Jamestown, Yorktown, and Williamsburg

At Jamestown, we opted for the actual site, vs. the 'Jamestown Experience' attraction. The Old Town and fort area are a bit of a mishmash of eras, Colonial, Revolutionary, and Civil War, but we did watch an archaeological dig in progress, which was worth the trip. They are uncovering gunmounts on the Civil War era earthenworks.

S is definitely her father's daughter. She has been chatting it up with every person she has met, beginning with the student working the dig.

My parents pooped out and waited with Elle, while Sarabelle, Grice, and I took the walking tour of New Town. A sense of foreboding when my mother suggested she might wait in the car, instead of on a bench beside the river on a picture-perfect day.



At Yorktown, we watched the movie explaining the battle, and planned to go out walking the battlefield and through the town, until Elle insisted she be carried. Plan B: Try to get Elle into the car to wait with Nana. Lots of tears, she didn't want to be left behind. Plan C: Do the drive-thru version. Elle falls fast asleep. You'd think it would now be a nice relaxing drive, right? Well, my mother, formerly content to sit in the back seat and read her latest Tom Clancy/Scott Turow/John Grisham sensation, has now commandeered the front seat because she no longer wants to have to help pass things back and forth to the girls. Too much work, I guess. But riding shotgun carries certain responsibilities too. My request for assistance with navigation during the driving tour was met with the negative response, "I can't."

Oh.

So, I drove, and read the map, and maneuvered through some pretty tricky roads, all by myself, thank you very much.

The road of the Allies encampment dips through a shallow stream at one point, and you cross like the soldiers had to. Sarabelle and Grice thought this was so cool, they had to get out and ford it on foot.



The drive on Colonial Parkway between Jamestown and Yorktown, and then onto Williamsburg in the late afternoon was wonderful. Swooping around on the wide National Park road, through the woods, golden light flickering between the trees, and suddenly coming upon broad expanses of water made the whole ride enjoyable. The people who live around there are incredibly lucky to have an area like that as their backyard, with trails and quiet scenic roads all over the place. Made me think about finding a realtor.

Caught a terrific show, "Remember Me When Freedom Comes," just after checking into the hotel in Williamsburg. This was a live performance, narrated by a free-born slave and interspersed with scenes of slaves singing and dancing. The two young guys playing the drums were outstanding.

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This morning I got four people washed and dressed while my father was downstairs enjoying a cup of coffee and my mother lazed in bed. Tensions were running a little high, so when the girls and I lost my parents in the historic area, nobody seemed to mind.

After visiting the Geddy House, which we were already familiar with from Mary Geddy's Day, we went out behind the Governor's Palace to hear a speech by Thomas Jefferson on the hot topics of the day. You and I know, of course, that it is an actor, or interpreter as they like to say around here. Sarabelle knew it, and Grice even knew it too, but she was disgusted because it was fake. That is, until Jefferson made his way through the crowd, and suddenly stopped to wish them a good morning and shake their hands as he passed by. Nobody else's, just their's. Now it's one of the highlights of their day. Did I have my camera ready? Of course not.



Exterior, and interior entrance hall of the Governor's Palace:





Visiting the wigmaker, and our favorite shop, the cabinetmaker:





The cabinetmaker was hilarious. For a long time we were the only ones in the shop and he was so interested in where we live, that we didn't have a chance to learn about cabinetmaking or take any pictures until some other people showed up and finally got him back on track.

Here's Grace sitting on the throne in one of the jail cells:



We watched and followed the fife and drum band march up Duke of Gloucester Street, and then I had the girls pose with the major. I'm one of those embarrassing kind of mothers.





Sarabelle, Grice, my Dad and I ended the day with an evening walk through the town to hear some spooky legends told by characters at various locations. Sarabelle was really uneasy after the first, and worst, one, but ended up having as enjoyable a time as the rest of us. Another round of excellent performances.

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One quick note before I start getting, "Why don't you turn that thing off and go to bed?!" (like I did the other night when I posted):

This place is not Atkins friendly.

Spoonbread, Gingerbread, Queen's Cake, Ham Biscuits, Pecan Pie...

Oops, too late, I was just reminded of the time. G'night.

St. Augustine

Well, so far, we've surpassed my expectations. I was pretty sure we would only make it to about West Palm Beach before any arguments ensued, but the first little squabble came this afternoon passing through South Carolina. Pretty good, huh?!

Yesterday we pulled into town, earlier than expected. We stopped in at Fountain of Youth Park, which is pretty much the typical tacky tourist rip-off one would imagine, but at least it was inexpensive. And would any trip to St. Augustine really be complete without a visit to Ponce de Leon's spring?

The girls in front of an old Spanish anchor in the garden:


Our guide preparing to fill our paper cups from the fake silver pitcher at the Fountain:


S and G grimace after drinking sulfury "egg water":


Entering St. Augustine's old city gate:




After dinner, S, G and I strolled through the city. We're all architecture buffs here, so we thoroughly enjoyed the spectacular old buildings, especially Flagler College. Marvelous. I'd been here years ago, looking at real estate naturally, and never really took in what a beautiful city this is.

The girls and I learned that three signers of the Declaration of Independence were held prisoner by the British in St. Augustine.

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This morning we got up early and walked across the street to the Castillo de San Marcos, the oldest masonry fortification in the U.S.



Crossing the drawbridge with Nana and Papa:


Girls firing a canon down in the moat:


This view from the Castillo looks toward the old city gate, with a section of the restored wall visible:


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A few comments:

First, see that lovely abrasion on G's forehead and nose? It's from smashing into the wall in Nana and Papa's pool. She was swimming with her eyes closed because the chlorine was too strong. I swear I didn't do it.

Second, it seems the senior citizens' equivalent of wearing West Coast Choppers apparel is sporting baseball caps with names of Navy ships on them. My dad has been wearing his USS Arizona hat, with his pin of the "Lone Sailor" attached, and sure enough, just as I suspected, he was questioned as to whether he had served on the Arizona. Oh brother. It's as bad as a bumpersticker.

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Tomorrow, Jamestown and Yorktown.

Books I'd Like to Read

Waiting for the Barbarians
Left Back: A Century of Battles Over School Reform
Queen Bees and Wannabes: Helping Your Daughter Survive Cliques, Gossip, Boyfriends, and Other Realities of Adolescence (Pop psychology, especially the self-help genre, is, in my opinion, to generally be avoided, but this title has piqued my interest. Not that I think it applies so much in our present situation, but it may smooth some of the inevitable bumps further down the road.

Books I've Started and Would Like to Finish

Asimov's Chronology of the World
Utopia

Books I Have Sitting on My Shelf That I Should be Reading

Undaunted Courage
Gods and Generals
The Killer Angels


That's just off the top of my head. There are so many more.

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And maybe I'm being a tad optimistic, but I'm already planning Lewis and Clark, and Civil War field trips for the fall and next spring, respectively.

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Thinking I had my plans set for next year's history rotation using A History of US as our spine, the girls have indicated they prefer a more global approach to history, so we may swing back to Genevieve Foster's George Washinton's World and Abraham Lincoln's World.

Back to the drawing board.

Arrived at my parents' house and found that Aunt ML is here for a visit.

Aunt ML kindly took me in at the nadir of my relationship with my mother, mid junior year of high school. She still worries that she was too strict with me and that I must resent her terribly. On the contrary, ML. Besides, when she did get too strict, I simply asked Nana, who was suffering from Alzheimer's, although we just called it senility back then, and she would say, "Who cares what ML says, this is my house and I make the rules!" Yes ma'am!

Aunt ML talks in her sleep. Not just a few mumbles here and there, she'll hold an entire conversation with you. When she napped, it was always fun to suggest that, maybe, Nana was riding a motorcycle down the street, even doing wheelies, or capitalize on her fear of flying by pretending to be the captain making announcements in preparation to land. She would invariably start off with a hearty, "Jeeeesus, Mary and Joseph..."

I can't wait to show the girls.

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I enjoyed all my time spent in the car running errands today, as it gave me the opportunity to listen to WLRN and an endless stream of NPR. Our west coast public radio station can only afford to play classical music and the hourly news updates. Realizing how much I've been missing, I ran out this evening to Barnes & Noble and grabbed a New Yorker, Atlantic, Utne, and an extra-large (never say "Venti") iced Cafe Americano. I think it has about four shots of espresso, and not wanting to be up until next Tuesday, I get it decaf. Forgot to look for Smithsonian, but, tomorrow is another day.

Off to catch up on the news of the day...

Huzzah!

I was beginning to second guess myself, afraid that maybe the kids wouldn't be as interested in this trip as my father and I are, but tonight they are glued to the television, watching "Patriots Day" on PBS, about the re-enactment of the first engagement at Lexington. Even my three year old -- who, by the way, commented, "Hey, those guys look like George Washington." Cool.

G is taking all three girls back east with him very early tomorrow morning, delivering them to my parents' house, while I have my spa day, dahling, then I will head over too. Depending on my mood, credit, and pain tolerance, I may have them do a few other, ahem, problem areas.

My friend Alex trained her boyfriend to administer bikini waxes. The first time around, they noted the directions stated, "May cause smarting." She called me up, yelling that she had blood leaking out from hundreds of empty hair follicles, and "Is this what they mean by smarting?!"

Anyway, we're excited and ready to go.

Obsequious

That's a word I've always liked, and this week, I finally met someone I could describe as truly obsequious.

Which caused this song to resurface and lodge itself in my head...


Grandmother's Song
performed by Steve Martin

Be courteous‚ kind‚ and forgiving
Be gentle and peaceful each day
Be warm and human and grateful
And have a good thing to say

Be thoughtful and trustful and childlike
Be witty and happy and wise
Be honest and love all your neighbors
Be obsequious‚ purple and clairvoyant

Be sure to stop at stop signs
And drive fifty-five miles an hour
Pick up hitchhikers foaming at the mouth
And when you get home get a master's degree in geology

Be pompous‚ obese‚ and eat cactus
Be dull and boring and omnipresent
Criticize things you don't know about
Be oblong and have your knees removed

(Ladies only) Never make love to Bigfoot
(Men only) Hello‚ my name is Bigfoot
(Everyone) Put a live chicken in your underwear
Go into a closet and suck eggs

We'll be heading over to Fort Pierce again tomorrow, our third trip so far, in hopes of gaining the approval of our potential landlord. The housing situation there is dismal at best, so we sure hope he likes us.

Meanwhile back at the ranch...

Schoolwork is done for the year! We'll now return to the unschooling portion of our homeschooling program. The girls made hardtack yesterday from a recipe they found in A History of US. They initially planned to bake a cake, but alas, the cupboard is bare, so jaw-breaking, baked lumps of flour and water it was. Mmmmm. Just like those poor soldiers had to eat.

Sam continues to tempt me with dreamy thoughts of a Mexican villa, complete with casita and full-time help for $50/week. She's heading down in May for a couple months and has invited me and L down to visit with her and her three year old, and to presumably show me some real estate. No problemo.

Sweet G* bought me a gift certificate at a local spa. I must look like hell. I'll skip the froufrou stuff -- just give me a massage and a full leg wax, please. When you can feel the wind tousling the hair on your shins, it's definitely time to do something about it. I must squeeze that in before we head over to the east coast prior to our field trip departure.

And then over there, horrors, I have to go shopping. Once I get the kids' clothes and the LeapPad out of storage, and evaluate the damage done to my own stored wardrobe, I plan to cash in the hoard of gift certificates I've amassed. This is not fun for me, since I prefer dresses and skirts -- not because they make me look more godly or feminine, but because they much more easily camouflage a fat ass -- and it's difficult to find something casual in between old lady cruise wear and beach cover-up. Sand and saltwater have destroyed my Birkies, so I will also need to purchase replacements, but I look forward to that.

Ugh, and then supplies for the ride: scrapbooks and miscellaneous art supplies, earplugs (you thought I was kidding about those -- HA!), headphones, a book on tape, cooler, drinks, snacks (unless I have the girls whip up some more hardtack), and on and on it goes...

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*Sweet G does not refer to my spouse's usual demeanor, but was coined during a miscommunication between employees. A staff member had been instructed to deliver paperwork to "Suite G." She thought is was my husband's nickname.

Thinking, I think

This quote from William James has been spinning around in my head since it was posted the other day on Mental Multivitamin:

"A great many people think they are thinking when they are merely rearranging their prejudices."

Uh oh. I hope that's not me, but it could be. How do you avoid falling into this trap?

The non-fiction books I choose to read mostly reaffirm what I already believe, or suspect to be true, that's partly why they interest me, and also because they may more eloquently express what I've been contemplating on my own. To stretch myself, it would seem simple enough to chose a book diametrically opposed to my beliefs. But why would I waste my time reading something so contrary to common sense?

Just kidding.

Sort of.

Is it as easy as keeping an open mind? Is it possible to have any strong convictions without being mired in prejudice?

Hmmmm.

A perfect day for reading

We had a little rain late in the evening yesterday, first time I can remember it ever raining on Easter, and some severe weather this morning. All my orchids are outside, enjoying a good soaking and fresh air, and we are all inside, snuggled up, enjoying our books.

G has finished her last history reading for the year and is busy writing a summary in her notebook, while S is about 1/3 of the way through Yankee Doodle Boy. S still has to get through The Great Little Madison, but she's a fast reader, so no worries about not finishing before our trip.

The rest of today shall be occupied with our various read-alouds.

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We successfully staved off all holiday invites, and had a very low-key Easter. S and I took a long walk down to the south end of the island, while G took the other two to grocery shop for a proper dinner, and by the laundromat for a quick load of sheets and blankets after L's late-night gastrointestinal mishap. Aside from some chocolate treats, it was business as usual.

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Back to the books...

And now, something pertaining to homeschooling for a change...

Our security level has been raised from Green (Low), to Blue (Elevated), because our trouble-making neighbor, with whom until now we have maintained a friendly relationship, has asked what I deemed an odd, rhetorical question.

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First, a little background:

This is the neighbor that L ran off to visit twice in one day, without permission. She did it again recently when we had our friends over, and I had walked to a nearby vacant lot for sale, to show an interested party. L secretly tailed me and then detoured to the neighbors' for another unauthorized visit. Of course, we knew to look there first.

Now, Mr. and Mrs. N are both former education administrators and have told me directly, they feel the best place for children is in the classroom, although they grudgingly acknowledge we are doing a good job raising our girls.

They are also the ones stirring up a hornets nest with several other neighbors. I think they are trying to scare residents off in an effort to preserve the island from any future development. Code enforcement and state park officers have been poking around the last couple days in response to several anonymous complaints...

I'm flying under the radar right now when it comes to home schooling. I know, I know better, but that's the way I am sometimes.

I found Mrs. N. sneaking through our yard three days ago. She appeared to be eavesdropping on us.

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Well, Mrs. N came over the day before yesterday day and asked, "Now why is it, you suppose, that little one of yours keeps running away?" I had the creepy feeling she was implying some sort of abuse or neglect.

Needless to say, I'm getting back on the radar, quickly.

Is it just me?

Or do other people notice this stuff?

Mostly, the laundromat I visit attracts white bread, retired snowbirds. But once in a while you see some really interesting people.

The mother was short, about as big around as she was tall, and braless with enormous, pendulous breasts. While she struggled with the wash, her two daughters, a malnourished yellow and orange haired preteen and her rapper influenced, pantyhose-on-her-head older sister, occupied themselves by rummaging through a box left under the attendant's desk like a couple of rats. They were looking for something to steal, but it was only a box of mismatched, left behind socks, which they left scattered across the floor.

Mama flip-flopped her way to the car, make and model difficult to ascertain under the multiple layers of duct tape, hollerin' for her girls. They backed out and drove away. After about half a minute, I noticed bugs. Hundreds of bugs. Marching toward me and the front door of the laundromat from the now empty parking space. I figured roaches, but, no, they were termites. Termites! Living in their car and shaken loose when the motor started.

These people are out there somewhere, spreading pestilence in their wake.

If anyone out there happens to be around Fort Lauderdale the weekend of May 1 - 2, don't miss this. Forget about the traffic and crowds, it's worth it.

I love airshows -- don't think I'm getting all soft and patriotic on you -- it has to do with the sheer power and speed of the aircraft. The chance to float out in the water on a beautiful spring day while F-14 Tomcats, F-18 Hornets, 747s, a Harrier, the Stealth Bomber or the Blue Angels cruise right over your head, well, you just can't hardly beat it.

G's mom invites everyone up to her place for this weekend. Her Las Olas condo makes the perfect base to walk over to the beach for the first day's excitement and then watch it again from her living room the next day. The jets fly eye-level right past her balcony. Too cool.

Guaranteed to lift my spirits:

-- A momma and baby porpoise enjoying a leisurely swim by our dock
-- Watching my daughters dance around the living room to KISS's "Rock And Roll All Nite"
-- Finding the tee shirt belonging to the special friend I miss so much, safe on the bottom of my clothes trunk and wearing it to bed

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Finding the tee shirt was not only a small comfort, it got me through the night with the last bit of clean clothing I have out here. G had taken a week's worth of dirty laundry with him when he left for the east coast a few days ago, intending to drop it off. It's still in the back of the car. So today, with everyone wearing bathing suits, not because it's beach weather, but because nobody has any clean underwear left, and with a second large pile of smelly clothes, I head off to the laundromat.

Picking scabs

That's what I did last night and opened up a big, bloody sore.

I had written a story and submitted it for a particular column in the literary supplement to a major paper years ago. The editor was interested and sent it back with some suggestions for fine-tuning it. Unfortunately, by the time I was satisfied with it, the column had been discontinued.

Because of the sensitive nature of the essay, a story about the road not taken, and deeply regretted, I destroyed all copies and hoped the pain of the events would eventually fade away. Almost ten years later, it still hasn't, and I still feel compelled to write about it.

So today, I'm all written out.

Time Warp

Lots of griping about the time change going on.

I just got up a few minutes ago (yeah, go ahead and check the time of this post) and am very glad that I can live by my internal clock rather than the one staring at me in the morning -- or early afternoon, or whatever time I can finally drag myself off the futon -- admonishing me for such slovenly behavior. The only downside is our new glass front door, that allows visitors an unobstructed view of what a lazy slob I really am. If I had a schedule to keep, I'd be in big trouble.

Someone wondered the other day if the email that arrived from me around 4:00 AM was a Yahoo glitch, or was I really up that late. I don't know. I could've been up. My laptop's clock consistently runs three hours behind, in spite of my attempts to fix it, so it often doesn't feel that late.

Last night I was up several times, awakened by scary wildlife sounds (did I mention that I've seen a bobcat twice recently?) and later had to break up a raccoon fight over the cat food container we accidentally left outside. Then I locked myself out and had to hunt around in the dark until I could find the secret hidden key.

(Yawn) No wonder.

I wasted most of today on the internet researching Mexico and it's all my friend Sam's fault. She found a house down there that she desperately wants and is trying to finagle some financing. Of course, she thinks the area would be just perfect for us too. She's as nutty as we are.

Sam changes her mind about where to live about as often as we do, but I think she's serious this time because she's taking Spanish lessons.

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The politics on our little island are heating up. There's talk of sewer and water coming, maybe a real road to replace the sand track, changes in channel locations, slower speed limits for boats, a land base to eliminate our dependence on marinas... There's a been a steering committee formed. I'm not sure who's driving or where we're headed, but development is inevitable. It's just deciding how far you want to go.

I am for keeping this place low key, that's the charm of it, but obviously water and sewer are going to increase property values, and certainly make life a little easier. A shell road for emergency vehicle access doesn't seem like a problem.

One of our virulently anti-development neighbors has been getting nasty lately, though. Little things here and there, until yesterday when she chased off a buyer for one of Sam's Gulf front lots. I suppose they don't want someone building a big house right next door to them, and I suppose they don't want to buy it for themselves either. To say Sam was pissed would be putting it mildly. The nasty neighbor is, unfortunately, our area representative for the new property owners group that's been organized. Today the busybody started harassing some workers cleaning brush from Sam's lot, asking about permits and such. That's the last thing we want, feuding neighbors. We came out here specifically to get away from that stupidity, and now find ourselves right in the midst of it.

All of this reminds me of a very funny Carl Hiaasen story, Sick Puppy, which could have been written about this place, and my friend, Alex, who could be the female equivalent of the character Twilly Spree (except for the trust fund.)

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Speaking of Alex, where has she disappeared to? No emails, so she must be off the grid. Hog hunting? Jail?

Don't make me call your mother, Alex...

My mother-in-law doesn't want anyone pawing through her stuff when she dies, so to prevent that, she plans to leave nothing behind. Papers, photos, dust collectors, documents on her hard drive, "Down the chute!" as she likes to say. Her motives are partly to relieve her survivors from the responsibility of disposing of all those items, and partly privacy.

After seeing the vast amounts of photos, scrapbooks, and personal papers, including a fourteen volume diary, that my father-in-law, BL, left behind, I can certainly see her point. It is a burden to those who survive you. You can't throw it away. You have to store it. Somewhere. Who needs all that in addition to all the junk you already own? Much of BL's writing is important family and town history, and much of it is probably stuff he never meant anyone to read.

But then, isn't that what writers do? They leave behind bits and pieces of themselves, some meant to be discovered and shared and others, better left unseen. Do I want that kind of paper trail? I'm not sure.

My mother once told me to never put anything down on paper that you wouldn't want everyone to see. I learned my lesson the hard way when I drew a picture, a very good one too, of my Social Studies teacher, Miss DiColo, dressed as a Nazi, tucked it safely in my Social Studies book and then left the book behind in my haste to leave her dreadful class.

There are stories I'd like to write, one obviously autobiographical, but can I live with the repercussions? How do writers balance self-expression with self-censorship and still manage to tell their tales? Do you just give up caring what people will think? I'm close to that point, but I do worry about what my children and husband will think.

Every stupid sitcom I've ever seen where someone schedules two dates on the same day is coming back to haunt me.

Our friends are still in town and are expecting us to spend the whole day with them over on Boca Grande for scheduled activities including a visit to the beach, downtown stroll, and cookout at their hotel. At the same time, some other friends, out for a weekend sail, were planning to stop by for a visit. The simple solution would be to phone our sailboat friends and have them hook up with us over on Boca Grande, the more the merrier, right? The group dynamics might be fun since the two are on fundamentally opposite ends of the spectrum.

We are generally antisocial and shun planned playdates, especially the all-encompassing ones. Holidays bring a sense of dread with their obligatory get-togethers and forced merry-making and every year we promise ourselves that we'll get away and do our own thing, but we usually get sucked right back into it. Guilt. I'm thinking that Easter would be a good time to go house hunting in Fort Pierce.

This should be fun

Our friends, with their bottlecap collector son and very sophisticated 12 year old daughter, well, compared to our hillbilly children anyway, are coming out to the island for a visit. Much hilarity to be had, I'm sure.

L is scared. Big dramatic sobs this morning because Bottlecap Boy wants "to mawwy me, and I just want my sistahs!"

Spoke too soon Part 2

Just when it looks like we've made our decision about how and where to live, a twist. This will not surprise anybody who knows us. They've been waiting for it. What's it been, a month or two?

G has been given the opportunity to build and manage a large commercial project with our family being financially vested, courtesy of his mother. It's up in Fort Pierce, Florida, which is only notable for two things: 1) It's the shortest distance between exits from I-95 to the Florida Turnpike; and 2) Its neighbors.

Remember this story? A few years back, a girl felt threatened by some black kids at her Fort Pierce high school and called up the Klan to offer support. They sent over skinheads for bodyguards. It earned an episode on Jerry Springer -- lots of chair throwing on that one.

G and I drove up there in the late 90s to check out an old shopping center that his brother was considering for redevelopment. The old Winn-Dixie supermarket still had three restrooms. Men, Women and Colored. The third had been in use as a broom closet, but the sign was still there. Horrifying and surreal.

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Most people doubt our sanity, and would be unnerved by constantly changing plans. It doesn't bother me, and only recently do I realize why that is. It's all Mr. Casey's fault.

Mr. Casey was my cute, guitar-playing, fifth grade teacher. In the year 2000, he told us, the planets were going to align and wreak havoc. Earthquakes, hurricanes, your basic Armageddon. Let's see, I'll be 35 years old. I wonder if I'll be married? Will I have any kids? Will I at least have had sex yet? I'd better get busy.

I committed myself to cramming as much living as possible into my remaining 24 years. (More on that some other time, perhaps. Suffice to say, I've got some great cautionary tales for my daughters.)

There just isn't enough time. I want to live in a townhouse in Oxford, a stone cottage on a rocky coast, an apartment in Manhattan, a dairy farmhouse in Vermont, a Mayan village in the Belizean rainforest, a boat, a log cabin in a pine mountain forest, Gaugauin's Tahiti, a plantation under the granddaddy oaks, a cave house in Cappadocia...

Thank goodness for books.

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We can keep the island, will probably have to dump the hotel, and will begin looking for something over there very soon. At least that's the plan du jour.

Fort Pierce is definitely not up there on my list of places to live, but the thought of not worrying about the expense of health insurance and retirement plans (of which we have none) and braces and college...

Oooh, and more books.