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


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

Whoa! no way, how could we ever have let it come to this?  Now see where being lax about little league legacies leads?  Well yeah, straight to the Nobel Prize!  Via the Declaration of Independence, US Constitution, Bill of Rights & Civil Rights movement.  With the United Nations + Africa in hot pursuit...
 
It started out innocently enough, merely when Mikaela decided she'd grow up to be President of the United States. Naturally, that necessitated a quick homeschooling unit dedicated to a perusal of the US Constitution, in order to acquaint herself with its tenets & thereby allow ample time to strategize ways to circumvent them. (Never too early to start the process, after all... just ask Dick Cheney, that trailblazer.)  This coincided with The Declaration of Independence's American tour, which we heard was putting on quite the live show, so we caught a performance at the LBJ presidential library on the University of Texas campus. (This original copy of the Declaration, one of just 3 privately owned, was bought at auction by Norman Lear, who might've just kept it All in the Family but instead sponsored a cross-country 'road trip' to bring democracy's most esteemed document into fair & equal-opportunity viewing for all the people. Subversive Hollywood liberal. Gee whiz, could he learn a thing or two about patriotism... from an Archie conservative, am I right?)


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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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


And now for an extra Specials treat:

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

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


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

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


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

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

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

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

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


Back in Texas, the humble, state-funded university had already adopted & even moved beyond the Sullivan Principles without any help from hardball political operatives like me. Akin to the magnetic inclusiveness of my public high school, the diversity of students and campus culture promoted natural connections, an environment where all ethnicities, races, religions & classes belonged. Which was certainly a relief. For it allowed everyone to focus on the really big, world issues. And funnel their energies into what's most important. Uh huh, that's right, talkin' bout Kickin' It Ol' Skool!
 
That's where Chris - a guy who made a persuasive political yet somewhat controversial fashion statement by wearing his $5 'Free Nelson Mandela' ANC t-shirt a minimum of twice weekly - made his pitch. He proudly played for "Agony of De Feet," an intramural team composed of mates from such exotic lands as Lebanon, Syria, Egypt, Nigeria, Greece, Iran, Cambodia, Mexico, Ghana and California. In the heralded semifinals, this left-leaning right winger earned acclaim by scoring the go-ahead goal on a penalty kick, his cleat striking a glancing blow to the ball ground which sent the opposing goalie leaping into the air for a desperate save as earthshaking tremors (aka, 'incidental contact') propelled the ball's torpid-o charge into the net. Another of his citywide clubs, "Albion," was predominantly made up of Brits, a few Scots and a couple of Irish blokes whose brilliant strategizing (when the refs weren't looking) expedited the squad's phoenix rise from 4th division dregs to 1st division victors in only 4 seasons. It, too, was a culturally broadening experience, especially when they'd invite him to partake in postgame draughts at the Richmond Arms pub. There, after discreetly requesting that he please put away his checkerboard, they'd commiserate over what aled 'em by ordering another round of pints, plus a second bottle of Crush pineapple sodapop for their favorite rookie sidekick. 

Once forfeits due to injury exceed the number of actual matches played, it's time to quit. So how swell is it that the World Cup was so accommodating, showing up in our very own backyard just in time for Chris' ankles' retirement party in 1994? The first round-of-16 match, pitting Sweden against Saudi Arabia, proved rather uneventful despite the 3-1 result & those swingin' Swedes' much-anticipated raucous scoring celebrations (e.g., firm handshakes, kindly pats on the back, mischievous hair mussing... Buncha Viking punks). Yet, for us, just being there & sharing in the World Cup communal spirit was a no header. For instance, we gladly paid $20 to discover the 4-wheeling capacity of our Honda Accord when coming to an abrupt, final resting (parking) place mid-wye in our tracks due to all those partially dugout railroad ties crisscrossing the officially sanctioned dirt lot; waited out a thunderstorm in the Dallas zoo's Wilds of Africa aviary (conspicuously absent of football fanatics, who must have been going incognito); and learned why Texas-sized, ten gallon baseball hats never caught on with soccer players. Overall, it served very nicely as a warm-up friendly for Game 2.
 
Which Chris felt certain would be "the one," Brazil vs. Holland in the quarterfinals. The first half was classic, riveting soccer, a purist footballer's delight:  After 45 minutes, still 0-0!  Wholly unadulterated by scoring, the definition of "Fantastic!" Thus, given those fraught-with-suspense circumstances, Chris' Whirled Cup Spilleth Over Incident in the 43rd minute was perfectly understandable. Not that he didn't immediately "Beg pardon!" once he noticed the Coca-Cola cascading onto the fellow's head and frothing in foamy profusion under his collar. Plus offer assistance by fastidiously dabbing at the chap's furrowed brow & magnanimously presenting the now-empty souvenir cup to him by way of making conciliatory amends. Momentarily, it seemed, the day wouldn't be a complete loss in terms of real, interactive soccer spectacle! However, the guy was obviously not a legit football aficionado, for no requisite brawl ensued, but merely a miffed & international-mayhem-averting "No worries." Honestly, this WC experience was proving to be quite a let down. 
 
Of course, during halftime, lesser fans found themselves fearing that Brazil was Dunga for. Or perhaps musing, in an offsided sorta way, Wherefore art thou, Romário? But no doubt due to head coach Carlos Parreira's Tom Landry's pep talk in the Cotton Boll locker room, Romário came out striking, then proud papa Bebeto rocked the joint, and finally a buckin' Branco embraced his inner Texan, delivering a free KIKKer for the win!  In celebratory cacophony, everybody simultaneously struck up their belongings -- drums, horns, fifes, tom-toms, kazoos, cowbells, bongos, accordions + bagpipes -- and morphed into anaconda-like oneness to exit the stadium singing "Olé, Olé, Olé, Olé, Brasil, Brasil!" Afterwards, no one admitted they'd rooted for Holland's Lost Boys (sadly, Tink, it's 'cuz they dwell in Never Netherlands).
  
Turned out, this 5-goals-all-coming-in-the-second-half match was considered "the game of the tournament" (even by those who didn't realize we were there) and led the way to an unprecedented 4th World Cup title for the Seleção!
      
See Part 3 The World Cup: Soccer It to Me

The World Cup series: Part 1 of 4

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

"Stand Up For Your Rights!"

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

"Don't Give Up The Fight!"

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

"It's not all that glitters is gold; Half the story has never been told"
 
By the time our lil' dedicated core of agitators reconvened -- coincidentally enough, in the school's newspaper offices -- journalistic integrity rallied the cause with unbiased, factual reporting of glorious, indomitable dissidence. (Following a quick, unanimous decision to omit superfluous details, such as the one about an as-yet-unidentified sophomore who panicked and unplugged Bob Marley & Peter Tosh's First Amendment rights -- emanating from a hifi defiant 12" dual-cassette boombox -- mere moments before the college president's impending advance.)  The editor-in-chief made the additionally daring decision to run "Out of South Africa" as the week's lead story, front page & topped with a photo taken at the precise angle to appear jam-packed with no less than 20 laudably heroic students, 18 of whom also happened to be news staffers.

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

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

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

"You can fool some people sometimes, But you can't fool all the people all the time"
 
The finance committee could find absolutely no reason to alter course on their winning investment policies. Well, maybe with one exception... regarding accrued interest in a certain puny(tive), out-of-state investment. That's okay, at the end of freshman year, I packed up my scholarship & went home. Quite successfully divested, I might add subtract.     

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

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

See Part 2 The World Cup: United We Play

"You's guys needing something, eh?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


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

Which led to our favorite trip in all of British Columbia -- a drive along the Sea to Sky Highway. As Katrianna noted in her travel log, there were "Lovely views of the Coast range meeting the sea. It has waterfalls, lakes & hills meeting the ocean all together in one." Due to the ongoing road construction in preparation for Olympian traffic jams, stopping at the overlooks wasn't allowed but its views of Howe Sound's fjord were as pretty as the travel reviewers promised.
 
So we arrived at our final Sea to Sky destination whistlering a happy tune. Whistler, site of the 2010 Olympic skiing events, was at that time a sleepy little village. Really sleepy. Apparently it was nap time for all the frustrated snowboarding teenagers who lounged on bus stop benches or atop decorative flagstone walls while anxiously awaiting the season's first snowfall. Occasionally, they'd rouse themselves to perform skateboarding tricks across stairway railings & attempt death-defying jumps over strategically placed Adirondack chairs borrowed from hotel cafes. All before settling back down under a tastefully trimmed hedgerow to catch some z's. Well, truthfully, that's when demonstrations of their even more elaborate smokin' skills began. And, dude, before we realized it, it was 4:20 - imagine that - and certainly high time for us to cut out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wanna wrastle?"

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

"Umm, no...   umm, thank you."  

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

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

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


OH NO!

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

Our tour of the former military base turned Olympic training facility continued. We strolled through the students' study room, crammed with computers situated next to air hockey tables wedged between vending machines, further confirmation that we homeschoolers are well on our way to attaining Olympic glory (uncanny, for it's exactly the kind of scholar-athlete nurturing environment we'd created in the kids' playroom back home).
 
 
We also saw some weightlifters - that took a load off. And then it was on to the men's gymnastics facility where our tour group was warned to NOT step on the specialized springy floor, as demonstrated repeatedly by the enticingly bouncy tour guide. Sure nuff, when he turned his back and we were to file out, two apparently non-English-speaking German tourists leaped in pliés, grand jetés & arabesques across its padded expanse in order to film a short rhythmic gymnastics routine with their camera phone. The guide was not amused. Neither were we. At best, their performance only earned a 6.5.

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

Mikaela and Katrianna are just like the Williams sisters. Yes, that's right, so similar to Venus and Serena, it's hard to know where to begin...

Well, you see, Mikaela and Katrianna are also sisters. And best friends. They spend nearly all their time together. Homeschool together. Travel together. Are too two together? Really, like V&S in every way.

Only M&K can't play tennis. No. Not at all. But besides that one little exception -- of sharing 40 Grand Slam titles between them -- our daughters could be the identical twins of the Williams sisters.
 

They just don't want to be. Not that we haven't tried. And it's not that the Easter Bunny didn't do his part ... nor is it the foot fault of Coach Grandma, who gave them several enthusiastic lessons: to Mikaela, on how to serve and volley, & to Katrianna, on how to scoop up the balls & NOT throw them as far away as possible. (Granted, watching those funny men on the next court rushing the net and, just as they were going for a smash, make contact with one of those errant balls underfoot - well, let's just say, in Katrianna's humble opinion, that was a sport in and of itself.)



Of course, tennis wasn't the only game in town. Or even their first athletic endeavor. I mean, who creates those kinds of expectations for someone who has just come into the world under 24 inches tall? (OK, besides Andre Agassi's parents?) Not us, we were fair. Without any pressure, we patiently let them grow to 2'6." Then we went with basketball.

And, just for the record (is that American or world?), it wasn't like we christened Mikaela with sports in mind. At least not her 1st placed name. Instead, I casually selected her middle name for its sporty nickname potential, something that could be easily shortened and then chanted by stadiums full of adoring fans. That way, her entire identity did not have to be wrapped up in being an athlete. Thoughtful, no?

OK, so she did attend Houston Comets games before she was actually born. Her first shoes were high tops. She dined exclusively on the Breakfast of Champions (mom's milk, supplemented with Special K). She had a Michael Jordan coloring book. And we'd insisted on using Hakeem Olajuwon's brand of drinking water for her baptism.
In terms of nothing-but-net gains, it seemed all was going well. By the tender age of two, Mikaela had learned to slam dunk - her balled up socks - into the Sheryl Swoopes mini hoop rim set over the laundry basket. A guarded Cynthia Cooper [Mom] often assisted with 2 pointers. She even learned to count by keeping score during these grueling five-minute shootarounds. But, most importantly, she gained the confidence & assertiveness necessary for trash talking during pick-up games (ok, that might be unrelated... reminding her dad to take out the garbage is not really the same thing, is it?).

When she was finally ready for Show Time, we presented her with a real hard b-ball (though technically it's still smaller than "real" since it's for girls, pro-playing WNBA 'girls'?). Swish! This is fun! It was easier to dribble, shoot, pass, catch -- until she stretched her hands out and misjudged - Ow! jammed her finger. She responded as any future hall of famer would: shock, anger, disbelief, all culminating in a dirty look shot in my direction. I encouraged her to try again. So she did. Seconds later, Ow! sprained the very same knuckle. I explained that it was just part of the game, better shake it off. So, again, she did. Only not the injury, the whole sport. Just like that, her basketball playing years were over, her last ever jam session done.

[By the time Katrianna was old enough to play, it was too late - she got the "benefit" of her big sister's experience - for Mikaela, unlike some other has-been hoopsters, smooth-moved into retirement with maturity and grace, content in her new role as a tv color commentator: "O my, what excitement! See all those grown ups rolling around on the floor after a silly ball?... Hey, look - there's that player who got a bloody, broken nose and has to wear a plastic face mask. Now listen, Katrianna, Mom says that's just part of the game... Let's watch him try to shake it off!"]
 
Then there was soccer. Though I never had any aspirations to be a "soccer mom," Chris wasn't about to let that stop him: Take notice, playgroup moms, minivan or no minivan, Daddy's little girls were gonna be fútbol stars! I have to admit, he gave it his all, put in 110%, kept his focus, stuck to the game plan, executed at crunch time, never gave up, just wanted it more, took it one game at a time... no, that last one is not true. In fact, he skillfully used his young prodigies to get a pass to watch not just one or two soccer games on weekends, but whole World Cupfuls of games at a time. For instructional purposes. For the sake of our children. He also read to them daily from scripture (Pelé's My Life and the Beautiful Game), requested they respectfully rise from the couch and sing "Olé, Olé, Olé, Olé, Brasil, Brasil!" every time Ronaldo scored, and, if I proposed that maybe the girls should get back to school (or just go play outside... play some soccer even?), he countered that this was educational: After all, weren't we studying Spanish? And here he was modeling full language immersion, encouraging them to absorb every linguistic nuance this romance language & Univisión's Andréas Cantor had to offer. 

As many rookie parents learn, soccer is the first organized team sport available to 3 year olds - so how difficult can it be? The YMCA emphasizes that a successful season is determined by two factors: 1) everyone plays & 2) everyone has fun. Yet, despite three years of attempts, those impossibly high standards remained elusive for our dear daughters. Then again, who am I to judge? It is quite probable that the girls were getting just as tough a cardiovascular workout running away from the ball as they would have had they actually run toward it. Absolutely, the sum total of exercise was impressive. All that bending, stretching, building up a sweat, straining to reach out & score - that perfect dandelion or clover stem needed to complete the fresh-picked flower necklaces they and their friends were braiding on the sidelines (or, not to stifle their creativity, often right in the middle of the field as the game went on about them). Plus, that doesn't even take into account all of the miles logged while traipsing after butterflies... It did make me wonder, exactly how realistic were the goals we were setting for them - or, for that matter, were those goals occupied by the opposing team's goalies? You know, the ones at the end of the field, girls, where the ball is supposed to go? Wait a minute, Dad -- what ball? Even Chris came to accept, as far as M&K were concerned, soccer would forever be an "away game."
 
We were 0 for 3 with sports. For the love of the game, any game, I decided to throw seven-year-old Mikaela a softball. Spring into action, it was time for Little League! Besides a few rounds of catch with a tennis ball & making sure she didn't knock herself out when swinging a bat (plus showing her how to break in her glove by oiling it, folding it around a ball, placing three rubber bands just so and then sleeping with it under her mattress), I didn't work with Mikaela very much ahead of her inaugural season. We'd been homeschooling for a couple of years & I purposely intended to use this opportunity to let another adult coach her and act as a role model. Not surprisingly, she fared poorly at tryouts. I imagine she was drafted in the last round or two, an afterthought at best.

A few evenings later, I found myself at a champagne reception for parents. It started with a toast: "To the winningest team in the league, for two straight undefeated seasons!" Turned out, amid bites of hors d'œuvres, this was a strategy session. Item #1 (scratch that, the only item) on the agenda: How to manage that again. The head coach boasted he'd exerted all his influence with the board to secure the best practice schedule available - most importantly, one where the weak players would be able to practice on a different field. Nods of appreciation circulated the room. Later, the team mother assured me not to worry, that all the starters made a special point to talk to the other girls between innings in the dugout. Wasn't that nice? Plus, and this was not theoretical, my daughter might not play even one inning in a single game & she could still be guaranteed a first place trophy at the end of the season. Well, thank my lucky stars, Mikaela'd really hit one outta the park this time, hadn't she? Ever so briefly, the mom stared at me, then laughed loudly and suggested, "Now, how's about some more champagne?"

In my own athletic career, I'd made it a practice not to quit. For my daughter, however, I justified that the season hadn't officially begun and perhaps this didn't count because Mikaela had not yet met her teammates (or the bench). Sure, it occurred to me to request a transfer: Please, sir, can you trade my kiddo to the lousy team? Not only would we be pariahs of the league after that, but, if she did end up being good, the potential consequences were even worse: she'd inevitably play for these All-Star coaches eventually and/or, every time she came up to bat, have to subsist on the blue home plate special: daily servings of cheap beanings. The next morning, I stopped by the treasurer's office and explained that something had come up (values, but I didn't specify) and that, due to unforeseen circumstances, I was sincerely sorry that Mikaela would be unable to participate this year (that last part was true, I did feel like one sorry mom for months afterwards). No doubt, it was another missed opportunity for my daughter to win that coveted "good sportsmanship" award - or, if she allowed herself to dream, the "most improved player" plaque - and it was all my fault.

So, I guess what I'm trying to say is that maybe M&K are not exactly like the Williams sisters. The honest conclusion is that Mikaela & Katrianna are actually just like the Andrews Sisters. Well, except there are only two Sarkar Sisters... And they can't sing.


The following is a petition for enTITLEment allowances:
I know, there are some homeschoolers who are really good sports. So good, in fact, that the very reason they homeschool is to free up more time to devote to training, schooling their adversaries on the court and bringing home(school?) the gold. But, those rare, fast-ballin' pitchmen certainly throw off the curve (or is that the slider rule? Ut oh, I'm getting that sinker feeling again... O, screwball it, this jock jargon is just splitting fingers, runs afoul ball of the law of homeschool averages & will never produce a hit anyhow) for typical 'athletically challenged' homeschoolers, who proudly took their ball and went home schooling...
 Anyway, "Homeschoolers Are Such Bad Sports" was Title number IX - the first eight I thought up couldn't get equal fun-ding & had to be phased out. Along with - and to the dismay of - my conscience's wrestling squad. Hey, gotta make those cuts somewhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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












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













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

Duped again, we sure felt like dopes.

For Father's Day, a deferential retrospective of our family's beloved Dad -

Early on, thanks to Dad's musical tastes, we discovered that the most soothing, soporific lullabies for infants include any with a walking bass line by Steel Pulse. Then, thanks to the kids' toddler years, we discovered that the favorite band for irie men in their late thirties is The Wiggles. (True, Veggie Tales tunes are also great, but they get Chris too revved up and we have to increase his Ritalin.) 

When she was 3, Mikaela had a lingering cough for a few days following a cold and she milked it for all it was worth - which was, not coincidentally, attention from Mom when her newborn sister was nursing. Chris took charge and strictly forbade any future coughing-for-effect. Of course, it had none other than the predictable, expected result (a parent to anyone but a father): Mikaela's scratchy throat continued for a full year. Satisfied with a parenting job well decreed, Chris complacently left to go to the office every day and I got to take Mikaela to cough at playgroups, parks, nature classes & library storytimes where I received a daily dose of "the look" from complete strangers - what kind of mother would drag around a [not] sick child like that?
 

Their dad has always been a devoted companion for the girls' imaginary play. Each year in December, he would take his place on Santa-Mikaela's sleigh-sofa, squeezing in beside the other elves - MacKenzo, Socko & Katrianna - and fly throughout the land looking for good little girls and boys deserving of presents. Some days, he'd even come home & regale them with news brought directly from Saint Nick himself, who happened to be seen at our neighborhood Target stuffing his "magic Santa pocket" (versatile spandex, Perseus) full of innumerable toys of all descriptions. My, what delightful fun! Until that afternoon when Santa sent a note stating that if a cantankerous Mikaela kept refusing to cooperate with her "very cool dude" father, she'd find only lumps of coal in her stocking on Christmas morn. OH HO, a very original and clever ploy, Chris Kringle! Until Mikaela noticed that Santa's message was written on an Intel post-it note -- exactly the same kind that Mikaela had earlier written "6 AND 3!!!" on & stuck to Chris' computer screen so he would correctly state his daughters' ages when clients asked.
 
 


As a former member of the #1 squad in Houston's premier amateur soccer league, Chris was primed (well, just past his prime) to turn his talents to coaching Mikaela's youth team. He spent practices diligently working with the children to perfect the most important skill in football: how to celebrate a score by stretching out one's arms & running circles around the field yelling ¡Gooooooolllllllllll! like Univision's Andreas Cantor. The kids loved it! Well, loved it at practices anyway, since going 0-8 for two consecutive seasons really did not allow for too many game-time display opportunities. [Check out Chris' soccer blog] 
     
When we started globeschooling, Chris happily moved over to let me take the driver's seat - 15 minutes at a stretch (plus a yawn and then he's usually asleep for the next 15 hours). His main way to prepare for our trips is to plan all the ways he can back out of them at the last minute. Once we're on the road, though, he defies the stereotype about men getting lost & refusing to ask for directions. A 21st century, tech-liberated kind of guy, he not only buys several maps for each trip, but also insists we listen to the GPS voice navigation system (when it comes complimentary on rent cars). That way, he's covered every contingency and when we get lost - as we always do when he's in charge of directions - we can be sure to get lost as quickly and efficiently as possible. Some people go for unlimited mileage; others content themselves with unlimited options for choosing the wrong way to go.

These days, Dad willingly plays Monopoly with the girls. That all-American game that teaches such important values: the value of math fluency in everyday life, the value of money management, the value of planning ahead, and, most importantly, the value of cheating without getting caught. No, that's the old, outdated Monopoly everyone knows. And, frankly, they're tiring of it. So, we're on the waitlist for the new & improved, more realistic edition. Where you still learn the value of cheating, but also the value of getting caught, so you can position your company to receive a government subsidized bailout (in the billions of dollars, not measly Boardwalk thousands) and a golden personal parachute compensation package that'll keep you flying high all the way to your 85th birthday. . .


With respect to Model Parenting, he takes a slightly different approach. Chris leads by counter example. It's a variation on 'Do as I say, not as I do' which he contends builds character by providing the girls a healthy chance to resist negative influences. For downright-bodacious example, although he grew up in India & still has remnants of a British accent, he revels (and rebels) in talkin' like a Texan. To Mikaela's chagrin, he employs every Southern turn of phrase & inflection and drawls out their linguistic delivery. The eye-rolling grammarian can't hardly stand it - "Daaaad, that's a double negative!" (A typical hypo critical tween, Mikaela prefers to be singularly negative instead.) Master of reverse psychology, Chris tells the girls, "Simply find a guy who doesn't do these things - that's the key to a happy marriage, just ask Mom."


For all academic subject(ivitie)s, our homeschooling dad consistently demonstrates that the overwhelming male need to know all the answers supersedes logical thought. He is unable to utter the words "I don't know" in the presence of his children. For the last several years, we've focused on one particular whopper that came to symbolize them all. We were studying the history of flight (getting ready for the girls' first plane ride - can't do anything around here without making it "educational") and Chris explained that the use of Concorde jets had been discontinued due to all of the sonic booms produced when they kept breaking the sound barrier. Now I knew that fuel costs plus ticket prices for the supersonic time-busters had been exorbitant and was also under the impression that safety issues had ultimately grounded them, so I never bothered to check. As any good wife - not to mention educator - would do in this situation, at the speed of sound, I led the children in ridiculing their father (my life's Catcalling). "Oh c'mon, Chris, that's just plane wrong! Exactly how many sonic booms per day were they having with all those Concorde flights to Paris?" From then on, nearly any theory offered by their venerated father on any subject earned the immediate classification of "sound barrier" and was promptly disregarded (after pausing for a traditional moment of derisive laughter). Ahh, how quickly time flies...             
 
In honor of Father's Day this year, the girls begged me to let them guest blog. Their subject? "Sound Barriers" They'd made a list of Dad's best knowledgeable nuggets and were all set to start it off with a Boom! Due to my journalistic integrity, which will allows nothing but strict adherence to the facts, I decided I better google it. Ah ha, I was right, so I called Chris over to look - in the interest of fairness and edification, mind you, not to rub it in. Then, he googled it. Unbelievable, Wikipedia had his back! M&K were undeterred and wanted to proceed with the other 49 irrefutable Dad facts, but the truth is that I was too shook up - dumbstruck, you might even say. What if he was right about the others, too? The girls' list will have to wait until next Father's Day - so we can conscientiously verify its inauthenticities, as well as to allow ample time for researching my Wikipedia conspiracy theory: 1) Chris hacked into their system unbeknownst to the editorial staff, or 2) all of the entries written for Wikipedia are in fact written by fathers similarly afflicted by Sound Barrieritis. I wonder if Oliver Stone is onto this? Honestly, I always thought it was called "mendacity" because men have a much higher capacity to supremely exemplify its many forms. (Hey, anyone seen my hot tin roof? Alas, let she who is without sin cast the first Brick...)

It's the universal truism of fatherhood - there really should be nothing knew under the son (or daughters), should there?

Finally, as Chris likes to remind me several times an hour, this family's blog would not be possible without his generous support, technical know-how and editorial advice. Even Mikaela has noticed his invaluable contributions: "Mom, do you think the people who read your blog miss as many of the jokes as Dad does?"  

Two households, both alike in dignity,  
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,  
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes  
A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;
Whose misadventur'd piteous overthrows
Doth with their death bury their parents' strife.
The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love,  
And the continuance of their parents' rage,
Which but their children's end naught could remove,  
Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage;
The which, if you with patient ears attend,
What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.
                                                                                            Prologue, Romeo & Juliet

On June 1st, Italian soccer star Luca Ceccarelli and his stellar girlfriend Irene Lanforti, both alike in dignity, got married in fair Verona. The mayor officiated at the ceremony in an effort to promote the city's romantic image, as well as a brand new $1300 bargain opportunity for other lovers to follow in Luca & Irene's footsteps (or in Romeo & Juliet's wake, as the case may be - my guess is that the price tag for the latter might be a bit higher, though, as it involves a double ceremony of sorts, so do check with your wedding planner in advance). In fact, they exchanged vows on Juliet's famed balcony, a destination which already receives 1.2 million pilgrims a year.

Only problem is that it's not Juliet's balcony. We jester not (we're no Shakespearean fools), we have this on high authority - that's right, we watch Rick Steves. Apparently, the Cappello family household, supposedly linked to the ancient Capulets, was actually occupied with "misadventur'd piteous overthrows" of another sort... indeed, it is reputed to have served famously as the neighborhood brothel. (Does this earn Luca a red light district card?) The balcony was added to the facade centuries after R&J's legendary tryst, but I wipe my civil hands clean of disparaging it any further.


The point is, by the time we got to Casa di Giulietta ourselves, it was a bit anti-climatic. All of us were jaded by visits to too many sightseeing attractions and - though it was subtle - we discerned that this one was yet another tourist booby trap. The whole idea of seeing Juliet like that rubbed M&K the wrong way, so none of us was disappointed when we arrived after closing time.

But, now, a flashback to the prologue of our own play on Romeo & Juliet:

M&K's Shakespearean melodrama had begun long before we entered Verona 'live and in person.' After several nights spent reading acts of the play aloud for "bedtime stories," we went ahead and scheduled Franco Zeffirelli's version for family movie night. They loved it and, naturally, it provided all manner of new family farcical fodder, like the scene where Romeo finds out Juliet is masquerading as a Capulet - dubbed the "Oh, Crap-ulet!" moment (yo, no disrespect). I very purposefully emphasized how silly R&J were to be so impatient, "doomed" and inclined to moaning - trying to make sure to counteract any over-romanticizing of the love story and its outcome (putting me in direct opposition to the dreamy Mercutio, thousands of English teachers who annually uphold this as the sacred epitome of tragic love, and the millions more afflicted with Sir Walter Scott disease in its many Harlequinesque manifestations). But, since they already knew about that sort of thing from Marc Antony & Cleopatra, I felt relatively assured that they were quite content to scoff at scars & won't be inclined to feel - or purposefully self-inflict - any wounds.  

Nevertheless, it did inspire them. We created an abridged script of the balcony scene and M&K began practicing at once...  so, May we humbly present Mikaela in the guise of Romeo and Katrianna as a r's rolling, Romeo-relishing Juliet:

And, since there was only one fair way to resolve "the ancient [actress] grudge that threatened to break to new [sibling] mutiny," Mikaela now assumes the role of a be-musing Juliet & Katrianna displays her best Zeffirelli-directed portrayal of the boysterous, love-struck Romeo:

Eventually, after all of this intense theatrical preparation in the states, the girls found themselves performing to wide acclaim across Europe. In nearly every village, town or city, in each & every country we visited, they sought out spare balconies, trespassed their stony limits & winged it to love's lofty heights to answer the summons of Shakespearean schmaltz. As you can imagine, many awe-struck, appreciative aficionados would stop what they were doing to listen (interpreted by M&K as a 'standing O') before resuming their mundane daily tasks, which peculiarly enough usually involved sweeping the dirt off their own balconies so that it cascaded, confetti-like, right onto Romeo & Juliet's upturned, praise-expectant bare heads.   


When we finally got to Verona following four months of "touring," our little troupers approached it with all of the enthusiasm of hackneyed actors on their 500th run of an off off-Broadway production. Their namesakes "up in graffiti" outside the gates of the Casa di Giulietta failed to amuse them. But, it was a beautiful, crisply cool night so we merrily romped through the medieval, marble-cobbled streets pretending to be the Montagues & the Capulets (improvising to add the snappy fingers & mandatory dance moves of the Sharks & the Jets, obviously). It was really perfect and oh-so authentic, all except for the fact that Tybalt, aka the Prince of Cat's, aka Chris, refused to change into the tri-colored tights I'd brought along especially for this occasion... clearly, men do not support the arts.

We strolled past Verona's colosseum and through a maze of fashion boutiques to Piazza delle Erbe, the expansive town square lined by herb vendors' carts, gleaming lights and freely flowing fountains of youths imbibing the nightlife. It was quite nice, but then we meandered around a corner and found ourselves in Piazza dei Signori, lorded over by a middle aged, supremo Dante who refused to tell us definitively whether we'd found Paradiso or, could it be, the infernal Cinema Paradiso? - certainly, his mute condescension proved to be a divine comedy at our expense.  Once more, we wandered on through an indescript opening in the walls and, magically, we were completely alone in yet another piazza facing the biggest, most imposing staircase and balcony we had ever scene!
 
That did it. The Sarkar Sisters Theater Company sprang into "Action!" Well, at least they tried to. Turned out that the final, moonlit performance of Romeo & Juliet actually started with the Intermission due to a minor glitch - when, upon inspecting the balcony to ensure its safety for the children, Mom was, at its vertex, suddenly struck with her fear of heights forgotten in all the excitement. No problem, there was only a slight twenty minute delay as Mom took to her hands and knees to crawl back down the 72 steps...
 
The dénouement of our Verona play date:

Truly, I don't know how I hadn't thought of this before. We always seem to overlook the obvious and what's right in our own backyard, don't we? But, thanks to the newly betrothed Mr. & Mrs. Ceccarelli and the fare-mayor of Verona, I'm adding The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas to our list of worldly, must-see sites. Of course, it's the home of the esteemed classic musical, valid reason enough. However, now I also realize we should be looking ahead and scope it out as an ideal spot for Mikaela's or Katrianna's future nuptials & afterparty. A wonder that it hasn't occurred to the fine, entrepreneurial folks at the La Grange chamber of commerce, ain't it? Just goes to show that we Americans still lag far behind in terms of European sophistication and literary nuance...     

A glooming peace this morning with it brings;
The sun for sorrow will not show his head.
Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things;
Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished;
For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

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.

March Madness has started a little early around here. Only for us, it's not on a basketball court. Our 3-point baskets are hanging, netted with nothing but peat moss, and bricks, in small shards, are added to the soil to achieve perfect pH balance.

So, move over, Mike Krzyzewski:

Katrianna has convinced the whole family to participate in a "Grow Off!"
                    Are you ready for this?

Yes, it's a round-robin-redbreast tournament to determine who can grow the healthiest plants.  (Vegas lists "Little Sprout" with a -6½ point spread over "Big Sis." Parents aren't expected to make it out of the first round.)

My daughter's intense interest in sprouting seeds is not so much for our consumption, but serves as a necessary developmental step in her dreams of large-scale cultivation. Her future plans to be a naturalist have long included setting up Katrianna's Nature Center to oversee endangered animal breeding programs.

In her pitch to get us to make gardening part of this year's homeschooling studies, she explained it as follows: It is imperative that we devote ourselves to honing our gardening skills in preparation for one day, in the very near future, when she will have to grow healthy and abundant foods to feed all of those endangered animals. We aren't just doing this for her, understand, we are doing this to save all of the world's endangered animals from starvation. (She was astute enough to pick this tactic instead of simply admitting her budding sibling rivalry - see previous post.)

Recently, she also added a new "growth potential" caveat, outlined in her 501(c)3 charity proposal (now at 17 pages and counting), that she plans to "branch out" into endangered plant propagation and save all those threatened botanical species, as well. So there, put up your Dukes, Coach K and Jane Goodall!

At this very moment, we have all sorts of sprouting vegetable, herb and flower seeds indoors. In addition, Katrianna's "forcing" an Amaryllis bulb by the tried and true method (just pin its leaves behind its back, eventually it cries uncle). She's also making eyes at several sprouting potatoes, performing intricate kiwi experiments & hatching pinecones in hopes of reforesting the entire western United States.

Finally, during this morning's breakfast, she successfully captured some squirmy pomegranate seeds from a fresh fruit and potted them up. Relying on the De-meter system as my measure, I wouldn't let her eat any more than six of the seeds, though... Just in case she pulled a Persephone and inadvertently managed to delay spring. Don't you Hades when that happens?