I don't make them. I don't like them. I wouldn't keep them.
This year though, my husband and I have each made one. And we are intending to follow through.
His is that we will have a permanent, adequately-sized home by the end of this coming year. We think we found the right spot and as soon as I finish this post I am going right back to my property search.
Mine is that in the event either or both of us reach a stage where we begin to be infirm and headed toward prolonged, incurable illness, I will take the suffering party for a long drive in the car, in the garage, with the door closed.
We have spent the last few days shuttling our children back and forth across the state to visit with their cousins, in town from London for the holidays, and traveling from the nursing home, and then the hospital, to visit G.G. Mil, my husband's grandmother. We will either be back in a day or two to move her to a hospice or for her funeral. The lady who told stories of fishing in the Everglades wearing hip waders with gators bumping her leg is proving to be just as tough at the very end. She has a living will that refuses any kind of invasive procedures, especially feeding tubes and intravenous fluids, and a Do Not Resuscitate order. My husband was designated years ago as her representative, and he is now in the awful position of authorizing her to dehydrate and starve to death.
Okay, back to the real estate pages. Must remember to sort all the listings to include houses with garages.
Friday, December 31, 2004
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
Today, while steaming hot water ran over the top of my head, I had a revelation. Some of my brightest ideas come to me in the shower, and although this was not one of my biggest or best, it was a startling thought. In forty years of life, my mother never gave me a book as a present. Not for birthdays. Not for Christmas. Not one, ever.
There is an old black and white of me at one year of age, sprawled on the floor engrossed in the newspaper. By three years old I was reading independently. As I got older, any event I was forced to attend with my family was made bearable by the company of a book. To tide me over between library visits, I would sit with a volume of the World Book Encyclopedia in my lap devouring the contents. Summer visits to my cousins' in Boston were topped with stacks of hand-me-down Nancy Drew books. Seems like it would be clear to anyone who knew me that I loved to read. My paternal grandparents noticed. Many of my most treasured books are ones that they gave me as gifts or ones I took possession of from their library after they died. Family friends noticed. I still have their books with lovely inscriptions marking special occasions. There were a few children's books in our house that my mother had collected in her career as an early childhood specialist, but nothing personally selected for me.
I know my children love books. For birthdays or Christmas some of their biggest presents have been hardcover collections of their favorite children's stories: Curious George, Madeline, Narnia, George and Martha, Eloise, Winnie the Pooh, Babar the Elephant... They are thrilled to receive gift cards for Amazon.com or Barnes and Noble.
Why, I wondered, did my mother never give me a book? How could she not know that would have been the easiest and most perfect gift?
I saw my mother discourage my brother's early and very obvious artistic talent, insisting that artist was not a valid vocation. Fortunately for him, my paternal grandmother, who was a gifted artist herself, chose to ignore my mother and lavished drawing books, paints, and pastels on him. My brother now works as a computer generated image artist in Manhattan. If you watch TV, you've seen his work.
Today I realized that my mother has been discouraging me the same way she did my brother all those years, only I have been punished for being bright. Did she ever encourage my passion for reading and learning? No. The word "potential" was always bandied about as something I had so much of, but often implied something I had wasted. Did she ever give me any guidance about how to put it to use? No. In my junior year of high school I was offered a full scholarship to Emory University. Did she help me with the process of college admissions or encourage me to pursue the offer? No.
The only explanation I can give is jealousy.
Now, that may sound a little far-fetched to some of you, because most of you are probably loving, giving parents, but after having her scream at me yesterday in the midst of a houseful of company that, "You think you're so goddamned smart and you're always rubbing it in everyone's face!" which is only the latest in years' worth of nastiness, I think I may have finally hit the mark. This accusation was made out of the blue, as I relaxed on the couch curled up with In Defense of Elitism, how ironic, withdrawn from the rest of the activity. This after she made an all-day show of hyper-complimenting my brothers' children while pointedly ignoring my girls. Thankfully they were oblivious. My youngest, who is inexplicably crazy about Nana, noticed the hostility toward me and finally warned her to, "Stop being mean to my Mama."
What has she to be jealous about? I never took anymore than a few odd courses at the community college, never got a diploma, never had any real career. Both she and my brothers have me beat there. Why would she be jealous? I hope to God my kids are better educated and smarter than I am, so much so, that it has become my full time job. How could she not have wanted that for me?
She is waiting for us to fail, for my girls to turn out no better than any of her other grandchildren, to prove that I am not so smart after all. We won't though, because my measure of success has never been to prove that my girls are any better than anyone else's; it is to have a solid, affectionate relationship with my daughters.
There is an old black and white of me at one year of age, sprawled on the floor engrossed in the newspaper. By three years old I was reading independently. As I got older, any event I was forced to attend with my family was made bearable by the company of a book. To tide me over between library visits, I would sit with a volume of the World Book Encyclopedia in my lap devouring the contents. Summer visits to my cousins' in Boston were topped with stacks of hand-me-down Nancy Drew books. Seems like it would be clear to anyone who knew me that I loved to read. My paternal grandparents noticed. Many of my most treasured books are ones that they gave me as gifts or ones I took possession of from their library after they died. Family friends noticed. I still have their books with lovely inscriptions marking special occasions. There were a few children's books in our house that my mother had collected in her career as an early childhood specialist, but nothing personally selected for me.
I know my children love books. For birthdays or Christmas some of their biggest presents have been hardcover collections of their favorite children's stories: Curious George, Madeline, Narnia, George and Martha, Eloise, Winnie the Pooh, Babar the Elephant... They are thrilled to receive gift cards for Amazon.com or Barnes and Noble.
Why, I wondered, did my mother never give me a book? How could she not know that would have been the easiest and most perfect gift?
I saw my mother discourage my brother's early and very obvious artistic talent, insisting that artist was not a valid vocation. Fortunately for him, my paternal grandmother, who was a gifted artist herself, chose to ignore my mother and lavished drawing books, paints, and pastels on him. My brother now works as a computer generated image artist in Manhattan. If you watch TV, you've seen his work.
Today I realized that my mother has been discouraging me the same way she did my brother all those years, only I have been punished for being bright. Did she ever encourage my passion for reading and learning? No. The word "potential" was always bandied about as something I had so much of, but often implied something I had wasted. Did she ever give me any guidance about how to put it to use? No. In my junior year of high school I was offered a full scholarship to Emory University. Did she help me with the process of college admissions or encourage me to pursue the offer? No.
The only explanation I can give is jealousy.
Now, that may sound a little far-fetched to some of you, because most of you are probably loving, giving parents, but after having her scream at me yesterday in the midst of a houseful of company that, "You think you're so goddamned smart and you're always rubbing it in everyone's face!" which is only the latest in years' worth of nastiness, I think I may have finally hit the mark. This accusation was made out of the blue, as I relaxed on the couch curled up with In Defense of Elitism, how ironic, withdrawn from the rest of the activity. This after she made an all-day show of hyper-complimenting my brothers' children while pointedly ignoring my girls. Thankfully they were oblivious. My youngest, who is inexplicably crazy about Nana, noticed the hostility toward me and finally warned her to, "Stop being mean to my Mama."
What has she to be jealous about? I never took anymore than a few odd courses at the community college, never got a diploma, never had any real career. Both she and my brothers have me beat there. Why would she be jealous? I hope to God my kids are better educated and smarter than I am, so much so, that it has become my full time job. How could she not have wanted that for me?
She is waiting for us to fail, for my girls to turn out no better than any of her other grandchildren, to prove that I am not so smart after all. We won't though, because my measure of success has never been to prove that my girls are any better than anyone else's; it is to have a solid, affectionate relationship with my daughters.
Monday, December 27, 2004
Finally, A Holiday I Can't Screw Up
We have had several discussions about whether it is more correct to wish someone a Merry Christmas because it is the most obvious of the winter holidays, and by most obvious I mean screaming in your face obvious, and the one that you may, theoretically, celebrate, or to be safe, in deference to the rest of mankind, to offer a bland, non-denominational Happy Holidays.
Around here, there is not even a chance of hearing the generic holiday greeting. After all, as the twin Interstate billboards insist upon entering our area, "Welcome to Charlotte County. This is George W. Bush Country." Not that all Charlotte County residents are Bush voters, nor are all Bush voters necessarily Christian, no, but in Charlotte County it is assumed that everyone is just like them: White, Christian, Republican. You will get a Merry Christmas whether you like it or not. Respond with a Happy Holidays and you will have blasphemed.
Rather than proselytize, I usually just respond with a big, happy, "You, too."
Now, I am happy to wish you all, without offending anyone, "Happy New Year!"
Oh, wait, I forgot about Rosh Hashanah and Chinese New Year...
Around here, there is not even a chance of hearing the generic holiday greeting. After all, as the twin Interstate billboards insist upon entering our area, "Welcome to Charlotte County. This is George W. Bush Country." Not that all Charlotte County residents are Bush voters, nor are all Bush voters necessarily Christian, no, but in Charlotte County it is assumed that everyone is just like them: White, Christian, Republican. You will get a Merry Christmas whether you like it or not. Respond with a Happy Holidays and you will have blasphemed.
Rather than proselytize, I usually just respond with a big, happy, "You, too."
Now, I am happy to wish you all, without offending anyone, "Happy New Year!"
Oh, wait, I forgot about Rosh Hashanah and Chinese New Year...
Friday, December 24, 2004
Here Comes Santa Claus!
NORAD's 50th season tracking Santa! Tonight's the night. Hope you've all been good.
Merry Christmas!
Merry Christmas!
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
Presence
When I finally got around to wrapping last night, I was suddenly jolted into remembering my Uncle Ed.
Uncle Ed was notoriously quiet. He once flew coast-to-coast next to Charlton Heston. The voice of God himself was forced to initiate a conversation with his silent seatmate, a mostly one-sided conversation occasionally answered in disinterested monosyllables. My father, in Boston visting in-laws after a ten year absence, bumped into Ed at a local pizza parlor where my uncle was picking up a take-out. Uncle Ed nodded, grunted a nearly inaudible, "Hi," then left with his pizza.
Uncle Ed was reclusive. We rarely ever saw him. He would come in from work, grab the crossword puzzle from the Boston Herald and head straight upstairs. Dinner was eaten alone in his room. Occasional glimpses of him were caught when we were allowed to enter his inner sanctum, a wierd place with decades of meteorological data methodically written on all the door frames, beer in hand, in response to his shouts of, "QB!" (Quart of Beer) or "QBC!" (Quart of Beer and Cigarettes.) For our efforts were rewarded with The Penny and a Quarter Game, where you chose a hand concealing one or the other coin as your compensation for the beer run. He would stay up watching Carson, The Late Show, reruns of Monty Python's Flying Circus and Groucho Marx's You Bet Your Life. Around 3:00 AM or so, he would trudge downstairs for a final beer and smoke before retiring. Then at 5:00 AM he'd be back up and off to work again.
Uncle Ed was a miser. When the roads were not completely iced over, he would hop on his moped and head down Route 128 to work. He calculated the ride cost him about $.03 in gas. The temperature in their house was just enough to keep the pipes from freezing, and for that reason, the most coveted seat in the house was atop the radiator. It was rare to take your coat off inside before spring.
Uncle Ed was nearly a professional baseball player. He played with one of the major league farm teams. It was not meant to be though, for Uncle Ed had a higher calling.
Uncle Ed was a rocket scientist. He designed the Minuteman Missle for Sylvania. This might explain some of his eccentricities. It certainly explains his lack of patience in trying to help me with my algebra homework; I struggled for years to grasp the concepts while he was born knowing them. It also explains his tight-lipped personality. Last year I happened to meet a retired personnel director for Sylvania, a man who held that position for 30 plus years. He asked which plant my uncle had worked in, and with some surprise, mentioned that he had never had high enough security clearance to step foot in that facility.
Uncle Ed was a gardner who in the spring would escape to his sacred plot of land behind the henhouse where he would transplant his delicate seedlings, nurtured during the long cold winter by a grow light in the dining room. He once tried to persuade us to drag a dead, frozen cat home for his compost pile, explaining that we could tie a string around it and pretend to walk it home. After he died, my aunt visited his burial site to be sure her designs for his plot had been carried out and found a small carrot growing in the center of his grave.
So what does Uncle Ed have to do with Christmas, aside from his obvious Scrooge-like temperament?
Uncle Ed was a beautiful wrapper, who produced the most perfectly finished gifts. That was his sole contribution to the holidays. Edges always neatly folded, finished and tucked, paper patterns always matched to a seamless perfection, it was artwork executed with pure precision. His legendary wrapping excellence has become my benchmark.
Uncle Ed was notoriously quiet. He once flew coast-to-coast next to Charlton Heston. The voice of God himself was forced to initiate a conversation with his silent seatmate, a mostly one-sided conversation occasionally answered in disinterested monosyllables. My father, in Boston visting in-laws after a ten year absence, bumped into Ed at a local pizza parlor where my uncle was picking up a take-out. Uncle Ed nodded, grunted a nearly inaudible, "Hi," then left with his pizza.
Uncle Ed was reclusive. We rarely ever saw him. He would come in from work, grab the crossword puzzle from the Boston Herald and head straight upstairs. Dinner was eaten alone in his room. Occasional glimpses of him were caught when we were allowed to enter his inner sanctum, a wierd place with decades of meteorological data methodically written on all the door frames, beer in hand, in response to his shouts of, "QB!" (Quart of Beer) or "QBC!" (Quart of Beer and Cigarettes.) For our efforts were rewarded with The Penny and a Quarter Game, where you chose a hand concealing one or the other coin as your compensation for the beer run. He would stay up watching Carson, The Late Show, reruns of Monty Python's Flying Circus and Groucho Marx's You Bet Your Life. Around 3:00 AM or so, he would trudge downstairs for a final beer and smoke before retiring. Then at 5:00 AM he'd be back up and off to work again.
Uncle Ed was a miser. When the roads were not completely iced over, he would hop on his moped and head down Route 128 to work. He calculated the ride cost him about $.03 in gas. The temperature in their house was just enough to keep the pipes from freezing, and for that reason, the most coveted seat in the house was atop the radiator. It was rare to take your coat off inside before spring.
Uncle Ed was nearly a professional baseball player. He played with one of the major league farm teams. It was not meant to be though, for Uncle Ed had a higher calling.
Uncle Ed was a rocket scientist. He designed the Minuteman Missle for Sylvania. This might explain some of his eccentricities. It certainly explains his lack of patience in trying to help me with my algebra homework; I struggled for years to grasp the concepts while he was born knowing them. It also explains his tight-lipped personality. Last year I happened to meet a retired personnel director for Sylvania, a man who held that position for 30 plus years. He asked which plant my uncle had worked in, and with some surprise, mentioned that he had never had high enough security clearance to step foot in that facility.
Uncle Ed was a gardner who in the spring would escape to his sacred plot of land behind the henhouse where he would transplant his delicate seedlings, nurtured during the long cold winter by a grow light in the dining room. He once tried to persuade us to drag a dead, frozen cat home for his compost pile, explaining that we could tie a string around it and pretend to walk it home. After he died, my aunt visited his burial site to be sure her designs for his plot had been carried out and found a small carrot growing in the center of his grave.
So what does Uncle Ed have to do with Christmas, aside from his obvious Scrooge-like temperament?
Uncle Ed was a beautiful wrapper, who produced the most perfectly finished gifts. That was his sole contribution to the holidays. Edges always neatly folded, finished and tucked, paper patterns always matched to a seamless perfection, it was artwork executed with pure precision. His legendary wrapping excellence has become my benchmark.
Monday, December 20, 2004
"A Festivus for the rest of us."
Nope, still not wrapping...
Just saw this article in the New York Times, "Fooey to the World: Festivus is Come."
Read the rest here.
Just saw this article in the New York Times, "Fooey to the World: Festivus is Come."
GATHER around the Festivus pole and listen to a tale about a real holiday made fictional and then real again, a tale that touches on philosophy, King Lear, the pool at the Chateau Marmont hotel, a paper bag with a clock inside and, oh yes, a television show about nothing.
Read the rest here.
It's that time of year
G took all three girls over to the east coast with him today. So what am I doing with all my spare time? Blogging and procrastinating. There's a pile of presents on my bed waiting to be wrapped and rehidden, but I am severely lacking in motivation today.
Christmas Survivor: Outwit, Outlast, Outplay.
My kids are way smarter than I was at their age. I have to purchase special wrapping paper that only Santa uses, otherwise the kids want to know why Santa's gifts are wrapped in the same kind of paper as the presents from Mom and Dad. (That year I told them we left it out for him in case he was a little short. They barely bought it.) Gift tags must be written in a very elaborate and noticeably different hand than Mom's or Dad's lest they become suspicious. We must dodge hidden cameras and voice activated recorders, for their Santa surveillance has gone quite high tech these days.
S is twelve. She should be in the logic stage of the Trivium. Why hasn't she asked me about Santa yet? Does she still believe? She has given me a few knowing smiles behind her sisters' backs, but she has never outrightly asked nor been told. With no one to burst her little bubble, it's quite possible she could end up going off to college still believing. And sneaking gifts into her dorm room on Christmas Eve would be really hard to pull off.
This year in order to accommodate our ever more complicated holiday schedule, we will open family presents on Christmas Eve. This will be the first year we have ever tried this and frankly, I'm a little worried that it won't be as exciting as the all-at-once free-for-all Christmas morning. Then we'll hop in the car like we do every Christmas Day, although this year rather than a one minute drive, it will be a two and a half hour ride, and hit Uncle Ben's for their fabulous open house. You are guaranteed to see neighbors, old time Hollywood friends, tons of cousins, in-laws, people you know you're related to but just aren't quite sure how, people you really aren't related to but feel like family anyway, and a surprise guest or two, all over a huge spread that always includes my favorite, lox and bagels topped with slices of fresh tomato and red onion. There will be entertainment too. Cousin Ryan might show you how he can crack a walnut in his butt, or Uncle Ben will give all the kids water pistols and encourage them to have a squirt gun fight using guests as cover, there may even be an impromptu football game in the front yard, you just never know. It's worth the trip.
Usually we head up to my parents after that, where things are much more subdued, for a big dinner. But this year, with my younger brother co-opting Christmas at his house in West Palm Beach, too much of an additional drive for us, we will stay primarily in Hollywood, maybe making it up to Fort Lauderdale to my parents' for a short visit before we head back over to Punta Gorda. While we're in Hollywood, we plan to visit G's grandmother who is in a nursing home, and stop in to see some other friends, who have lured us over with the promise of details about the school troubles they have been suffering with their daughter, a former classmate of S's. When I mused aloud upon hearing of her sudden and unexpected return to their original Catholic grammar school, that at least most of the same kids were still there and that she could jump right back in with old friends Kelly and Bianca, my friend stopped me and said, "Oh, no, we have to keep her away from Bianca. Bianca tried to poison a teacher last year." How can I resist?
Oh, I guess I better go wrap these boxes up before G gets back with the girls...
May your days be merry and bright!
Christmas Survivor: Outwit, Outlast, Outplay.
My kids are way smarter than I was at their age. I have to purchase special wrapping paper that only Santa uses, otherwise the kids want to know why Santa's gifts are wrapped in the same kind of paper as the presents from Mom and Dad. (That year I told them we left it out for him in case he was a little short. They barely bought it.) Gift tags must be written in a very elaborate and noticeably different hand than Mom's or Dad's lest they become suspicious. We must dodge hidden cameras and voice activated recorders, for their Santa surveillance has gone quite high tech these days.
S is twelve. She should be in the logic stage of the Trivium. Why hasn't she asked me about Santa yet? Does she still believe? She has given me a few knowing smiles behind her sisters' backs, but she has never outrightly asked nor been told. With no one to burst her little bubble, it's quite possible she could end up going off to college still believing. And sneaking gifts into her dorm room on Christmas Eve would be really hard to pull off.
This year in order to accommodate our ever more complicated holiday schedule, we will open family presents on Christmas Eve. This will be the first year we have ever tried this and frankly, I'm a little worried that it won't be as exciting as the all-at-once free-for-all Christmas morning. Then we'll hop in the car like we do every Christmas Day, although this year rather than a one minute drive, it will be a two and a half hour ride, and hit Uncle Ben's for their fabulous open house. You are guaranteed to see neighbors, old time Hollywood friends, tons of cousins, in-laws, people you know you're related to but just aren't quite sure how, people you really aren't related to but feel like family anyway, and a surprise guest or two, all over a huge spread that always includes my favorite, lox and bagels topped with slices of fresh tomato and red onion. There will be entertainment too. Cousin Ryan might show you how he can crack a walnut in his butt, or Uncle Ben will give all the kids water pistols and encourage them to have a squirt gun fight using guests as cover, there may even be an impromptu football game in the front yard, you just never know. It's worth the trip.
Usually we head up to my parents after that, where things are much more subdued, for a big dinner. But this year, with my younger brother co-opting Christmas at his house in West Palm Beach, too much of an additional drive for us, we will stay primarily in Hollywood, maybe making it up to Fort Lauderdale to my parents' for a short visit before we head back over to Punta Gorda. While we're in Hollywood, we plan to visit G's grandmother who is in a nursing home, and stop in to see some other friends, who have lured us over with the promise of details about the school troubles they have been suffering with their daughter, a former classmate of S's. When I mused aloud upon hearing of her sudden and unexpected return to their original Catholic grammar school, that at least most of the same kids were still there and that she could jump right back in with old friends Kelly and Bianca, my friend stopped me and said, "Oh, no, we have to keep her away from Bianca. Bianca tried to poison a teacher last year." How can I resist?
Oh, I guess I better go wrap these boxes up before G gets back with the girls...
May your days be merry and bright!
Sunday, December 19, 2004
Poppins Pops In
We met up with Sarah and her family yesterday up at Highlands Hammock State Park in Sebring, Florida. What a cool little family they are. She and Rainer (pronounced Riner, by the way) are just lovely together and both children are delightful. After a quick picnic, in which we got to taste some of the legendary cookies, I had a cheesecake bar and a bite of a chocolate dipped shortbread, we were off to explore some of the park's trails and boardwalks.
The kids hit it right off and S and G are looking forward to having new penpals.
Here's something you may or may not be aware of:
Blog photos lie. Sarah is taller in real life than she is on her blog. And her kids do not have large amber colored eyes. When I showed my youngest, L, the pictures of Sandra and Matthias over at Poppins, she refused to believe they were the same children she had met.
Speaking of L, the child usually described as Hell on Wheels, she was especially quiet and clingy, telling me she was too tired to walk. Naturally I did not believe her, figuring she was doing her bit to get me to haul her around all day. The view is always so much better perched on someone's back or shoulders. Anyway, the poor thing was asleep in her carseat before we ever left the park. Snoring. Snoring so loudly I couldn't hear the radio. Even with the radio up loud enough to overcome her roaring noise, she still didn't stir.
The day started out a bit dreary, overcast, cool and damp, but by the end it was beautiful, warm and sunny. We Floridians had all our sweaters and warm clothes bundled on and the Manitobans had their warm weather clothes on. I had sat up the night before obsessively picking fuzz balls off L's freshly laundered sweater in preparation for the cooler weather visit with our homeschool friends, because if there's one thing Canadians know, it's sweaters.
The kids hit it right off and S and G are looking forward to having new penpals.
Here's something you may or may not be aware of:
Blog photos lie. Sarah is taller in real life than she is on her blog. And her kids do not have large amber colored eyes. When I showed my youngest, L, the pictures of Sandra and Matthias over at Poppins, she refused to believe they were the same children she had met.
Speaking of L, the child usually described as Hell on Wheels, she was especially quiet and clingy, telling me she was too tired to walk. Naturally I did not believe her, figuring she was doing her bit to get me to haul her around all day. The view is always so much better perched on someone's back or shoulders. Anyway, the poor thing was asleep in her carseat before we ever left the park. Snoring. Snoring so loudly I couldn't hear the radio. Even with the radio up loud enough to overcome her roaring noise, she still didn't stir.
The day started out a bit dreary, overcast, cool and damp, but by the end it was beautiful, warm and sunny. We Floridians had all our sweaters and warm clothes bundled on and the Manitobans had their warm weather clothes on. I had sat up the night before obsessively picking fuzz balls off L's freshly laundered sweater in preparation for the cooler weather visit with our homeschool friends, because if there's one thing Canadians know, it's sweaters.
Thursday, December 16, 2004
Refocusing
In preparation for our return to the ancients next year, I am collecting and studying loads of information on classical education.
If anybody's interested, here's how it's looking so far:
Classical Writing - Aesop
Began this with both girls last year. Will revisit it and move quickly through it in order to continue with Classical Writing - Poetry, and begin Classical Writing - Homer. These will be used in conjunction with:
Harvey's Elementary Grammar and Composition
Latina Christiana II and Henle Latin
Saxon 7/6 and Saxon Algebra 1
S will have finished Traditional Logic I by the end of this year. I may move her into Traditional Logic II, although Classical Writing aims to incorporate Traditional Logic I into its next publication, Classical Writing - Diogenes. The books are not long, so if she completes the second book, CW - Diogenes would be a good review and application.
The reading list is still in the works. After I've gone through what I have on hand and compare it with various lists from Memoria Press and their Highlands Latin School (thanks, Steph), Veritas Press, Greenleaf Press, and one I had forgotten but investigated back at the beginning of our homeschool challenge, possibly my favorite, Great Books Academy, which appears to be completely secular. The book lists that would apply from GBA would be in their high school level courses. We may have to adapt some of these.
I would love to enroll the girls in their online Socratic seminars.
Stay tuned for the reading list...
If anybody's interested, here's how it's looking so far:
Classical Writing - Aesop
Began this with both girls last year. Will revisit it and move quickly through it in order to continue with Classical Writing - Poetry, and begin Classical Writing - Homer. These will be used in conjunction with:
Harvey's Elementary Grammar and Composition
Latina Christiana II and Henle Latin
Saxon 7/6 and Saxon Algebra 1
S will have finished Traditional Logic I by the end of this year. I may move her into Traditional Logic II, although Classical Writing aims to incorporate Traditional Logic I into its next publication, Classical Writing - Diogenes. The books are not long, so if she completes the second book, CW - Diogenes would be a good review and application.
The reading list is still in the works. After I've gone through what I have on hand and compare it with various lists from Memoria Press and their Highlands Latin School (thanks, Steph), Veritas Press, Greenleaf Press, and one I had forgotten but investigated back at the beginning of our homeschool challenge, possibly my favorite, Great Books Academy, which appears to be completely secular. The book lists that would apply from GBA would be in their high school level courses. We may have to adapt some of these.
I would love to enroll the girls in their online Socratic seminars.
Stay tuned for the reading list...
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Brain cells
Blogger's playing tricks. I thought my original post (below) had disappeared so I rewrote it and, what do you know, they both appeared. The duplicate has since been deleted.
Last night I had a night out without the husband or the kids. It was a strange feeling. A friend asked me to be on her team for a trivia game hosted by a local history professor and his newspaper editor wife, being played publicly for the first time at a local sports bar instead of their living room. The turn out was not as great as they'd hoped, but it was only the inaugural. Two bucks per person to play, winner takes the pot. Sounded pretty good.
We came in third. Out of three teams.
Sad that we couldn't remember the big Olympic swimming hero Michael Phelps who brought home more medals than anyone else. This one had a semi-legitimate explanation at least. Hurricane Charley knocked out power for weeks during the games and when you could find a newspaper or listen to a radio broadcast, it was all about emergency services. There's no excuse though, for not having heard his name in connection with his recent DUI.
Sadder still that we didn't know China had a president, or weren't able to recognize his name, Hu Jintao, as the leader of one of the world's most powerful nations.
Saddest of all though, was surely the final bonus question, a twenty pointer that using our round's "double" option would have made it forty. A question that I, as the youngest participant by at least ten years, should have had no problem answering.
"What rock star followed his mother, Roxie Roker, who played the wife in the bi-racial couple on The Jeffersons, into show business?"
Oh! Oh! I know this one! It's, it's, what's-his-name! Okay, he's obviously black, and there's really only two big black rockers, Jimi Hendrix and this other guy! Trying to jar some memory from my teammates I encouraged them, "You know, he was married to Lisa Bonet... He did the Gap commercials..." Oh, man, we just listened to his album about 40,000 times... What the hell is his name?!
Um, can I phone a friend?
Given enough time, and beer, I would have eventually come up with his name. Like the night this past spring, sitting around my cousin's kitchen table in Boston discussing one-hit wonders with her and her brother. "Speaking of that, whatever happened to [our other cousin] Rich Cronin's band?"
"Don't know. Haven't heard anything about him since their last album."
"You never even heard their last album."
"I heard of it. The first one was pretty good."
"What was the name of his band again?"
"Uhhhhhhh..."
"Ummmmm..."
"Don't tell me you can't remember."
"Can you?"
"What was it?!"
"I can't remember!"
This went on for several minutes with the three of us laughing so hard there were tears in our eyes and alcoholic beverages shooting out of our noses. The other people in the room were not quite sure exactly what was so funny, which just made us laugh harder. The more we tried, the blanker we got. I was accused of being too drunk and was determined to prove otherwise. Out of the dark recesses of my short term memory popped, "I know! It's one of those alphabet names! ABC, XYZ?"
"UPS?"
"U2?"
"F.U.!"
"HBO?"
"H2O?"
"B&O?"
"L&O?"
"N.O.!"
"ELO?"
"UFO!"
I finally redeemed myself, "LFO! Ha! I am not wasted!"
We then lapsed into hysterics again as we tried to remember what LFO stood for. Next someone wanted to know what Rich's brother Michael had been up to lately.
"Last I heard he was managing that other boy band, uhhhh, what's it called?"
"P-town?"
"Beantown...?"
"Oh my God! What is it?!"
By that time people were leaving the room, shaking their heads and mumbling, "You people ah retahded."
Did I mention Alzheimer's runs in our family?
Last night I had a night out without the husband or the kids. It was a strange feeling. A friend asked me to be on her team for a trivia game hosted by a local history professor and his newspaper editor wife, being played publicly for the first time at a local sports bar instead of their living room. The turn out was not as great as they'd hoped, but it was only the inaugural. Two bucks per person to play, winner takes the pot. Sounded pretty good.
We came in third. Out of three teams.
Sad that we couldn't remember the big Olympic swimming hero Michael Phelps who brought home more medals than anyone else. This one had a semi-legitimate explanation at least. Hurricane Charley knocked out power for weeks during the games and when you could find a newspaper or listen to a radio broadcast, it was all about emergency services. There's no excuse though, for not having heard his name in connection with his recent DUI.
Sadder still that we didn't know China had a president, or weren't able to recognize his name, Hu Jintao, as the leader of one of the world's most powerful nations.
Saddest of all though, was surely the final bonus question, a twenty pointer that using our round's "double" option would have made it forty. A question that I, as the youngest participant by at least ten years, should have had no problem answering.
"What rock star followed his mother, Roxie Roker, who played the wife in the bi-racial couple on The Jeffersons, into show business?"
Oh! Oh! I know this one! It's, it's, what's-his-name! Okay, he's obviously black, and there's really only two big black rockers, Jimi Hendrix and this other guy! Trying to jar some memory from my teammates I encouraged them, "You know, he was married to Lisa Bonet... He did the Gap commercials..." Oh, man, we just listened to his album about 40,000 times... What the hell is his name?!
Um, can I phone a friend?
Given enough time, and beer, I would have eventually come up with his name. Like the night this past spring, sitting around my cousin's kitchen table in Boston discussing one-hit wonders with her and her brother. "Speaking of that, whatever happened to [our other cousin] Rich Cronin's band?"
"Don't know. Haven't heard anything about him since their last album."
"You never even heard their last album."
"I heard of it. The first one was pretty good."
"What was the name of his band again?"
"Uhhhhhhh..."
"Ummmmm..."
"Don't tell me you can't remember."
"Can you?"
"What was it?!"
"I can't remember!"
This went on for several minutes with the three of us laughing so hard there were tears in our eyes and alcoholic beverages shooting out of our noses. The other people in the room were not quite sure exactly what was so funny, which just made us laugh harder. The more we tried, the blanker we got. I was accused of being too drunk and was determined to prove otherwise. Out of the dark recesses of my short term memory popped, "I know! It's one of those alphabet names! ABC, XYZ?"
"UPS?"
"U2?"
"F.U.!"
"HBO?"
"H2O?"
"B&O?"
"L&O?"
"N.O.!"
"ELO?"
"UFO!"
I finally redeemed myself, "LFO! Ha! I am not wasted!"
We then lapsed into hysterics again as we tried to remember what LFO stood for. Next someone wanted to know what Rich's brother Michael had been up to lately.
"Last I heard he was managing that other boy band, uhhhh, what's it called?"
"P-town?"
"Beantown...?"
"Oh my God! What is it?!"
By that time people were leaving the room, shaking their heads and mumbling, "You people ah retahded."
Did I mention Alzheimer's runs in our family?
Monday, December 13, 2004
Saturday afternoon, coming out of Target, finishing up Christmas shopping, I get a call from G, "Come on out to the island, hon, it's gorgeous!"
With the kids out on the island with their Dad, I had planned a solitary weekend catching up on laundry, wrapping presents, and diving into my pile of books. I tried to beg off, having no change of clothes or books with me, but he insisted. I tried several excuses to run back to the house to grab some reading material, the clothes being relatively unimportant, but he didn't want to waste a minute and was adamant that I come right then. It was hard to resist running back into Target and grabbing at least a magazine to accompany me, but I headed off to the marina.
He was right. It was spectacular out there. Luckily for me, I found The Underground History of American Education on the bookshelf and kept my nose buried in that, while enjoying the beautiful weather, of course.
With the kids out on the island with their Dad, I had planned a solitary weekend catching up on laundry, wrapping presents, and diving into my pile of books. I tried to beg off, having no change of clothes or books with me, but he insisted. I tried several excuses to run back to the house to grab some reading material, the clothes being relatively unimportant, but he didn't want to waste a minute and was adamant that I come right then. It was hard to resist running back into Target and grabbing at least a magazine to accompany me, but I headed off to the marina.
He was right. It was spectacular out there. Luckily for me, I found The Underground History of American Education on the bookshelf and kept my nose buried in that, while enjoying the beautiful weather, of course.
Thursday, December 09, 2004
His Dull Materials
SFP has a brief post and links to an article on the movie bastardization of Philip Pullman's brilliant trilogy, His Dark Materials.
So disappointing on so many levels.
So disappointing on so many levels.
Wednesday, December 08, 2004
"We need not a revolution, but a restoration."
That sums it up for me. Okay, I'm only just a little more than halfway through Climbing Parnassus, which is a new, sad record. It's not that this is a dull book, au contraire, it is very interesting and has caused me to dog-ear nearly half the pages I have read so far. Pencil marks abound and I will now share some of my favorite bits with you. All quotes are by the author, Tracy Lee Simmons, unless noted otherwise.
From the mid-80s study A Nation at Risk by the National Commission on Excellence in Education:
--------------
Simmons goes on to say that the way to acquire a good taste in anything is to be familiar with the best specimens of each.
--------------
Everett Dean Martin's definition from The Meaning of a Liberal Education:
--------------
--------------
--------------
---------------
W.H. Auden:
---------------
T.S. Eliot:
-------------
First, regarding home educators and the misuse of the term "classical," Simmons points out that, "To many homeschoolers, "classical education" simply means the opposite of whatever is going on in those dreaded public schools." He asserts that a classical education not only sought to instill knowledge, but to polish and refine. That rigor nor beauty in language could be accomplished without Greek and Latin for they together provided a mental gymnastic and training in taste. So basically, it's simple addition: Latin and/or Greek + The Trivium (grammar, logic, and rhetoric, as courses of study, not merely organizational categories) + The Quadrivium (astronomy, music, geometry, arithmetic) = Classical.
So now, how do you do this, you ask? Well for starters, there's no whining involved. This is tough stuff, thus the metaphor of climbing Parnassus, the Greek peak symbolizing the source of inspiration and eloquence. Mountain climbing, that's what this is. But really, does anything worth having ever come easy?
-- Drill, drill, drill. Children were taught letters and numbers deliberately beginning around the age of seven. There was, as Simmons says, "no adult concerned apparently about the deadening effect upon a child's creativity or individuality."
-- Reading was not to be broad or inclusive, but good: it should consist of the best. Readings included both historic and philosophical matters.
-- Poetry. The primary goal of the literary focus in ancient days was an understanding of the material, not the expression of students' opinions. Poems were memorized. There were very few instances of students being required to write poetry. The pupils job "was not to express themselves, but to bow humbly at the feet of others. They were apprentices. They were to know, not to be known."
-- Socratic dialogue. Classical instructors used this teaching device where the student actively participates in discussion through rigorous questioning.
-- Critical thinking? Literary and cultural knowledge made up the body of students' lessons. Critical thinking skills were not taught separately, but acquired naturally along the way as students pursued this course of study.
Pretty basic, right? Gather up your gear and head for the mountains.
Now having said all that, I come to the part of the book that has me wondering. The main piece of climbing equipment for the ascent is said to be "a good and teachable disposition." Nature is the great leveler. "One must be born with an educable nature."
Simmons explains perhaps the true nature of "gifted," as being gifted with the passion for learning. But it is generally believed by many classical instructors from ancient times up through the Renaissance (and maybe later in the book by modern classical teachers, I'm not there yet) that schooling offered opportunity for all -- "or at least for all of the talented. ...nature had not fit all people for learning. To get the most out of a study one needed not simply capacity for learning, but a "taste" for it; learning ought not to be forced upon a student unequal to its rigors and intellectual largesse."
You must understand the distinction that there are two types of education, of which any thriving nation requires both: "instrumental" which equals vocational training and "formative" which forms the mind and creates a truly educated person. "All but the mentally crippled can walk at least one of these roads. Some people are trained; some are educated; some are both. ...All can travel the first road of training, but few the second."
My question is then: How do you know which road you walk? Where do you draw the line? When educating your children is there a point where you should begin preparing them strictly for vocational pursuits, or do you push on and hope for the best? Or do you cover all bets and work toward both? If you are yourself incapable of providing the true classical, formative education, assuming you are one who should have maybe followed the instrumental path, being left behind in the foothills of Parnassus, can you recognize that in yourself? Could it be that your vocational pursuit may be teaching?
Also, Simmons states that, "Classical study was incumbent upon all who wished to rise above their stations in life by intellectual effort." Is this possible today with a dearth of educational facilities teaching classically and the available schools costing dearly? Can such a rigorous study be successful on one's own?
Stephanie has had some good posts on classical education starting here, and here, and also here. All have links to additional informative replies and comments.
From the mid-80s study A Nation at Risk by the National Commission on Excellence in Education:
If an unfriendly foreign power had attempted to impose on America the mediocre educational performance that exists today, we might have viewed it as an act of war. As it stands, we have allowed this to happen ourselves...we have, in effect, been committing an act of unthinking, unilateral educational disarmament.
--------------
...modern education...is leery of seeking out and acknowledging distinctions between good and bad, better and worse. It does not teach the arts of discrimination. We suffer from an atrophy of the judging faculty.
Simmons goes on to say that the way to acquire a good taste in anything is to be familiar with the best specimens of each.
--------------
Everett Dean Martin's definition from The Meaning of a Liberal Education:
...the kind of education which sets the mind free from the servitude of the crowd and from vulgar self-interests.
--------------
What purposes should education, at its most enlightened serve? [Sir Richard] Livingstone listed three functions, to wit: to teach us to earn a living; to teach us to be good citizens; and to help us to understand the meaning of the good life. The first objective, he wrote, we understand all too well, and the second is treated with growing neglect. But the third is almost irretrievably lost.
--------------
If a society be rigid and authoritarian, children are taught obedience; if it be equalitarian, they are taught first their rights as citizens and secondly of their civil obligations. Likewise, a vocationally minded, commercial society will betray its priorities by placing training-for-jobs above all else: getting on is the goal.
--------------
For the Greeks and Romans both, education was "essentially an initiation into the Greek way of life, molding the child and the adolescent in accordance with the national customs and submitting him to a particular style of living -- the style that distinguished man from the brutes, Greeks from the barbarians" (Marrou). Theirs became a bookish culture. And neither brutes nor barbarians can read.
---------------
W.H. Auden:
...the bewildered comment of any fifth century Athenian upon our society from Dante's time till our own...would surely be: 'Yes, I can see all the works of a great civilization; but why cannot I meet any civilized persons? I only encounter specialists, artists who know nothing of science, scientists who know nothing of art, philosophers who have no interest in God, priests unconcerned with politics, politicians who only know other politicians.'
---------------
T.S. Eliot:
No one can become really educated, without having pursued some study in which he took no interest -- for it is part of an education to learn to interest ourselves in subjects for which we have no aptitude.
-------------
First, regarding home educators and the misuse of the term "classical," Simmons points out that, "To many homeschoolers, "classical education" simply means the opposite of whatever is going on in those dreaded public schools." He asserts that a classical education not only sought to instill knowledge, but to polish and refine. That rigor nor beauty in language could be accomplished without Greek and Latin for they together provided a mental gymnastic and training in taste. So basically, it's simple addition: Latin and/or Greek + The Trivium (grammar, logic, and rhetoric, as courses of study, not merely organizational categories) + The Quadrivium (astronomy, music, geometry, arithmetic) = Classical.
So now, how do you do this, you ask? Well for starters, there's no whining involved. This is tough stuff, thus the metaphor of climbing Parnassus, the Greek peak symbolizing the source of inspiration and eloquence. Mountain climbing, that's what this is. But really, does anything worth having ever come easy?
-- Drill, drill, drill. Children were taught letters and numbers deliberately beginning around the age of seven. There was, as Simmons says, "no adult concerned apparently about the deadening effect upon a child's creativity or individuality."
-- Reading was not to be broad or inclusive, but good: it should consist of the best. Readings included both historic and philosophical matters.
-- Poetry. The primary goal of the literary focus in ancient days was an understanding of the material, not the expression of students' opinions. Poems were memorized. There were very few instances of students being required to write poetry. The pupils job "was not to express themselves, but to bow humbly at the feet of others. They were apprentices. They were to know, not to be known."
-- Socratic dialogue. Classical instructors used this teaching device where the student actively participates in discussion through rigorous questioning.
-- Critical thinking? Literary and cultural knowledge made up the body of students' lessons. Critical thinking skills were not taught separately, but acquired naturally along the way as students pursued this course of study.
Pretty basic, right? Gather up your gear and head for the mountains.
Now having said all that, I come to the part of the book that has me wondering. The main piece of climbing equipment for the ascent is said to be "a good and teachable disposition." Nature is the great leveler. "One must be born with an educable nature."
Simmons explains perhaps the true nature of "gifted," as being gifted with the passion for learning. But it is generally believed by many classical instructors from ancient times up through the Renaissance (and maybe later in the book by modern classical teachers, I'm not there yet) that schooling offered opportunity for all -- "or at least for all of the talented. ...nature had not fit all people for learning. To get the most out of a study one needed not simply capacity for learning, but a "taste" for it; learning ought not to be forced upon a student unequal to its rigors and intellectual largesse."
You must understand the distinction that there are two types of education, of which any thriving nation requires both: "instrumental" which equals vocational training and "formative" which forms the mind and creates a truly educated person. "All but the mentally crippled can walk at least one of these roads. Some people are trained; some are educated; some are both. ...All can travel the first road of training, but few the second."
My question is then: How do you know which road you walk? Where do you draw the line? When educating your children is there a point where you should begin preparing them strictly for vocational pursuits, or do you push on and hope for the best? Or do you cover all bets and work toward both? If you are yourself incapable of providing the true classical, formative education, assuming you are one who should have maybe followed the instrumental path, being left behind in the foothills of Parnassus, can you recognize that in yourself? Could it be that your vocational pursuit may be teaching?
Also, Simmons states that, "Classical study was incumbent upon all who wished to rise above their stations in life by intellectual effort." Is this possible today with a dearth of educational facilities teaching classically and the available schools costing dearly? Can such a rigorous study be successful on one's own?
Stephanie has had some good posts on classical education starting here, and here, and also here. All have links to additional informative replies and comments.
Monday, December 06, 2004
Better than Christmas
I have been spoiled these last few days.
First, over to Fort Lauderdale Thursday afternoon to see "Wait Wait...Don't Tell Me!" which was fun. We got the evil eye from fellow theatergoers, worried that our children, the only three in attendance, would cause some sort of ruckus. The only one I was worried about was L, the youngest, who lacks volume control. She got a little wiggly on my lap, but never made a peep, and fell asleep about a third of the way through the show. We hit the Cheesecake Factory afterward for a late dinner. Our waiter was a Joseph Fiennes look-a-like who winked at me and called me "lovey."
Friday we hung out at Nanny and Papa's in Fort Lauderdale before returning to the west coast. The kids had fun swimming -- I throw that in just for my relatives up north -- their not oft seen cousins dropped by, and I spent a little more time reading Climbing Parnassus, the book that never ends. My old friend Carol called me out of the blue. She completely forgot my birthday, never mentioning it once, though I think something must have stirred her memory to cause her to pick up the phone, and that made my day. You expect people to call with obligatory wishes; it's the ones who call simply because they miss you that you really appreciate. It's been nearly a year since we last spoke, but she's one of those people you just pick right back up with in spite of the lapses.
Saturday, I knew something was up when Dad volunteered to take all three girls grocery shopping with him. He does not generally tend toward the masochistic. He planned to make a pot of chili, which doesn't require many items, nor are the secret ingredients particularly hard to locate, but they were gone for nearly the entire afternoon. When they returned there were three bunches of flowers, one from each girl, and a subscription to the symphony. Oh, and chili fixin's too.
Yesterday we hopped in the car and took a drive down to Clyde Butcher's Big Cypress Gallery to pick up last year's birthday present, still on lay-away. Mr. Butcher has so many awesome images, it had been a very difficult decision. We ultimately chose Cayo Costa #3 (under "Photos-Limited Edition Florida") which shows the beach we visit on our return boat ride from Cabbage Key, one of our favorite places to lunch on a lazy weekend. The second place choice had been one not listed on the website, showing a wide swath of sawgrass winding through a frame of sabal palms and topped with a high contrast cumulonimbus. That one struck me for its absolutely balanced composition and perfect, seemingly endless view. It was a low number in the limited edition and also not one of his more familiar images which I guessed might make it more valuable some day. It was still hanging in the same spot, right over the cash register where I stood ogling it while G paid the balance on the Cayo Costa photo. We were considering swapping the Cayo Costa for it when G surprised me by pulling out a check and leaving another deposit. We justified it with the knowledge that in one year, our first photo has doubled in price. The lay-away is a deal. We left thinking that we will have to buy at least one more so that someday each of the girls will have one of their own. We found a neat little joint for dinner, reminded me of The Whistle Stop Cafe, and indeed there were fried green tomatoes on the menu. G ordered those, I got Indian fry bread with sweet salsa, and we both had a bowl of lima bean and ham soup.
A final stop on the way home at Kinko's, where I picked up the key components for our language arts study next year, Classical Writing - Poetry and Classical Writing - Homer.
Music, art, books, food, friends, and a wonderful family, what more could you ask for?
First, over to Fort Lauderdale Thursday afternoon to see "Wait Wait...Don't Tell Me!" which was fun. We got the evil eye from fellow theatergoers, worried that our children, the only three in attendance, would cause some sort of ruckus. The only one I was worried about was L, the youngest, who lacks volume control. She got a little wiggly on my lap, but never made a peep, and fell asleep about a third of the way through the show. We hit the Cheesecake Factory afterward for a late dinner. Our waiter was a Joseph Fiennes look-a-like who winked at me and called me "lovey."
Friday we hung out at Nanny and Papa's in Fort Lauderdale before returning to the west coast. The kids had fun swimming -- I throw that in just for my relatives up north -- their not oft seen cousins dropped by, and I spent a little more time reading Climbing Parnassus, the book that never ends. My old friend Carol called me out of the blue. She completely forgot my birthday, never mentioning it once, though I think something must have stirred her memory to cause her to pick up the phone, and that made my day. You expect people to call with obligatory wishes; it's the ones who call simply because they miss you that you really appreciate. It's been nearly a year since we last spoke, but she's one of those people you just pick right back up with in spite of the lapses.
Saturday, I knew something was up when Dad volunteered to take all three girls grocery shopping with him. He does not generally tend toward the masochistic. He planned to make a pot of chili, which doesn't require many items, nor are the secret ingredients particularly hard to locate, but they were gone for nearly the entire afternoon. When they returned there were three bunches of flowers, one from each girl, and a subscription to the symphony. Oh, and chili fixin's too.
Yesterday we hopped in the car and took a drive down to Clyde Butcher's Big Cypress Gallery to pick up last year's birthday present, still on lay-away. Mr. Butcher has so many awesome images, it had been a very difficult decision. We ultimately chose Cayo Costa #3 (under "Photos-Limited Edition Florida") which shows the beach we visit on our return boat ride from Cabbage Key, one of our favorite places to lunch on a lazy weekend. The second place choice had been one not listed on the website, showing a wide swath of sawgrass winding through a frame of sabal palms and topped with a high contrast cumulonimbus. That one struck me for its absolutely balanced composition and perfect, seemingly endless view. It was a low number in the limited edition and also not one of his more familiar images which I guessed might make it more valuable some day. It was still hanging in the same spot, right over the cash register where I stood ogling it while G paid the balance on the Cayo Costa photo. We were considering swapping the Cayo Costa for it when G surprised me by pulling out a check and leaving another deposit. We justified it with the knowledge that in one year, our first photo has doubled in price. The lay-away is a deal. We left thinking that we will have to buy at least one more so that someday each of the girls will have one of their own. We found a neat little joint for dinner, reminded me of The Whistle Stop Cafe, and indeed there were fried green tomatoes on the menu. G ordered those, I got Indian fry bread with sweet salsa, and we both had a bowl of lima bean and ham soup.
A final stop on the way home at Kinko's, where I picked up the key components for our language arts study next year, Classical Writing - Poetry and Classical Writing - Homer.
Music, art, books, food, friends, and a wonderful family, what more could you ask for?
Wednesday, December 01, 2004
Geeks like us
"Geek." That was my husband's reply when I told him that what I wanted for my birthday was to see "Wait Wait...Don't Tell Me!" when they do their shows this week from Fort Lauderdale.
He told me to go ahead and order the tickets. I kept putting it off, and the later it got, I figured the less desirable the seats were, so I didn't bother.
Tonight he surprised me with tickets for the whole family to see the show tomorrow evening. Yeah, even my kids are Carl Kasell fans. Seventh row center, not bad.
Tonight we are letting the older two stay up late and watch the Crossroads Guitar Festival on PBS. Part of a well rounded education is knowing your guitar legends. I just wish they'd quit referring to Clapton as "the old guy."
He told me to go ahead and order the tickets. I kept putting it off, and the later it got, I figured the less desirable the seats were, so I didn't bother.
Tonight he surprised me with tickets for the whole family to see the show tomorrow evening. Yeah, even my kids are Carl Kasell fans. Seventh row center, not bad.
Tonight we are letting the older two stay up late and watch the Crossroads Guitar Festival on PBS. Part of a well rounded education is knowing your guitar legends. I just wish they'd quit referring to Clapton as "the old guy."
(Gulp)
WGCU had an unsettling news story today on the end of hurricane season. It was all upbeat about how Charlotte County will come back better than ever with the backing of Governor Jeb Bush, and then the closing interview from somebody at NOAA...
This year was no aberration, but an indication of an increasingly active new cycle of hurricane seasons that should continue for the next few decades.
Not something you want to hear when your little house sits barely above sealevel on a shifting sandbar.
This year was no aberration, but an indication of an increasingly active new cycle of hurricane seasons that should continue for the next few decades.
Not something you want to hear when your little house sits barely above sealevel on a shifting sandbar.
Filler
I volunteered to help our local homeschool group* with the monthly newsletter by contributing trivia, which suits me just fine, as I'm sure most of you would agree. You want filler? I got filler.**
Here then is a collection of miscellany for the month of December:
December is: Safe Toys and Gifts Month; Universal Human Rights Month
1 -- Basketball invented by James Naismith, 1891
-- Rosa Parks Day, anniversary of arrest, 1955
-- Antarctica set aside as scientific preserve, 1959
2 -- Monroe Doctrine created, 1823
6 -- Saint Nicholas Day
7 -- Pearl Harbor Day, 1941
-- Chanukah begins at sundown
12 -- Soviet Union dissolved, 1991
-- Poinsettia Day (honors Dr. Joel Roberts Poinsett, who introduced the Central
American plant to the U.S.)
14 -- South Pole Discovery by Roald Amundsen, 1911
15 -- Ratification of Bill of Rights, 1791
16 -- Celebration of Las Posadas begins
-- Boston Tea Party, 1773
17 -- Wright brothers’ first powered flight, 1903
20 -- Louisiana Purchase, 1803
-- Sacagawea dies, 1812
-- South Carolina first state to secede from Union, 1860
21 -- First crossword puzzle compiled and printed, 1913
-- Humbug Day (allows those preparing for Christmas to vent their frustrations;
twelve “humbugs” allowed)
-- Pilgrims land at Plymouth
-- Winter begins
25 -- Christmas
26 -- Kwanzaa begins
31 -- New Year’s Eve
BIRTHDAYS
2 Georges Seurat, 1859
4 Leaf Munro, 1905 (author of The Story of Ferdinand)
5 Walt Disney, 1901; Martin Van Buren, 1782
9 Clarence Birdseye, 1886; Jean De Brunhoff, 1899 (author of The Story of Babar)
10 Emily Dickinson, 1830
14 Alexandre Gustave Eiffel, 1832
16 Ludwig Van Beethoven, 1770
24 Christopher “Kit” Carson, 1809
25 Clara Barton, 1821
27 Louis Pasteur, 1822
28 Woodrow Wilson, 1856
30 Rudyard Kipling, 1865
31 Henri Matisse, 1869
QUOTATIONS
At Christmas play and make good cheer,
For Christmas comes but once a year.
-- Thomas Tusser
“I am the ghost of Christmas past.”
“Long past?” inquired Scrooge.
“No. Your past.”
-- Charles Dickens
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight!”
-- Clement Clarke Moore (A Visit from St. Nicholas)
Christmas is coming, the geese are getting fat,
Please to put a penny in the old man’s hat;
If you haven’t got a penny, a ha’penny will do,
If you haven’t got a ha’penny, God bless you!
--Anonymous
Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents.
-- Louisa May Alcott (Little Women)
Let there be peace on earth
And let it begin with me…
-- Jill Jackson and Sy Miller
* Yes, we're officially back with the so-called inclusive group, at least for the once a month Park Day. They quit opening with a prayer which pleased me, not because I am against prayer per se, but because the content alienated Pagan and Muslim members. A small victory.
** All dates taken from The Teacher's Calendar School Year 2004-2005, loaned to me by the head of the newsletter committee. Could she make it any easier? An interesting book, but let's just hope the editors of Chase's performed due diligence while researching their factoids.
Here then is a collection of miscellany for the month of December:
December is: Safe Toys and Gifts Month; Universal Human Rights Month
1 -- Basketball invented by James Naismith, 1891
-- Rosa Parks Day, anniversary of arrest, 1955
-- Antarctica set aside as scientific preserve, 1959
2 -- Monroe Doctrine created, 1823
6 -- Saint Nicholas Day
7 -- Pearl Harbor Day, 1941
-- Chanukah begins at sundown
12 -- Soviet Union dissolved, 1991
-- Poinsettia Day (honors Dr. Joel Roberts Poinsett, who introduced the Central
American plant to the U.S.)
14 -- South Pole Discovery by Roald Amundsen, 1911
15 -- Ratification of Bill of Rights, 1791
16 -- Celebration of Las Posadas begins
-- Boston Tea Party, 1773
17 -- Wright brothers’ first powered flight, 1903
20 -- Louisiana Purchase, 1803
-- Sacagawea dies, 1812
-- South Carolina first state to secede from Union, 1860
21 -- First crossword puzzle compiled and printed, 1913
-- Humbug Day (allows those preparing for Christmas to vent their frustrations;
twelve “humbugs” allowed)
-- Pilgrims land at Plymouth
-- Winter begins
25 -- Christmas
26 -- Kwanzaa begins
31 -- New Year’s Eve
BIRTHDAYS
2 Georges Seurat, 1859
4 Leaf Munro, 1905 (author of The Story of Ferdinand)
5 Walt Disney, 1901; Martin Van Buren, 1782
9 Clarence Birdseye, 1886; Jean De Brunhoff, 1899 (author of The Story of Babar)
10 Emily Dickinson, 1830
14 Alexandre Gustave Eiffel, 1832
16 Ludwig Van Beethoven, 1770
24 Christopher “Kit” Carson, 1809
25 Clara Barton, 1821
27 Louis Pasteur, 1822
28 Woodrow Wilson, 1856
30 Rudyard Kipling, 1865
31 Henri Matisse, 1869
QUOTATIONS
At Christmas play and make good cheer,
For Christmas comes but once a year.
-- Thomas Tusser
“I am the ghost of Christmas past.”
“Long past?” inquired Scrooge.
“No. Your past.”
-- Charles Dickens
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight!”
-- Clement Clarke Moore (A Visit from St. Nicholas)
Christmas is coming, the geese are getting fat,
Please to put a penny in the old man’s hat;
If you haven’t got a penny, a ha’penny will do,
If you haven’t got a ha’penny, God bless you!
--Anonymous
Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents.
-- Louisa May Alcott (Little Women)
Let there be peace on earth
And let it begin with me…
-- Jill Jackson and Sy Miller
* Yes, we're officially back with the so-called inclusive group, at least for the once a month Park Day. They quit opening with a prayer which pleased me, not because I am against prayer per se, but because the content alienated Pagan and Muslim members. A small victory.
** All dates taken from The Teacher's Calendar School Year 2004-2005, loaned to me by the head of the newsletter committee. Could she make it any easier? An interesting book, but let's just hope the editors of Chase's performed due diligence while researching their factoids.
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