After the thrill of being Brazil's invaluable 12th man (tho in his mind he got Peléd), Christiano was determined that soccer would remain a permanent fixture of our family life, its principles passed on to our enthusiastic children. Well, anyhow, to the original set of kids [hereafter referred to as 'The Premier League'].
The firstborn was a natural defender & trapping skills perfectionist who positioned himself at sweeper to tackle any challengers (particularly those charging his supper dish). The next two, a daughter-son duo, constantly begged Dad to kick it around and doggedly ran their drills all day. Or most of the day, until the pressure simply got to be too much for our precious Pizazz, who'd inevitably air it out by sinking a fang into the leather & thereby earn herself a bye week....
Not surprisingly (at least for those well-versed in birth order theory), the baby of the family, a last-minute draft choice acquired from the SPCA Juniors division, was an extroverted crowd pleaser. Christened Cameroooooooon, the dynamic dribbler was admittedly not the most disciplined athlete, impatient with set plays & preferring to improvise. Yet, just like Cathy's all -It's Milla- time favorite World Cup
contenders, she was by far the most entertaining to watch. What's more, that Indomitable Lion uniformly marked any snakes in the grass and, without thought to risking her career, willingly took to the attack for the sake of the squad (garnering a record-setting 6 garters in a single outing... including one gut-checkin' overtime). But, most significantly, Cameroon revived - at least for her cheerfully sidelined soccer mom - that beloved '70s fad: Red, Yellow & Green Striped, Polyester Knee-Highs. Stylin'!
As conscientious parents -- simply trying to bring up our kids to be well-adjusted, socially-conscious, responsible citizens who are confident in their identities, life's purpose & place in the world -- we were at a loss. I mean, aren't we obligated to compel the girls to take part in something larger than themselves & thus recognize that a greater force is at work? (Illustrated exquisitely, for instance, when "doing the wave.") To be both humbled & uplifted in cheering - or booing - the cause of humanity? (Greatly facilitated by following the crowd cues flashing on the scoreboard.) Furthermore, as Phil Knight suggests, without a solid foundation in commercialism & springy shoes, could we really expect them to be adequately equipped for the game of life? (Sure, unless setting them up for failure as Nike goddesses is an acceptable option in your household.... Personally, I Just couldn't Do It.)
And, ultimately, how would our daughters ever achieve self-actualization - as in "find their centers" - if not through tuning in to ESPN's SportsCenter? Indeed, this universally acknowledged, inextricable link is clear not only to The Worldwide Leader in Sports, but was most incontrovertibly & resoundingly recognized by the Queen of Soul herself, Mz.Aretha Franklin, in that globally-renowned, empowering feminist rerererefrain: "R-E-S-P-E-C-T, soccer it to me!"
Only one professor glanced over long enough to reveal her slanted smile. The rest of the faculty filed past in velveteen caps & satin hooded
gowns without acknowledging anything, save their tams' golden, dangling
tassels tickling against their tightly clenched lips.
"Stand Up For Your Rights!"
For today's dignified procession was honoring the university regents' annual meeting, a staid rite of passage to uphold the trustees' traditional rights to forever withhold the passage of time at this small, private, liberal arts college in the east...
"Don't Give Up The Fight!"
Lining just half of the short sidewalk leading to the assembly hall, ours was a paltry protest, a smattering of undergraduate rabble-rousers futilely trying to infuse sixties-style enthusiasm into tired, decades-old chants: "What do we want?"DIVESTMENT!"When do we want it?"NOW! We held up hand-scrawled, slogan-filled signs to an audience of silent onlookers who mocked our sincerity from across the green. (Yup, nobody there at all besides some exasperatingly unresponsive trees, pruned to remain rigidly neutral & unperswayeded by the blowin' winds of change.)
"It's not all that glitters is gold; Half the story has never been told"
By the time our lil' dedicated core of agitators reconvened -- coincidentally enough, in the school's newspaper offices -- journalistic integrity rallied the cause with unbiased, factual reporting of glorious, indomitable dissidence. (Following a quick, unanimous decision to omit superfluous details, such as the one about an as-yet-unidentified sophomore who panicked and unplugged Bob Marley & Peter Tosh's First Amendment rights -- emanating from a hifi defiant 12" dual-cassette boombox -- mere moments before the college president's impending advance.) The editor-in-chief made the additionally daring decision to run "Out of South Africa" as the week's lead story, front page & topped with a photo taken at the precise angle to appear jam-packed with no less than 20 laudably heroic students, 18 of whom also happened to be news staffers.
"We sick an' tired of your ism-schism"
Cogent testimony to these overwhelming pressure tactics, the board members did, most likely, put the item on their agenda. Just long enough for it to be formally dismissed as irrelevant. Apartheid had no place here, in our harmoniously homogeneous community. Clearly, this was a black ~or~ white issue.
(Really, arguing with that type of logic is of no hues... sometimes it's simply a matter of Caucasian & effect.)
"You can fool some people sometimes, But you can't fool all the people all the time"
The finance committee could find absolutely no reason to alter course on their winning investment policies. Well, maybe with one exception... regarding accrued interest in a certain puny(tive), out-of-state investment. That's okay, at the end of freshman year, I packed up my scholarship & went home. Quite successfully divested, I might add subtract.
"Whoa yoi, whoa yoi, whoa yo, yo, yo, yoi!"
*For 18 of the 27 years he was imprisoned, Nelson Mandela lived in this cell on Robben Island. While there, he earned his Bachelor of Laws degree from the University of London & encouraged other inmates to pursue their studies. The jail guards, as well as those he inspired, referred to his cell block as "Mandela University."
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-claspinggripping 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 2010Olympic 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.
I never liked The Sound of Music. Not exactly sure why. But the opening scene with Maria singing about live hills & twirling around in a dress certainly didn't help any. What sort of dramatic action was that? Now, if Evel Knievel was jumping across some of those hills on a motorcycle, especially if there were some school buses set ablaze to add suspense (in lieu of an errant bonnet that needed retrieving), that might have been worth watching! Also, I couldn't see its connection to Christmas despite the fact that every year TV networks reran this never-ending movie during time-precious school holidays. There was nothing sacred about it. After all, it wasn't the Peanuts' Christmas special. Probably the crux of it was simple resentment. No doubt it was preempting a favorite primetime show which I counted on for continuity and moral guidance. Like, for instance, The Dukes of Hazzard.
Sorry to say, but when Maria sang, froid was what it left me.
But then I gave birth. To two girls. And, apparently, to a previously undisclosed yet infinite capacity for schmaltz, as well. In the early years, I rebuffed Chris' annual suggestion that we enjoy this "Greatest All-Time Family Film" with our little ones (for their sake, ya know, to avoid recurring night mères). Eventually, however, I agreed. For the purpose of exposing the kids to cultural literacy, thereby satisfying that core academic component for the homeschooling year. I figured 15 minutes tops would suffice. We settled down. And 2 hours + 54 minutes later, we got up.
To clear more floor space for M&K. Who were singing. And twirling. And Austrian folk dancing. Well, after first sprinting to the bedroom to change into their most billowy dresses, thereby enhancing those mandatory fru fru effects.
What a ridiculous movie! How contrived! Quite blatantly, unapologetically hokey! Why, it's a veritable medley of mush. My Favorite Things: Corny. Edelweiss: Patriotic propaganda. The Puppet Show: Herd it got your goat. And what about the cute, chubby-cheeked five year old scooting up the stairs while bidding us So Long, Farewell: Say Goodnight, Gretl! You've got to be kidding, who would succumb to that von Trapp?
Yep, it became our family's new, all-time favorite movie! As I dabbed my weepy eyes for the twentieth or so time that evening, Chris & I watched our spinning daughters in a revelry of perfectly goofy contentment. And only had the heart to declare it bedtime when Katrianna, imitating a leaping Liesl, came up a little short on her 16th going on 17th jump from the couch to the arm chair to the dining table....
The next morning found her still keyed up, kneeling at a mini electric piano playing the Do-Re-Mi-Me-Mescales by ear. M&K then spent the next several weeks in dual yodeling-guitar lessons with Dad, checking out every How To Waltz video from the library and performing elaborate puppet shows with several stuffed animals & one marionette that they'd previously ignored.
Compared to all that, our actual visit to Salzburg was pretty uneventful. In fact, I began to wonder if skipping the authentic Austrian Sound of Music guided tour, led & narrated by affable Australian expatriates, was a mistake. I'd seen the promotional videos, I knew what we were missing: It wasn't just the opportunity to enjoy an 8 hour bus ride in air-conditioned comfort. Nor the tourism superiority afforded by a tinted-glass advantage point 15 feet above the supposedly Smart cars. Neither was it the chance to chuckle at the Aussie's gentle comedic gibes aimed at tickling Midwestern American sensibilities. Fun! But what we were really missing most was the campy camaraderie of the sing-alongs. Where every single one of the fifty passengers broke into rounds of Climb Ev'ry Mountain, inhibitions be dammed, as they forded ev'ry stream to follow Maria's dream. (Not to be irReverent, but, oh Mother, that one really is irredeemable.)
We did our best to improvise on our own. Experiencing each sequential Sound of Musical setting elicited impromptu performances of How Do You Solve a Problem Like [Insert Choice of Family Member Name Here]? And, perhaps it's divulging too much, but Chris and I got a bit swoony beside Leopoldskroner Weiher, staring deeply into each other's eyes as we crooned, "And somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something wrong." Finally, when we longed to pay tribute to Dad by dedicating The Leder of the Band Hosen to him, accompanied by a suitable souvenir purchase on the Getreidegasse, he considered breaking up The Sarkar Family Singers in pursuit of a solo career.... It took an appeal to his greater sense of Schtoompah (Richard Scarry's "Funny Austrian") to suspender his indignant oompah. Will he never learn Das ist Jacke wie Lederhosen?
Lastly, one destination, though convent-ional, did prove especially memorable. Because we ended up trespassing (yes, again) while earnestly searching for a way to Get thee to a Nonnberg nunnery! Our first stop was the Maria Himmelfahrt Church, where we listened to the nuns chanting vespers. Honestly, they were out of sight, though their voices could be heard floating forth from the balcony on high. The chapel itself was empty, so M&K seized the wedding day, reenacting the marriage ceremony with Mikaela as the whistleblowing Captain and Katrianna playing a post-feminist Maria (sans wimple, yet demure).
Outside, as we wandered around the grounds trying to identify more Sound of Music-significant details, we found the gates open, the cloistered welcome mat seemingly beckoning us onwards. We were merely looking for the refectory, not being refractory. But just try telling that to the Head Nun, who rushed out to chastise us and replace the ORDAINED PERSONNEL ONLY sign to its rightful front & center order (it had been pushed aside... Nope, not by us - couldn't divine its meaning anyhow).
Yet what intrigued us most was that she'd been on the phone when we inadvertently glanced into her office. Surprisingly, it wasn't a cell phone, as one might expect at an abbey. But, a rotary dial, clunky receiver, crimson telephone with those lit up buttons. Similar to the Cold War red one at the White House -- and, rumor has it, at the Batcave? -- with its singular, blinking push-of-a-button omnipotence.
And then it occurred to me, who could she be talking to?
Whoa, did she have a direct connection, or what? But before I could ask for a turn, just to say a quick hello (can you imagine those long distance charges? then again, she must have the unlimited calling plan... think that includes free texting?), she sensibly shooed the barbarians back outside the gate (making short Stift of us). Truly, we hadn't meant to in-nun-date or upset her. And it really wasn't our fault, it's just a bad habit we'd gotten into.
So, anybody up for another showing of The Sound of Music? Albeit, I still contend it's not really a Christmas movie. Now that we have the dvd, we tend to watch it on Thanksgiving & Easter, too.
And just in case you're not one of the original 13.5 million world viewers, here's Belgium's take on The Sound of Music. Of course, we Americans aren't expected to have any discriminating taste... But what's their excuse?
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.
"And," he added, turning to Katrianna, "it's nice to meet you, too." Sidney held his hand out to her...
Oh no! She was suddenly shy-struck.
Here? Now? This, despite all of our exaggerated & exuberant "How do you do, And how do you do, And how do you do again" nursery rhyme handshaking sessions begun almost at birth, Richard Scarry's Polite Elephant reinforcement of the finer points of etiquette, and my own determination that our homeschooling kids would not be socially inept? And yet, at various times throughout their childhoods, Mikaela & Katrianna have alternately been overcome by silence. Or experienced urgent, rapt absorption with any stray object located on the ground. Or have inexplicably lost all sensation & mobility in their arms, hands and the cerebral cortex-common courtesy region (could it be an involuntary response of their fluctuating nervous systems?).
"Well, okay then," Sidney said, "I'll just take a hug instead." And he did.
Though it happens with predictable regularity, the girls' rude-imentary lapses in social skills still take me by surprise every time. Their extroverted phases lull me right up until the sporadic moments that they re-intro-vert themselves. Now I know this cannot really be attributed to our homeschooling. I remember doing the very same thing when I was a kid, repeatedly bewildering my mom at the most inopportune or embarrassing times. When she tried to talk with me about it later & ask what had happened, I was unable to explain it, even to myself. Then, when I was a teacher, I watched freshmen high schoolers work through those first weeks of insecurity with about as much self-assurance & panache as the 18-month-old toddlers who'd so amused me when I'd taught preschool...
Still, there's nothing that adequately prepares a parent to handle those awkward moments that persistently arise in spite of one's conscientious efforts to prepare a child to conduct herself with civility & charm... and then watch as she completely blows it. Well, there was nothing, until Katrianna met Sidney.
We were introduced in person for the first time this past summer while Steel Pulse was on tour. Sidney Mills plays keyboards & is the band's musical arranger. That afternoon, Chris was meeting with lead singer & songwriter David Hinds, Selwyn Brown - also on keyboards, band manager Rich Nesin & Sidney to discuss marketing ideas & potential internet campaigns, especially those promoting charitable partnerships. The girls and I had come along because we were all going to attend their concert later that night. But, to be honest, it wasn't just Katrianna who felt a little self-conscious, so M&K & I quickly left Chris alone to impress the rest of the guys by himself & went off to do all kinds of important things while we waited (primarily reading Calvin & Hobbes comic books in the restaurant next door).
But, we'd known Sidney - even if he hadn't known us - for many years prior to that. Long before we had kids, Chris & I globe-cooled: we would travel anywhere in Texas to see Steel Pulse in concert. (Ok, so Texas isn't truly "global" & we weren't actually cool, but...) Theirs was our first date concert & a valid enough reason to skip work anytime to drive 800 miles for a Reggae SunSplash festival. [The most strange & memorable being a San Antonio concert happening in concert with the 1994 World Cup's opening day & the Houston Rockets' NBA Championship playoff game 5, watched on a tiny, borrowed, handheld tv while driving - amazingly, Hakeem stood .610" tall, yet still managed to dunk on Ewing! Then, part way through Steel Pulse's show, the big stage screens broke away from close-ups of David singing or Grizzly on drums to show a white Bronco in a slow-speed police chase? The music stopped & an announcer explained it was OJ Simpson. Everybody stared at the images & each other. The jamming resumed. The next morning, at our favorite, most popular, jam packed 'secret' bakery in San Antonio's Market Square, every single table had ordered not the usual coffee or tea which complement Mexican pastries, but glasses & whole carafes full of orange juice... It just doesn't take much subliminal messaging, does it?]
Over the years, I'd also consistently taken every single opportunity to play Steel Pulse's singles in my classroom (the long-play versions whenever possible). Sometimes, it even fit in with what we were studying!On the first day of school, students walked in to Grab Education. Certainly, that set the right tone in the kids' minds: this woman is so dorky she plays music about education - or - this woman is so cool she plays reggae music & calls it school. If it was a successful year, I kept 'em on the fence (or should I say on the ropes?) & guessing like that, unable to come to a definitive conclusion, until well past spring break (if ever).
When I'd first begun teaching, the headmaster chose to emulate the I'm-not-ratifying-it-hold-out-hero-senator John McCain & refused to honor Martin Luther King, Jr Day (although, acting under the auspices of a private school charter, they seemingly found it appropriate to take every other Monday off as some sort of patriotic holiday). So, I respectfully showed up for work anyway - to moderate debates about the validity of observing MLK's Day as a national holiday and play Steel Pulse's Taxi Driver, Sweet Honey in the Rock's Peace & Stevie Wonder's Happy Birthday for my 9th graders. The juniors got to read Alice Walker's1955 Elvis fable, then listen to Steel Pulse's Roller Skates & tie it all back into our studies of the relationship be'Twain Huck Finn & Jim... Within a couple of years, our school's board voted to take MLK day off after all. Accordingly, I switched my curriculum. Our MLK class celebration was moved to the preceding Friday so the kids (and their parents) could dwell on it all3-day weekend long.
My American Lit scholars also learned that David Hinds & ee cummings have a lot in common: Wild Goose Chase & pity this busy monster, manunkind seemed a perfect pairing to write about Modern disillusionment. Yet, interestingly, Chant a Psalm hearkened back to Puritan era selections. And Throne of Gold might just have been the sequel to Anne Bradstreet's To My Dear & Loving Husband (I also put Your House with Upon the Burning of Our House, July 10, 1666, so they could prove to me how thematically unalike? they were). For Civil War literature studies & our related, subsequent discussions about apartheid in South Africa, we had an obvious State of Emergency. And, along with contemporary political & environmental poetry, Earth Crisis (matched with Marvin Gaye's Mercy, Mercy Me & What's Going On) inspired some spirited exchanges, as well as good creative writing pieces. Whoops, sorry about that, went off a little bit here --- we teachers get so bogged down in believing that what we do might actually matter to others. My bad. Now returning to this decade & the 21st century... Once again, let me hear ya put your hands together for the real, live STEEEEEEEL PULSSSSSSSSSSE!
From then on, each time we saw Sidney that evening, he'd offer his hand to Katrianna. As she added another scuff mark to the toe of her tennis shoe by way of response, her emerging smile grew increasingly visible. Sidney'd give her another gentle hug, along with an extra backstage pass, & continue with his equipment prep and pre-show routine.
During the concert, we got to sit in the special "Friends of the Band" roped-off section, a privilege to which the girls were completely oblivious no matter how many times their impressed parents tried to convince them it proved Mom & Dad's ultimate, verifiable hipness. Frankly, Mikaela was too preoccupied with maintaining her tween 'rep,' regardless of the fact that no other tween, besides her sister, was anywhere in sight. Still, she kept busy looking nonchalant, taking some photos & bootleg videos, as well as alerting us with "Timber!" every time some Man No Sober guy was falling in our direction. And, despite the fact that once upon a time she rocked [asleep] to Rally Round the Flag, Reggae Fever & Brown-Eyed Girl as her most preferred lullabies, now she stood-fastly refused to dance. [Again, I tried to be as understanding as I could -- that is, while simultaneously jumping up & down in my signature, syncopated, reggae rhythmic, spastic style. For I'd acted the same way long, long ago when my mom took me to St. Stephen's Coffee House, a 1970s hippie version of an Episcopal church. Everyone sat in a big circle on the floor, a couple of guys played acoustic guitar & people joined hands to sing folksy, Cat Stevens-type tunes by candlelight. I never let on that I liked it, shrugging off encouraging participation nudges from Mom and all those other annoyingly warm, glowing faces. As we (I mean, they) crooned only slightly altered C'mon, baby, light my fire sanitized lyrics, all that was missing was a real bonfire - perhaps that would have brought me in? So hard to tell with a tween... Although, while we waited between Steel Pulse sets, I asked our friendly, frazzled usher if reggae or rock audiences were more difficult (well, after allowing for those notoriously riotous Christian rockers). No, she set me straight, it was the bluegrassers- they'd set fire to the seats & rope lines only weeks before. There, now we know who's really got it going on, don't we?]
However, 'bashful' Katrianna happily danced, bounced & sang alongside me until pure exhaustion made her smooth moves more of a hang-over-mom's-shoulders sway. Yet, once the concert was over & we went backstage again, she instantly revived by running up & down the ramps as the stage crew broke down the equipment. We joined the band in their "headliner" dressing room, standing around at the edges trying to be both unobtrusive & take in our first-ever, behind-the-scenes glimpse of the rockstars' world. Soon, Sidney took control again, sparing us from the overwhelming strain of trying to summon & then project our own auras of coolness (good thing, since I'd forgotten to bring mine... plus I couldn't even remember where I'd seen it last). He directed Katrianna to please take his seat, a primo, overstuffed, fully-featured deluxe chair. Ahhhh, so that's where her comfort zone had been hiding! Immediately, she turned to David, confidentially sharing - amid giggles from her Throne of Recliner - "When I was little, I used to think you were singing 'Sitting on a doughnut hole!'" Somehow, David managed to laugh as though that was funny, but Katrianna was so tickled with her own hilarity that she didn't really notice. Then Chris tried to help the joke along. By singing aloud a few bars from Throne of Gold directly to David. It worked, all right -- it was so embarrassing to everyone involved, the whole room's attention was promptly diverted completely away from us...
Which gave us more time to look around. And notice a fridge well-stocked with varieties of organic, soy & almond milks and tables laid out with abundant choices of fresh fruits, avocados, tomatoes, whole wheat breads, bottled waters & all-natural juices. Though David offered, Mikaela was much too shy to partake in any of it, but fully appreciated observing that his after-concert meal was "All vegetarian!" Her confidence now bolstered, without warning she blurted out, "So, David, have you finished Dreams from My Father yet?!" And, again, one of our daughters had managed to leave him slightly stunned. Not that it was a fair contest exactly, since previous to this moment David did not know he was embroiled in a competition. But, when Mikaela had overheard her father talking with him on the phone about Obama's autobiography, apparently that was the impetus she'd been looking for - she started reading it herself that very day (a unique approach to preparing for an upcoming reggae concert, no?). Valiantly, David rallied to her cause, teasing Mikaela about his additional incentive now that he'd finally learned of their fierce reading rivalry race. Mikaela was smug, content in the political coup she'd just pulled off - which, in her mind, was definitely equal to the bands' being invited to play for Bill Clinton's inauguration or their releasing an election-coinciding single entitled Vote Barack to encourage getting out the vote last year.
When it was finally time to go, Katrianna forgot to shake hands with the members of the band. She was too distracted with giving high-fives & hugging Sidney to remember her manners. Darn it, we proved once again that homeschoolers lack all social graces, didn't we?
Seems another review of our Missed Manners is in order. OK, I'm putting it on the family 'To Do' list right after "Rehearse our barbershop quartet remix version of Handsworth Revolution." There's just so very much to do to get ready for our next Steel Pulse concert...
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.
"Who's gonna win this week?" "Who's y'alls' favorite?" "Can you believe she got kicked off?"
We're bombarded with these questions at the park, at coop classes or at the Y. We know the librarians like Adam, the plumber is pulling for Allison, and our neighbors' bracket is betting on Kris. Each week at the grocery store, we listen attentively as our favorite checker argues the singers' merits with the less critically acclaimed (but more vocal) baggers. It's really all very exciting!
Of course, we're not watching.
But we did. Once. Season 5. It was thrilling! So much so, that it has apparently sustained us for the three seasons since...
The girls began watching the show, I'm happy to say, after succumbing to peer pressure. Friends in their homeschool hiking club were big fans and made it clear that, if M&K wanted to interact in conversation of any kind from January through May, they would have to fan the flames of idolatry. Discussing books, science experiments or poetry was out. "Normalcy" was in. For once, M&K decided to give that a try.
Honestly, we were all a bit skeptical. And, after the first audition episode, M&K's reluctance grew. But I only saw opportunity. When they announced that there was "no way" they were watching next week, I declared a national (ok, familial) emergency and imposed an executive order stating that American Idol was officially, from that moment on, part of our spring 2006 school curriculum. I justified it on intellectual grounds: it would serve as a much-needed impetus to study music theory, a subject we'd long neglected.
Besides that, I had a hidden agenda (I am a mom). I cynically judged the worthiness of American Idolfor its potential to expose the kids to something much more important than musical styles: namely, it could enhance their Jerk Identification Radar. I told a bewildered Chris, "This is great! Real, live jerks, so now I don't have to feel guilty for overprotecting them anymore!" (Sure, Chris and I do our best, but we're only two examples of jerks. . . How limiting is that?)
Truthfully, my strongest reservation about homeschooling M&K was that they might miss out on the most important lessons school could provide. No, not trigonometry, macroeconomics or physics. But, the study of human nature: "reading" people's body language, "calculating" others' ulterior motives and, basically, honing essential skills in the survival of the finesse. (Perhaps I was also overcompensating due to the haunting voices of former private school students who stated, "We may not be book smart, Ms. Sarkar, but we're street smart!" Irony on so many levels, I never could think of a suitable response... If that sounds too haughty and judgmental, blame it on months spent with Simon Cowell.) American Idol could supplement my innocent, sheltered children's education in condensed, 60-minute weekly classes that encouraged them to survey all aspects of American culture and social nuance. Together, we would watch many "types" of vulnerable folks parade across our tv screen and exercise our God-given right to judge them without mercy. And, bonus, it was fully sanctioned, socially acceptable scrutinizing that even scored them points at playgroup!
There were some halfhearted attempts to tie this into our academics. We did learn to identify whole, half & quarter notes and taught ourselves to play "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" on the girls' recorders. We rewatched Sound of Music - the 'do re mi' part - several times. We conducted ourselves admirably when reviewing the sections of an orchestra and even attended the symphony - and not just because there were fireworks. We listened to almost two classical music cds. And, finally, as Idol's singers exited each week to the tune of "You Had a Bad Day," I likened it to Aristotle's theory of tragedy and gave them an enlightening 30 minute lecture on identification with and empathy for the iconic tragic hero and his fatal flaw of hubris. I mean, isn't that what comes to everyone's mind upon hearing that song? Anyway, it counts because they took notes. Oh, and about halfway through the season (once we found out it was free), the girls loved haggling over the performances and calling in their votes - that was democracy in action, so I jotted it down under 'political science.' Who knew pop culture was so cross-curricular?
But, my original "social studies" mission didn't turn out as I expected. What I hadn't counted on was the preponderance of unbelievably nice and nerdy people wanting to be our next American Idol, many of whom were also quite talented. Pretty quickly, even before the final 24, the "mean girl" was eliminated and all we had left to ridicule were the country singers, Bucky & Kellie. They weren't very good, but still seemed too endearingly naïve to incur much of our wrath.
Plus, there is no way to express my relief or Chris' parental bliss when the girls did not swoon for the sultry Ace or, at the opposite end of the spectrum, the squeaky Kevin. Mikaela's top crush was the clean-cut crooner and Sinatra crony, David, and Katrianna fell for Will, the Brady Bunch's lost sibling. Other than that, there was the very sincere Elliott (and his mom), the marvelous Mandisa, the effervescent Paris, the naturally graying & soulful Taylor and even the cool but dependable rocker dude who had married a single mom (thereby automatically securing the votes of many moms I know).
I heard that season 5 was the most watched in Idol history, ratings no doubt buoyed by our cutting edge, trendy family of 4. It showed that real life - at least as portrayed on a tv 'reality show' - is schmaltzy, heartwarming and generally the good guys & girls win in the end. Really, American Idol was chock-full of virtuous role models for the kids and it restored my faith in humanity. So, now you see why we stopped watching. Who wants a repeat of that?
On our extended trip to Colorado, a different sort of snow job commanded the attention of our family of flakes in the form of a blizzard. We don't ski, but we easily could have been mistaken for a bunch of lugers out there chillin' on the mountain. (Really - and I don't mean to brag - I could have sworn I heard a couple of snowboarders call us just that when they swooshed by... true, it was a little muffled in the 70 mph winds... Down South, by the way, we call those gusts 'hurricanes' instead of 'wind resistance.') We went sledding down a perilously slippery slope that extended for quite possibly a whole 40 feet (even the bunnies were laughing at us - from their vantage point about 500 feet up).
And, not once during our outing did Ethan Frome's "smash up" slip slide away into the recesses of my psyche... but, luckily, our day involved no desires under an elm, shattered pickle dishes or zeena-phobia. [I hated that book when I read it at 16, but no amount of topical Wharton remover, applied liberally to my prefrontal cortex twice daily ever since, has proven effective in eliminating its imagery.] Overall, however, it was a very (very) cool experience!
During our time spent in Boulder with Bob and his wife, Chaya, we also went to the Dushanbe Teahouse, where the fine
service, like the fine tea, apparently cannot be rushed. Once you enter
the doors, time stops and all is at rest. We arrived just when we
should have - not even close to tea time - and the place was nearly
empty with tables plentiful, yet our seating preparation and the
ceremonious setting of utensils took at least ten very
consciousness-inducing minutes while we stood waiting at the cusp of
enlightenment (which is located just inside the entryway, wedged
between the hostess stand and mere millimeters from the swinging door -
which I can only assume to be intentional and symbolic of our
precarious position in the universe). The unanticipated respite
provided us abundant time to examine and accept the futility of our
rushed lives and overly eager expectations, as well as gave Bob ample
opportunity to select and purchase a tasteful souvenir. When Chaya
asked if she could have milk in her tea, the waiter deliberated and
answered philosophically 'Why, yes, he thought she might' which he
emphasized by agreeably nodding his redhead. It took quite a bit more
prompting to move him out of the realm of possibility and into the
actual delivery of the milk, but the result, of course, was our deeper
appreciation of each and every aspect of our tea time, as well as
a savoring of the teahouse staff's superior understanding of the subtleties
of service. Truly, at the famed Dushanbe teahouse, my cup runneth over. And, now, a final metrospective: Boulder is, due to a tremendous amount of concerted effort on the part of its citizenry, just a bit quirky. Everybody drives either a Prius or a VW van converted to run on veggie oil, conscientiously rehydrates with only organic beer after Bolder Boulder training runs, climbs rock walls in 100% hemp laced birkenstocks or spins around on their tandem bicycles (outfitted with a modified second seat to accommodate their dog who pedals like mad in an effort to reduce its carbon pawprint). There is also a plethora of "Keep Boulder Weird" bumper stickers & paraphernalia, yet I am required by Texas allegiance (& the desire to avoid another scuffle with state patrol border guards on the way back in), to take umbrage and point out that their beloved mantra was plagiarized, lifted verbatim from Austin, TX. True, it is hard to blame Boulderites since that wording is so profound and evocative. May I humbly suggest they try something more local, a pithy summation that is indicative of their own region instead? I got it, how's about BOULDER: WE'RE FULL OF CROCS!
I don't know, it might need some tweaking... Perhaps Austin just had beginner's luck coming up with our so emulated slogan & no city should expect to coin something that achieves transcendent, world famous status. Oh, shoot, I just remembered the Alamo... Guess it's time for us to return to the only state that can rightfully claim to have the highest density of original weirdos in the nation!
Great (Dave) Scott! I didn't mean to resort to Lance strong Arm tactics there...
P.S. For the record, during our visit to Boulder, we did not once catch sight of Mork nor Mindy. But, I did see several characters who I suspect might be aging backwards... either that, or they're new aging. I admit I can't tell the difference.
It all started when we were trying to fit in with a new playgroup at their park day. We'd recently decided to homeschool Mikaela, but we hadn't found our niche yet in any of the homeschool groups where most families' kids were older than ours or we'd been rejected because we wouldn't sign the group's statement of faith, publicly declaring our animosity toward Satan and expressing our willingness to enlist the kids in a crusade if given 48 hours advance notice.
This group, though not homeschoolers, seemed ideal because it had an abundance of toddlers along with several five year olds who'd just missed the school district's birthdate cutoff. If it worked out, both of my girls would have plenty of potential playmates and our homeschooling wouldn't even be an issue.
It was a gorgeous 75 degree fall morning, full of buzzing bees, flitting butterflies and birds tweeting their sweet, melodic songs (this was long ago, before they communicated exclusively through twitter - 140 notes at a time).
Then, suddenly, he was upon us. Lawn Mower Tractor Guy. Oblivious to all due to the roar of the engine, his walkman headphones and the thick, dangling earflaps of his woolen winter cap, he was headed straight for the sandbox! Like Odysseus, who had to abandon his insanity act and rescue the infant Telemachus from an oncoming plow, I threw aside my frivolous, inane, getting-to-know-you banter just in time to hurdle the teeter totter and swoop up Katrianna.
The whirling blades just grazed the ironsides of the ship-shaped sandbox, barely causing a stir among the kids inside it who were too preoccupied with shoring up caches of pebbles (resourcefully stored in their pull-ups) for the inevitable battle that brought each and every playdate to a glorious conclusion. Still panting, I glanced around to see that the few moms who had bothered to look up from their cell phones were snickering in my direction. In an ironic twist in our odyssey to find playgroup inclusion, my conspicuous child-rescue action was regarded as egregiously overprotective and confirmed their suspicions that "the homeschooling mom" was indeed out of her mind.
I hung my head in shame. I called to Mikaela that it was time to go when an empathetic mom broke ranks and came over to commiserate about the odd fellow who'd nearly mowed down my daughter. Thinking it a lost cause anyway, I nervously adjusted the buckle on Katrianna's overalls and explained, "I just hadn't realized Ignatius J Reilly had moved to Houston."
She laughed, then added, "Oh, but he hasn't. That was Holden Caulfield!" Right then I knew we'd found our playgroup and I could postpone carpooling the girls to Lil' Missionary Club meetings for at least another year.
[Helpful hint: Undoubtedly, the Confederacy of Dunces allusion litmus test is a good idea, but that Toole's book only came up this one time. For no fail conversational icebreakers, I recommend going with War & Peace or Moby Dick - both are invaluable sources for discovering common ground among parents while watching soccer games in lawn chairs. Nevertheless, this was a refreshing change and I am forever beHolden to the Catcher in the Wry.]
Over the winter months, Charlotte and I and our four kids became good friends. We even went along when they invited us to some services at their church (but it was an Episcopal church, so it doesn't really count - as everybody knows, religion and Episcopalians never really mix... except maybe martinis... in post communion happy hours... the Reverend Father tends bar). But, one deceptively free & easy spring afternoon, we lingered to let our kids play when all of the other playgroup moms had left. Charlotte leaned across the picnic table and asked me confidentially, "Now truthfully, Cathy, why do you homeschool your kids?" Lulled by a cool breeze as we sat there in 96 degree shade, I let my defenses down completely and made a terrible mistake: I was honest. I blame it on sunstroke.
I answered that, like most parents, I strongly believed I was obligated to do the best I could for my kids. A huge part of that had to do with meeting their academic needs. Although I didn't think it would be "bad" for them to attend public or private school, I was in a position that I could stay home with them and we could choose to homeschool instead. They had learned so much already before they were of "school age" and, out of all the options I'd looked into, I felt we could do the best job of providing them a challenging education, letting them progress at their own pace and keeping the learning fun. Plus, I added, it was what Mikaela said she wanted to do & my plan was to go along with it for as long as she wanted...
Charlotte looked incredulous. I guess she sensed I was still holding back. She guilefully goaded me on with "But is being smart really soimportant?"
That did it, she got me in my Achilles cranium. I went on to explain that I thought God wanted each of us to reach our full potential. We'd all been given gifts and, since my girls so far had not demonstrated any Carl Lewis tendencies or Olympic aspirations (wiped away a tear there), I was focusing on what seemed to be their particular strengths and affinities right now. They were smart, they loved to learn, and they wanted to homeschool. My personal philosophy was that each of us should do our very best with whatever talents God had given us and, through conscientious effort, we would make the world a better place.
My spiritual revelation had the precise effect I always suspected it might. Charlotte immediately remembered a crucial need to replenish their goldfish's food supply, tossed the kids head first into her bicycle's pup tent kid carrier and shifted through all 3 gears of her bike's derail-hers in the fastest getaway I'd ever "witnessed."
Sincerity stinks.Had I learned nothing from Linusand the Great Pumpkin? In a momentary lapse of judgment, I'd forgotten to keep my blanket securely in place o'er this little (jack-o) lantern o' mine. And, I hadn't even told Charlotte the whole story... that the worst period in our pre-school years was when I realized three year old Mikaela was recognizing words and learning to read on her own. On the advice of several teacher friends, who told me that she wouldn't fit in at kindergarten and would have to skip ahead a couple of grades if she kept this up, I rebuffed all of her repeated requests to teach her to read 'real' books. The "rejection" seemed to hurt her emotionally, no matter how I explained it or tried to distract her with 'fun' activities and playdates. But I persisted, determined that she would attend traditional school.
I spent my time touring schools and visiting on parents' night open houses, taking Mikaela to our neighborhood school's Dr Seuss play to show her that indeed - in 2 more years - attending school would be wonderful, and even signing her up for pre-K classes where I was told she asked too many questions, overparticipated and refused to properly print lowercase letters using the "clock system" (because she had mastered upper & lowercase lettering already, but apparently that was not the point). After three months of this, my little scholar was literally at her wit's end. Finally, at home one quiet morning, I pulled out a chapter book and asked her to read it aloud to me. She was ecstatic and that decided it for all of us. What were we waiting around for?
Our families continued to get together after my unconscionable faux pas, but we always kept to safe topics after that: discussing our kids' vegetable preferences, debating the environmental impact of cloth vs. commercial diapers or, always a bonding win-win topic, listing all the things other moms did wrong in raising their kids. By the next fall, her son was accepted into the city's most competitive academic kindergarten program, reputed to produce only National Merit Finalists and Rhodes Scholars. He did very well but, for first grade, she transferred him to a magnet school for music, explaining that she sought a well-rounded education.
Sacrilege! Not that I'm judging... Few parents are comfortable putting all their little eggheads in one basket. Of course, we've been doing this homeschooling for so long now, we just went ahead and invested in a whole basket case... but that's just us. Most likely, her son will graduate from the music academy as a classically trained musician, receive a scholarship to Juilliard and be first chair in any of five instruments.
(That's okay, we play music, too... We adhere strictly to the Chu-ze-key guitar method -- if you don't know the fingering on a note, no need to fret, simply choose to play a different note or skip it altogether. Hey, when they're teenagers, who do you think will be picked to play in a garage band? See, we homeschoolers do consider socialization and the big picture.) As our kids grew, we met on their school holidays and during summer vacations and, eventually, we also found some like-minded families in homeschooling groups.
Certainly, we all got a lot out of that playgroup experience. The kids made many new friends, although -inexplicably- none of them elected to homeschool when it came time to start kindergarten. And, perhaps most significantly, it reaffirmed my promise to myself that I would never again divulge even the slightest hint of religious motivation in our homeschooling decision. Thank God, I've faithfully stuck to that one...
The truth is we're closet religious homeschoolers. But, if asked, I'll deny it. Three times.
Like all moms out there, I struggled with knowing exactly when to broach certain topics with my kids. When to assume they were mature enough for sensitive discussions about those "taboo" subjects that make all parents pause and shudder. Yes, you know the ones.
Things like beheadings, backstabbings, extramarital affairs, illegitimate children, political assassinations, love triangles, polygamy, suicide, disposal of bodies, hiding evidence, miscellaneous subterfuge and, of course, asps.
Essentially, all the facts of life. Why couldn't I find any chapters on those by the so-called experts Dr. Spock & Dr. Sears?
Well, let me tell you, the perfect age for exposing your impressionable youngster to each of these worthy life lessons is 4 years old. I know what you're thinking, just how long did I think I could keep overprotecting them? Homeschooled kids are so sheltered.
I admit, it wasn't even my idea to teach them any of this so early & in my master syllabus we were to wait for the macabre until kindergarten, at least. I'd adamantly refused to add Shakespearean drama to Richard Scarry selections for our storytimes, despite the kiddos' pleadings and peer pressure.
Really, some homeschooling moms were shocked. They extolled the virtues of condensed versions of Shakespeare's tales retold by Mary & Charles Lamb. They shook their heads at me & questioned whether I truly could have been an English major in college. But, I steadfastly resisted - I suppose it's that dysfunctional, parental urge to preserve childhood for as long as possible. . .
I just couldn't see how most of the historical plays, tragedies or even comedies transferred very well into abridged, ten page summaries. (If only my high school students had known about the Lamb version, all those wasted minutes reading Cliffs notes could have been saved. . . ) I mean, what's left in Romeo and Juliet: 2 teens go behind their parents' backs, swing around on a balcony one night, a friar actually helps them come up with a completely numskull idea & they both end up killing themselves. There's not even any redeeming Elizabethan blank verse and, horrors, all puns are edited out.
So, how did I lose control? It was when I least suspected it, got distracted and let Katrianna, a preschooler at the time, check out the comic book version of Egyptian pharaoh history. How could I be so irresponsible, you ask? (Sure, hindsight is always 20/20.)
Before I could "preview" it, she'd zipped through the whole thing in the car on the drive home. She'd been a very enthusiastic Egyptology student and even when we were 'officially done' with our school unit, she'd happily continued to pursue her independent studies. I tried to keep up, but she'd left me in the dust after the middle kingdom. . .
I was none the wiser, a complacent and oblivious parent, until weeks later when the "ides of March" was upon us. I referred to the infamous phrase in passing and then saw a quizzical look on the kids' faces, so I began to explain that it was an important day in Roman history & people thought bad things might happen. . . before I could get any further, Mikaela interrupted to explain all about omens and how a seer told Julius Caesar he would die that day. I hurriedly shushed her, casting meaningful Quiet! glances in the direction of her little sister who seemed to be listening. Mikaela finally got the subtle hint. All was silent.
Seizing the opening, Katrianna then commenced to fill in the blanks of our stories: "Julius Caesar was surprised and stabbed by some senators, including his buddy Brutus. Marc Antony had tried to stop it, but he was too late."
I thought, Brutus? And not the one who beats up Popeye?
I kneeled down and took her by the hand. "How do you know about Marc Antony, sweetheart?"
"Well, he was one of Cleopatra's boyfriends. Julius Caesar didn't want to leave her after they had a baby, but he had to go back to Rome. Then she and Marc Antony had some kids... twins!"
I was stunned, but she interpreted that as rapt attention so she continued: "And then before Marc Antony could lead an army against the conspur.. conspur.. con-spur-a-ters, he and Cleopatra were caught and he killed himself with a dagger. And then Cleopatra was sad, so she picked up an asp and it stung her, so she died too."
No way, this is not happening was all I could muster in terms of profound response. But, she wasn't finished, only catching her breath.
"Oh, and I forgot! Before all that, they showed Julius Caesar Pompey's head in a jar of honey." *
A jar of honey? And, for my daughters, that evokes not Pooh & Piglet, but a decapitated Pompey? (These are the same girls who at that time couldn't get through the witch & apple scene in Snow White. Apparently, make-believe, Disney violence is a lot more frightening than the real deal.)
At that moment, it dawned on me that I had misunderestimated** my little homeschoolers. They were, in fact, not ready for independent study. That evening at bedtime, all together, we began reading aloud Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, since really the bard could add nothing with his rendition of Julius Caesar.
Editorial note: I realize I reneged on my personal blogging vow and posted a whole entry here without any puns. True, some subjects are just inherently lacking in humor, but I still acknowledge I've let everyone down. As the Romans might say before throwing me to the lions, "What theHail, Caesar?! That was really bad forum."
Ahh, that makes me feel much gladiator. Two thumbs up!
*For the historical sticklers, it was actually Alexander's body that was stored in honey & Pompey's head which was presented in a basket. Katrianna's confusing them is evidence of our slacker, half-asped approach to history. Better get back to the basics. "Kids, go outline some chapters in a textbook."
**Don't judge. It happens to the best of us, doesn't it, Dubya?
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?
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.
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The World Cup series: Part 3 of 4 
Not surprisingly (at least for those well-versed in birth order theory), the baby of the family, a last-minute draft choice acquired from the SPCA Juniors division, was an extroverted crowd pleaser. Christened Cameroooooooon, the dynamic dribbler was admittedly not the most disciplined athlete, impatient with set plays & preferring to improvise. Yet, just like Cathy's all -It's Milla- time favorite World Cup
contenders, she was by far the most entertaining to watch. What's more, that Indomitable Lion uniformly marked any snakes in the grass and, without thought to risking her career, willingly took to the attack for the sake of the squad (garnering a record-setting 6 garters in a single outing... including one gut-checkin' overtime). But, most significantly, Cameroon revived - at least for her cheerfully sidelined soccer mom - that beloved '70s fad: Red, Yellow & Green Striped, Polyester Knee-Highs. Stylin'! 
To be both humbled & uplifted in cheering - or booing - the cause of humanity? (Greatly facilitated by following the crowd cues flashing on the scoreboard.) Furthermore, as Phil Knight suggests, without a solid foundation in commercialism & springy shoes, could we really expect them to be adequately equipped for the game of life? (Sure, unless setting them up for failure as Nike goddesses is an acceptable option in your household.... Personally, I Just couldn't Do It.) 
