Recently in Old School: 1970s Category

"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?  

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 papercuts 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.

Last Christmas, Mikaela & Katrianna decided to give "store-bought" gifts. They did lots of planning & plotting to pick out the perfect presents for everybody on their lists. But there was one in particular that was extra special. It was given for the sole purpose of inspiring jealous rage in my husband, their beloved father.

They'd heard about my long-ago ardent admiration of Robert Redford and found a cheap vintage copy of Butch Cassidy & the Sundance Kid, which they purchased and wrapped in secret, gleeful anticipation of my joy & Chris' anger when I opened it on Christmas morning. Novices at deceit and intrigue, they are... but, since I strive to encourage those motives in my youngsters, I feigned surprise, followed by wifely apprehension, just as they expected. Chris then did his best to look sullen and cuckolded.

Our masquerade continued for a few days until finally we gathered for the big premiere. {OK, ok, the second big premiere, 39 years after its original release in 1969...back when Roberto was in his prime... & I was a real babe (?) }  M&K giggled and exchanged meaningful elbow nudges, watching Dad's face -- and not the movie -- intently for the first 5 minutes. Golly! was this gonna be good, their expressions asserted as though they were rosy-cheeky subjects in a Norman Rockwell painting.


You see, despite knowing the surprising truth that my infamous affair potential with RR was never realized even when I'd been oh-so-young and single & that The Way We Were was an almost daily -- if primarily one-sided -- romance (his photo was taped to the inside of my junior high school locker), I'm now also old & wise enough to take any form of flattery, real or imagined, that comes my way. So I was fully enjoying the attention, however misplaced.


All went well, except for M&K's repeatedly expressed dismay that Mom had ever thought a mustached outlaw was attractive, until Chris forgot his role in our family drama. And actually started watching the movie. Hadn't figured on the fact that it was a Western - a guy flick - replete with things blowing up & only a smattering of witty dialogue.  Jealousy did rear its ugly head, but only long enough to block everyone else's view as it moved up for a spot closer to the action.


Where was the agonized chagrin?   What happened to the impassioned despair?        
    ...Suspicious fury?    ...Burning ire??   ...Wretched despondency???

Replaced. By Chris' shushing the girls so he could better hear Butch & Sundance's intricate robbery schemes.

Disappointed, M&K decided to move on to a more satisfying activity that would meet or possibly even exceed their expectations for an entertaining evening, like sorting socks. Meanwhile, their dad contentedly downed the rest of the cold popcorn while noting the locations of The Wild Bunch's secret hideouts.  And I was left sitting there, wondering how to revive a sense of rivalry in Chris now that The Kid is 72 years old.  

Dang it. Ya know, before the movie, I used to feel gratified if Chris could actually stay awake for two consecutive hours on one of our road trips, stimulated and amused by my brilliant conversation & the unfettered opportunity to gaze lovingly at my profile as I drove.  Now I discover my husband's attentions can so easily be captivated by another? And all it takes is a cowboy hat, a six shooter & some nifty train jumping maneuvers.
 
Not sure my ego can take any more of our daughters' gifted-ness. I've put in a request that the kids return to homemade presents this Christmas -- they're so much more cherished & meaningfulless.

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.

During HO-HOsanna hey! Christmas vacations, my childhood days of yore were filled with carols sung by Mahalia Jackson, Johnny Mathis and Nat King Cole. But every night before going to bed, I'd lie down on the living room couch and tune into the Jackson 5's Christmas Album. In the dark, I listened while I watched the magical patterns created on the ceiling by the Christmas tree's colorful flashing lights. This was my most sacred yuletide ritual. First came Side 1's rollicking, jolly songs, full to the brim with Santa's promised visit, ol' St Nick's chimney antics and Frosty's lively dilemma. Then I'd get up to flip the lp, always scratching it just a little as I tried to set the record player's arm down ever-so ineptly (that really needled my mom & brothers - producing an earful of stereophonic surround sound). Now it was Side 2's time to be mellow. I grew anxious on behalf of a tearful Jermaine who just broke up with his girlfriend,  allowing myself to be swept over by as much germane nostalgia as a six year old single girl can muster. I wondered about "the couple upstairs wanting to know there's someone who cares" and always renewed my vow to give love on Christmas day, per Michael's request. I duteously dreamt of someday at Christmas when we'd all know what Christmas is for (essentially - no wars, universal love, hope & peace on earth, plus any bonus treats that happen to be peeking out of the top of your stocking). Finally, I'd nod off amid visions of Mommy kissing Santa Claus, even years after I was in on the "secret" of Santa's true identity known by all older, jeering brothers. Then, each year on Christmas morning, my very own personal archangel Michael heralded our family to open presents and I had myself a merry little Christmas, just as the Jackson 5 wished I (ok, and everybody else, too) would.

These days, Mikaela might take after me in some obvious ways, but there was nothing akin to the pride I felt when, as a three year old, she demanded that we play the Jackson 5 Christmas cd incessantly from Thanksgiving through Christmas (and beyond). She'd solemnly strap on her toy drum and reverently march around the house with The Little Drummer Boy, repeatedly hitting the replay button just as it was nearly tapped out. Eventually, our percussion section expanded - as soon as Katrianna could, she toddled around after her big sister with her own miniature smiley face drum (really a tambourine, but somehow Mikaela drummed other notions into Katrianna's head) & was kept completely off beat with some buggin' centipede-styled drumsticks. 

Yet, M&K's Jackson 5 playfulness couldn't be contained to merely the adventurous months. Instead of Mama's Gonna Buy You a Mockingbird, their mama sang "Rockin' Robin" to hush her little babies in the middle of the night. And, instead of the traditional alphabet song, it was "ABC" which, with some slight tweaking, schooled our scholars in their letters. Really, try it. Listen for the melody, then here we go now -

Sit yourself down, take a seat, all you gotta do is repeat after me -
I said ABC, as simple as do re mi -
DEF -
GH I'm a gonna teach ya how to sing it out,
C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, let me show ya what it's all about -
JKL -
MNO oo oo-
PQRST - t - t- Teacher's gonna show you -
Shake it, shake it, baby -
UV double Ew wee -
XYZ, baby, you & me, girl!

And, in 1, 2, 3 simple lessons, that's how easy reading & rhythm can be!

Next, for math & counting by twos, we cheered "2-4-6-8, who do you appreciate? (Please say that mom is me...)"  Well, you get the idea -- our particular form of homeschooling would have been impossible without the curriculum guidance and educational expertise of little Michael and his big brothers.
 
But, is the "little Michael" qualification really necessary? Yes.

In a twist on the I Was Country When Country was Uncool theme, I was a Michael fan when Michael was uncool and right up until the moment when Michael became too cool - around the time that the Jackson 5 left Motown and became The Jacksons & Michael grew up to ascend Pop's solo throne. In my opinion, that's when his off the wall behavior started. And then, soon enough, the Thriller was gone for me (to manila or bust?). All it took was a few rockous guitar licks and one signature crotch grab, a shot seen round the world, and I beat it. He was Bad, I knew it.

But, that was ok. As the preppy tween-teen crowd clamored to expose blindingly white socks beneath their flooding black pants & worship at the King of Pop's penny loafers, I claimed little Michael all for myself. It seemed I was the only one at the time. While my older brother was romancing his dates with Steely Dan or the Carpenters and the other brother was hard rocking with Van Halen and Pink Floyd, I was perpetually stuck on the likes of Stevie Wonder and the Jackson 5. Decades later, I still am.



[Though, I confess, I make one exception for the elder Michael's efforts. Whenever Chris or the kids ask me to do some extra chore or favor, I almost always agree but they have to pay a heavy price - listening to me sing a few bars of "Got Me Working Day & Night." Usually they turn away by the time I get to the squeals, up kicks, spins & moonwalking... but it's purely strategic on my part: not only do I thoroughly enjoy myself, it's a subtle yet very effective way of keeping requests to the essential minimum.]
 
In some respects, I had to come to terms with losing Michael Jackson in the early 1980s just when seemingly everyone else began emulating him. It sounds overly dramatic, but especially in these last years - once I had kids and had to explain my a-synchronous admiration and sadness  - making those distinctions became even more poignant. Young Michael was the most talented singer I have ever heard, the most mesmerizing and dynamic dancer & performer I have ever seen, as close as I imagine we will come to witnessing a modern-day Mozart - our era's most popular musical prodigy. So, after a lot of practice, that's how I choose to remember Michael today, as well. I hope his someday has come and he can now receive a share of the peace, serenity and happiness that he bequeathed to so many of us.

I was a product of public schooling. I fully expected my kids would be, too. Applying that old adage "If it was good enough for me..." seemed apropos. Although my SAT scores were nothing special, I'd won scholarships for college, worked as a university teaching assistant as a senior, and went on to two different graduate school programs with fellowships at each. I had ample reason to be a big proponent of traditional, public education. But, when my daughters neared school age, it caused me to reflect - what were the primary lessons I had learned in elementary school?

Kindergarten I learned to sit 'Indian style' on a 14"x18" carpet remnant. I also learned I did not like boxing, wrestling or martial arts, even as a spectator. Every time the teacher left the classroom, the boys would jump off their mats and begin kung fu fighting.

One day, the teacher caught them. Now I understand that a logical punishment for some mistakes is to let children follow the negative behavior through to its natural conclusion, so they learn the consequences of making bad decisions. After all, that's what Ward & June Cleaver did for Wally and the Beav... But, these were 5 and 6 year old boys, so when the teacher made them continue the fight until one boy clearly won, all of the rest of the boys wanted a turn, too! From then on, every morning after we recited the pledge, sang the alphabet song, ate a snack and had a bathroom break (which usually meant we had 30 minutes left in our kindergarten day), the teacher refereed. Girls got ringside seating, our mats arranged in a circle so we could dutifully watch on the outskirts of the action. Not that we didn't get attention, too. "Miss Cathy, did I see you uncross those legs? Now just sit right back on your square, little lady!" And, of course, that's exactly what I did. Partly because in those days teachers paddled for obstreperous behavior like uncriss-crossing your legs - thereby, crossing the teacher. And partly because, up to that point of my life, I was ambivalent about my "luck" at being born female. I hated wearing dresses and itchy tights, especially when my big brothers walked around without shirts on. But, after a few months of kindergarten, I really appreciated the advantages of being a girl - and not a boy...  or a pit bull.

1st grade I learned to read. In the first couple of weeks, I was put with three other kids in the Owls' Gold Star Reading Club, a great honor. Of course, that meant the teacher spent the least amount of time with our group and always quickly grew impatient with us because we kept forgetting to move the tongue depressors along the page as we sped read aloud. She was a nice lady, though. When she saw me walking to school in the mornings, she'd stop and offer to give me a ride the rest of the way in her yellow Cadillac. "Thank you, but no, Ma'am," I'd always say.  She'd smile back at me quizzically, twirling a finger around wisps of blond hair dangling down to golden hoop earrings, and then drive off as the passenger window magically rolled up without her ever leaning over to turn the handle.  I'd walk the rest of the way to school thinking of three things:  1) I wasn't sure if Mrs. L counted as a "stranger" or not;  2) anyway, Dad told me to never accept a favor if you don't absolutely have to because you shouldn't feel beholden to anybody; and                3) Be Thankful for What You've Got.

2nd grade School administrators decide to create "accelerated classes" and select the 25 brightest seven year olds to compose a fledgling elitist class. The principal visits our room on the first day of school to tell us how fortunate we are and how he thinks very highly of our fine teacher. And it became clear he did, too, as our princi-pal was constantly summoned to his office to consult about advanced teaching methods... she'd tell us not to move, she'd be right back, then hurriedly switch on PBS television as she left the room. That year, I learned to loathe "The Electric Company." Halfway through the year, I loathed "The Electric Company" and "Sesame Street," which aired afterwards. By the end of the year, I loathed "The Electric Company," "Sesame Street" and no, I did not want to be Mister Rogers' neighbor. Finally, I simply learned to prefer the testing of the Emergency Broadcast System to the resumption of "our regularly scheduled programming."

3rd grade We covered all of the material for 2nd & 3rd grades with a wonderful teacher who'd taught both of my brothers and was in the last of her forty year career. Did not watch wrestling - live or on tv - even once. I learned the best teachers have naturally retiring personalities.

4th grade In another attempt to meet the academic needs of its students, the district implements "cross-graded classes." They took 15 'gifted' kids from the fourth grade and the top 15 fifth graders, stuck them in a classroom together & told the privileged teacher, "Congratulations, this should be easy." Yet, there was still a wide disparity in the abilities of the students, plus the teacher had to go back & forth all day between grades & lesson plan preparations. Eventually, Mrs. McC decided to just give us a week's worth of assignments on Monday morning. We'd race to see who could finish first, a few of us wrapping it up by Tuesday afternoon (in her defense, some kids took until Friday and she was busy helping them). But, whenever you were done, you got free time, which meant you could access the hallowed land behind the partition.  For a few months, we reveled in a smorgasbord of craft materials, board games and old sets of Highlights, Ranger Rick & National Geographic. After we'd exhausted those, Mrs. McC supplemented with magazines from home: I learned about feminine etiquette from Redbook, feminism from Ms. and was pleasantly amused by the droll quotes in Reader's Digest. I also learned that you can fit no more than 126 games of eraser tag into a regular school day, 97 on assembly days. Sure, I could have done more independent study. One girl did - she'd break out a book & start reading as soon as she finished her class work. But, that was because she had connections. While the rest of us were limited to checking out two books on our weekly library visit, her mom volunteered and schmoozed with the school librarian so much that she was permitted to check out four books! Frankly, I wouldn't have read four books a week anyway...  not when you could play dodge ball instead.

5th grade We were now the fifth graders in Mrs. McC's cross-graded class. Repeat routine from fourth grade, but bored games were replaced by new-used board games, bought for us at garage sales by Mrs. McC's husband. Her teenage daughter also donated some of her "cool" subscription discards, from which I learned my preference for Mrs. McC's Better Homes & Gardens' spreads on leaves or garrets to Tiger Beat's glossy foldouts of Leif Garrett. All year, I reigned supreme as Dictionary-looking-up-words-faster-than-anyone-else-Champion. I stood to deliver an acceptance part of speech, but then meekly sat down when I realized the fleeting fame of a lexicon job well done. Still, it was in fifth grade that I was told that I was scoring at grade level 13+ on many sections of the annual standardized test - how bogus, I thought, who's gonna believe that one? Everyone knows there's no such thing as grade 13 (at least I hoped there wasn't). But, Mrs. McC and my mom seemed very pleased, so I kept my suspicions to myself and asked if I could go outside to play because the rain had made the mud just perfect for slip n slide freeze tag.  
 
6th grade By now, our little core of students had been together so long, we were all aflush in a frenzy of anticipation because we were finally going to get "the hard teacher." She was young and pretty, but aloof & strict. Without a doubt, she'd whip us into intellectual shape. No more free time, no games, no fun of any kind: this was going to be good! We were busy from the moment the bell rang - grammar, math drills, quizzes, more worksheets than we'd done in all previous years combined. I wasn't too sure what I was learning, except for that fact that I was clearly a 'C' - for handwriting - student. But, just as I was about to wilt under her curs(ive)ory disapproval, she suddenly quit to go have a baby and never came back. We were halfway through sixth grade with nowhere to go - whatever were we to do? The next week, Mrs. McC emerged from retirement to finish out this last year of elementary school with us. From that, we learned how much we liked Mrs. McC and just how much she liked us back. Also, her propitious return was of the utmost significance on a personal level, as the third time did prove to be the charm for my shoebox. Gloriously and gaudily transformed into a card-receiving mailbox for her third and final Valentine's Day class party, it was awarded first prize & shrewd Mrs. McC had taught me that all-important lesson about perseverance paying off. And, finally, just for review in case we'd missed it those other times, we learned again that sometimes the "best teachers" are not the best teachers.

But, really, I liked school, as I'd happily tell any adult who asked that original, recurring question. What wasn't to like? I got good report cards, teacher-parent conferences were a breeze, and where else could I be sure to get up a rousing game of kickball between the hours of 8 am & 3 pm on weekdays, which was truly the only worthy criterion in my eyes (revealing the real reason I so despised dresses). Besides, no one had ever heard of homeschooling back then. And, I had no desire to go to a private school like some of my friends, whose parents paid lots of money so their girls could wear uniformly plaid skirts, brag that they scored two whole years above grade level due to their superior educations and meet with the "foxes" from the boys' private school behind the rectory. (I know, that's a cliché, but that's what you get when life imitates art/movies... you get to talk about it with more clichés... Wow, I guess it's, like, a vicious circle, ya know what I mean?)

Plus, I moonlighted. My mom became a teacher at an inner-city high school across town when I was two. For years, she took me with her on in-service days and I accompanied her to many afterschool activities. I got to help decorate her bulletin boards, write on the chalkboards anytime I wanted, shag balls when she coached tennis and, the very best, straddle the rails at football games & dance with the cheerleaders as the band played during halftime. One evening, we went to a school play and I was exceedingly proud because some big kids with whom I was enamored allowed me to sit with them. To prove my sophistication, I distinctly remember pulling out a book from my own backpack at intermission and pretending to read. I even timed it so I turned the pages of Green Eggs and Ham after silently counting what I felt was an appropriate interval (had I actually known how to read). Though they didn't let on how impressive it was, I sensed from then on that I was "in." So, when I told people I loved school, I really did...  High school, when I was in preschool, was the greatest learning experience of my life. That was my "home" school, as far as I was concerned, where I found my zone.

Learning can, should and does happen everywhere. Ultimately, we chose to homeschool Mikaela & Katrianna based on our family situation and the girls' personalities. But, I don't think there's one "right" way to get an education. Public school, private school or homeschool - it's often what we learn outside of these constructs that counts the most. 

When Barack texted me and let me know that Stevie Wonder is going to be honored today with the Library of Congress Gershwin Prize, I immediately knew what I had to do.  

(Yes, you read that right - why do you think it was such a big deal for President Obama to keep his Blackberry?)

I wrote a 25 page dissertation, detailing each and every way Stevie has given meaning to my life. (And I to his.) In excruciating detail, I outlined just how much his music means to me, personally, decade by decade, from the moment of my birth. When Stevie accepts that honor this evening, it's just like I'm there, humbly receiving my own recognition for a lifetime of service as a wanna-Wonder-be.  

Now I would post my reflections here, but then it occurred to me: do I really need to state the obvious?
 
Though I can guarantee the parallels between my life and Stevie's are staggering and would startle, amaze and fascinate you, I decided against it. After all, can I be liable for your being so engrossed that you refuse to get back to work and/or spend quality time with your kids? (Or, let's be realistic, you really just need to get back to Facebook.)

So, in the spirit of being succinct and pointed in focus (my overall, guiding principle in blogging), I'll now quickly get to it and tie this into globeschooling.



In 2008, we took our daughters to see Stevie live in concert in Auburn, WA. It was part of a tour for Wonder music fans, but also his effort to rally support for Obama's election with songs like Sign, Sealed, Delivered and Higher Ground (my daughters' favorite because they think it's hilariously funny when he requests that "sleepers stop sleeping").

Making it extra meaningful, his daughter Aisha was there on stage that night, and I sang along to my girls as Stevie serenaded his with Isn't She Lovely. I think the fact that we recorded this song onto our answering machine to announce the birth of each of our daughters makes it our song just as much as it is Aisha's, does it not?

Until they fell over exhausted, the girls danced beside me to all of the songs. I then went on to embarrass them and likely humiliate myself by employing every high stepping move I'd ever seen a band drum major do (quite impressive judging from the looks of those seated around us).

When most of the sets were over and I'd given up on hearing my very favorite, there it was. The old of the old school, I Wish followed by Sir Duke. Not a bit self-conscious about "looking back on when I was a little nappy headed boy" in public, I accompanied him, word-for-word, on those Songs In the Key of MY Life.

By night's end, I'd checked off another learning objective listed among my exhaustive curriculum goals: Define & apply the meaning of vocabulary in context. In this case, the specific word was appropriation, but this method can no doubt be applied in many areas.
 
After this entry, I'm going to hold off on any more R&B posts for a while. I've already established beyond a doubt how intellectual this preoccupation is, but it's throwing Google's search engine completely off. I'm fast becoming (after 2 blog posts) the guru of all that is Motown, when my focus should be homeschooling and travel.

Just a few dozen more traditionally, scholastically themed posts, however, and I promise to return to the subject of my serving as Stevie Wonder's muse. As bonus, I'll also divulge how George Clinton defers to me in all that is P-Funk. (Teaser: I was the brainchild behind the inception of Funkadelic...  that I was 3 months old at the time is irrelevant.)

Perhaps I'm delusional, you wonder? Well, if you see Stevie, go ahead and ask him. He'll tell you all about it, I'm sure. Right after he Fed Exes me half of his award:

For years, I've been telling the girls that it's educational. It's music appreciation. It's social and cultural awareness. It's physical education. It's spiritual and psychological therapy.

But, as of February 22, I will have proof and it actually justifies and broadens my cross-curricular efforts -- it's now even verifiably historical!

What in the world could apply to so many aspects of one's academic & intellectual pursuits? You mean there is one answer to fulfill so much learning? Is that possible?

Just ask Barack & Michelle and they'll tell you:

Earth Wind and Fire to Perform During White House Governors' Dinner

Ahh, there are few moments when my teaching has been so affirmed and rewarded. 

I think it more than legitimizes all of my upper body dancing to "September" while I'm driving & the girls are sinking as far down as their seat belts will allow. For obvious reasons (some might think safety, yet those of us with the gift of creative improvisation instead see pulsating red, yellow & green signals of disco), I save my best moves for the stop lights, aka beacons of boogie. Sometimes other drivers are even inspired to join in, although I feel that's really unnecessary as everyone knows EWF already has an ample horn section... .

The official term for this, by the way, is "car schooling."  Second only to attending the Governor's dinner in person. First time I've ever envied Sarah Palin... .

Be sure to mark this day on your calendars: the day disco became a core subject. Groove on.