Recently in Washington Category

We're officially on "summer vacation." That can only mean one thing: Mikaela & Katrianna are now doing more schoolwork in a week than we accomplish in an entire month all together. Over time, I figured out, if I really want the kids to get busy with the academics, I just declare a holiday.

When they were little, M&K loved to "play school." Actually, they've never stopped. Our school curriculum & tempo are already guided, in large part, by their self-motivated learning styles and interests, so there is little difference when school is "on" or "off." Every now & then, however, I feel the inexplicable urge to exclaim, "Give me a break!... Please?" That's okay, the girls happily take charge and institute some discipline around here. And, since it's merely semantics anyway, I write down all the stuff they do "for fun" on our "vacation" and count it as school without their knowledge.
 
So, what are they doing? Well, there's the usual summer stuff: all-day playdates, lots of hiking & outdoor activities, plus baking, crafting & gardening. We're also visiting museums, zoos and state parks before they get too crowded. (FYI, we generally begin 'summer vacation' around mid-April... uh huh, homeschoolers are renegades.) And they're currently publishing the fifth issue in yet another newspaper venture...

But, mostly, they are preparing for the SAT.

No, I did not manipulate them into this (not that I'm knocking that technique, don't get me wrong). All on their own, they proclaimed one day that they weren't going to college because "We're going to HOMECOLLEGE, Mom!" Believe it or not, I wasn't immediately filled with a sense of maternal pride or teacherly accomplishment. When Mikaela was born, I'd come to terms with the idea that I would have to do my best by the kids for the next 20 years or so and, in our case, that includes homeschooling them. But, after that, I want to rest (or learn to fly airplanes, not quite sure). So, with no ulterior motive except perhaps to completely discourage the idea, we eventually came to an understanding. If they got such high SAT scores that they could win academic scholarship offers to competitively ranked universities of their choice, I would then agree to let them skip college. Otherwise, no dice. (Of course, I'm also counting on the inevitable, evolutionary desire to get as far away from one's parents as possible kicking in at around 17. Ok, who am I kidding? - maybe 16? 15? Do I hear a 14? Or, if they really are so smart, certainly they'll divine the genuine lure of further education: no full time job required. So, I'm not too worried. Yet.)
 
It all started last summer. At the bookstore, Mikaela picked out the gigantic, comprehensive Barron's SAT prep book which included several practice tests, the longest & driest vocabulary list she could find (sans cartoons or cute hints to help you remember the definitions - perused but rejected as "too easy") and infinite math problems with obligatorily convoluted explanations (not the entertaining, user-friendly versions Chris was leaning toward because he might be able to understand them). She was fervently commending the (national?) merits of this particular guide when, lo and behold! a guy suddenly pops out from behind a corner display to concur, for - did we all realize? -  he himself had used that very same study guide when he was in high school, and had, in fact, made a  [dramatic pause] ...1600! What the dickens?! He was an indisputable apparition of Christmas future - vividly demonstrating to our impressionable, starry-eyed pupils the fate of those who get a perfect SAT score: You shall forevermore spend your evenings haunting test prep aisles in bookstores to pounce on unsuspecting passersby, the only ones who might still care 15 years after that momentous day when the postmaster delivered verifiable proof of your preeminence to the mailbox. But, that's not all: if you continue to strive & work hard, like this admirable chap, you might turn your laudable efforts into a full time career as a Princeton Review tutor. I guess what the College Board attests is indeed true - SAT scores are obviously the #1, infallible indicator of a person's potential for life-long success.


Despite the genius hustler in our midst, Mikaela stuck with her choice and was quite pleased with the prospect of spending her "free time" riffling through 1,000 vocabulary flashcards and even looked forward to solving for x. (Since higher arithmetic had often been an exercise in patience with poor instructors who didn't understand the problems any better than I did, Chris took over math teaching duties when we hit algebra. Hey, I figure that if the kids do well on the math portion, we'll look back on this as a wonderful father-daughters bonding experience. And, if they don't, I have someone to blame besides myself... I fail to see any negatives in this solution.)




However, Katrianna spent much of the car ride home slowly brooding & fuming until we turned around just in time to see Mt St Katrianna erupt right there in the back seat. POW! She was incensed:
 
Why is Mikaela getting a SAT book and I'm NOT?
I never get any challenges! Why can't I have any challenges?
My math's too easy! Don't we remember when Mikaela was learning her times tables, who yelled out all the answers first?
Same with spelling - admit it! So, tell me, exactly why can't I have a good vocabulary, too?!

It was a full-blown temper tantrum, the likes of which we'd never seen, all over a SAT book. It didn't appease her when, in desperation, we suggested she could use the accompanying cd whenever she liked - appealing to her computer-geek nature, usually a surefire pacifier. The fact that she was technically supposed to be a 2nd grader didn't provide any solace, either. So, since there was nothing else to do, I pulled over, donned my powdered wig & black judiciary robe (stored in the glove box - heck, they thought of everything in those government-issue emergency supply kits, didn't they, Brownie?), and delivered a Supreme Court-level presentation of the evidence, with a full recounting of the history & progression of Mikaela v. Katrianna's scholarly preparation thus far: an exhaustive, logical proof of the necessary steps to SAT readiness. Unable to refute the fact that Mikaela had long been doing long division - the bane of K's existence (she always came up short) - Katrianna acquiesced on the condition that if she practiced her multiplication & division all year, we would allow her to participate in each & every SAT verbal and mathematics lesson. Furthermore, if she could follow the math as well as (or, we had to concede, better than) Mikaela, we'd rush out at once and purchase her very own, personal Barron's. A quick swing by the notary's office to formalize the contract & peace was restored on Katrianna's earth. 
 
After months of long, divisive days (actually, they were colorful worksheets), Katrianna reached her quotient at last. In addition, she'd completed all of Dad's assignments & continued to get as many answers right as her big sister because she went more slowly, but with more accuracy... So, the steadfast tortoise met the rite angles of passage requirements & this summer ended up with a SAT 3-book set that was serendipitously on sale for $8 total (pshew, no cosineR needed). First thing, she devoured the writing book, highlighting significant tips and all the while talking nonstop about how it's improving her imperative skills moment by moment! She then started in on the practice questions and, when she "graded" them, her exclamations of "Hey, I got it right!" were just as gleeful as those of "Oh, I got it wrong!" Plus, we overheard her suggesting to Mikaela, "I wonder if anyone ever missed every single question on the whole SAT?" In other words, if you can't get a perfect score, consider that as the next best option...
 
Now M&K are envious of each other's SAT vocab lists & traipse around trying to outdo each other in erudite panache, dropping sophisticated word choice at will. They are also very possessive of their words and take great umbrage when the other kid tries to usurp their "turf," as in "Hey, you can't use that - that's my word!!" Mikaela enjoys taking the reading comprehension tests and then discussing why she missed a question and what possible mindset the test makers could so erroneously have employed when coming to such poor conclusions. And the essay prompt practice has led them, after two or three frantic paragraphs of timed writing, to that age-old discovery: "My hand hurts."
  
Still, they insist that they're having loads of fun. It adds a completely new dimension to what seems to be the standard(ized) practice of "teaching to the test"  -- only instead of cramming for the two weeks before it's administered, they're blithely serving hard time of 5 to 10 year sentences (including some with No Error). And, finally, no test-taking detail is too small: they've meticulously planned out which snacks they'll take along for the break times between sections.  
 
Irregardless, in a continued effort to promote collegiate aspirations, I make it a point to tour universities everywhere we visit. But, honestly, it's not helping. For instance, an amiable but overzealous Stanford co-ed's thrilling accounts of wild 'n crazy cafeteria tray stair sledding, unfettered splashing in fountains between classes, a finals week tradition of paper airplane combat, and the "totally hilarious" time capsule buried with a four-year-old pizza slice inside it didn't exactly light a fire - intellectual or communal - under M&K. Moreover, the absolutely mortifying idea of a nude beach on the campus of the University of British Columbia likely contributed to rejuvenating their homecolleging resolve. No, this is definitely not working. . .  at least that's what I tell my husband when I look up long enough from How to Fly Airplanes for Dummies. 

Pretty soon,  I think we'd better start the new school year - and give the kids a chance for some "down time." Next spring, I vow to seriously look into options for summer camp. You know, the fancy free kind where you get to braid those ultra useful lanyards, build up the nerve to cannonball off the floating pier, spend forty minutes peering into your shoes to check for hidden scorpions, slap mosquitoes in time to Kumbaya and eat s'mores, like 'em or not. Golly, that sounds swell!  Precisely what M&K need: no more moping around, complaining about being bored with nothing to do & asking every 15 minutes for permission to go outside and play - the girls just hate it when I do that. I wonder, should I sign myself up for two sessions or three?

During much of our time spent in the Pacific Northwest, the girls couldn't see the rainforest for the trees. Or maybe it was just that they saw way too many trucks with what seemed to be most of the forest's trees loaded onto them and headed for the sawmill. You guessed it - they fell for those tall, evergreen & handsome beauties and then embarked on a sort of tree-mendous crusade.

Anticipating a strong reaction to witnessing the infamous logging up close, we discussed both sides of the issue - environmental concerns versus commercial pressures - before we made our trip to Washington state. We tried to be as fair and unbiased as green saps can be. We studied the temperate rainforest ecosystem & the history of the battle to protect spotted owls' habitat, but also learned about the realities of struggling local economies & jobs that depend on forest products. Yet even Chris and I were unprepared for the spectacle of those giant log-overloaded trucks careening incessantly down the road.

Just about everywhere on the Olympic Peninsula, when we pulled over for a scenic overlook or headed off for a hike, eighteen wheeler rigs stacked with newly felled trees whizzed by at regular five minute intervals, all day, from dawn to dusk.

Even the land preserved in Olympic National Park is not old "virgin forest" growth, since much of it has been logged two or three times in the 1800s or early 1900s before being "saved." But, it is recovering, verdant & lush compared to the surrounding private lands or US National Forests where clear cutting still occurs and whole hillsides are left barren or strewn with rejected logs, limbs & stumps of trees.

Nearly as distressing, in other parts of the upper forests where logging is not viewed as lucrative, the trees are being attacked by beetles and various diseases or fungus - things that have always existed but are now multiplying in epidemic proportions because of global warming. Winter temperatures no longer periodically drop low enough, plus there is significantly less rainfall year round, so the trees are "stressed" and much more susceptible to attack. On our hikes, we have seen the effects of pine beetle destruction on white bark pines and lodgepoles in the Rocky Mountains, including ranges reaching far into Canada, as well as in the temperate woodlands of the normally wet and cool Northern Cascades.  As you climb in elevation, the dense and healthy trees slowly begin to darken, then thin, look increasingly anemic and rotten, and finally you're in the midst of a dingy and gray wooded graveyard. It's surreal - like moving from a gorgeous and exhilarating full color photo into a sickened and decaying daguerreotype printed in sepia or black & white tones. But, primarily, it's all startlingly lifeless and mostly in shades of ashy gray.


The result has been that M&K are now hyper conscientious about not wasting paper. They became consumed with writing editorials, boycotting wood & paper products and doing all school & journal writing electronically... It's not all bad, especially since the girls' idea of creativity as toddlers (and, truthfully, for many years after) had been to scribble one single item on a lovely, clean sheet of paper and then cast it aside as unworthy. They repeated this process with great merriment, possibly 10 or 20 times a day: ahh, the satisfying sound of perforated pages being ripped from a new spiral notebook and, bonus, the leftover squiggly pieces that rained down like confetti all over the floor! Or, there were the countless paper airplane-making contests where they folded dozens of prototypes for each design. I'd waver between being pleased with their ingenuity & enthusiasm and perturbed by their lack of restraint and the piles of "wasted" paper. 

But, lo and behold, Katrianna has reformed and, like any new convert, she has become evangelical and presented us with new challenges that must be patiently "borne again" - mostly by the rest of us. For example, since Mom and Dad cannot seem to summon the courage to completely abandon their evil usage of paper towels, she has taken it upon herself to ration our sins - whether we buy the "pick your size" style rolls or not, she tears off each towel and proceeds to rip it in half and then in fourths and, if we don't stop her, in eighths, sixteenths... Then, when we want one, she dispenses - in grandiose disdain - a little one inch square of what used to be a paper towel and we're supposed to dry or clean or mop up with that.
Yet, despite their dedication and sincerity, M&K themselves fell off the conservation wagon fairly quickly. Reality set in: Where would Katrianna the gardener be without her paper cups and wooden toothpicks?  And, though Mikaela is all for hugging trees, she also wants to sketch them with wooden colored pencils on pads of drawing paper, compose odes to them in her beloved poetry journals and sit underneath their branches to read book after book after book. . .

So, they reneged on their personal vows to give up all paper, especially after that well-known temptress of gluttony (school) required they do so. But they've devoted themselves to a new, more attainable goal: to squeeze a week's worth of math problems onto both sides of a single piece of paper and to draw five or ten miniature sketches per page in their sketch books, going for quality over quantity. Admittedly, it's not exactly chaining themselves to trees or protesting by climbing up & sharing residence with a spotted owl come rain or sleet or lumberjacks... But, still, it's a little constructive contribution to show that they give a hoot.       


We've tried to use this as an opportunity to discuss finding a balance: buy products made from sustainable sources when possible but always be aware, less wasteful and generally much more appreciative of the value of our natural resources. It's been a lesson in moderation as much as activism. On Earth Day and every day.

This blog post is made from 100% recycled electrons & creates a minimum of post-consumer waste (IMHO)  

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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