journal of Ben Uchida (Internment camp)
Watch movies/videos: Sound of Music; Miracle of the White Stallions (Vienna's Spanish Riding School); What Have We Learned, CB? (Omaha beach, France, poppies); 60 minutes show @ just released WWII records w/interviews of camp survivors, original Schindler's list document, Anne Frank's papers, etc; K's Egypt video: section on Egypt's involvement in WWII; PBS documentary @ women pilots program in TX (WASP); PBS show @ 1949 Berlin airlift; Bedknobs & Broomsticks (movie has WWII references, book does not); Molly on the Home Front tv movie 
Fold 100 origami cranes based on Sadako book
Learn terms: anti-Semitism, Axis powers, Allies, D-day, blitzkrieg, dictator, inflation, fascism, Gestapo, Holocaust, kamikaze, isolationism, nationalism, U-boat, Nazi, Aryan, crematorium, concentration camp, deportation, genocide, ghetto, swastika, yellow star, atom bomb - Hiroshima, Nagasaki
Complete workbook pages; look up definitions in encyclopedia for terms; make battles list
Discuss artists, ie Paul Klee, labeled as "degenerate" by Nazis who removed works from museums
Write & type original WWII story: diary format @ US kid & her soldier dad serving overseas 12 pg
Interview grandparents about their experiences as children during war
Write & type 1000 word research paper on kids' contributions to war effort, cite primary & secondary sources + include bibliography (narrowed to 5 topics, started with Women Airforce Service Pilots & then switched to kids' contributions)
Attend talk given by former WWII female resistance fighter at university memorial event
Visit Holocaust museum, view & discuss exhibits



Visit Los Alamos "Manhattan Project" museum,view exhibits, A-bomb, talk with docents @ G-pa (M invokes moral absolutism here and insists bombs were wrong) 
 





The following year in Europe, we got the opportunity to apply what we'd learned. One result of my newfound, daughters-inspired appreciation for history was an insistence that we not only see "fun" & touristy sites, but that we take some time to pay homage to the past, recognizing both the bad & good in history. I'd always struggled with the dichotomy of regarding war as wrong and ignoble, while I believed most soldiers were exceedingly brave and honorable. In WWII, the moral imperative for military engagement made 'right' & 'wrong' and the heroism of those involved uniquely evident. Yet, even when we cannot extol noble causes or justify a particular war, we will continue to glorify the people who sacrifice for our sakes and a victorious human spirit that often emerges most distinctly amid conflict. Having children - and relearning history with them - only deepened my sense of debt, humility and thankfulness to those who are willing to stand up and serve for their own and others' families.

For twenty years, I was an 'A' history student, but never retained - & usually couldn't forget fast enough- what I'd learned for the tests. History was summarily lumped in with my natural aversion to villainy, horror movies and obscure, irrelevant minutiae that, outside of a classroom, only occasionally showed up as Trivial Pursuit questions. But, apparently, what they say is true - even for the most incorrigible student, all it takes is the tutelage of motivating teachers: Katrianna, who began her Egyptology & Ancient Rome dual PhD program in preschool, and Mikaela, who so far has instructed me on medieval times, the British monarchy, the American Revolution and WWI & II. I'm receiving a first rate education this time around. In fact, I think I'm majoring in History...   

For our first visit to Canada, we went to France. It was a tribute of remembrance for soldiers and civilians involved in The Great War. We drove the Circuit de Souvenir, a route that winds through WWI battle sites in the Somme Valley from Albert to Bapaume, France. Our tour concluded with a visit to the Canadian National Vimy Memorial, north of Arras.

Mikaela learned about WWI in a fairly traditional way before the trip: names of leaders, important battles, weapons development & new inventions, significant dates. But Katrianna hadn't formally studied WWI yet, so (unconstrained by the rigorous course requirements self-imposed by her 9 year old sister) her flights of fancy soared to WWI aircraft. She made every model in a vintage (cardboard) airplanes kit and knew the characteristics & insignias of Allied and Central combatants. Of course, there was also what she'd gleaned from the battles of the famed WWI flying ace, Snoopy...  which led, to my surprise, to M&K memorizing every trivial detail about the real Red-headed Baron and his legendary dogfights (even those that weren't against a beagle).
 
Both girls recited "In Flanders Fields" and fashioned paper poppies. And our whole family watched "What Have We Learned, Charlie Brown?" which is Charles Schultz' award winning cartoon salute with many Memorial Day facts interspersed with the Peanuts gang's car troubles (a classic, crank start automobile that repeatedly thrilled K - "Look, Snoopy's car!" - on our visit).




We began very early on a chilly morning in Albert, fog obscuring the view of Mary & Jesus who stood atop the Notre Dame de Brebières. The compact town centers around its fountain and the quiet town square across from the basilica. Many of the original buildings had been destroyed in the war and were rebuilt in the art deco style, but the church was restored faithfully and turned out to be my favorite in all of France. It is not very big or imposing and has little of the gilding or ornateness of France's famous cathedrals. But, it is airy, serene and beautiful in its simplicity and its soothingly fanciful interior design.
It is also the setting for a salient WWI story. The church and its steeple served as an important landmark and base for soldiers who could see the Virgin from miles away, took up their stations under her gaze or passed by her on their way to the front lines. She loomed above as a symbol of sanctity and refuge until 1916, when Germans shelled the basilica, knocking over the statue but not fully dislodging it. Divisions grew among the troops as to the portentous meaning of God's divine hand holding the "Leaning Virgin" so precariously over their horrific conflicts. Ultimately, however, they seemed unified in their conclusion that the war would surely end when Mary joined them on the ground. So, in a truly ironic act combining both their hope and despair, all sides proceeded to take potshots at her golden likeness for months. The Germans, after being unsuccessful in toppling her but then taking possession of the cathedral themselves, even promoted a new rumor that whoever shot her down would lose the war. Finally, in 1918, British forces came under heavy artillery fire emanating from the basilica's tower. A colonel sent immediate orders to defy a newly instituted army order to spare all buildings and "blow the place to blazes." Fearful of reprisals from his superiors, a young captain - who was left in charge in the temporary absence of a general and his brigade major -  hastily drew up plans of "imaginary trenches" that lay just beyond, but directly in the line of, the basilica and then commanded the battery officer to fire hundreds of rounds at those strategic trenches. Aided by such worthy accomplices, Mary did fall that day and, within months, so did the Central Powers.

After some time talking with Albert's welcoming greeters at the small but interesting visitor center-museum, we set off uncertain of what we'd find along the Circuit road. We're not war buffs and I'd had to do a lot of research beforehand only to find that there is not much to see in terms of intact WWI era sites. Development had occurred, the landscape had changed and we weren't going when the archetypal poppies would be in bloom. But, we drove down tiny villages' narrow streets lined by stucco houses and dilapidated barns, past farmers out plowing their fields and through the bucolic countryside that had once been overrun with soldiers and destruction - really, unable to reconcile the peaceful and colorful present images with the stark black & white war photos we'd studied. Then again, we couldn't help but wonder if that old stone farmhouse across the meadow was the very one Snoopy had crawled through enemy lines to get to so he could order a root beer. . . But, the most poignant symbol throughout the journey was the recurring cemeteries and their low walls concealing white crosses. The highway runs beside them, sometimes takes abrupt 90 degree turns right about them, and constantly  provides glimpses of distant vistas and fields planted in furrows which skirt around scattered, small plots on the horizon.

By mid afternoon, we reached the Vimy Memorial, the most well-preserved site of our WWI expedition. France gave the land to Canada in 1922 in recognition of the Canadians' war efforts and their victory in recapturing the ridge from the Germans in the Battle of Vimy Ridge, April 1917. Almost all of its 220 acres are very hilly, but they are very small hills, like successions of dozens of pitchers mounds covered in short clipped, light green grass. These bumps and lumps of earth had been made as the terrain was exploded, exhumed, shored up or piled into heaps during the war. In other areas, there were large craters, created either by bombs that fell from above or in detonations, accidental and intentional, from interred munitions. Trees had been replanted and grown tall since being leveled during combat, but Katrianna couldn't run through them like she wanted because most of the ground had not been cleared of explosives and there were signs everywhere warning visitors to really "Stay off the grass" or else. The woods and fields were very still and empty with the exception of roaming 'grounds crew' sheep who kept the grass neatly shorn and tread lightly enough to avoid tripping any land mines (ewe, I admit I felt a little sheepish just watching them. . . but, by God's graze, there was no need to pull the wool over our eyes). [Sorry, I'd been pretty restrained up to this point, but still no excuse for that - returning to somber tone now.]

Instead, M&K played hide & seek and eagerly timed their runs through the mazes of trenches, recreated for permanence with walls made from concrete-filled sandbags and brick & metal grating flooring where there once had been streams of running, muddy water. Still, the kids' "war games" stopped every time there was a break in the trench walls for gunner lookouts, where you could stand and see the trench line occupied by the Germans just yards away, or at the numerous, small cubbyholes along the walls where soldiers had kept provisions or had to sleep.
 
The only way to enter Vimy's Grange Subway, an extensive tunnel system dug by British engineers, was on a guided tour. (Usually, we avoid guided tours, which are generally crowded, sometimes costly and often circumvent all of the fun for M&K, who - in their travel preparations - always call dibs on places we plan to visit and spend the preceding weeks reading up, memorizing facts & anecdotes and jealously guarding the privilege of playing tour guide when we finally arrive.) But, this time, our experience was excellent. The guides are college grads who won fellowships to spend four months showing visitors around the memorial and take their off days to sightsee. Our docent was extremely knowledgeable and fully lived up to the Canadians' friendly reputation, causing M&K to proclaim unequivocally that Vimy's was our very best guided tour in all of Europe.     
 
After descending into the subway (and adjusting for tunnel vision), we noticed telegraph wires tacked to blackened chalk walls, damp with humidity and filled with musty odors. The tunnels were dimly lit, but were not nearly as dark as they had been during the war (pitch black for several yards at a time). We learned that, even inside the tunnels, no one was secure and the Allied soldiers, intent on expanding their own tunnel network, could often hear the digging of Central tunnelers just a few feet away. In fact, one technique was to purposely dig under the other guys' tunnels to set explosives beneath them and carry on the warfare underground. 

There were many tunnel offshoots and mysterious barred dugouts that held supplies or ammunition caches (Katrianna likened them to the gladiators' storage rooms we'd seen in Rome's Colosseum). In one area, much of the booty found when reopening the tunnels was heaped into a rusty pile of machine guns, old cans of food, pistols, mildewed uniforms, grenades, wheelbarrows, utensils and unidentifiable rubble. Two weapons-savvy Belgian boys, also in our tour group, were ecstatic to try on helmets, wield hatchets and sip from canteens while M&K watched, mouths agape, from a safe distance.

There were few rooms, all very small, sparsely furnished with wooden slat chairs, cots and a couple of rickety desks in the officers' quarters. Besides the officers, the only soldiers regularly permitted to sleep inside the subway were the runners. Those were the men, required at a moment's notice, who would deliver and receive messages between the commanders below and the officers on the front lines. They had to sprint through miles of dark and harrowing tunnels and then emerge out onto battlefields to dodge sniper fire. Often volunteers from the regular ranks, they had a life expectancy, we were told, of 1-5 days.

Although there was no mention of it in our guide's narrative or the visitor center displays (probably in order to avoid any association with or semblance of bringing him positive notoriety), what made the runners' experiences even more intriguing was that Hitler, as an infantryman, had been a runner in WWI. And, during WWII, the then führer took great pains to protect Vimy from vandalism (even showing up there for a photo op to prove it). Though accounts I read differed, one interpretation was that he had been so impressed with Vimy's authenticity, he ensured its preservation - perhaps as a personal tribute to his early war career or, some say, due to his "soft spot" for fallen WWI soldiers. Another explanation was that Hitler respected it because, unlike other WWI memorials, Vimy did not exult in weaponry paraphernalia or vilify Germany, but stood only in remembrance of the dead. For whatever reason, he stationed Waffen-SS troops to guard the memorial for the duration of WWII.
 
As it turned out, our "tour of duty" to honor the veterans of WWI made our own world a little smaller, our alliances to others a little stronger and greatly magnified our gratitude to all those who served and brought us peace. Our debt continues to the men and women who do the same for us today, on Armed Forces Day, Memorial Day and always.

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...