Happy Birthday!

It started off, four years ago today, with a planned visit to Fairchild Tropical Gardens for the annual Mango Festival and nearly ended with me coming home from the hospital, not with a cherub in my arms, but, in a box.

A hospital with the sanitary conditions of a slum in Calcutta, too much Pitocin, a botched epidural (requested after the last child’s completely natural, high-velocity birth), disbelief from the staff when I advised them I needed to push, and shock when they realized I was right, followed by the speedy delivery of another perfect, beautiful daughter.

Then chills, and an ominous, “You’re not going home today.” Lung scan, MRI, sonograms, CT scans, blood drawn every two hours, an intravenous chartreuse cocktail. Pain. Big pain. Difficulty breathing. This is it. Just leave me alone. One week later, the diagnosis: Intrauterine alpha strep, antibiotic resistant.

My poor baby was abandoned in the nursery, or allowed to stay with me, depending on how you look at it. Maybe they thought it would keep my spirits up, or maybe they thought we had insurance. They were wrong on both counts.

Three more days in the hospital.

Finally home and hooked up to a milking machine, pumping and dumping for two weeks until all the radioactivity from the lung scan had left my body. If the other two got to nurse, so would my little orphan. Formula clogged her up, we switched formula. Colic, switched formula again. Bottles cleaned, glop mixed. Forget the health benefits, breastfeeding is just plain easier. Success! She even nursed twice as long as either of the other two, just shy of her second birthday; weaning her was a challenge.

In fact, everything about this child has been a challenge. X-rays, Poison Control, never napping, three years before she slept through the night, unauthorized visits to neighbors… She is the high-wire act without the net. During my month-long recovery at home, G would take the colicky infant at night to allow me some rest between my continued fever spikes. One night, in the midst of an endless screaming bout, he popped her in the car, hoping the drive would lull her to sleep. He ended up not on a little ride around the neighborhood, but doing a fifty mile circuit to Miami International Airport and back. He swears he was just driving until she fell asleep. I think he may have been considering leaving the country.

In spite of all that, what a blessing this child is. She is the funniest one yet, and with her huge belly laugh, precocious observations and comments, she has brought more joy and laughter into our lives than we can stand sometimes. How time flies when you’re having fun.

Big Jack, Orlando, and another incident at the Laundromat

The night before last I was awakened by L, sleeping next to me, when she heard the alarm on our digital stopwatch go off. Nobody has been able to figure out how to stop it, aside from pitching it out into the bay, so every 3:00 AM, it beeps twice a second for one solid minute. It doesn't bother the other heavy sleepers in the house; I'm generally the only one who hears it. After I reassured L that it would stop soon and not to be scared, I had almost drifted back to sleep when I heard screams coming from the cage of our hedgehog, Jack. I jumped up, snapped on the light and was horrified to see Jack hanging upside down, apparently impaled on the thick gauge wire that attaches his food dispenser to the side of the cage, as he had tried to move downstairs to his sleeping quarters. He was swinging by a long pinkish appendage. It looked like it caught his leg. When I looked closer, I didn't see a foot. Oh my God, he's chewed his foot off to get free...oh, jeez, it's worse than that...it's his intestines, it must have caught his belly...

He nearly removed my ring finger as I tried to get him free.

When I finally got him down and inspected the poor, terrified little guy, I discovered he had been suspended by his, ahem, sheath (see 2 a.) If there's any men reading this, and probably sitting there with your hands covering yourself in empathetic protective mode, sorry about that. It had to hurt. My little tale does have a happy ending: the swelling has gone down, he's able to urinate properly, and he's been left more endowed than ever.

Then, sometime before sunrise this morning, S came out of her room complaining of being too hot to sleep. Fine, hop on in with me. First, though, she headed to the bathroom. The door wouldn't open. I got up to try it. It wasn't locked, you could twist the handle, but it wouldn't budge past the door frame. Uh oh. Our cat, Orlando, sleeps in there at night because I can't bear the thought of fleas in our beds, so I figured he had something to do with it. By then, I had to use the bathroom pretty badly myself, and S and I were forced to go outside and squat in the dark.

I knew we could get in through the window.

We pulled up the stepstool.

Too short.

Then the fully-extended roofing ladder.

Too tall.

Then the sawhorses.

Just right.

I could now see into the bathroom with the flashlight and observed that the cat had possibly tried to climb up the towel that had been hung over the shower curtain rod, pulling the whole thing down and effectively barricading the door. I pushed in the screen and S climbed through.

I'm hoping tonight I'll get a full night's sleep.

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G learned a new reason to never leave your laundry unattended, after already having a load of his clothes and a backpack stolen in separate incidents. As he folded up his laundry yesterday, he thought he saw a guy, who looked like Jerry Garcia, taking a birdbath in someone's wash cycle. When the guy pulled out a stick of deodorant and applied it, he was sure of it. He discretely mentioned it to the attendant, who immediately confronted Jerry, sitting outside the laundromat having a smoke, and pointed G out as his accuser. G left very quickly.

Our Fourth

We celebrated for two days, starting Saturday night with our neighbor's annual party. We're not invited, but we can watch the hour-long professional fireworks show and hear the live band from our dock.

Fireworks over the water are doubly beautiful.

Sunday the kids donned their red, white, and blue outfits, and made a Fourth of July Lego parade with the America Rock video playing in the background.

Here's the parade led by George Washington on horseback, followed by the Statue of Liberty, American flag float, 2004 float, Women's VOTE float, and the Lincoln Memorial float, as they circle around the Washington Monument. I love a parade!

From Sea to Shining Sea

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Yesterday I began reading Undaunted Courage in preparation for the next portion of our studies, and am unable to put it down. I was fully prepared to not like this book, but Stephen Ambrose is a captivating storyteller, and Jefferson, Lewis, and Clark are some amazing characters.

Happy Fourth, everyone!

Progress Report

Has anyone noticed how long Sophie's World has been on our read-aloud list? While the book itself is a fairly clever lesson in the history of philosophy wrapped in the guise of a mystery, it is a poor read-aloud. The girls are quite bored with the biographical information on various philosophers and keeping them interested until the storyline resumes with Hilde and Sophie has been a challenge. We're close though.

The bathroom rehab is still in its initial stages. Ceiling is done, walls are primed, shower stall interior painted. G was lacking a second roller for the regular light-colored coats of paint, so he is out now at the hardware store. We still haven't been able to successfully address the storage problem. The original cheap bamboo open wall shelf was a very unorganized, unattractive way to store Band-Aids, eyedrops, cold medicines, deodorant, etc. Medicine cabinets without mirrors are not too common and the ones we have seen are not solid wood. Out here, moisture is a big problem. Any pressboard products eventually swell up and fall apart -- that's why the kitchen should be our next big interior project. Any appropriate cabinets we have come across all need to be ordered.

Our phone lines out here are plagued with static, causing my internet connection to cut out frequently, so I've been checking into satellite ISPs. The cost is prohibitive and the reviews of the various services are not glowing. I'll be checking into wireless services next. Anybody use one?

Fireworks

I'm mad. G and I are reasonable people. We think we're making a good effort and doing a decent job of raising our daughters. Why then do people feel the need to override our decisions?

When we ask, politely, that the kids not get toys for their birthdays, it's not that we are mean or rigidly Spartan. It's that we live in 500 square feet of space. What about art supplies? Clothes? Sports equipment? We have them, more than we need, more than we can use, thank you. Books? Sure, and gift certificates are always appreciated so the kids can choose their own, or maybe renew the subscription to their favorite magazine. A simple card will do. Kids love to get their own mail. If you feel that is not enough, stick a few bucks in it. The kids will be thrilled.

Same with Christmas.

People don't seem to understand, even though I have tried to explain as gently as possible, that the majority of holiday presents they receive go straight to G's Haitian employee or Goodwill. And Easter, Halloween, and Thanksgiving are not gift-giving holidays, nor does Santa or the Easter Bunny leave additional treats anywhere other than our house.

When we say we are not coming over to the east coast so you can present the aforementioned unwanted gifts, that means, we are not coming over. Please don't continue to ask. We prefer our celebrations here, at home. If we do happen by necessity to travel over to your side, we do not need to celebrate the birthday multiple times with each set of relatives. Birthdays come once a year. Once. It is much easier for those of you without young children in your household to come see us than it is for me to break up our delicate routine, pack up the four of us, make necessary preparations for the care and feeding of the cat and hedgehog, and drive six hours roundtrip. You are always welcome here. How many times have you been over to visit in three years? Once or twice? Still insist on a present? Stick it in the mail.

When we decide that, unfortunately, the girls will not be flying up to meet their beloved cousins in New Jersey when they come to visit from London this month, and will have to wait until Christmas to see them, don't insist on asking again and again, especially in front of them. We were not planning to let them go, not because we can't afford it, so, thanks, but no thanks for the offer of tickets, but because we recently spent one whole month traveling up the east coast and now it's time to get back to schoolwork. Why is their home education such a concern to you all year, but inconsequential when it suits you? We aren't comfortable with them traveling great distances or being away from us for extended periods of time. I know it is difficult for you to understand that, but please respect our wishes. Don't continue to manipulate us by having the nieces call and ask, at your behest, if the girls could please, please, please come up.

As it is, this last issue has caused a great disharmony in our home. G is ready to throw in the towel and allow the two older girls to fly up with my father, but not before giving everyone a piece of his mind. It is easy for them to ignore me, but G is so easygoing and diplomatic, that when he speaks, like E.F. Hutton, people listen.

Had to take a drive up to Tampa to pick up a trailer axle and fender, and then deliver it to Hollywood for my nephews' boat. I'm such a nice auntie. My nephews are expert, professional fishermen and won another big tournament just the other day. One night I'm hoping to go out with one of them and document a typical swordfishing expedition. These boys will go out solo and come home with at least one fish nearly as big as the boat and weighing several hundred pounds. One nephew's Christmas card always includes a photo of him, his wife and kids, and at least one enormous, dead fish. My sentiments exactly.

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I finished Queen Bees & Wannabes, and as I suspected, most of this doesn't directly apply to us as homeschoolers. Just having your daughters out of the traditional school setting certainly limits most of the potential for harm. I feel sorry for the other mothers who are dealing with these problems and need to read this book for help. The author, Rosalind Wiseman, while helpful and encouraging, delivers a mostly pessimistic message that pressure to conform in a clique destroys girls' individuality, leaves them susceptible to abusive relationships later on, vulnerable to alcohol and drug abuse, and is almost completely inevitable. Wiseman constantly warns that "[n]o matter how good a parent you are, how popular your daughter is, or how great her friends are, she'll run into problems with popularity and cliques. For better or worse, it's the experiences she has in the clique that will teach her volumes about friendship, support, understanding, power, and privilege. On a daily basis she'll learn what kind of girl she has to be in order to be accepted by the group, and this will influence everything from her choice of boyfriends to the classes she takes, her after-school activities, her clothes, her hairstyles, the people she talks to, the people she doesn't talk to, her beliefs and values, and her overall sense of self."

Aren't you glad we have options?

The first thought that struck me was that avoiding the situation in the first place, i.e. homeschooling, would eliminate a large part of the problem, and not because we isolate our children, but because we are with them to model our, hopefully, good behavior and offer support, encouragement, and information on a continual basis, rather than trying to undo the day-long influence of peers for a few minutes at a time, but since this is not a real option for most people, for whatever reason, it was not mentioned as a possibility. Wiseman points out that the worst of this behavior begins in middle school, when the parental involvement typical of elementary school years drops off. So, in a nutshell: Parental involvement makes all the difference.

Some of her other assertions, that if your daughter is over twelve, she has almost certainly been called a slut and/or bitch by other girls and that she has almost certainly said the same of other girls, and that you not actually hearing these words is immaterial, you are just in denial, were offensive. My oldest is two months shy of twelve, so I'll have to evaluate that when we get there, but I have a feeling I'll still be considered "in denial."

The section on defining your parenting style was interesting. Loving Hard-Ass Parent is the obvious preferred style, and one that probably describes many, if not most, of us. Best Friend Parent, Hip Parent, and No-Excuses Parent are pretty close seconds, but each has its major drawback: Best Friend Parent forces a girl to take extreme measures to separate from parents later on, or the other option, she never grows up; Hip Parent lacks authority and along with Best Friend Parent can be easily manipulated; and No-Excuses Parent can make an independent, otherwise successful daughter ashamed and reluctant to ask for help, becoming self-destructive or disconnected.

Apparently some parents of these effected, affected girls carry plenty of baggage from their own school days, mentioning wanting to kill the mean girl who hurt their daughters' feelings, and the mentality that "...you feel reassured when your daughter gets invited to parties and sleepovers regularly, pals around with her best friend, and dashes to the phone because once again it's for her..." exposes some low priorities and immaturity on the part of these parents.

Lots of tips on dealing with broken hearts, icky boyfriends, and fighting over boys led me to wonder why these girls are dating in middle school anyway. High school I can understand, but sixth, seventh, and eighth grade? Isn't dating a precursor to marriage? What's the point?

The most disheartening part of this book, because it is one area I have no control over, or expertise with, dealt with the way boys are raised. The pressure to conform to the image of their gender that bars any behaviors perceived as sensitive or weak is damaging, encouraging violence, and everything boys do is then in part or in whole a performance to prove their masculinity. "Boy World," as she calls it, is also guided by the invisible hand of homophobia and assigns boys roles of perpetrator, bystander, or target. In the extreme, this fear of being labeled a "fag" is where you find cases of gang rapes. "The irony of the prevailing cultural definition of masculinity is that it represses courage -- not the kind where a boy will fight someone if challenged, but the moral courage to raise his voice and stand up for what's right." Great, just what you want to hear when you have three daughters. I remain hopeful though, because just as I know I am raising girls unlike those characterized in this book, some of you are raising boys who do not fit this disturbing description.

What was useful for me was gaining insight into how girls can become trapped in abusive relationships as a result of submerging their own personalities in a clique. I was involved for several years in a physically abusive relationship that began in high school, and looking back, could never understand how it happened. There were also good tips on discussing areas of concern with your daughter, many highlighted "LANDMINE!" to avoid words or phrases particularly irritating to pre/teens.

Basically, this book was just another affirmation that we are on the right track.

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I picked up a few more books this week. A local gift shop was having a clearance sale and I picked up five books on various Florida themes for G and Loving Che for me, because I vaguely remember reading a favorable review somewhere. Total for two hardcover and four paperbacks, all brand new, $8.00.

Trading Spaces, anyone?

Well, I had something to say last night, it might have even been something earthshaking, but I was a little too woozy after huffing spray paint and forgot what it was.

We're in the middle of a home improvement project. Our last rehab project, the Harrison Street house, began with a sagging popcorn ceiling. Patching would leave a visible seam, so better to redo the whole surface. Which led to: let's tear the entire ceiling out up to the roof line and put in a beautiful tongue-and-groove cathedral wood ceiling. An experimental, custom mixed two-parts-pine-one-part-mahogany stain, a recessed lighting and stereo soffit, specially ordered cast iron fan, and we had one spectacular space. It took six months before we could actually move in, but everyone certainly admired our Architectural Digest living room.

Yesterday, starting out in typical fashion, G decided to thoroughly clean the bathroom. In our family, G is the cleaner, I am the organizer. I find creative ways to cram five people into 500 square feet of space, and when it's all picked up and streamlined, G moves in for the dirty work. Particularly the bathroom, and especially, the toilet. I've always resisted cleaning the toilet on the grounds that, quite frankly, girls don't make a mess when they use it. He brought out his pressurized pump, began spraying the shower walls down with some noxious rust remover and dumped some in the bowl for good measure.

His cleaning project morphed into home improvement when he thought a fresh coat of paint might be a good way to brighten the cramped quarters. We discussed color schemes. Then new hardware. Next came the idea to repaint the sink cabinet, in a very striking black gloss no less, to coordinate with the black frame of our Japanese-style woven grass paneled screen, screwed to the wall to camouflage the prison cell look of our bare concrete block walls. That's where the spray paint and the poorly ventilated space came in. And maybe, we thought, we should paint the interior of the shower stall in an accent color. Terra cotta? That would pick up the colors in the broken-tile mosaic floor and hide any future rust stains. Needed a new shower curtain and toilet seat too while we're at it. The problem, we soon realized, was the ceiling. Even with a fresh coat of paint, it would still look like the junky, 50 year old plywood lid that it is. G came up with the idea to attach strips of wood across the length of the room to give it a board and batten finish. Out came the saws and sawhorses, the air compressor to power the nail gun, caulk and spackle to fill gaps and cracks. Two coats of primer, two coats of paint. He's a professional, he can't help it.

24 hours later, and after a sweaty, sandy, salty day at the beach, all I want to do is take a shower. It will have to wait until tomorrow.

And speaking of Michael Moore and Christopher Hitchens...

Is anyone else as confounded about this election as I am?

First, reality check. I am not a full-time political analyst and don’t have enough hours in the day to slog through every nuance of a candidate’s platform. There is simply too much out there and too much of it is smokescreen. So, I do what most reasonable people do: Try to understand the basic issues and the issues that most concern me, figure each candidate’s supposed position on them, consider opinions of people I respect whose views are along the lines of my own, and take a look at what the people are saying who are my diametric opposite. Then I scratch my head.

I figure, we’re only picking a general manager, it should be simple: The war-monger, or the other guy. Much of the strength of an administration lies in the decision making and power of the various department heads. Bush has chosen a scary group of extremists for his. Kerry’s cohorts, assuming he is the guy officially tapped, who knows? It’s probably clear to most of you that I lean Libertarian, although I am officially on the books as No Party Affiliation. Yup, I’m one of those key Florida swing votes, and in my own defense, I punched a mean chad back in 2000. With the left fractured, Democrat, Independent, Green Party, Libertarian, there’s no point in casting a vote for my true choice candidate. The numbers game reduces me to casting a vote against a particular candidate; voting for the lesser of two evils. That is not my idea of a successful process. When and how did we get stuck with the two-party system? How do we put an end to it? Or, how do we fracture the Republican Party to even the playing field?

In the July issue of Vanity Fair, Christopher Hitchens has written a heartwarming column about the cracks beginning to appear among the Republicans, between neocons and traditional conservatives. This could prove to be an important development. Keep your fingers crossed.

Why don’t we adopt the idea of compulsory attendance at the polls, like Australia, fining people who don’t vote? Wouldn’t this encourage participation by those lower socio-economic groups who don’t generally turn out at the polling places, but traditionally favor the Democrats? Oh, I think I may have just answered my own question.

Jeb Bush is still refusing to revamp the electronic voting system put in place after the last debacle. The new system is not without its faults. No paper trail is available to vouch for accuracy in at least 11 Florida counties, leaving them unable to manually recount results in another expectedly close contest. Great. Gives all those conspiracy theorists something to obsess about.

Remember the Flori-duh headlines? Just wait.

Why are there fewer political blogs written by women? Maybe men who blog have more free time to analyze the intricacies of the political scene, while women who blog, who are no less concerned about politics, are just more closely involved with the day-to-day dealings of their families. You write what you know.

As a busy homeschooling, blogging mom, I must try to devote more time toward a deeper understanding of, and participation in politics. In the meantime, I’ll continue to devote my time to raising a batch of good little revolutionaries.

I’m Lynne D., and I approve this message.

Now Playing

Movies That I'd Like to See

Fahrenheit 9/11 -- Hype, skewed views, statements taken out of context? That's OK, it's the always entertaining and informative Mr. Moore
Mean Girls -- I'm currently reading Queen Bees and Wannabes. Lots to blog about there. Plus, Tina Fey is very funny
The Stepford Wives -- Just because


Movies I've Spent Two Days Searching For in Local Video Stores

Life of Brian
A Fish Called Wanda


The Only Movie I'll Probably Actually Get to See, With the Kids

Two Brothers

Apartment hunting was fun, and seeing all those new 'luxury' units did make me want to go out and buy a condo in one of the newer buildings. If you can have complimentary 24 hour coffee bars, internet service, and fabulous gyms as a renter, imagine what kind of amenities you would earn as an owner.

But, it is not to be. Rather than blow a whole lot of money, we've chosen, or more correctly, I've chosen, and G has humbly agreed, to an alternative plan: When G needs to be in town, he can stay with his mother. She already lives in a penthouse condo with a swanky Fort Lauderdale address. G thinks grown men who live with their mothers are big, fat losers. I see it as a temporary, complementary arrangement. He needs a cheap place to stay, and she needs help with miscellaneous home improvement projects. There's room for us when we come over too. She already jokes that I have nothing to fear during our frequent time apart. What's more harmless than a man who has dinner with his mom every night?

Back to the island. We'll have to survive with sporadic bursts of culture for a little while longer.

The girls and I are running into town today before the big afternoon thunderstorm. S wants her hair trimmed and we received a notice that we have a package at the post office. I suspect it's the exchanged Powerglide Ultimate. After taking a look at the Junior version, I decided los tres cochinitos (the three little pigs) probably wouldn't come up in conversation that frequently.

Speaking of cochinitos, G and I had another fine dinner down on Calle Ocho at the Versailles the other night while the girls had a sleep over at my parents'. Trying to stick to my modified Atkins/South Beach diet, I had the fried pork chunks, and then totally blew it with black beans, rice, plantains, and tres leches for dessert. Yo es cochinito.

Apartment hunting

Tomorrow, while we are over in Fort Lauderdale, G and I are going to go look at three of the new high rise apartment buildings that have been added in the downtown renaissance. G has been staying at a string of hotels on his trips over to the east coast, and we figured the amount of money we're spending is equivalent to a real place. But we are not, repeat, NOT going to buy anything. Not until we know where we're going to end up.

All three are within walking distance to the Museum of Discovery and Science, the Museum of Art (which I see has changed its address from the unfortunate "museumofart.org"), my favorite main library branch, Broward Center for the Performing Arts and the New River with its free Sunday jazz concerts.

We're planning on one year, until we know what's going on with the Fort Pierce project. We'll re-evaluate it then. Meantime, we still have the island for a getaway.

Fort Lauderdale is certainly not NYC or Chicago, but it's got enough to keep us busy for awhile. All you city folks, you realize of course, this is your fault.

Plans changed yesterday, I know you're not surprised, I wasn't, and G ended up coming over after all, with his mother. This is actually a good thing, because I like my mother-in-law. She scares the hell out of most people, but for some reason, we get along very well.

We had a nice, relaxing, everybody-getting-along-and-having-fun kind of day. We sat out talking on the porch late last night, I fell asleep in the hammock, and this morning were back out on the porch enjoying the sunrise over a cup of coffee. Literally. It wasn't that early, the sun was about as high over the horizon as our coffee cups were tall, when viewed at arms length.

Later, everyone piled in the boat, we rode down to Cabbage Key for lunch, and pulled up on the beach at Cayo Costa for a swim afterward.

So G got his birthday wish for a laid back day.

The girls gave him handmade cards, one daughter gave him a homemade stress ball, paper mache over tinfoil, to be used at work, and L took some blobs of melted wax, stuck them to the bowl of a spoon and called it a spoon puppet. I'll bet no one else has one of those.

He did mention that it might be fun to go down and camp out at Books & Books for an autographed copy of Clinton's My Life, when it goes on sale July, 22, so that will be his big present.

Catastrophe was avoided yesterday, awful pun intended, and we returned home safe, sound, and flealess. The vet didn't need to sedate him (or "seduce" him as my middle daughter kept saying) for his bath, as Orlando was the most docile creature ever. I can only attribute it to the bait well incident.

Ah, the bait well. This gives me an idea for a new chapter in my book-in-progress:

Discipline: Raise The Perfect Child With Brainwashing Techniques

That's just the working title.

Today is Sweet G's birthday. He had hoped to avoid the big family celebration that his mother had planned, in favor of a quiet weekend out here on the island, but alas, it is not to be. He is too busy and stressed with work, so over to the east coast we go.

Our family events are strangely tied to holidays, some by choice, and some purely random. Just a sample: Sweet G was born on Father's Day and shares a birthday with my cousin C and my Irish Nana; Irish Nana died on St. Patrick's Day; G's dear dad, who never missed a day of work in his life and never retired, took his final vacation on Labor Day; I was divorced on Valentine's Day; Halloween is my current wedding anniversary and a niece's birthday. Makes it easy to remember. Or hard to forget.

Today's challenge: get the cat to the vet for a flea treatment, without the benefit of a pet carrier or leash of any sort.

The last time Orlando took a boat ride with us was when we brought him out here. After the three hour ride in G's truck, he was crazed. G had a cardboard box to transfer him from truck to boat and contain him for the boat ride, but he quickly tore that to shreds and the girls had a hard time keeping him inside. His head would pop out, and when that was pushed in, a leg would pop out. Push that back in, and his head would stick out again. The box was mangled, the kids were getting scratched up, and afraid he would panic during the trip and jump overboard, I had the brilliant idea to put him inside one of the hatches for the 20 minute ride home. We dropped him in, and the girls sat on top of the hatch door to prevent him from escaping.

Worked great, except I didn't realize that the bait well still had water circulate through it even when it was technically turned off. So poor Orlando, besides being scared out of his mind by the unfamiliar noise and motion, was further traumatized by a salt water shower inside his dark little prison.

I'm sure he has not forgotten.

Now that I think of it though, I'll bet it was an effective, low-cost alternative flea bath.

Oh well

So, Belize is off. For now. Our friends kindly offered to subdivide a piece of their farm for us, but they don't live on the creek and that was the main attraction of the other property. At least we know we are always welcome in case we feel the need to escape America.

As a consolation, G returned bearing gifts. The girls received wood carvings and a doll, and I received a gigantic, family-sized hammock. Not that I'm quite family-sized, yet, but G knew that everyone would have to jump on and give it a try anytime Mom has a few minutes to lay down and take a swing. The kids are all eager for Dad to get it hung up right away. I imagine many happy afternoons relaxing with a book or two.

The interesting part of his trip was catching up on all the dirt about the ex-pat neighbors: she kicked her husband out and took up with a Texas millionaire; he secretly wears women's panties; they made their initial money smuggling marijuana in their early years in country; their girls all ran off with local boys. We were always amazed at how gossip traveled down there. Something would happen to you in town, and by the time you arrived home, the people there were already talking about it. And they don't have telephones.

Now we have to call our prospective buyer and tell her there's no deal. She did give us some good ideas for renovation and expansion possibilities when she last came out to look, and maybe we'll end up implementing some of them.

When we saw the newborn baby porpoises jumping and playing with each other in the pass, and a full, end-to-end, brilliant rainbow across the bay yesterday, well, we thought this place will work for us after all.

One down, one to go

Spent all night getting the hard drive reformatted, only to have the virus crop up yet again. I don't understand the mentality behind the people that create these things. To me, it just wouldn't be fun unless you could see the havoc you've wreaked with your own eyes. This person does not get any recognition, remaining faceless to his victims, nor does he ever really know the extent of his handiwork. Where's the satisfaction of a job well done?

Anyway, my persistence paid off, and I've now got this laptop up and running, so the other can finally go into the shop.

G just called. From Miami. He came back early. Mervin, the owner, has a deposit on the property, from a woman in Naples, Florida, and it should be closing in three or four months. The realtor never mentioned that though. G said it was the typical wacky Belizean deal because when he spoke to Mervin, he learned the realtor doesn't even technically have a listing on the place, yet G still saw it listed in several newspapers. He said it was a very interesting trip and he has some other options to discuss.

Today was too hot to go outside. The girls kept themselves busy researching their newest Shakespearean production, reading the different versions of it available around our house, comparing them, deciding which one to adapt.

Big electrical storm coming which should bring some much needed relief from the heat. Before I get electrocuted, or God help me, fry my computer, I'm off to fine tune school schedules.

Belize Update

I rode over to Fort Lauderdale on Thursday to have dinner with G and collect my oldest daughter, S. Friday afternoon, the girls and I drove him down to Miami International, and I finished up some business loose ends for him, staying at his place for the night. He called last night to say he arrived safely. Today I'm imagining him meeting with the owner and realtor and maybe dropping in to our friends' house for a surprise visit or catching them this morning in town at the market. We probably won't hear from him again until he flies back on Tuesday. I wonder how it's going.

Before he left, we did a rough cost analysis of our plans for the property. If we opt for the full-blown guest house idea, we have a very small margin for error and a very big burden to be successful. Neither of us have any hospitality training, other than knowing what a comfortable, well-run place feels like. If we go down there with plans to set ourselves up comfortably and provide incidental tourist services and maybe a cottage or two for guests, we fare much better. Hopefully he keeps that in mind. It's a lifestyle change, not an investment. He also came up with a good idea to use some of plan B's cushion to maybe develop a rental property or two in town. Do what you know, right?

Here are a couple links, FYI:

Caesar's Place, our favorite in-town accommodations. Caesar is an ex-pat South African who took his family down to Belize in the early 70s. Good food, good company, clean, comfortable rooms and the best gift shop around.

Click here for the property's listing info. It's #2209, at the bottom of the page.

Flora and fauna checklists

Barton Creek Cave Also see My Trip to Xibalba And Back for more on Barton Creek Cave.

Some of the neighbors:

Green Hills Butterfly Ranch

Janus Foundation

Mountain Equestrian Trails

Caracol

More interesting local ruins:

Pacbitun

Xunantunich

In San Ignacio, sooner or later everyone stops in at Eva's. Bob, a British ex-pat who came down years ago on maneuvers and never left, knows everyone and everything about sightseeing in Cayo. The food's not bad either. Make it sooner.

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The rescue disks are here and I plan to spend the rest of the evening getting at least one laptop back in shape. The girls are watching Much Ado About Nothing for the umpteenth time and plan to produce their own version shortly.

Miss Ann Thrope II

Dear Miss Ann Thrope:

My husband is really, really mad at me. All our bills are in collections and the bank is threatening to foreclose on our home. He says I spend way too much money and don’t know how to balance a checkbook. Yesterday when I was shopping at the mall (I only go when there’s a sale) I saw an advertisement for a seminar called, “Managing Your Finances.” It is $1,000.00. Do you think this will help?

Desperate



Dear Desperate:

No. But for only $100.00, I will share with you my 100% Guaranteed method for financial success:

STOP GIVING OTHER PEOPLE YOUR MONEY.

I just saved you $900.00. Feel better? Please send payment, cash only, thank you, to Miss Ann Thrope c/o SCHOLA

I caved

Yes, this self-professed secular home educator has gone and done it. I've ordered Rod & Staff English. My reasoning, or justification, or excuse, whichever way you look at it, is that it's very thorough, it's an all-in-one package, and it finally has SWB's imprimatur. I'd been on the fence until now.

We use a combination of Easy Grammar and Daily Grams, Write With the Best, and The First Book of Diagramming. Plans were to move on into Harvey's when we wrapped up Easy Grammar. I like all these books and the girls are doing just fine with them. So what's the problem? When I sat down last night to hash out our new weekly schedule, it seemed too much. Trying to coordinate and balance all these various English texts made the schedule look overwhelming. If I thought so, I can only imagine what the kids would think.

So, in order to accommodate an increased attention to the arts and science, we're simplifying our English studies.

From what I have seen of samples, it doesn't have that in-your-face ABeka religious slant. It looks like a very sweet, old-fashioned book. The biblical references we can treat as literature, and I have no problem with promoting virtues (well, as far as raising my children anyway.)

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Hobbled

One laptop DOA, the other allowing me five minutes before restarting itself. We'll head into town today and see if the necessary disks from IBM have arrived to restore the one, and then off to the shop with the other. If I don't reply to comments or emails for awhile, that's why.

Yesterday we had a visit from our prospective buyer. She seems interested and is going to call us the day after G returns from his fact-finding mission in Belize to see what we plan to do. I will be holding my breath until then.

I like Brad Pitt. For his mind. Really. In the June Vanity Fair, he discusses his passion for art and architecture, his trouble with organized religion, and when he wonders about possibly misusing a word during the interview, grabs a dictionary and looks it up. His avoidance of obvious leading man roles (until Troy), and a preference for offbeat parts, he explains by repeating what Frank Gehry told him, "If you know where it's going, it's not worth doing."

Okay, so he's not too hard on the eyes either.

Stretch yourself. Avoid predictability. Don't always take the safest, easiest path. I quoted Brad's line to G, who laughed, not at me, with me, well, maybe at me a little, as I transparently tried to justify the bizarre desire we have to throw away the comfortably familiar, and financial security, for a decidedly challenging new venture.

Que sera, sera.

This is for all you lousy, virus-bearing hackers out there...

Dirty Old Egg-Suckin' Dog(Johnny Cash)

Well he's not very handsome to look at
Oh he's shaggy and he eats like a hog
And he's always killin' my chickens
That dirty old egg-suckin' dog

Egg-suckin' dog
I'm gonna stomp your head in the ground
If you don't stay out of my hen house
You dirty old egg-suckin' hound

Now if he don't stop eatin' my eggs up
Though I'm not a real bad guy
I'm gonna get my riffle and send him
To that great chicken house in the sky

Egg-suckin' dog
Your always hangin' around
But you'd better stay out of my hen house
You dirty old egg-suckin' hound

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Spent the better part of the day online with various tech support people, reformatting hard drives and fine tuning programs, only to have the virus keep reappearing.

Maybe I'm the last one to figure this out...

but the measure of success is freedom. Freedom, for me, equals happiness.

This after a conversation with my mother who says I am doing a good job of educating the girls, BUT, I am limiting their possibilities.

When she mentioned running into my former sister-in-law's co-conspiratorial best friend who works at the same grocery chain as my ex-SIL did, I casually mentioned how sad it is to aspire to a career of nothing higher than checkout girl at Publix. Always the worker bee. And with everything computerized, never even having to use your brain. I must confess though, that for a brief period in the midst of a busy theater season, where we were promoting six shows each in six cities during a span of about four months, I sometimes fantasized about it -- either that, or handing cheeseburgers out a window -- but, I digress. My mother countered that management positions at the local grocery chain offer high wages, good benefit packages and retirement benefits. Yes, I know, but what a dreary life living from paycheck to paycheck, waiting for your measly two week annual vacation, always unsatisfied and wanting more. She continued to argue that it is not a bad life, and while I agree in one sense that it is not a bad life, no one dreams of being the checkout girl when they grow up.

Well then, she insisted, your girls had better go to college. Not necessarily. I tried to explain that more money does not equal happiness; following your heart does. I tried to explain the concept of the pyramid: from the janitor on up to a corporate executive, you are still either the base or, at best, the upper middle of the pyramid; there are very few people at the top and you can typically only rise so high. And for what? More money and maybe six weeks off every year? No, thanks.

When you are self-employed, the sky's the limit. This is what we want for our girls. If they are so inclined, they can take over the construction business, or broker real estate deals, or run a resort in the jungle, or be a chef (or a chef in a resort in the jungle) or a doctor, or a farmer, or anything they want. The important thing is to be their own boss, be the top of the pyramid, even if it's only a really small one. If learning specific professional skills in college helps, fine. If studying philosophy or art or great books in college is what they desire, fine. If they find themselves in a position where college is unnecessary, that's fine too.

When they can support themselves in a way that pleases them, I consider that success.

This is difficult for a retired teacher married to a retired mailman to understand, but it seems to me I'm broadening their possibilities, not limiting them.

Here's to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness...

Alex

I ended up calling her mom after all. She's not incarcerated or living on the top of a giant redwood tree, or anything like that. She's still in Georgia, still with the same guy, and just celebrated (?) her 34th birthday, lamenting the fact that she is not aging well.

Can't be that bad.

Happy Birthday!

I've collected all my children and returned to the island. Tomorrow we get back to the books. Until I refigure our history plan, S and G will be keeping busy with grammar and math. Plans to continue using A History of US as our spine were sidetracked when S and G expressed an interest in a more global study. Yeah, I guess we were getting a little Americentric -- need to work on that. Between George Washington's World, Abraham Lincoln's World, Story of the World III, The Story of Mankind and A Child's History of the World, I'll have to whip something up.

G created On the Road Latin for her little sister, L. She taped prayers from Latina Christiana, first conjugation and first declension chants and made up a conversational Latin storyline inspired by Powerglide Junior Spanish. There's a coordinated workbook for L to use along with her taped lessons. Background music includes Chopin and some Gregorian chants. She swears she wants to be a chef and not a teacher, but I don't know...

Don't Stop the Carnival

We've decided that Sweet G will be the only one traveling down to Belize in the next week or so. Our decision is partly economic, and partly because he is the one who needs to reassure himself that this is the direction we proceed in. He wants to revisit the property and stop in at the various Ministries to determine the best way to relocate our belongings without paying huge duties. This is less a function of legislature, and more of the clerk's mood that day.

I once spent three days in Belize City, a rather rough place that all guide books suggest you leave as quickly as possible on your way to anywhere else, waiting to receive a pickup truck that we had shipped down from Miami. The first day was occupied with a customs expediter, a man hired to negotiate and speed through the ridiculous process. I had taken the bus into town that morning, and my plan to drive home that evening in time for dinner was dashed when the close of business came before the paperwork could be submitted, leaving me to find a place to stay, with nothing but the clothes on my back, one credit card, and $3,000 cash for duty fees.

Day two, same clothes, no truck. Business there operates like an old mule: push, and it pushes back; push harder and it comes to a complete halt.

Patience is a virtue, but too much can hurt you, so on the third day when I burst into the customs office at 9:00:01 AM, and was told that my now approved paperwork had been misplaced, I resorted to tears. They quickly located my forms. Racing between three more offices for final release stamps, and an examination of the truck's tire treads by the agricultural officer for any contamination -- which amounted to him bending over and saying, "OK" -- I was surprised to see our farm manager, who had traveled into town in search of me, worried that I must surely have been murdered by then, but bringing a change of clothes in case I wasn't.

I was one of the lucky ones.

Anyone who's had any business dealings in the Caribbean understands the absurdity of it all. For those of you who haven't, I recommend reading Herman Wouk's Don't Stop the Carnival, a funny story about a former Broadway press agent, who pursues his dream of running a hotel in the tropics.

Coincidentally, this is Jimmy Buffett's favorite book, and one which he and Herman Wouk collaborated on to produce a musical, with Wouk writing the book, and Buffett, the music and lyrics. This production was being tried out off-Broadway, at the Coconut Grove Playhouse in Miami, just as I was taking my early retirement from a job as a public relations rep for a touring Broadway producer in Miami. Mr. Buffett was also the keynote speaker at our annual marketing conference that year, but unfortunately for me, I had already left for Belize.

Home again, home again, jiggety jig

G and I had a good couple days. We checked in, she swam, and we went to dinner in the Key West section of the hotel where we were entertained by, who else, a Buffett wannabe. This was actually funny in a tacky, touristy way. He was taking requests so I slipped him a note with "Little Miss Magic" written on it. In between sets he came over to our table, mentioned what a beautiful song that was, but that he never gets requests for it, so he had the back-up tracks for it at home. Sure. Did we have any other requests? Hmmmmm. Maybe he knows "Cheeseburger In Paradise? Of course he did. We went up to our room, watched a movie and had room service send up dessert. This is G's favorite part because they do the whole linen-covered cart with flowers and candles set-up. Ahhhhh.

Down to business the next day. We listened to Jessie Wise, who is such a lady, speak about teaching reading, not reluctant readers as I'd initially thought. This was still helpful, even though both S and G spontaneously began reading at 3 and 4 respectively, because I know L is going to make me have to teach her, since everything that child does is designed to complicate my life, and I needed to know that it really isn't hard. Next came Lisa Whelchel's keynote address. She is a good motivational speaker, but heavily Christian. At the end when she asked everyone to close their eyes and lift up their children to deliver them into God's hands, I caught G sneaking peeks and trying not to giggle when I started pulling her up by the seat of her pants.

My big purchases were:

1) Spelling Power. Spelling Workout is great for S, but not G. She liked the idea of buzzing through the lists and only working on the words she can't spell. Plus, I'm always for those one-time purchases.

2) Power Glide Junior Spanish. It looks too easy, but the saleswoman assured me the Ultimate level would be discouragingly hard. The program is light on grammar, focusing more on speaking. The Ultimate level is actually worthy of a high school credit, but if we stick to our plans, these guys will need a working knowledge of Spanish, so the credit wasn't as important to me.

3) The Violin Book and a violin. Yes, I've lost my mind. This is a new self-teaching course by Ebaru Publishing. The woman who wrote it is a highly trained concert violinist. She's written a series of seven books covering several years worth of extremely small incremental lessons, supposed to take your child up to a junior concert level performer. SWB included a recommendation of it in the new, revised TWTM and was buying a set for one of her boys. G is ecstatic and has been glued to the book from the minute we bought it. S and I are going to give it a try too. Hey, Thomas Jefferson loved his fiddle. And it's a lot easier traveling with a 1/2 size violin than a full size piano.

In spite of computer malfunctions on both sides, and missed communications, I still managed to bump into Stephanie for a few minutes last night. She had planned to spend the weekend with her entire family, but coincidentally ended up bringing only her middle child for a little quality time. When we get our computers fixed we'll have to catch up. She's always got these amazing projects going on, like building a Trojan horse, so I'm eager to find out what she's been doing this time around.

Another night swimming, G, not me -- you won't catch me in a public pool, nevermind one filled with 10,000 little kids -- dinner, another movie and dessert in bed. This morning I took a wonderful long, hot shower in preparation for returning to the island, where no matter how much you try, you can never seem to get all the accumulated crud off.

G wants me off the computer NOW, to mark off her completed lessons on the progress chart (she's already up to lesson 15.) She's telling me she'll never get into college on a music scholarship if I keep it up.


LITTLE MISS MAGIC

(Jimmy Buffett)

She's constantly amazed by the blades of
the fan on the ceiling
And the funny little faces she makes
can't help but be appealing
She loves to ride through the town with the top down
Feel the warm breeze on her gentle skin
She is my next of kin

I see a little more of me everyday
I catch a little more moustache turning grey
Your mother is the only other woman for me
Little Miss Magic what you gonna be?

Sometimes I catch her dreaming and wonder
where that little mind meanders
Is she down along the shore or
strolling cross the broad Savannahs
I know in time she'll learn to make up her own mind
In time she's gonna learn to fly
Oh that I won't deny

I see a little more of me everyday
I catch a little more moustache turning grey
Your mother is the only other woman for me
Little Miss Magic what you gonna be?
Little Miss Magic just can't wait to see.

FPEA

The Florida Parent Educators Association convention begins today in Orlando.

A little shopping, a nice hotel, a chance to see Stephanie from Jacksonville, not a bad way to spend a day. I'll be bringing G along. At first the plan was to go alone, but since her sister has been spending the last few days over on the east coast with Dad doing some pretty cool things, like operating a steamroller (don't tell OSHA), and she asked if she could go, I figured she could use a little special time too.

I'm looking forward to hearing Jessie Wise speak this year on reluctant readers. I wonder if my reluctant reader in tow will notice this is for her benefit. Lisa Whelchel is the keynote speaker -- that should be a hoot.

Off to meet Sweet G and drop off the baby...

School plans

Wow, the FPEA convention is this coming weekend. I may run up one day, but I'm not planning to buy much, just look around a bit, because I realize that I have most everything I need.

Inspired in part by fellow autodidacts: Thomas Jefferson, George Washington, and Ben Franklin, I'll be making some adjustments to our learning. Jefferson said that the sun never caught him in bed, Washington got most of his work done in the early morning hours, and Ben was constantly occupied. These men had some formal education and then were strong enough characters to take responsibility for their further learning.

Change #1 Get up earlier. Manage time better.

Change #2 Write more. Me and the children.

Change #3 Master Socratic dialogue.

Change #4 Eliminate time on homeschooling boards looking for handholding. Remain confident of my ability. (Of course this means I'll miss out on some of the great controversies you all tend to stir up over there...)

Change #5 Use what I have on hand. Cover the basics. Eliminate busy work.

Change #6 Incorporate more formal art study, learning technique in addition to art history. This, after my artist brother taught S some of the basic proportions for life drawing. She immediately requested a sketch book and spent the majority of our trip sketching away.

That's it. I'm ready to get back to work.

balmy

adj
1 a : having the soothing, healing, or aromatic qualities of balm or suggesting those attributed to balm b : mild
2 : foolish, silly, insane

That sums up our present situation.

Sweet G and I are still conflicted about what comes next. He's been pushing for Australia, reminding me to consider our original intent. With so many changes in plans, it was difficult to remember what that was, but it came to me after writing the other day.

Belize.

Our first plans were to operate a small resort in the jungle. The property we chose was not exactly conducive to that because of an insufficient water supply. There was a good-sized cistern for drinking water and a small pond for wash water, both of which had supported up to 10 people at a time, but would never be enough to operate guest houses. We even jokingly named our farm Macaa Ha which means 'no water' in Kekchi Mayan. Our one, very deep, very expensive well produced a small amount of water before the drill punched through the bottom of the limestone chamber and all the water drained out.

Years ago, after G had been down with his speculator brother, on a two-for-one Eastern Airlines deal to show you how long ago that was, he wanted to show me the country. We flew down, thinking we would find a little beach and live happily ever after under a coconut tree. Instead, we headed inland, and had an amazing time crawling around and swimming inside giant caves, climbing and committing seriously sacrilegious acts atop Mayan temple pyramids, and meeting many fascinating people, all with remarkable stories to tell.

Returning to our hotel, we had just finished exclaiming that this was the place to be in Belize, with its lush tropical forests and exotic ruins, when we passed a small hand-lettered sign: 100 acres for sale. We called the number when we returned to our room, met the owner on our way to the airport the next day, and made a deal.

I don't believe in signs, but I do believe in serendipity.

Over the next few years we contracted with the local old order Mennonites, who raised the house for us, found a capable manager, and were adopted by a local family with ties all over the region.

Then I got pregnant. We were afraid of raising kids down there, so when child numero uno was about a year and half old, and we were approached by an organization dedicated to saving the rainforest, we reluctantly decided to sell.

While we were down there, we had taken numerous trips down to Barton Creek, the closest major source of flowing water, for picnics and swims, and met an American ex-pat horticulture enthusiast who had spent years collecting and propagating countless tropical fruit, flowering landscape plants, and hardwood trees on his property. We'd always admired his place and last year when I found his property listed for sale on-line, we immediately took a trip down. It's paradise. With 4,000 feet of creek frontage and every tropical fruit you could think of growing there, it's nearly self-sufficient. In addition, the creek flows into a large cave adjacent to this property, where there are Mayan burials deep inside, which has become a popular tourist sight for canoeing and tubing adventures. (After returning from that trip, our architect showed us a page from an article on caves he had saved from an issue of Conde Nast's Traveler, teasing us, wondering if our cave could possibly look as spectacular as the one in the photo. It was our cave.)

So, back to our original intent: To live a real life. To show our children how the rest of the world lives. To teach our children to provide for themselves.

This could be done anywhere. Belize, Australia, here even. The difference is in making the lifestyle change, not only a location change. Our island has been a location change. Sweet G is in the same line of work, and though our friends laugh out loud when I say it, we still live in the suburbs. Australia would be a location change. A big one. Belize is a lifestyle change and only a two hour flight out of Miami. You can even drive there.

If we went down with two yurts to live in while we built a house, we could use those for guest housing later. A small hydroelectric system (I don't need electric, but you know guests would), water ram, gas refrigerator (I do require ice for cold drinks), and you're all set.

I'm now comfortable in my ability to teach my children on my own. What about college? Well, if they want to go, they will be prepared, if not, they will still have a good education and plenty of skills to manage their own lives.

Sweet G wants me to start making calls, arranging another trip down in late June before we commit.

Speaking of balance...

When does comforting become coddling? When does encouraging become enabling? When does fondness become favoritism?

Do we protect our more fragile children to the detriment of our more competent children, assuming the stronger ones can better care for themselves? Is that fair?

Can you love one child more than another? Do you? Some kids are certainly less likeable than others, less agreeable, but do you love them any less?

Visiting with my brother a few weeks back dredged up these questions. Yes, the past couple years have been terrible for him, and he continues to deal with the repercussions, but watching my mother hold his hand while she simultaneously kicks me in the ass, is irritating.

My first words were supposedly, "Me do," and somehow, I think this fiercely independent streak caused some resentment on my mother's part. My younger brothers were always more compliant and dependent, and therefore, less trouble. Did they need her more? Did she need them to need her? Is it co-dependency?

Am I guilty of the same behavior, when I find myself listening more to the child who feels ignored, while shushing the others, or giving that same child backrubs late at night, telling the others to just go to sleep because they don't seem to need the attention as badly? Is it merely a consequence of having more than one child, or is history repeating itself?

Will pushing my easier daughter away, expecting her to deal with her situations on her own cause a rift like the one between my mother and me? How do I keep from being an enabler, constantly helping the more challenged child, and will forcing her to deal with her concerns more independently cause a rift between us as well?

Balance

That's what it's all about. Whether it's right wing vs. left wing, classical vs. unschooling, or country vs. city, you've got to find a balance.

How do those of you who live in remote areas deal with a lack of cultural resources?

How do those of you living downtown find room to breathe?

Living in the suburbs, the middle ground, you can't really avail yourself of the unlimited opportunities found in a major city. Sure, you think, we're close enough; we can ride in and visit whenever we want. But do you, on a regular basis?

Instead of planning a whole day around a whirlwind tour of one art museum, how wonderful to stroll in, sketchbook in hand, and enjoy a leisurely afternoon in the company of one great painting. Or drop in on rehearsals for the local opera or ballet.

But what do you do when you want to plant a garden? Or take a walk without seeing another soul?

How do you find your balance?

Bugs

We're home. Having connection problems that may be related to spyware and suffering from a wicked cold, so I'll be quiet until I can get these bugs worked out.

Ignorance

The day before yesterday, we stopped in at Mount Vernon. I hesitate to use the word 'visit', because L threw a kicking, screaming, temper tantrum the minute we walked in the entrance. I was forced to throw her over my shoulder, looking like a kidnapper, and remove her to the car until the rest of the family finished the mansion tour. Then I switched off with my mother, by which time L had fallen asleep. I buzzed through the house, ran through the grounds, and was met by S and my mother at Washington's crypt, who were looking for me because my parents felt that I was taking too long. Mount Vernon was very peaceful and homey. No wonder George wanted nothing more than to enjoy his farm, and what a great man to give that all up in the service of his country.

IGNORANCE PART I

We moved on to Charlottesville. There was only one hotel nearby Monticello, a Ramada Inn that was being renovated. Entering the lobby, I was skeptical, expecting a dump, but pleasantly surprised to discover the normal tacky hotel interior had been redone with a modern, Asian feel to it. The Inn is owned and operated by an Indian family and the room decor reflected that, with rich looking fabrics used within the limited style of typical hotel furnishings. We were probably the first guests to stay in the room.

My mother made my blood boil. When she found L sitting on the floor and ordered her to get up immediately because the place was filthy, I disagreed. Normally, I am completely phobic about germs, especially hotel room floors, but this place was immaculate. I was even excited about taking a shower. She said that it didn't matter that the place was brand new, those people are not known for their cleanliness. I flipped. She seems to have forgotten that her relatives were scorned as Paddy the Pig when they first came over.

Anyway, Monticello was my kind of place. Great architecture furnished with a large library and interesting artifacts and artwork meant to instruct and inspire Jefferson's guests. The setting, on top of a hill overlooking forty or so miles of rolling, wooded landscape, was gorgeous. Jefferson called it his seaview, because the layers of distant blue and green hills resemble waves. Again, it was clear how difficult it would be to leave this place, but he did, all for the greater good.

We found Greenville and took a look into the basement of a house built in the 30s at the top of the hill, used by the current owners' manager, that was probably sited on the location of my ancestors' original house. There was a portion of an old brick foundation visible, but nothing more. Nobody has ever come across the family plot, which our records indicate existed and was used for over one hundred years. With all the land cleared but for a thin strip of woods dividing them from one neighbor, where the present owners found evidence of a brickmaking facility, it should have been easy to find. I think somebody pulled a "Poltergeist." There was one odd area in the yard. It looked like an old bulkhead, or maybe a well, that had been covered up long ago with pieces of metal roofing. Somebody had added a wooden railing around it. Nobody was sure what it was, but the owner and manager agreed they had always been curious about it and promised they would look into it and let us know what turns up.

The owner also gave us a tour of their house, an antebellum landmark built by the man who bought the plantation from my Dad's family, which had been a complete ruin when I last visited the property about eight years ago. From a contractor's point of view -- a magnificent renovation. Money was no object.

Today I drove. And drove. We made it from just south of Richmond, Virginia, to Jacksonville, Florida. I could have driven all night, juiced up on Doubleshot Espresso and Creams, just to get my parents and three antsy kids out of my car, but they wanted a break.

IGNORANCE PART II

Barbecue seemed like a good idea for lunch, and in South Carolina we passed a billboard advertising a nice looking restaurant one mile east of the next exit. Up and down the road we searched, without success. I'd spotted another BBQ sign right at the exit and figured it would do. The food was awesome, pulled pork in a mustard based sauce, collard greens, sweet potato casserole, black-eyed peas with stewed tomatoes, banana pudding, and so much more, all buffet-style, but the decor was unsettling. Confederate flags and a state flag from every member of the Confederacy flew outside. Inside we were surrounded by walls covered with tributes to Confederate generals and soldiers. That in itself was not so bad. It was the literature for sale on the book rack, on a display table, and at the register. At the counter I paid for lunch and picked up a copy of The Truth About the Confederate Flag, which the lady let me have for free, with a wink, and went back after we ate for Honest Abe Wasn't Honest, a bargain at $.75.

It was a Klan restaurant.

The booklets are distributed courtesy of the owner and are transcribed from a lecture by Pastor John Weaver, a native of Georgia and graduate of Bob Jones University, where he earned a Bachelor of Arts degree in Theology.

That's a smart feller.

When S asked, "What do you think real patriots like George Washington would think of a man like Robert E. Lee?", my probably too loud reply was a hasty, "Robert E. Lee was a true patriot and the most noble soldier of The War. Remember Patrick Henry? He strongly believed in states' rights to govern themselves, so I'm sure he would have greatly admired him," and followed that with a quick look over my shoulder for eavesdroppers. Remember now, this is a part of the country where they don't just have memorials to the great generals, they have shrines. We made it out alive.

Is everybody watching "Colonial House?"

Comments and Museums

I just now got a fast enough dial-up connection (26 kbps) to allow the comments section to load on my page. Sorry for not acknowledging your replies before this, but thanks! It's flattering to know someone, besides myself, is interested in my monologues and diatribes.

The Capitol was cool. We had a private tour arranged through our local representative. Well, actually our old rep from our past life in Fort Lauderdale/Hollywoood, but he's still my parents'. We traveled from his office, underground to the Capitol, and after an awe-inspiring look at the interior spaces, were treated to a ride back on the mini rail system used by the representatives.

Did you know every state is allowed two statues to represent itself in the Capitol's National Statuary Hall? Florida chose Edmund Kirby Smith, the last general of the Confederacy to surrender, (that choice speaks volumes, no?), and also Dr. John Gorrie, the man who invented airconditioning. I always hoped that if Y2K came to be, all those snowbirds would finally go back up north, unable to take the heat. Damn.

If you take a look at the Hall's link, be sure and check out the very different sculpture of Father Damien from Hawaii.

After that, S, G, and I went to the National Archives to see the Declaration of Independence, Constitution, and Bill of Rights, while G kept L and took care of some banking and other payroll duties. We raced in, narrowly beating five or so busloads of obnoxious, disinterested middle schoolers. Four imposing statues, each marked with a quote, frame the two entrances of the archive building. I liked the line from The Tempest best:

All that is past is prologue.

We met back up with G and L, and had fun wandering around the sculpture garden and fountain of the the National Gallery of Art. With little time before closing, we still managed to see, inside the National Gallery, some very famous paintings by Copley, Stuart, Degas, Monet, Manet, Rembrandt, Cassat, Lautrec, and Renoir, as well as tons of magnificent statuary.

On the way back to the hotel, S chatted it up with the cabbie, as she has been doing with practically everybody she's come across since we began this trip, asking him where he was from. He promised us a free cab ride if she could guess. She couldn't figure it out by the accent so he began listing possibilities. South African? No way. Guatemalan? Noooo. Lebanese? Hmmmm... He finally told us that he was from Iran, and that he was always so happy to meet intelligent people -- people who ask questions -- he would give us a free ride anyway. Don't you know he got a big, fat tip.

G and I had a nice, grown-up dinner out in Georgetown. We talked, again, about living in Australia for the two years required to complete our citizenship there. You know though, those plans could change in the blink of an eye. If we do go however, I've decided that rather than live up in the rainforest for those two years, I'd like to try Sydney, or maybe Melbourne. Definitely somewhere where you could enjoy world class museums and a variety of great dining.

Sweet G learned a lesson about old hotels last night when the elevator, which has been barely functioning during our stay, delivered him to the wrong floor, nine instead of eight, and he used his key in someone else's door, and it opened. He walked in on a half-dressed couple, a police officer and his wife, preparing to go out for a memorial related affair. G was thankful he wasn't a big steroid cop and exited, mumbling some hasty sort of apology. Later, the elevator again stopped at nine when he pushed eight, and when the doors opened this time, he panicked and ran down the adjacent stairwell, lest he be suspected of being some prowling pervert. Always use your deadbolt AND slide chain when you're in your room.

Today we began our survey of the Smithsonian, first enjoying the bugs, mummies, dinosaurs, gems, minerals and mammal skeletons of the National Museum of Natural History, and then The First Ladies dress collection, dollhouse, Star Spangled Banner and Dorothy's Ruby Slippers at the National Museum of American History.

George left mid-day to fly back home and the girls and I continued on. Back to the National Gallery of Art to see their special exhibit, Courtly Art of the Ancient Maya. We used to have a farm in Belize, 100 gorgeous, rainforested mountain acres, with Mayan burial mounds and a well on the property, so we have an affinity for Mayan artifacts.

After that, we poked around the modern art displays where we saw works by Lichtenstein, Warhol, Rothko, Pollack, and my personal favorite, Calder. Calder has a whole room housing paintings, drawings, wire sculpture, animal metal sculptures, and mobiles that were so perfectly lit the shadows cast became as much art as the wire and string. One of my favorite books is an edition of Aesop's fables, illustrated with wonderful wiry line drawings by Calder, that belonged to my grandparents.

Nana and Papa took S and G out to dinner tonight at the Hard Rock Cafe for a small dose of pop culture. Balance, perhaps.

More DC

We ended up skipping the Library of Congress, but did a full tour of the city and went inside the Bureau of Engraving and Printing. L managed not to set off any alarms. It takes the fun out of your visit when they start the tour off warning you not to touch this, not to touch that, and you have a little one in tow. I figured there was about a 50% chance we would end up being escorted out of the building by a federal police officer. The odds ended up being in our favor.

Last night's candlelight vigil didn't move me as I had anticipated. It may have been because I had a wiggly three year old jumping up and down in my lap, but who, in all fairness, was on good behavior for several hours before the actual ceremony began, while we staked out a good spot. John Ashcroft was the keynote speaker and that was certainly worth the price of admission. He gave a canned speech, bobbling the name, several times, of the young officer he claimed to be so impressed with. It sounded as if he had not seen this speech up until the moment he stepped to the podium. He mentioned several times that law enforcement's highest duty is protecting the freedoms and liberties of Americans. Excuse me? Mr. PATRIOT Act?

You can fool some of the people some of the time...

On the other hand, Senator Ben Nighthorse Campbell of Colorado, who was given the Distinguished Service Award for his work in getting a bill almost passed allowing officers to carry firearms between states without concealed weapons permits, (one unnamed senator stands between it becoming a law) gave a very well-spoken, seemingly extemporaneous speech.

We found Todd in the crowd, in full honor guard dress. I took a few pictures, one really good one of the candles being held up with a laserlight 'thin blue line' beaming above, and one that I wished had come out better, of Bryant's wreath and photo that his mom had made and sent up, but the flash kept throwing a glare on the photo and I would've needed my tripod to shoot it without the flash. The girls made a rubbing of Bryant's name on the memorial and L received a plastic bobby hat from an officer who was attending from London.

Today: the Capitol building, Lincoln and Jefferson memorials, the National Archives, plus whatever else pops up. Tonight there is a parade to the memorial by the various police bagpipe bands in town. If I am lucky, I might get my parents to watch the kids tonight so that G and I can enjoy a serious culinary experience.

Tomorrow: the Smithsonian complex. Also, Bush is scheduled to give his annual sound bite outside the Capitol for Law Enforcement Week. If we can't get in, or close, it will be enough to watch the motorcade come flying by.

How much do I like this place? Well, it's been added to my list of places to live. It would definitely have to be in town though, ideally a house around Georgetown, but realistically, a condo downtown would do. How great would that be to homeschool with an endless supply of museums, government buildings, memorials, and history being made all around you?

Tempus Fugit

See Lynne run. Run, run, run.

It's surprising how quickly this trip is going. We just checked into our hotel in Washington, D.C. and will be here for a few days. Our first tour, for the Library of Congress, begins at 8:30 AM tomorrow. That's one I could skip. At 4:15 PM we're scheduled to see the Bureau of Engraving and Printing. The kids and I are excited about that one. A friend of my family, Todd, is in town for the Law Enforcement Memorial ceremony honoring officers killed in the line of duty, and we are planning to hook up with him tomorrow evening for the candlelight service in memory of the officers whose names have been added to the memorial this year.

My younger brother met and became best friends with twins Todd and Bryant Peney, in preschool. Todd became a Fort Lauderdale Police Officer, Bryant did, and so did my brother. My brother is a now a marketing manager for an insurance fraud investigation company, but keeps his law enforcement certification active by riding with the Raiders. His idea of a fun night is busting down the door of a crack house.

Bryant was shot by a man he noticed hiding in bushes as he was returning to the station after his shift ended. His brother and mine responded to the call and were talking and joking with him, up until the time he went into the operating room. The single bullet had entered under his left arm, behind his bulletproof vest, piercing his heart and he died in surgery. It was a horrible shock and the most agonizing funeral I've ever attended.

My brother and Todd were both in attendance the year Bryant's name was added, and they both said it is a ceremony not to be missed.

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Hard to believe we are on our way back already. I should have ignored my parents request that they not be gone from home for more than three weeks. One aunt wanted to take us to Lexington and Concord for the day and I'd hoped to have a chance to say hello to another cousin and get some parenting tips from her and her husband, but there just wasn't time. Adding two more days would've made the difference.

My cousin, P, has graduated one son from Georgetown, their older daughter is a junior at Boston College, the younger daughter has been accepted at both Georgetown and BC, and the younger son is right there behind them. She and her husband have done a super job, and they're so much fun to be around. I hope I do as good a job.

What do my parents have on their agenda that's so pressing? Absolutely nothing. These are people who sit around asking each other what time it is, waiting for the mail to arrive. They rotate through the house from couch to couch and TV to TV. It's very depressing, and frankly, a waste of life. They are sitting around waiting to die. I thought this trip might kick them into gear, but I was wrong.

I'm sure they didn't appreciate my little speech about Newton's law of motion.

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Can you believe we've been so busy that we missed the final Survivor? Remember now, if Rupert still doesn't get a million as the people's choice, you know what to do.

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MY PHONE IS DEAD AGAIN! Yes, I'm screaming. I could put it on the car charger overnight and hope that will help, but my vehicle is deep down in a garage somewhere about four blocks from here [heavy sigh.]

Mystic and Joisey

Back at my brother's in NJ for the night before departing for Washington, D.C. tomorrow morning. I hope I can at least get a good Internet connection there. The dial-up here is ridiculously slow, but better than Mystic, Connecticut, where I couldn't even find any local access numbers. Grrrrrrr. I have pictures to share, but those will have to wait until I can find a connection that is not so slow that it times-out when I try to purchase an upgrade or upload photos on my host.

Today was fun. Mystic Seaport has many boat building and sailing camps available, and S is genuinely interested. G was most interested in the planetarium there, so we made sure to attend the one program scheduled at 2:00 PM. Besides the host, we were the only three in attendance. He was wonderful, giving us an extra special private show focusing on celestial navigation. I had been looking for something on this subject that was not too dry or technical when we were studying Medieval/Early Renaissance but hadn't any luck. This was perfect. Without ever having had a single formal lesson in astronomy, because I generally take the unschooling approach when it comes to science, my girls know more than I do. I was so proud of them.

Miss Hands-on, S, spent about an hour working on a demonstration loom, weaving. She has tried to do this on her own by stringing yarn across the back of a folding chair, and had some success, but was thrilled to use the real thing.

G flies into Washington to meet us tomorrow evening and we are all very excited to see him.

Gotta go finish some laundry...

Cape Cod

My cell phone died so we spent our last morning in Boston looking for a Nextel Authorized Dealer. For three frustrating days, I had been unable to have a decent conversation with my husband. He was busy helping his mother move her stepmother into a nursing home and get the house in order to facilitate a sale, in a miserable little town in central Florida where cell phone service is almost non-existent. When I finally got my phone problem straightened out, I still had to wait 8-10 hours for the new battery to completely charge, by which time we had arrived in Cape Cod.

Ah, the Cape, where it is entirely permissible to wear clothing covered with whales, kitties, and lighthouses; quilted purses are de rigueur; and there is only one hairstyle for women: a butchy boy cut, preferably white, with salt-and-pepper running a close second. Lots of places with cutesy names like Handkerchief Shoals, The Cream and Cone, and Sundae School; lots of nautical references with “Captain” being particularly overused; and lots of Olde Gift Shoppes.

We spent our first night at my aunt’s house in Harwich doing laundry and I got a little reading done while I sat out in the car, the only place I could get a phone signal, while I waited to hear from Sweet G, when he was in a position to get a signal. After a nasty exchange with my father that morning, I was desperate for a sympathetic ear. I picked up Little Children as an antidote to my suburban funk and managed to get a little way into the story, enjoying the dead-on characterizations, but waiting for something to happen. The phone at the house had not been turned on because it is only occupied in the summer, so I was forced to go another day without Internet service.

Now, before you go thinking that my family is the kind that owns grand summerhouses, let me set you straight. They are solidly middle class. S asked me if Aunt ML’s house was on the water. Never having been there I wasn’t sure, but my parents said, no, it wasn’t. Was it near the water? Not really. While there are some perfectly charming coastal New England villages with town greens, austere neo-classical public buildings, quaint white-steepled churches, and picturesque sailboat-filled harbors, this house wasn’t located in one. Even the Cape has suburban sprawl. This was your typical 70s split level in some nondescript neighborhood, a la the Brady Bunch. The girls wanted to know why you would want to live on the Cape if you weren’t anywhere near the water. Gosh kids, I don’t know.

S, G, and I left early the next morning, Mothers’ Day, and drove up to Plimoth Plantation. (By the way, Happy Mothers’ Day to you all, you really deserve it.) So far, S has pronounced this the hit of the trip (but insists we not rule out any future stops.) We stopped in at Hopamog’s homesite first, since, I reasoned, the Native Americans were there first, and also because there was a large school group that was visiting at the same time and I guessed, correctly, that they would probably hit the Pilgrim village first.

A Wampanoag girl named Carrie* gave us a great tour of their house, a Quonset hut-like building covered in bark, with three fires blazing inside and full-length benches thickly covered in deer and bear furs. The weather was rainy and cold, so we enjoyed the warmth of the house. Carrie told us that temperatures inside can reach 90 degrees in the winter and the Pilgrims were often shocked to see Wampanoag children jumping naked into the snow to cool off. The girls think we should build one of these on our island. I wonder if Code Enforcement would agree.

In the Pilgrim Village, we met Elizabeth Hopkins*, who was outside cleaning herring with another woman. A group of students were standing around watching and she asked if anyone would like to help. She was slightly startled when S cheerfully volunteered. S scaled the fish and then after Mistress Hopkins slit the fish open, dug inside and started pulling out the guts. That’s my girl!

*The re-enactors in the Pilgrim Village play the roles of actual residents from the year 1627, the year the contract with their financiers was up, and stay completely in character. The Native Americans are members of various local Wampanoag communities, not actors, and do not play any roles.

The other school kids gradually trickled away due to the inclement weather, leaving the entire place practically to ourselves. S asked everybody she met many questions and had some lengthy conversations with the characters. G didn’t say too much until we left, when she admitted that was the most fun yet. We thought it was pretty funny that the one-room houses were nearly identical in size and had furnishings similar to the setup we have back at home on the island.

Inside the Craft Center, we enjoyed talking with one of the costume designers and briefly watched the potter and cabinetmaker. The costume designer told us that in PBS’s upcoming Colonial House series, the participants secretly trained at Plimoth Plantation, and that their staff was responsible for building the living quarters. The show was co-produced by a British company, with their participation including costuming, but too few heavy outer garments were produced for the cold weather, so in a pinch, Plimoth costumers created some of the cloaks they used. Plimoth Plantation is about to open a new exhibit on a behind the scenes look at Colonial House and it, like everything else there, should be very good.

We drove over to the waterfront, saw the real location of the original settlement, Plymouth Rock, and toured the replica of the Mayflower. S decided that she wants to build a boat, a scale replica of a large sailing ship, big enough for her and her father to sail around in. Besides the Mayflower, she is also a big fan of Master and Commander. I know there are programs out there where you can learn boat building skills; I’ve got to look into it a little further.

We could’ve spent so much more time at both places, but we were due at a cousin’s house for a cookout that evening, so we raced back down the Cape.

Today we hit Salem, Massachusetts, stopping in at the House of the Seven Gables (and making me think I’ll give that book another try someday soon), having lunch with yet another cousin, and visiting the Salem Witch Museum. My cousin highly recommended the Peabody-Essex Museum for their outstanding collection related to the East India shipping trade but we were out of time, having to be in Connecticut this evening and it being almost rush hour, so we only had a quick look at the gift shop. This is definitely worth a stop next time we come up -- like maybe when S comes to stay with my cousin and her family while she works on her boat building apprenticeship.

Wait until S sees what’s in store tomorrow when we spend the day at Mystic Seaport…

Boston

Wow, I had a really long post about Boston...and it's not here. Boo.

Basically, the first whole day we were here, we visited the Westerly Burying Ground on a tour led by my cousin, BA, who was searching for the graves of two local boys killed in the Civil War as part of a project she's researching. We spent over two hours fascinated by the carvings and epitaphs on the headstones, and were finally successful. Later that day we were given a tour of the neighborhood firestation that my other cousin, B's, husband works at.

The next day, yesterday, we took a picnic lunch up to the Arnold Arboretum with a cousin-in-law, R, also known as "Nature Boy." The "Ahbs" has a large collection of lilacs, and they were in bloom and lovely.

Today, Nature Boy and I took mine, his, and another cousin's child in town to walk the Freedom Trail. We got off to a slow start, and with a long lunch at Durgin Park, found ourselves out of time about three-fourths of the way through. The girls didn't mind that we only stood outside Paul Revere's house and the Old North Church, being that they had closed for the day, because they were having such a fun time simply spending time together.

I have loads of cousins, and they have all spawned loads more. You know how those Irish Catholics are. My cousins were my best friends growing up even though I generally only saw them once a year, at least until I was sent up to live with my aunt through the remainder of my highschool years. My kids have been having a ball with their multitudinous second cousins (12 on one block with more a few streets away) and I am so happy that they will probably end up being as close with them as we, their parents, are. Tonight they are having one more big sleepover before we head out tomorrow for the Cape.

I need to find a Nextel store before we leave though, because my cell phone is dead and I haven't been able to reach G, who is also apparently having connection problems. Must...have...Direct...Connect...

Philadelphia

The weather was worse today, raining, windy and c-c-c-cold, but my three little troupers and I decided to head on down to Independence Hall nonetheless. We took the same pictures as every other person who visits: in front of the Liberty Bell, in front of Independence Hall, but we were the silly looking ones with sandals and capris on. I will be posting those and a few others when I upgrade my picture host.

(I planned on upgrading last night, but the dial-up connection speed here is ridiculously slow, so I'll try again when we get to Boston, tomorrow.)

The girls were all excited to see the Liberty Bell, and S correctly answered three of the history questions our tourguide posed to the group (1. French and Indian War; 2. "Common Sense"; and 3. The Constitution.) I was a very proud Mama. L recognized George Washington's chair, with the famous rising sun, which we had seen earlier in a painting of the signing of the Constitution, as soon as we entered the room where the Declaration of Independence was signed. She said she remembered this place from "Liberty's Kids."

I guess it's working!

Good Driving Music

Highway

Allman Brothers Band
Johnny Cash
Lynyrd Skynyrd

City

Nirvana

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Your mileage may vary.

Bitch, bitch, bitch

Why are the flags in your town flying at half staff?

What's your house phone number?

I dunno.

That's response I keep getting.

What kind of trees are those, covered with the pink flowers?

What's the name of this lake?

How do you get to [insert name of any town or street within a five mile radius]?

Are there any decent restaurants around here that aren't chains?

Suburban somnambulists; sleepwalking their way through life. We all already knew this, but to see the dreary reality of it is nearly too much for me. Rush, rush, rush to the train for your hour-plus commute and come home to sleep, or, anesthetize yourself in front of a TV for a few hours before sleeping. They can tell you where their school is, their church is, their convenience store is (where you can always find a bounty of questionable looking doughnuts), but not much beyond that. What good are these people? Do they have anything positive to contribute?

Towns blur together. Remuddled buildings covered in aluminum or even worse, vinyl siding, stripped of any architectural details. Roads that guarantee my newly rebalanced tires are no more. Crabby looking people. Yeah, sorry for the generalization, and I'm more than likely projecting myself onto these cretins, but I suppose I would look like that too if I had to live here. Too many people. People all over the place. People who have inane conversations. People who eat way too many doughnuts. The real estate publications up here advertise for homes in Orlando. Perfect.

Maybe it's the weather.

Today is gray and drizzly. Quick self-diagnosis: Weather related dysfunction, perhaps? Or I'm addicted to sunshine. Either way, living here would make me suicidal -- or homicidal.

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Now this might lift my spirits.

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We opted to do laundry today, Philly tomorrow. Not sure yet if we're driving or spending hours on a train, but not driving and maybe reading for a few hours sounds OK to me. Naturally my parents will not be attending. Too much work to be chauferred around town for them. Much easier to ride the couch all day. My mother seems to have forgotten that this is not just meant to be a fun vacation, although we are certainly having fun, but was primarily planned to supplement and celebrate S and G's education for the year, and that her ticket to ride included babysitting services. There are always strings attached. Don't know if they will keep an eye on L, who is having a terrific time overloading on 500 channels, or I will take her along. We shall see.