The Bard

Tonight I hear the barred owls calling and cackling to each other. Perhaps they are talking about the Bard, William Shakespeare. I am with them. I hoot with congratulations to yet another year of elementary school kids at SunFlower School who have made Shakespeare their own. They have produced "Julius Caesar", this year, these kids who are not yet in middle school!

More than twenty years ago, as a teacher, I had the idea that elementary age kids could do Shakespeare (way before it was popular). Our first play was "Macbeth" and we went on to the tragedies and the comedies. We never did the Shakespearean history plays (too bloody!) Some years we had extraordinary child actors, but as every year's production went by, we saw kids stepping up to the plate and letting fly with wonderful performances. Parents volunteered to help with costumes and sets, music and lights. But the entire production was up to the kids!

There have been so many favorites! How could I forget "Romeo and Juliet"? Hey-Soon, limp and dead on the funeral bier, not a dry eye in the audience? Or the Macbeths, Danielle and Stephen who made you believe in their love and collaboration and eventual tragedy? Or so many kids in "The Tempest" who were funny and stellar? And the kids who soldiered on in those awful 'twin' comedies? I loved them all!

Shakespeare helps the brain! These modern kids first look at a Shakespearian script and can barely understand the language. Six weeks later they know their parts and all the language. They have become a team on stage. They began with little, it grew, they worked hard, and they began to appreciate not only the English language in its ancient permutations, but the problems of the plots. (Why was Lady Macbeth so incredibly forceful in making her husband do such dastardly deeds?) They learn about stagecraft and they have many ideas. The process is amazing, and the final product satisfies everyone. While we did this, other Florida kids prepared for fcat. After the play was over we took the standardized tests for two days and with no prep, the kids do famously. Thanks be to Shakespeare!

The Play! It is probably the most important and remembered part of every kid's elementary school years. So, tonight, the first time I have not been a part of producing it, I rejoice that it is going well. This is my legacy. Tomorrow night I will go and see this year's production, "Julius Ceasar". I will see many SunFlower graduates there and we will hug each other and remember their roles in so many other Shakespearean plays.

Finally gettng the garden in

The weather has been auspicous after the last week of freezes. I had my little seed starts by the swimming pool so they wouldn't freeze. Today I planted these special cauliflowers, broccoli and tomatoes in the vegetable garden. The peas are up, and the radishes. Lettuce is ready to be picked. Beans are still sleeping under the compost. The peppers and eggplants are still in the nursery, growing on until they are ready to go into the garden.

My vegetable garden has been our delight. There has never been a day when there was not something for dinner: lettuce, arugula, collards, broccoli, peppers, eggplants. We had tomatoes until well past Christmas. There is something so great about the routine of asking of the cook, "What would you like me to gather for dinner?" Any day it could be broccoli, spinach, peppers, ten kinds of lettuce? Andy, the cook, deals with whatever is fresh today.

I love gardening, especially vegetables. I love to see them grow and I love to eat them! I spend time every day doing major work in the garden tweaking the weeding, pruning things, planting new vegetables, turning over the compost pile. I am so happy to be outdoors, sometimes looking at the sky, hearing the red shouldered hawks, occasionally a bald eagle or a pair of swallowtailed kites, and the cacaphony of the sandhill cranes coming in to land nearby. I love to hear the snort of the gopher tortoise emerging from his burrow at the end of the garden. I bend to inspect a monarch butterfly caterpillar on the milkweed I allow in the garden.

This is so homely, so ordinary, a person growing food to eat. My life.

Notes From the Fashion Challenged

Yes, something has happened to my neck- and my knees, upper arms and cheeks both north and south. I am getting used to these things and I can accept it. I am still relatively fit and am the same size eight I was in college.

But knowing about what to wear and what my style is has always eluded me. At the ranch I am happy with a clean pair of jeans, a tee shirt, and Arizona Birkenstock sandals. I have never had a professional manicure or pedicure. For the years I was teaching everyday, I wore the same thing mostly. I never had to think about style or fashion. The most I have ever done in the way of personal style was to adopt the habit of wearing earrings and necklace with everything. My only fashion statement is CLEAN.

Almost all my female friends and kin have distinctive fashion styles. There is tiny Nancy whose closet contains at least twenty denim skirts and a dozen of those long slim knit dresses. I'd know her without her head, always tailored, casual just so, some color in the tops, always right for the occasion. There's my sister-in law Nancy, taller but slim, who wears well fitting dark pants and those drapey silk shirts in bold true colors and tiny flat expensive sandals. There's the other tall Nancy who shops the sales for the perfect thing. She put me on to pure white nightgowns in exquisite light cottons that get softer as the years go by. There's my sister, the artist, who has developed the most unusual style of dress of anyone I know. She is tiny and athletic, a masters swimmer, and she wears clothes she makes herself. She starts with polartec leggings in four different colors, a self-knit striped sweater, striped sox and different colored shoes on each foot. She wears a knit beanie on top of her blue-dyed pixie hair, and then a flamboyantly colored apron.

My own daughter can throw together an outfit for work or any occasion that always looks just right. She chooses pieces I would never even think of, and somehow, the result is pulled together and becoming. Where have I gone wrong?

Over the years, married to a man on the way up, I have been required to attend many formal and ceremonial functions. It isn't the social aspects of these events that bother me. I love meeting people and I am thrilled to hob-nob with the rich and famous. I feel comfortable in every kind of physical circumstance and I love new experiences.

If only it weren't for the wardrobe problem. O.K., I'll start with the worst I can remember. We were invited to a state dinner at the Clinton Whitehouse. Naturally, I was beyond thrilled! But then the huge cloud of fashion challenge settled upon me. My husband could just wear his tuxedo, all pressed and clean and ready for action. What about me? Urged by my daughter I went to one of the most la-de-dah dress stores in town. Just going shopping in such a place brings on a paroxism of anxiety about the clothes I am currently wearing. (Is my underwear clean? Is my bra dingy?) The nice genteel ladies who wait on you were there, eager to help. I finally settled reluctantly on a strapless yellow long formal dress with a jacket. Leaving the shop I realized that I also needed shoes to go with it, maybe an evening bag (not the usual LL Bean). The dress cost so much I couldn't bring myself to spend a lot on shoes, so I bought some relatively short high heeled gold sandals.

In the hotel before the gala event, I dressed in my splendiferous togs, slipped on the gold shoes, smiled at my handsome husband in black tie. I felt like a beautiful imposter. The dinner was wonderful, and I loved every minute of it. I was glad of the jacket because I felt that the gown was slowly retreating to nether regions. My dinner companion spoke little English but seemed interested as more and more of my bust revealed itself. After the dinner and the dancing outside in a tent we left. We decided to walk back to our hotel some six blocks away. The night was balmy, we were in love, and the gold shoes hurt like hell. I took them off and pitched them into a trash can and walked barefoot up Pennsylvania Avenue. The dress was never used again and I put it into the school garage sale where it was bought by a country and western singer.

For every single one of these events I have fashion anxiety. The other women there always seem to have an inside track on what to wear. In the many hotels we have inhabited for meetings, conferences, whoop-de-dos of whatever kind, I am always trying on clothes, discarding things, trying on more clothes, and trying to figure out what is wanted in this instance. Mind you, I never bring very many clothes. I travel light. But one must decide between the black pants and red silk shirt, or the black skirt, and what in the name of god will go with that? Which shoes?

For years I have tried to puzzle out what they mean by 'business casual', or 'casual', or 'dressy casual'. Everyone else seems to know and I don't. I sat up and took notice of a parent at the school I directed who wore only black clothing. Aha! I can do this. It could work for me. So I went to Chico's and bought a number of casual black traveler pieces. This has been a freeing thing for me. In any occasion I can wear these black limp things and no one will notice.

I need to confess that I am severely daunted by what seem to be prosperous women. They know what to wear when they shop for clothes. They are well groomed and probably go to day spas, and they damn well know what goes with what. I am hobbled by having other agendas. While on the way to Ann Taylor today to get a decent pair of pants for our next ceremonial adventure, I saw a particularly exquisite lizard on a palm tree. After spending five minutes looking at it, wondering about it's parentage, I could barely drag myself into the store. I knew I could not remember what other clothes I already have or what could go with what.

As we leave tomorrow for another ceremonial event ("casual"), I am sure that I will be found wanting again. But, hey, I got those bright bubble gum pink capris on sale!

The Great Experience Gap

"Ooh, nasty!" chorus Johnnie and Taja, as they watch me dump the cooked apples - skins, cores, seeds and all- into the food mill. We are making applesauce from scratch in the classroom. Many of them took turns at cutting up the granny smith and gala apples. They simmered in a pot on a hot plate while everyone went to lunch where they were served the usual array of gray and white fried things, the brown edged iceberg lettuce, the dispirited dessicated tumbled carrots, and the chocolate milk that has not the remotest connection to either chocolate or milk. Lots of high fructose corn syrup, though.

Back in the windowless classroom it is time to turn the apples into recognizable applesauce. "This is really going to be applesauce?" they ask. We crank the food mill until all that is left in the hopper are old skins and seeds. What a miracle! In the bowl beneath is real for true applesauce. We dump in a hefty portion of organic brown sugar and some cinnamon. Felix stirs it in with a big spoon. Cinnamon! Everyone has to smell it and I tell them that this cinnamon comes from the bark of a tree growing in India. They wonder if this cinnamon stuff comes from the same maple tree in Vermont where we got the syrup for pancakes a few weeks back. India and Vermont could be on the moon. Few of these kids have ever been anywhere since they got here from Mexico.

They all want to help serve it in small bowls. Brittany, the new child, counts out the spoons needed. Lorenzo pours a dab of cream into each bowl. They take the bowls back to their seats and happily eat every drop. Many come back for seconds.

When I arrived on this clear cool morning at Lacoochee for my usual Tuesday, it seemed that the whole school was in a very good mood. Melissa and her mom and a younger sibling were outside the school as I pulled up to unload all my bags and boxes. As I began to place them on the bench outside the office while I parked my car, this little family took everything out of my hands and carried it down to the classroom. When I went into the office to pick up my identification sticker (I have been investigated and found benign), it was already printed out in anticipation of my arrival. It seemed that everyone I saw was in the mood to return my greetings. Only a few months ago, it seemed that everyone was grouchy.

In the weatherless classroom, now considerably brightened by CareyAnne's ceaseless rearrangement and additions, we begin the day with the relentless T.V. pledge of allegiance and patriotic song, which some kids say they hate now (it is pitched too high for kids to sing). CareyAnne must speak with some parents who have come in to tell her that a grandfather has died, arrange for a child with lice to go home for treatment, or other pressing concerns.

So I am left to do the FCAT reading exercise: "What scientists do" is the title of the BIG BOOK. "Look at the script!" hisses CareyAnne, as she moves off to talk to the parents. The kids all are seated on one of the small rugs I scrounged from a friend who was redoing her kids' rooms. The text of this book is pitifully lackluster, but I carry on without the script. The kids can read it effortlessly, so I move on to tell them about a recent momentous paleologic find in our area. One page is about what astronomers do.

The night before I had been out looking at the stars at our ranch. They were so brilliant and magical in this relatively non light- polluted place. I had the idea that the kids would enjoy making their very own constellations of buttons sewn on dark blue felt. I had the felt pieces, thread, buttons, and large eyed needles. Orion, the hunter, is a constellation one can see anywhere in the world, seven main stars. These seven and eight year-olds could learn to sew on buttons!

When CareyAnne finished speaking with the parents, we all settled down to sewing on buttons to make Orions. CareyAnne put a list of names of kinds of scientists on the board: archaeologist, botanist, marine scientist, entomologist, ornithologist.. The kids were entranced.

I had loaded lots of needles with thread. Everyone sat around the small rug and the kids hummed with interest, wanted help as their sewing sometimes turned into the nests of drunken spiders, and they felt successful as Orion's belts took shape or Rigel or Betelgeuse was placed just so. Between starting the applesauce and doing the sewing, two hours passed in a flash. They didn't do a worksheet all morning!

While we were waiting for kids to go to the bathroom and wash their hands before lunch, CareyAnne engaged the kids in her 'word of the day' activity. Today's word was "prance". They sounded it out but no one knew what it meant. Not to worry! Our fearless teacher pranced all over the room, skirt fluttering, and gave many examples of prancing. Yesterday's word was "buffoon".

Experience! My grandsons have so many incredible experiences. Their parents and family have always taught them things, read to them, taken them places, showed them stuff. They get to school and do beautifully. I am saddened by the contrast. They know what it takes to make applesauce, or pasta with capers. They've all been to Vermont- and Europe!

And yet! A new child, Brittany, joined the class today. Her mom came with her and I went up to welcome her, maybe start to get to know her. Brittany is standing there with us. I have a burst of enthusiasm, and then I look at Brittany and her lovely mother who does not look hispanic and realize that mom is totally uncomprehending and doesn't speak a word of English. Brittany, who speaks flawless and unaccented English, translates for her mother. I do understand Spanish, but I let Brittany go on. Somehow, I think a connection was made. Brittany tells her mother, "Mom, you said you would go to those classes to learn English!" I tell Brittany's mother that maybe we can help each other as time goes on. Brittany feels empowered to be a translator. We all leave beaming.

At lunch in the teachers' lounge, CareyAnne told me that her next writing project for her master's degree would be about the No Child Left Behind Act as it applied to poor and migrant children without the experiences so many kids already have when they begin school, how NCLB doesn't get it and relentlessly teaches only to the narrow strictures of the FCAT when something else would clearly be more effective. Doing this takes a big degree of courage. She'll have to research what she can find about newly arrived immigrant families, rock the boat at Lacoochee in the process. .

Another talented teacher would quit Lacoochee in search of a more conventionally supportive place. But she is not going to do this yet. And this is why I believe that out there, there are truly talented teachers, unsung heroes who just keep on going everyday, not only making their little bailiwick better, but making a revolution for kids.

Grandma is freezing cold in New York

I'm back from my 'trip for culture' to New York City. My business partner, Marie, and I have been taking these r and r trips for many years. We didn't have the time to go on the usual trips to South and Central America this year and so we decided on five days in New York City - in February! Everyone told us it was cold there so we packed our warmest black clothing and set out.

It was a totally delightful experience. Yes, cold for us Floridians, but also the hottest we have ever been! We had these gigantic heavy coats, hats, gloves, scarves, all necessary for walking around in below freezing weather. But New Yorkers crank up the heat in museums, galleries, restaurants, theaters and hotel rooms, so we always seemed to be tearing off the layers to get a decent breath. Our skin was coming off in hunks, our hair was flat, our thighs broke out in prickly heat!

We stayed in the Harvard Club of New York because it was wonderfully central and my husband is a member and the price was right. What a funny place! There are stuffed heads of everything from pigs to elephants on the walls, there is a fabulous library, and many public rooms lined with mahogany. Unfortunately, we were unable to go into the dining rooms, the bar, the library, or as far as I could tell, anything else, because we were either wearing jeans (actually nice ones, pressed and new) or anything smacking of athletic shoes. So we skulked out in the mornings to embrace the day.

Our room looked out on 44th St. and we soon discovered that this room was dedicated to the Harvard class of 1927. We were surrounded by old photos of young white men with raquets and various sports sticks. I then realized that above my bed was a photo of my father-in-law! He looks just like my husband, no question it was he. So immediately, Marie and I want to photograph it. We couldn't photograph the picture in place so we decided to take it off the wall to take it into the better lit bathroom. So, we wrest it off the wall, heave it into the bathroom to take the picture. It is major to get it back onto the wall, and we are laughing all the time.

We never had breakfast in the Harvard Club (due to sartorial issues) but we discovered The Red Flame, a diner on our block, where we ate breakfast every morning and came to know the regulars.

We just wallowed in art every day. We carefully examined the Museum of Modern Art, many galleries in Chelsea, photography exhibits, primitive art, the Guggenheim, arts and design. So much fodder for the mind. By night we went to wonderful music and shows and went to interesting restuarants. We spent a couple of hours in a bookstore. We didn't shop! Oh, well, I did buy a pair of gloves at Macy's because the ones I had were some stiff "Godzilla" things that made me feel like a penguin. I threw them in the garbage. The new ones are so soft!

We came back, having talked our heads off about everything from politics to pedagogy, renewed and rested. Stuff in our heads. For me, Kandinsky. I have already designed in my head my next fabric collage.

Times Square by night is a wonder of the world! But today at our ranch I witnessed the return of the chimney swifts from Peru darkening the sky, circling and diving, never stopping. I am alone to watch them. Like them, I need to have my space.

NYC Here we come!

It has been a tradition for ten years or so for Marie and me to go on a trip together during the dead of winter. As business partners working full tilt together we knew we needed some time together and away from our school. (kind of like the Democratic party retreat?) I had been to South America on a business junket with my husband and I was entranced. Had to get back there! Marie had spent her teen aged years in Lima, Peru. We were good to go!

We scoured the internet and researched our options. We wanted to see the natural world of Central and South America. Mostly we went alone, not with any group. Our first trip was to Costa Rica to the Osa Peninsula, a remote part of the country. Getting there was hairy to say the least. We were hooked, loved everything about it- sloths, birds, orchids. In subsequent years we went to Peru twice, Equador, the Galapagos, Panama. We rode horses in the Pantanal of Brazil, paddled in canoes on Amazon tributaries, looked for and saw the rare Harpy Eagle in Peru, observed parrot licks, climbed to Machu Picchu, ate guinea pigs for lunch, danced to pipe bands, chewed coco leaves, walked on the canopy walkways in the rainforest, caught bats in mist nets, heard howler monkeys and learned how to call birds. We met many interesting people in our travels together. We were in love with this primitive world! We came back with our luggage stinking of tropical sweat and the odors of adventure.

Our families and friends wondered about this and were worried about us. They had a right to be: we were in dangerous circumstances many times, more than I have ever told. My daughter, however, was proud of us.

Marie's daughter lives in New Zealand and was getting married. So, one of our latest trips was going to the South Island to the wonderful wedding, and then on to explore this fascinating island where the topography changes by the minute.

But tonight I am packing my bag to go to New York City! Marie is excited to be going on a five day cultural binge. We decided on this because we didn't have ten days, only five, not enough time even for Panama. It is very cold in New York, especially for us tender tropical flowers. But we are hardy souls! If we can boat down the Amazon in an el nino year, we can surely take on NYC. below freezing. We've got our warm clothes and the New York Times guide to the art galleries, and a good place to stay. No spouses, no shopping. We'll have a fine time. You only live once and maybe New York City is even more of an adventure than an equatorial rainforest.



I'll be back next week.

Pancakes on a Cold Day

Tuesday, my volunteer day atLacoochee, we made pancakes. Last week the FCAT story was a dreary thing about measurement, so I thought that we'd measure out ingredients to make pancakes. At the least we could wrest some life into this presentation. So I dragged in all my bags and boxes containing flour, eggs, oil, and all the rest. I set up my big griddle, put out the maple syrup and butter and blueberries. I wrote out the recipe on the board and miraculously all the kids could read it. (Maybe because it's the real stuff?)

Every kid had a chance to crack eggs, pour and flip the pancakes and annoint them with their favorite toppings. They were wary of the maple syrup which I told them came from actual trees in Vermont. Not one child knew where flour came from. (the store?) But these patient and good children were game. They'd try anything for 'Miss Molly'. Other teachers in the "pod" came by to inquire about the heavenly smell emanating from our area, and then they stayed around for a few minutes to look at the bright finished clay works the kids had made last week. I made sure that every teacher within sniffing distance was given a plate of pancakes.

It was cold this morning. It said 37 degrees on my car thermometer as I went out the driveway. The kids all were wearing puffy jackets which they threw under the tables. Dynasty, the fifth grade helper, my friend who is always there on Tuesdays, helped me with my satchels. She was really eager to see her own clay creations and dearly wanted to be a part of the pancake making but she had to be back in her class.

After a lunch of the caloric stale stuff they serve, there was another public diminishment from a teacher of a child in line. I couldn't stand to hear it and walked briskly ahead, truly troubled at how children are disrespected in the public school milieu. Suddenly, I realized that the teacher of my group, CareyAnne, was running with the kids to catch up to me. Nothing was said, but we all reached the classroom with a sigh of relief. Yes, the kids were reacting to the cold sharp air, jittery and full of beans. And, yes, everyone feels that way!

I read them a story I had written, but not finished. It was a simple and true story about wild Florida animals. I wanted them to see that actual people can write stories. I enlisted their help on how to finish the story. Many of them offered good ideas which we wrote down on a large sheet of paper. No one fidgeted, they were all engaged in the process. I will take one or two of their ideas and write them up. They talked about the possibility that they could write a book and they marvelled at the typewritten pages I read to them. (We could do this?!) Somehow I think they will finish this story, illustrate it, publish it, and be proud of the collaboration. To be an effective teacher one has to believe that every child is gifted and talented. And you have to keep promises!

All my volunteer months at this school I have wanted to have kids go out on a daily walk. Today, for the first time this year, we did it! I will always remember CareyAnne, getting into the spirit of it. After a walk through the woods looking for gopher tunnels and sticking our fingers into them, we emerge back into the school playing fields. She is the leader of the line. I am hand-in-hand with kids in the back and needing fifteen hands. Suddenly CareyAnne becomes a different person, maybe not a teacherperson, maybe just playful. She doesn't have to say anything to the kids and they just follow her: she struts, she holds out her arms, she follows the lines and circles on the basketball courts, she skips in wild abandon, she makes circles. The kids all follow her, thrilled to be active and alive outdoors. Finally, as we approach the school, she becomes military, silently marching up the walkway to the classroom. The kids fall in behind her and I can tell she is confident they are all there. She never looked back because she knows she has them. (And they have her!) Many of the kids whisper to me how fun this is.

I am fomenting trouble, I know! I am trying to make the keepers of these good and patient children have fun and realize that these kids, each and every one of them, are gifted and talented, worthy of their highest respect, and just plain fun to know.

Thinking of young friends

As the United Nations report came out today on global warming, I think about the young people in my life, those emerging people who will inherit this world the people my age made. I am sorry we didn't understand what we were doing. I hope in my lifetime we can begin to make amends, get rid of the Hummers, hang clothes out on the line, get behind public transit, and think carefully about how we can take care of the planet. I am sorry that we have had no politicians recently who could galvanize the electorate to address the problems of the globe. I am sorry that my generation could not be a model for peace and sustainability for the whole world.

I am embarrassed. I wanted to be a part of a generation who could do better. I want those young people to have a clear and shining view of what they can do to promote peace and prosperity, and, indeed, it is within their reach.

Alex, Maddy and Katie are kids I have known since they were little. Now they are soon to go on to college. I do not see them often, but every summer they come to spend a few days with us on the ranch. I love these girls, so languid, capable, and accessible. They help with the chores and they eat prodigiously from our garden. It's comfortable to have them here. They know I will never intrude, but that I am available. We talk our heads off and play card games. Everyone is at ease, no worries. When they are in college they'll come back and stay in the guest house, as have so many others, talk all night, get up late and bring quilts outside at noon and lie in the pasture with he sun on their young bodies. And they love to eat!

I love these young people! Katie, Maddie, and Alex are so special to me, so talented and interesting. Tonight I finished a quilt for my own bed. But as I did, I thought about the quilts I have in mind to make for them as I have done for so many other kids on their way to college.

A Room of one's Own

When I was visiting my oldest son he told me that he was addicted to his shop, an addiction I can well understand. Chris has a huge metal workshop building about a hundred steps from his house. This space has several bays where he restores antique cars, readying them for racing or for clients. The rest of it is devoted to his screen business where he makes tee shirts and other clothing designs and signs. There are several computers. There is a large refrigerator for beer and snacks for all the 'posse' who hang out there, a basic restroom out back, and absolutely no place to sit down. There is a huge heavy table, command central, covered with orders from clients, and a big t.v. which is on all the time with no sound. The texture of this place is so amazing it makes my eyes goggle. Walls are covered with tool storage, his old dog has a bed under the screen carousel, various things hang from the high ceiling, every surface vertical and horizontal is covered. It looks so complicated you wonder how anything gets done! Under foot are several baby items, swings, toys.

His kids spend a lot of time 'in the shop'. There is everything dangerous there, dirt, sharp tools, probably toxic fumes, spicy language from the posse, no really safe place to play. But Joe, the almost three-year-old wants to spend every moment there. He feels loved and welcomed by his dad or Mike, the web master and the other Mike who works on the cars. Joe climbs into the cars in process, or he works on art projects at the big table. Sometimes he watches videos on one of the computers, a funny little guy sitting on a high stool with earphones on, absorbed in 'A Bug's Life' or 'Cars'. His sister Caroline is harder at ten months. But she loves being there too. I see her sitting on the big table amongst the invoices, eating french bread and brie cheese, happy to be there in her dad's space.

I could not be happy in that space but I understand the addiction. I have my own room, my studio, and it too, is beginning to have the texture and the quirkiness of the primary owner of it. I need lots of natural light so I have many windows and glass doors, a couple of skylights. After a year of occupancy it is taking on personal identity. The walls are covered with fabric swatches I want to look at. Photographs in progress are lying around. All the tools I need for quilting, painting, and ceramics are insinuating themselves into every cranny. The computer and printer and all the periferals take up one wall. The dog bed is under the large work table.

Right now one could say this place is a mess. In the ceramics room there are fifty little fired clay pieces from kids. I am backing them so the floor is covered with shards of red felt. A quilt in progress covers my work table.

I have pretty much given up any t.v. watching because I want to be here in my studio creating things. I don't spent much time in our house. After breakfast and reading the paper I head down to the studio where many projects beckon. I am totally in love with having this room of my own.

I have always carved out a little bit of space for myself. I have had little nooks for my computer or my sewing machine. I had a corner of the garage for a long time, where I had my potter's wheel and kiln and made pots. But I always had to share these spaces with children and the needs of family. For years I took over the guestroom for my quilting, but then, I always had to clean everything up when people came to visit. My dream was to have a truly dedicated ROOM OF MY OWN!

And now I do. It is heaven. It can be as messy or weird as I want. I can leave things and know they will be there when I return. I love the music I listen to as I work, the vistas from every side, the possibilities of life!

A room of one's own is truly one's identity.

My Head is Full of Children

I'm back! Last week we were in Vashon, an island in Puget Sound, taking care of the family of our oldest son, whose wife slipped on the ice and broke her ankle in three places. They have two kids under three. The other grandparents had been there for a week. It was our turn to be there while Chris took Natalie for the surgery to put in pins and a plate. Their house is in the midst of construction to double the size. Total chaos! It couldn't have been a worse time for this accident. Natalie was putting in the final touches on a major graphic arts project, and even in severe pain, she was looking at proofs, painfully dragging herself on crutches to the computer to finish the project.

The kids are quite wonderful. Caroline, at ten months is just cruising the perimeters of her world, smiley, loves to eat with her facile fingers. Her big brother Joe, almost three, is so precociously verbal, you don't understand right away that, really, he is just a little guy. He was so worried about his mom. When she returned from the long day of surgery and was reclining on the couch, Joe tried tapping and then hitting her cast. I said, "Joe, I know you hate this thing! We all hate this bad ankle! But it will get better soon. Meantime, we need to be so gentle so it will heal fast." Joe is angry about the disruptions in his life. But he has the security of two parents who work at home. He has always been welcome in the shop a few steps away where his dad works, or in the house where his mom works. I am in awe of these two parents who have produced these secure and loving kids!

Andy and I spent time doing the relentless child care. So many meals and shopping, so many diaper changes, so much stuff to pick up off the floor, so much laundry and cleaning, so much time watching kids who want to fling themselves down stairs, or climb up them for no apparent reason, poke fingers into sockets, so much energy getting kids to nap and go to bed, take baths. Just getting two kids into and out of the car seats was major. (Our life is so easy!) And then there are books to read, clothes to find, tiny cars to pick up off the floor. But mainly, you have to be constantly vigilant, making sure they are safe and loved. We never want the parents to come home and find a dented child!

After our week we were pretty tired, especially after the twelve hour trip back across the country. I was so looking forward to being home! I wanted my place, the garden, the owls and coyotes howling at night, the sandhill cranes calling wild and free. I wanted our dog to snuggle down at the foot of the bed.

I wanted to connect with our daughter and her partner and our grandson, Quincy. Nothing is easy, however. Our daughter is struggling with what could be a serious autoimmune problem, and we are worried about that. As I walk out from my studio to look at the almost full moon in a crisp night, I think about how intensely I love my children. I would be devastated to lose any of them. (What are we thinking to send so many of our children to war?)

And the Lacoochee kids I worked with today are as valuable as any creatures on the planet! Children are in my head (and heart).

Twisting our Children

Today at Lacoochee Elementary where I volunteer once a week in a first/second grade classroom, I am, as usual, astonished by these good and patient children. This group of seventeen youngsters is now a cohesive group one loves to be embedded with. They strive mightily to please and 'do right'. They have learned the etiquette of this particular classroom and they love their teacher who respects and enjoys them. They are mostly hispanic, a few African-Americans, some whites. All, are from blue-collar families, some from dire poverty. Some of their parents are in prison or gone from the family for one reason or another. There are no lines of Lexuses at the drop-off.

On Tuesdays when I come all the kids are all present. These kids like to come to school. A fifth grader, Dynasty (yes!), is the Tuesday classroom helper. She comes in after being a safety patrol and helps out for thirty minutes. She waits for me on Tuesday mornings to help me carry in my voluminous bags of stuff for the classroom. She really loves the art projects I always have and would dearly love to partake of the food project we always do. Dynasty- skinny, freckled and totally appealing, is one of those quintessential eleven year olds who is competent, confident, and interested. She told me about her winning science fair project (went all the way to County!) When she was a first grader, we didn't have those nose-to-the-grindstone FCATs.

Today, I was particularly saddened to observe how this system is trying to bend and torture like bonsai every child into the same mold. Seven year olds! FCAT expects that every single one of them WILL be able to read on a certain level. Breakthrough to Reading! Relentlessly, the reading schedule goes on in the scripted form. This includes so much tedious stuff that even I am about to lie on the floor and kick my legs up. But these good and patient kids try their best, and clearly, their best is definitely not good enough some of the time. The kids take their turns at the computer program that has no opportunity for anything creative or interesting. (This is teaching kids about the wonderful world of twechnology they'll inherit??)

What I want to bring to this classroom is mulch for minds: hands-on stuff, information from discussion and books, the tastes of cooking, real art (not colored in work sheets)AND OPPORTUNITIES TO SPEAK TO AN ADULT ABOUT ANYTHING INTERESTING!

But, in public schools, silence is golden, pretty much. You walk a group of kids to a class or lunch, and it is forbidden to talk or get out of line. But what if you see an interesting bug or a lizard or a kid wants to tell you that her mother had surgery yesterday?

Becoming competent in reading or math or science doesn't happen in silent controlled classrooms with testing always lurking on the horizon. It happens when kids have lots of experiences, opportunities to read on their own, hands-on messy projects. This is mulch for the mind!

As a teacher for thirty years I can attest that some kids learn to read quite well when they are four years old and others not until they are seven or even older. But if all of them are being mulched with experiences and hands-on learning, they'll all eventually be good and dedicated readers. When they want to they'll go to fine colleges.

What are we thinking that all kids of a certain age should be making a certain score on a standardized test? Are we mad to even THINK of testing kindergartners? Are we MAD not to let them play and have experiences in social play and with manipulable things? What is the hurry? Have we totally forgotten all the child development science?

I see those good and patient kids who want to please. But some of them are really not yet ready to read. They need to snuggle down next to an adult and have a good story read to them. They need conversation. They need to have experiences, be outdoors to wonder and ask and explore. They need to run around and make up their own games and feel the tugs of social interaction. They need to make things which are not 'canned' and generated from worksheets. They need to dream and invent.

Sad to say, I see none of this at Lacoochee. The teachers are driven by rules and the FCAT. I see no joie de vivre, no interest in pedagogy. In the lunchroom all the teachers ONLY talk about their physical ills or how dissatisfied they are with the bureaucracy of FCAT or the school administration. One woman who tells me she has worked in the lunchroom for thirty years still has a lovely gentle smile and warm manner for the kids. When I told her that I noticed, her face lit up with such a smile.

What would happen if a principal of such a school as this just said, "Hey, staff! Let's have fun, forget the FCAT. Let's try to really be good teachers, a team. Think of all the interesting things we can do to engage kids and ourselves. Hey, we could paint an amazing mural on the school walls. We could break out a few windows so we could have some damn AIR in here. We could put on a Shakespearean play! We could grow vegetables in a real school garden so we don't have to eat that brown-edged inedible lettuce we now serve. We could even have kids cooking! We could have an amazing science center, a weather center, animals! Our technology could throw out those tedious canned reading programs and kids could use 'Word' or some other program to generate a truly good school newspaper. Photographs- no problem, the kids can do it. The media center would hum with activity.

And, most important of all, BRING BACK RECESS! This should happen every day for every child. It keeps kids thin and fit, socially and emotionally.

Public school as I see it, seems scared and strangled. Our wonderful children need to see a generous, inclusive and audacious bunch of adult models. As a volunteer, I'm working on it. What do you think?

Our Florida Home

Looking out the big window in my studio I see the long shadows of a late winter afternoon. The setting sun backlights long strands of Spanish moss waving from the huge live oaks. A hickory tree, magnificently gold in winter, sheds its leaves and they shower down in the breeze, all in a bunch, bright coins covering the ground. I hear the dry scratching sounds of the cabbage palms roiled in the wind.

I have traveled to many places in the world, stayed in many wonderful and beautiful places, but our Florida home is the best. We are in love with our home all over again. We bought the property more than twenty years ago when land was cheap, especially this ragged cattle ranch with no amenities. It was love at first sight. We drove through the property on white sand tracks with all those fern covered oaks curving overhead. With quite a lot of creative financing, and maybe some misplaced confidence, we bought it.

It was a love affair from the start. We camped out for the first few years, and very soon it was the only destination for the weekend retreat from our usual city life. We took down the barbed wire cross fencing, fixed the mile long driveway,and built a pole barn. Gradually, we made improvements so that our campsite had power and water. When we paid off the first mortgage, we began to plan for a real house. We longed to have a home with a roof and a/c, hot shower, a kitchen. Camping gets old. We all remember rainy nights with a wet dog and cots that inexplicably gave out in the middle of the night. We were slapping mosquitoes, picking off ticks, avoiding the masses of poison ivy.

But we became addicted to this place, THIS PLACE! It isn't the man made stuff, it's what's here, and has always been here. There are orchids living on trees, sandhill cranes nesting on ponds, fox squirrels leaping through the trees, deer on the margins of the woods, eagles riding the sky,and fungus to stagger sextillions of infidels (in the words of Walt Whitman) Gradually, in long and short forays, I am coming to know this place- the birds, the wild plants, the nocturnal creatures, the reptiles. As far as I can see in any direction, there is no one here but us. And, of course, the cows who keep our pastures open.

We built our house, a sturdy cracker-style house, no mansion. It has spacious porches on two sides, a tin roof, and the idiosyncratic comforts of people who make things and do not hire a decorator. There are three bedrooms, all large, and a big center 'dog-trot' hall. The 'eat-in' kitchen can accommodate many guests who participate in the preparation of meals.

Soon, we discovered that we really needed more space for guests so we built a guest house not too far away from the main house. Our large family, now adults, really needed more space when they came to visit. This was a great decision. It's occupied almost every weekend. It is self-contained, only two large rooms with kitchen and laundry, but it looks out over a particularly lovely view of the big pond.

Next, we built a large swimming pool with a hot tub. Everyone in our family loves to swim, and this is perfect for laps or for twenty kids having water fun.

Last year we added two workshops for Andy and me. He has the dream workshop for making furniiture, and I finally have my fantasy art studio. These two buildings flank the barn with a contained yard in between, great for toddlers.

I am a fanatic gardener so we have not only spaces for native plants and wildflowers, but an always producing vegetable garden. After so many years of battling the deer, rabbits and armadilloes who also appreciate great veggies, the vegetable garden is now enclosed by a seven foot fence. Each evening I announce what is ripe and Andy picks.(He's the cook.) Eggplant? A salad of new greens? Peppers? Collards? That wonderful broccoli? Need any herbs? A ripe heirloom tomato?

I especially love the 'country' things I encounter each day. I comfortably share space with the huge gopher tortoise who lives at the end of the garden. I hear his huffing as he moves his heavy shell out of his burrough. Some of the cows come to the fence hoping I'll shoot weeds over the fence, maybe some yellowed collard leaves, or orange rinds from the morning juicing. I love seeing the deer leap across the road when I go to get the morning newspaper. I'll pause to watch the sandhill cranes come down for a raucously loud landing, or search the trees for the pileated woodpecker I hear. I stop to carefully observe the royally green chrysalises of monarch butterflies, or a blue sided fence lizard. I know where the hugest golden orb weaver spiders live. I spend moments observing ant lions at work with their carefully constructed traps.

I have many favorite places I visit each day. Sometimes I go down the lane in back of my studio because I love to see the incredible array of fungus on downed logs, the reindeer moss in a certain place, and in the mornings I check for tracks of what animals have been there during the night. Deer, raccoons, and what are those teeny-tiny foot prints?

Every morning promises a new adventure, a new chapter. I love this place way too much! Since Christmas I have been here everyday, a real record for me. I had never been here for more than a week. And I can't stand to leave tomorrow when I must go back to the urban life for a couple of days. I know that I'll have that breath-holding feeling as I go through the gate. Whew! I'm home!

I suck in my breath, awed by the overwhelming paradise we inhabit in so many ways. We are retired from very good and rewarding work, our children are a joy to us, and our six grandchildren are wonderfully evolving and ever more interesting. We still feel useful to our community. Who could ask for more?

We could hunker down and just enjoy this life in paradise. To a certain extent, we do. But the outside world is in an awful place right now. Can we get over having this truly bad and inept president? I may just have to leave 'paradise' to go and demonstrate in Washington. For peace.

Happy New Year

We have a fairly new t.v and it comes with three remotes, each having forty buttons. We wanted to simply watch a movie- the kind of DVD you just feed into the slot, and I was pissed. Neither of us could make it play. Andy stormed out and went to bed to read his book. I took the opportunity to take the dog out for her evening walk. Suddenly there was a lot of barking, even from this tiny weiner dog. I called her repeatedly and looked out to see a blinking red light where I knew nothing was supposed to be.

"Lola? Lola!, Come!" She obviously had something treed. I went out and discovered a hound with an electronic collar. We brought her inside to the laundry room where I was able to get the phone number from her collar. I called the number and got the owner who said she had been missing for three days and would come pick her up, but he was in Plant City, half an hour away. This guy seemed a bit out of it so I had to repeat my phone number several times before he got it right. He is supposed to call me when he gets to our gate so I can take the dog to him there. Meanwhile I gave the dog water and some kibbles and she seemed friendly and grateful. (My hands now still smell like dog)

This is a scenario we've been through many times before during hunting season. All these lost dogs are lovely and friendly, and well trained. They are always thin and grateful for water and food. I know that some farmers just shoot them or pay no attention,hoping they'll go away. But, as a dog owner, I know I'd want someone to call if they found my dog. So I am waiting for the call at an inconvenient time, and I will put the dog in my car and take her to the gate and her owner.

If I did not like these small adventures of the rural life I would not live here. I enjoyed watching the guys unload many round bales of hay for the cows, and I am fascinated with round-up time when the cowboys on horses with their dogs work the cattle. I love going out at night with my huge flashlight to see alligator eyes in the pond, and I don't really mind sharing the shower with frogs.I love to hear the hiss of deer. I am interested to see what I have caught in traps, though I don't like setting those critters free miles from here. Those opossums have such

Grown Kids Coming Home

My best friend and long time business partner, Marie, has all her kids and grandchildren visiting this holiday season. Kristie and Chris came from New Zealand with their two little boys, Julie came from Sweden where she is doing post law studies, Jimmie has been delayed by major structural damage to his house in Vashon, Washington, by the big storm ten days ago. Tom, a Floridian, has just graduated from FSU, so he's there. The New Zealanders have no idea what day or time it is so they sleep and wake at odd hours. It will take a few days.

Marie is thrilled to have them all there. She cleans up the debris from Christmas, wonders how they'll all make it in the confines of the house. She loves the interactions among her children, talking their heads off all night. She loves seeing the grandchildren she's not seen in a year. I know she'll be touching them a lot, amazed and delighted at their growth, the feel of them. The smallest grandson is ethereally beautiful, as we've seen from internet photos. But what is he really like? So much to discover, so many conversations to have.

Parents of adult children, get that wonderful feeling of anticipation when their offspring are about to come 'home'. Probably about ten minutes into the visit the parents realize that their carefully constructed routines will be smashed to smithereens. All the available surfaces will be populated with tiny vehicles and little "guys" guaranteed to cripple a grandparent who steps on them in the dark, sippy cups congregating on tables, wastebaskets full of spent diapers, and baskets full of laundry to be done. But mostly we love it!

This Christmas was a 'first' for us. We have no decorations, no Christmas tree, no wrappings to be stuffed into a dumpster. We spent Christmas morning with our daughter and her partner and their two year old. It was a lovely occasion and we had the family brunch of smoked salmon and all the works after the gifts. Quincy, the baby, was thrilled with his new toys. After all this, we drove back home in horrible weather and spent the first Christmas ever not having to do a big dinner for dozens. The power was out for several hours and we were glad to have our generator. We watched the sandhill cranes dancing to each other and we ate a modest meal from the garden. It felt right.

Our children will come in force in a couple of months. I figure there will be sixteen adults and children. We'll sleep on all available surfaces. I will be thrilled, like Marie, to see them. It will be wonfderful to have everyone under our roof, great having our far-flung children together. And we will love having them depart in a haze of love and connections.

Happy Boxing Day!

Christmas Music, bah humbug?

As I write this I am listening to Handel's "Messiah", a work I know well. I listen for that 'rest' before that last magnificent part of the Hallejulia chorus. When I was a choirster, we knew to pay close attention so that not one voice would spoil it with a wavering soprano jumping the gun.

It was the midnight service on Christmas eve, the air palpable with alcohol fumes from the communal breath of the Christmas faithful. The choir was resplendent in freshly starched collars and our scratchy red robes. We knew that our music was in place, the candles fresh, the incense ready to be swung on cue. While we were crowded into the sacristy, ready to begin the procession around that glorious Gothic church, some of us were really proud of having received the coveted Gold Cross, given out this night to the best and faithful choir members. We listened for "Doc", the organist and choirmaster to begin the intro to "Joy to the World", our cue to begin the procession around the church. As we left the sacristy behind the cross bearer, we each had our candles lit by an altar guild lady, hovering in the doorway.

All of us kids were either in the choir or carrying candles or crosses. My father was in the congregation. My mother never came to church because she said it was her time to be shed of five kids for a short time. On Christmas Eve, she was probably enjoying the peace of looking at the Christmas tree, maybe anticipating the joy of the gifts to come for her family.

I know this Christmas music. It's part of my soul and my heritage. I can live without the chipmunks or Elvis, and since I don't shop much I can avoid the commercial Christmas music in stores. But I love "Silent Night".

This Christmas, like all the Christmases since I have been an adult, does not include any nod to organized religion. As Sam Harris has written, "Helping people purely out of concern for their happiness and suffering seems rather more noble than helping them because you think the creator of the universe wants you to do it, will reward you for doing it, will punish you for not doing it." I am a non-believer in any religion. I see the terrible consequences of religious factions in our world.

Tonight, as every night, I will be outside, looking up at the magnificent starry sky in wonder. I believe that man is constantly seeking and finding out answers to our most cosmic questions. Most of the killing we have known of through history is because of religious factions. Jesus, Muhammed, Buddha, Thomas Jefferson, and others have given us guidelines for living a generous life. They were great persons in our history who have tried to provide a manual for living in this world. But we need to see all sides and see what is applicable now in our global society.

So, on Christmas Eve I will not be attending any church service, though I love the music and the traditions. I am through with being a Christian or a Jew or a Muslim. I am a person of the universe, and I deeply regret that I will not live to see what happens in a hundred years.

Don't stress out with the holidays! They are merely a very small blip in the line of life.

The Cranes are Dancing

Yesterday morning we were sitting on our sun-filled front porch reading the papers. Lola,looking like a small loaf of dark rye, was spread out next to the screen door, soaking up the morning rays. (Why do dogs do this?) We looked up, all of us hearing the subtle "whish!" of wings going over the house, reminiscent of a pack of cyclists all riding fast.

The cranes are back. They settled, six of them, in the pasture out front, and they were in full wild cry. Perhaps they were yodelling in victory at having made the long flight from their summer home near the Canadian border. They are not modest, these huge beautiful birds. There was much jostling and vocalization, some dancing with outspread wings, some of them tossing small sticks into the air. But mostly, they walked back and forth in stately beauty, looking for edible bits. At one point they all went over to the pond to drink, and, hopefully, consider it for nesting.

They all look the same after the first year. Some may be a bit lighter, but basically they are all dressed alike. We have had a pair of Sandhills who make this farm theirs. These are non-migratory birds. We call them Bob and Emily. This pair raised one chick and the three of them can often be seen together. They look exactly like the migratory birds who arrive in early winter and depart in the spring. But all of them seem to be good parents who care so diligently for their downy red offspring.

Today, the six came back on schedule and spent another day browsing. I see them now, at the end of the day, out in the pasture companionably towering over a couple of small wild pigs. Such a gift to live here.

My Vashon family weathered the storm. They were out of power for several days in a house in the process of enlargement and renovations. My son had a generator capable of running a small space heater, and they also kept warm being outside gathering up storm debris they added to a huge bonfire pile of construction left-overs. When they couldn't stand it another minute, they got into the van and drove around with the heater on full throttle. They ate tunafish and there was enough water in the pump reservoir for the basics. Little Joe, two years old, threw up in the family bed in the middle of the night. No laundry capacity, of course. But everyone got through, and the grown-ups even sounded quite cheery. They have each other and the kids are great.

Today at Lacoochee School I brought a ton of stuff for a Christmas party. There was the tacky fiber optic Christmas tree and a Christmas cloth to go under it. The kids wrapped up their ceramic angels, all beautiful with bright glazes. They used a LOT of tape but they were well satisfied with the rumpled results (To Mom from Lorenzo.)The main event was making gingerbread houses from graham crackers, frosting, candy and cookies. The sugar odor was palpable in that closed atmosphere. The kids loved it. Many of their creations looked like items in a yard sale of the homeless and they were very proud as I took their photographs holding their structures.

After lunch, we finished up their houses and read a Christmas book out loud. The kids vie to be the "back scratcher" of the adult in charge. Danielle and Christopher are scratching my back but they are drawn to the story, so gradually they ease back down to the carpet so they can see the pictures. Now, I dispense little gifts to everyone, each one different, a new experience in the public school world of perfect fairness. Some of the little girls will love the temporary tattoos, the boys might like those funny animals you put in water and they grow HUGE. Every single child, except one, seemed delighted. When that one child whined and complained I took back his gift and left another item for him to collect later. This child is so needy of everything, it fills me with despair. There is not enough stuff, food, love, to fill him up. I believe he has a parent in prison. Lorenzo came into school today wearing old shoes at least five sizes too big. The teacher found him a new pair in his size. Lorenzo is my right hand buddy. He is always there to help me unload and load my various bags and boxes. This is the kid who has had some real success with reading, not with the prescribed FCAT drek, but, with Dick and Jane. "Miss Molly, I love to read!"

I couldn't help noticing that the wonderful teacher of this motley crew spends an inordinate amount of time at her computer or checking the dreary paperwork generated by seventeen reluctant kids. She is checking attendance and the movement of kids to their various destinations. She is reporting on tiny test scores, she is CRAZY with paperwork, always threatening to overwhelm her.

If she could be free to spend more time interacting with her students, and if those students were not always being pulled out for individual attention, I just think of what this talented teacher clould do!

Time for dinner. I know a wonderful dinner is happening up at the main house.

Disaster Strikes

Here in Florida we are all somewhat prepared for the tropical storms and hurricanes we know will eventually touch us. In that terrible summer of 2004 three hurricanes came close; one of them passed over us directly and it was the first time I have ever experienced the eerily quiet 'eye' when all motion stops for a few minutes. Then the storm returns in full fury.

We had the bottled water, the canned goods, cars full of gas, buckets and all the rest. We had a propane stove, a corded phone, three dachsunds, a chainsaw, and a swimming pool of water we could dip buckets from to flush the toilets. It wasn't cold; it was close to ninety degrees by day and hotter at night with the frightened dogs in our bed. So many trees toppled or were uprooted, we could not get out. The phone, even the cells, could not work, and electricity was days away. Our family was anxious about us, we knew, but there was nothing we could do. During the hurricane we were terrified, and after it left we were ready - so ready! to get back to normal. But we had to endure a few days of being totally incommunicado and with no power. We vowed that asap we'd get a HUGE generator. And we have done that.

Ho hum, everyone has their hurricane stories, most more harrowing than ours. But now, I think of so many family members living on an island in Puget Sound, accessible only by ferry. There was a ferocious storm there last Thursday night, torrential rain and then a huge sucking wind from the Pacific. Sure, there are storms there, but nothing like this. No one is prepared.

The ground, already saturated from weeks of rain, could not hold on to the trees so many of them went down on houses and roads and power lines. Early Friday I could call my sister and she reported how awful it was. It is cold there this time of year, low temperatures hovering near freezing. Fortunately they have a fireplace, and she said they have a propane camp stove. I do not know if they are on a pump or have city water. My son, his wife, and two very small children, who live in a more remote part of the island, cannot be reached by phone, and as of today, even my sister's phone is out.

I know that all these are competent people, they were in scouting and went to camp and watched survivor shows. But I worry about whether baby Caroline is warm enough. Is little Joseph worried? (Where are they, anyway? Hunkered down with my sister and her family and the fireplace and the propane camp stove?) I know they don't think like Floridians and have a corded phone always on hand ($6.95 at Walmart), gallons of water in the back of the closet, those extra canned things that no one would actually eat. They do have extra dogs on hand, always a plus since dogs run hotter than humans.

In the odd way of social communication, I heard from a friend whose son lives on this island that his wife said, before the phones went out, she saw my son in the local grocery store on Friday. And after that all communication stopped, lines down. I cling to that fact: my son was getting supplies on Friday morning. This means..what? The store has a generator so people could come in and buy supplies they need.

As parents, we feel anxious. We want to connect and know that everyone is o.k.

I have read that four people died in this storm. I will continue to call every hour. I really believe that everyone is alive, certainly uncomfortable, but coping. Having the hurricane experiences gives perspective.

Singing to my father

Yesterday I had lunch with a couple of old best friends. We sat on a hot and sunny roof overlooking Boca Ciega Bay. The food was awful, mostly inedible fried stuff, but we revelled in the company.

My friend Ann told us a wonderful story. Her father, in his eighties, had come to town for the Thanksgiving holiday. While he was there he fell ill with dizziness and nausea so extreme that Ann took him to the emergency room at the local hospital. It took hours for anyone to see him. Finally, he was admitted, and it was unclear what was the matter. He was given some strong medicine for the nausea and this caused him to become disoriented and unable to speak. His Hands fluttered in front of his face. Ann was distraught.

She presented this story by first telling us that she had, as a young person,wanted to be a musician as was her father. We have always thought of Ann as a musician, so easily able to play the piano, accompany our school musicals. But she told us that she never persued music as a vocation because she did not want to perform in public and feared the judgement of a musical family. She said that she never sang in the presence of her dad.

There, in the hospital, sitting next to her father's bed, anxious and wanting to help, she decided to sing to her father, the first time in forty years. She began with "You are my Sunshine". Knowing Ann, I am sure she sang very quietly, as one sings a lullaby to a beloved. Her father quieted, and Ann kept on with the second verse.

And then, quietly, she began to hear another voice joining in from somewhere in the room, harmonizing with her good true voice. They sang four verses. The other voice said, "You are good. You can keep the melody with harmonizing. Let's go for "Red River Valley" And they did that, all the verses.

I think the angels were listening that night. Ann's dad is now fine, though the writing is on the wall that he may need to live in a more supportive place. Something special happened, one of those small amazing miracles that make us glad to be humans.

When I told my husband the story that night as we reported on our daily lives, both of us wept. I wish I could have been there.

Raising Good Children

As Hillary Clinton said, "It takes a village to raise a child". I read the special section in the St. Pete Times today on "Ninth or Never", the long article about four ninth graders in a local high school. As a teacher and parent of three, I was appalled and saddened with this information. All of these kids came from chaotic families, no fathers in evidence. I realize that the authors of this article, and their editors, must have left out a lot of information. These four children must face a life of being losers, though one of them might have a chance.. The thing is that these children do not have a village to raise them. Their parents do not have a peer group that spills down to the kids.

When I take my two year old grandson to the preschool library program with "Mother Goose", there are at least a dozen parents there with their toddlers. We are that village raising kids and we are on the same page, so to speak. We have the same values about reading books and this seems to be a way of connecting with the importance of reading and with each other. I also take my grandson to Great Explorations. Here, he examines the exhibits with great care, as do all the other preschoolers. I do not know the other parents (and they are a bit unwelcoming of an elderly grandma), but I perservere and eventually they understand that I am one of them- part of the village raising children.

I think that the four kids in the article never had a village in the library, the park, the museum, or in their neighborhood to help raise them. If we are to make headway in the good development of kids we need to pay attention to the "village" culture.

This weekend we had friends visiting. They have two sons, one in college, and the other, Phil, fourteen years old. The younger one was clearly missing his brother but he spent some hours with me in my studio. He was making some clay pots and I was working on my fabric art in the next room. This seemed very comfortable and from time to time I went in to encourage him or give him some tips.

At dinner we spoke about the digital world and gaming- to the consternation of his mother! Phil wants to have a Playstation 3, but his folks think that this will only take him further away from his worldly and academic tasks. I play the devil's advocate, teacher that I am. This is the village that raises the child! Phil knows that all of us are thinking about what is truly best for him. He knows that not only his parents, but the whole village is thinking about him.

The kids in the St. Pete Times article do not have a whole village of friends and family thinking about them. They needed to have teachers from the beginnng who cared about them, but didn't.

I think about a teacher I saw last week in the public school where I volunteer. In the line going back to the classroom after lunch, her class was ahead of mine. Suddenly she stopped. She then proceeded to ream out a kindergartner boy who had been talking(!) She went on and on about how bad he was, what a disappointment he was, and she didn't say it exactly, but she made it clear he was piece of shit. Our line right in back was clearly embarrassed by this. This little boy, maybe five or six years old had the look of hunted prey. Our class didn't want to make eye contact with the culprit. They were totally quiet. We looked at the "pariah", and all we could do was walk past, and after a decent interval, go back to our normal chit-chat on our way back to our class. Are these ninth graders in the article remembering such experiences as this? This elementary teacher who could so diminish and demolish a child in public should not be teaching kids!

If that child who was so singled out as 'bad' had a village of parent and child peers, the people who surround him would make an outcry! How can we make this happen? I think we should concentrate on making 'villages' happen. Peer groups of parents and kids, what we used to call 'neighborhoods, can make a difference.

Christmas Shopping, Walmart Style

Women do Christmas. We decorate the house, or nag our spouses into helping, and we make lists of the people who expect presents. Women take the lead on any holiday parties we think are necessary. And mostly, women have a load of guilt about the holidays; we think about those in-laws and relatives and friends, the work posses, the newspaper delivery guys,the cleaning lady, the neighbors. And we keep remembering what our own mothers did. We can't possib;y measure up. All of our connections need affirmation at the holidays. So an army of us go out to the the malls and stores and on line to shop. If women stopped doing holidays, our economy would expire.

This morning I ventured out to my local Walmart super center in search of some lights for the porch, toys for the grandsons, and stocking gifts for the local family. I parked a long distance away from the store because the parking lot was packed.

Patting my shopping list, I enter the store through the automatic doors and I smell the fat globules emanating from the Mc Donald's right inside the entrance. Immediately, I feel very ugly, verging on overweight (though I am slim). I seem to have become one of a mass of very fat flaccid people. Many of them are elderly (as am I!) We are all of here in a massive building, lighted with no thought of whether it's day or night. We all have our own agendas, and, judging by the sour expressions, none of us is happy to be here. The aisles are narrow and there are so many obstacles in the way- carts of merchandise, octogenarians studying the price tags- so there is much bumping of carts. Everyone is rude when this happens. I make a joke to a ferret of a woman shopping in the mens' pajama department. We have been circling in the tiny aisle, trying to avoid each other. She is rude and crude to me, no stretch to accommodate our mutual desires and no shred of a sense of humor. I select my pajamas and move on to kids' underwear.

After the underwear, I need to get some "little guys" for the first-grader on my list. There is a whole aisle of these and most of them seem so violent or horridly strange! There are several other "grandparent" couples in this section, their heads up high, looking down through their bi-focals to read the fine print on toys that mystify. But when I ask them in a friendly way if they know anything about Galactic Heroes, they regard me as if I were some kind of pervert, and quickly move on. They have no concept of "true toys",I guess, but I know they are doing their best.

By now, I am beginning to hyperventillate. I think I may be actually in Hell. I move toward the checkout, hoping I can remember where the car is parked. As I swipe my debit card, an elderly man approaches the check-out, breathing heavily and clearly panicked. He has lost his wife in Walmart. He needs to have her paged in the intercom: "Marie, come to checkout #7! Wally is waiting for you there!"

I am through with my Christmas shopping! If anyone is now not accounted for on my shopping list, they will have to make do with good wishes, pine cones from the forest,oranges from our trees and something home-made.

Thanksgiving

Joseph, the two year old, has wrapped himself up in a rug, his eyes are wild. His mother,my daughter-in-law, fraught with his nine month old sister who at this stage will not let anyone but her hold her or connect with her, is exhausted. Both parents, so talented at the job of parenthood, are bleary eyed these days from having their house torn apart in a construction project that will eventually double their living space. Both of them keep on working through all this.

They invited us to come for Thanksgiving so we did. We made the trek out to Vashon, an island in Puget Sound for a family Thanksgiving. We picked up our rental car and drove through 40 degree rain. We stopped at my sister's to pick up the key for my brother-in-law's house he built himself, a stylish, almost completed place in the deep woods.

The driveway is long and dark. Our rental car was brand new and we did not realize that it smugly locks itself up whenever you get out of the car. So, of course, we locked the keys inside with both cell phones! What to do? We did a whole lot of hiking around in the rain with no flashlight to find anyone who could help. Finally we found a neighbor who kindly drove us to our son's house. Meanwhile, I left Andy to wait for the car lock to be resolved and I went to my sister's house where we were all to have dinner.

My sister had made a lovely dinner, comfort food, fire in the fireplace, for all the family, twelve of us. We put our feet up on the hearth, took dogs in our laps, sipped that wonderful Washington state wine, and waited for Andy to appear. Suddenly, there was a loud explosion from the kitchen. Apparently a pie left on a burner by mistake got too hot and shattered, blowing glass shards everywhere. The dinner was ruined and everything had to be thrown out. We quickly regrouped and made another dinner- pasta, canned tomatoes, a can of beans,canned onion rings, anything else we could find. New salad, and we had dinner again. By the time Andy appeared, having resolved the key crisis, we were ready to sit down at the table.

We love being there in Jim's house, though it's a bit primitive. Our bed looks out to tall evergreen trees. We open the windows and cuddle under down quilts. At night I could see the meteor showers through the trees, and there is silence. Not quite. Our son and his family decided to stay there too, to avoid the vapors from the insulation that had just been installed in their house. There is only one bathroom.

This was an occasion for both sets of grandparents to be on hand. Natalie's folks stayed at a local b and b, but we all gathered for meals and to help our children get ready for the dry wall contractors who would appear after the holiday.

These other grandparents are certainly dear to us. They have produced a wonderful daughter, our son's wife, and the mother of two grandkids. These other grandparents might have come from another planet. I struggle to find a common topic of conversation. Some things are taboo, I know: religion, politics. Travel is no good,neither are environmental concerns, art or music, food or gardening, and we are not sports fans as they are. So we fall back on the adoration of grandchildren and this is always good. These are truly decent people. I did not stab anyone with a fork and I was pretty good overall. (I think!)

We are certainly not a dysfunctional family. But when I look at the photos I see those moments when the chins of the elders sag, the old dog is splayed out on the couch, the teenage kids are looking bored and just barely tolerating the scene, and my retarded brother is looking strange but satisfied in the background. I see the turkey, now a mess of eviscerated flesh, the youngest grandchild in a 'mean Queen' mode. Joe, the two year old, makes it all come together when he says, "Grandpa, thank you for the dinner"

But at the end of the Thanksgiving day I am thankful to have this amazing family. I am thankful that none of our family are fighting in Iraq, and I am thankful to the young people who put their lives on the line in Iraq. I am thankful that the American electorate has said "Enough!" about this war. I am thankful to be an American.

Career week

This is career week at my adopted public school. The idea is that people from the community come in to show and tell the kids what is available out there for future jobs. Today, there was a variety of things going on: karate, cake decorating, and a menagerie of moth-eaten animals in the playground. Tomorrow there will be recruiters for the armed forces. I don't know what else. Aargh! To be honest, I didn't hear of anyone coming in to discuss working in agriculture, or driving trucks, or cleaning motels (what these kids' parents mostly do). I certainly did not hear of anyone who was a professional in law or government or city planning or science (what these kids could aspire to) coming in to discuss their work. No poets, no artists, no actors, no dancers were there today. Perhaps they will be there tomorrow, but I sincerely doubt it.

I come in to work with these kids one day each week. This experience affirms me as the kids welcome me and ask what book I have brought to read to them, what art we'll be doing today, what FOOD I have for them. They want to read to me, haltingly, but so proud of their accomplishments.

First thing today, we had the cake decorating lady. The teacher has told the kids they must sit on their bottoms in front of the demonstration table. I scooch down with them to see what they can see. Not much. The table is much too high. I tell the kids they must move back in order to see. But what is happening is so compelling the kids keep moving closer. (Why can't they just stand around and get a good view?) I take a couple of the shortest kids on my lap so they can see. After almost half an hour, the cake is done and they are promised they can eat it after lunch. They are incredibly wiggly and itchy.

We quickly segue into my activity of vegetable sculpture. I have brought ten different vegetables and the kids are invited to use anything they want, put it together with toothpicks and playdough, apply googly eyes, whatever. Make a dragonfly out of a carrot and apply wings of kale. At first, I wondered how they would respond to such a freeform art activity. But then, I heard the low hum of productivity as they constructed animals, robots, cars from the vegetable pieces. They shared ideas and vegetables and they delighted in each other's creations. Many of them were eating their creations or wanted baggies to take them home. Lorenzo, (so proud to be asked!) and I took the leavings to the science teacher who has a guinea pig. He stuck a carrot into the cage and it was snatched up! Lorenzo was most pleased to report this to the class when we returned.

Today was mulch for the mind: cake decorating, vegetable sculpture, karate, a wonderful out loud story, and the excellent math presentation by their regular teacher.

Public school, even the most modest of them all, is alive and well in America. I am proud to be a volunteer for these vibrant children and hard-working teachers.

Weekend Grandparents

Until just a few minutes ago I was sitting in the dark in a rocking chair, (the one we bought forty years ago for our first son) rocking Quincy to sleep. He was visiting us overnight without his parents. He has just turned two, our youngest grandson, the one we see several times a week since he lives close by. He snuggled up to my chest and clasped his lovey, stroking the satin made so soft from hours of delicate fondling with a small starfish hand. His other hand, the thumb, is in his mouth. He has had a cold so there is a tiny amount of snuffling.

It has been such a long time since I have had to slow down for a small child. I can barely remember rocking my own three to sleep, though I must have done. I think as I rock silently, except for the snuffling, what an immense amount of time a parent puts in that is purely devoted to their child. While I am rocking in the dark, holding this beloved small person, I am not doing anything else. I am just there, secure and loving Grandma, totally devoted and mindful of the moment we are in. I am not thinking about 'to do' lists, I am not thinking about the mess in the kitchen, or what tomorrow will bring. I am not even thinking that this rocking could be the new meditation exercise.

In the very dim light I can see his eyelashes flutter. Sleep will come soon. I think of this wonderful gift of a day with Quincy. He seemed to sing little songs all the time in a sweet high chirp. Now, words and sentences are coming in by the minute, some of it even understandable by us. He got up from his nap in a great mood, full of smiles and that wry way he puts his mouth to express delight.

Grandpa was waiting to take Quincy to the grocery store. I could use the time to do the watering of flowers and vegetables, check e-mail, talk to the ranch manager. When they returned, we unloaded the groceries, and then it was time for me to give Andy a much needed haircut. I thought it would be good if we did it outside next to the fish pond which Quincy loves. I got through the sideburns and then had to run and check on where Quincy had got to. He was on the other side of the house, on the porch by the outside shower annointing himself with shampoo and very pleased. I brought him back to keep an eye out while I trimmed the rest of Andy's hair. Now, at least Quincy was in view, climbing the fence. It was a very quick haircut!

Quincy loves to be a part of the household doings, especially cooking. He climbs up on a step stool to watch the proceedings. Today I made green playdough for him and he mashed this with forks and cooking doodads as he watched Andy preparing dinner. This boy is amazingly easy on stuff. He never breaks anything so we give him free reign of our belongings. He also generally puts things back.

It is so interesting to get a second shot at the observation of children you love. We have six grandchildren. Our oldest one, Diego, and his brother Pablo, are really close to us. They spent so much time living here and then visiting often.

Diego, Pablo, and Quincy are the ones I know and they are certainly under my heart. Silvio, Diego and Pablo's brother, was my favorite baby, but he left the area before he was a year old, and since then, he has been a remote grandchild. I am looking forward to getting to know him. I do know that he is such a stellarly bright boy already, we should get ready. Joseph and Caroline live as far away geographically from us as one can live but we make the effort to visit several times a year, and sometimes they come to Florida.

Joseph, almost three, is the undisputed King of grandchildren!(Quincy will give him a run for the money!) Joseph, and Caroline, who will be a year old in March, have both parents in constant attendance. When I phone my son, Chris, and both kids are with him in his work studio, I hear background chortles from happy children. I heard from my son Ben, who was visiting his brother, that Natalie, Joseph and Caroline's mom, takes the kids down the driveway to a big puddle, calls it "the beach", sets up a folding chair, and lets the kids doodle around in the water, dig with buckets and spades. Hey, this is Seattle!

In a week we are going out to see the Washington State grandchildren, Joseph and Caroline. I know they will not recognize us. In the week we are there they will get to know us slightly. Joseph (the King) will be charming, and his princess sister will be charming as well. I wish that I could have the quantity time with them I have with Quincy. I would love to rock Caroline to sleep or read incredible stories to Joseph. I would not expect them to be always charming.

However one's grandchildren happen and wherever they live, they are ferociously loved by their grandparents.

For all of us who are grandparents, we love being with our grandkids, and it is a gift we couldn't have imagined.

Now, the Real Stuff

Lola is on the mend! After the trip to the vet, and a couple of days of strong pills, she's active, though not yet jumping through the usual hoops. We had a couple of bad nights when she stayed in her kennel resting her leg. If she wasn't a lot better by Thursday (tomorrow) we were facing the x-rays and the possibility of a disc problem. But it seems now, that she is back on track of being her usual feisty self. So many of you e-mailed or called. Thank you, all you dog people. You know. I was especially touched that so many of my former students were concerned.

I have been thinking about this blog and what direction it needs to take. This has been an experiment for me, a foray into the tech world. I am aware that many of you read it. I am still so new to this and I basically believe that there is some hutzpah in putting one's ideas out there for anyone in the entire world to see. I believe myself to be a humble and modest (even shy) person. I know by now that people are not really looking at each other (certainly, not at me!). So this foray into the public domain can be just what I want it to be..

So, tighten up your seat belts. From now on I am going full-throttle on educational issues that interest me. (O.K., sometimes I will digress and wax euphoric about vegetable gardens and cows and birds, kids I love, and grandchildren)

This evening I am ecstatic about the outcome of the elections. I always regard the glass as half full. I am thinking that Charlie Crist could maybe be a good education governor (though I did not vote for him!).

Yesterday I went to the elementary school here in central Florida where I volunteer in a classroom one day a week. I had not been there for two weeks while I was away on vacation. But the kids were confident I'd be back. I came into the class, lugging two bags of stuff to do. Many small hands hugged me, many shining black eyes met mine. They asked if I had BOOKS? They asked if I had FOOD? Yes, and yes. Do you have clay? No, not this time, but soon. How long will you stay?

Their wonderful teacher, CareyAnne, is glad to see me. I have a present of chocolates from France for her. She loves chocolate and France, having been there when she was in the Army. First thing, after the t.v. announcements, the kids pledge allegiance to the flag, and then they sing along with "This Land is Your Land" and do a little dance to it that CareyAnne has taught them. I am charmed. Then the kids gather in front of CareyAnne for the daily scripted lesson (Breakthrough to Reading, courtesy of a major education publisher). This day I see that CareyAnne has something else on her agenda- NOT SCRIPTED. She's a good and compliant member of the school team, but in some ways she has other ideas.

Today, she has he kids making caterpillar projects of how something written could be. She has made round cut-outs of various sizes and the kids can take these, paste them together, write on them the parts of a story they might write: start, the characters, what happens, next thing, next thing, the end. They can make them personal with feelers and other additions. As every one of the sixteen kids finishes his/her caterpillar, she takes them to the laminating machine so the kids can have these for the whole year. The slower to finish kids are helped by the others. The kids are excited to have their very own artwork/writing come out of the laminating machine. CareyAnne acknowledges each child as they place their caterpillar on the laminator.

And then, someone "IN AUTHORITY" comes up and tells CareyAnne that this laminating place is Not For Students! So, the kids have to retreat behind the door. They crowd up to peer into the door crack. They vie for a place to see in the crack what's happening to the process. Lorenzo is clearly the gatekeeper. The other kids shuffle around him, wanting to see their very own caterpillar come out of the chute.

CareyAnne despises the scripted 'Breakthrough to Reading' program this school must use. She truly is invested in kids learning to read. She, herself, learned to read with Dick and Jane (as did I), so she has found some of these readers to be key in her mission to have every child in her care be literate. When I come into the class, many of the kids are eager to tell me about their progress with Dick and Jane. They want me to hunker down and let them read to me. In a way I think this is such a hoot: these Hispanic kids so excited to be reading in a series written probably before 1940, all the illustrations of blonde kids, the mom in an apron, the dad in a tie and carrying a briefcase. None of the kids mentions the 'Breakthrough to Reading' materials.

This week, as every week, I bring food. My vegetable garden is overflowing now with salad greens. We made a salad in class with many kinds of greens,cucumbers, garlic, oil, lemon juice, salt and pepper. We thought of the salad as a story, like the caterpillar. The setting was the salad bowl, the characters were the various kinds of lettuce and vegetables. The events were the things we did to make the salad, and the end was eating it.

There is one little guy, Justin, who has a tremendous hunger for fresh food. He'll try anything! He sparks the entire class to eat these amazing fresh foods I bring on a weekly basis. I have taught the kids to at least try anything new and be polite if they hate it. Amazing how kids take their cue from others who are enjoying the new tastes. If Justin loves avocado, maybe it won't be totally poisonous.

Lorenzo, a child of devasting poverty, eats his salad, and then quietly asks me if he can have the remains of a jar of sunflower seeds with which we have garnished our greens. He has his backpack opened in readiness. I have heard tht Lorenzo only eats what he can at school. There is nothing for him to eat at home. What can I say? Take it, Lorenzo. He squirrels it away with the homework that will never see the light of day.

This school could be really good, but as it is, it's below mediocre. I heard in the teachers' lunchroom this week a comment I wonder about. Someone said she wondered about what was heard on the grapevine about the next year's hires for this school. I wonder why this important news should operate as rumor or grapevine? Hey, guys, be a team.

A great school should not rely on rumor or grapevine. It should attract a cohesive and energetic team of teachers who are valued in the school and stay on, be colleagues, create a learning environment. This is the job of a good principal.

I am beginning to realize that even in the climate of FCAT, there are a lot of different models in our public schools and they all depend on the principals of the schools. Public schools are not all the same!

All our children are incredibly precious. All of them will be successful, we hope. Some of them will be really successful, and some will be stellar. The thing is, you don't know this now. As a teacher, you have to go on the assumption that your student will be capable of anything.

Charlie Crist, you, as a moderate, can have a really profound influence on education in Florida. I, for one, will be bugging you. Our children are fantastic.

Lola in trouble

Our little miniature dachshund, Lola,eight years old, is in trouble tonight. She has retreated to her kennel, her "house" and won't come out. She's in pain, clearly, but she keeps her nose out and her ears perked, still alert to what's going on.

We went on a two week vacation and left her with our daughter, where Lola's been many times before. When there, Lola pals around with a huge and energetic dog. They seem to love each other, despite the size discrepancy.

When we returned there were many dog kisses from Lola, a great reunion doggy-wise. When we got back to our house we realized that Lola seemed reluctant or unable to jump up on the couch or climb stairs and she didn't want to accompany us on walks. When we looked closely, we saw that she was favoring her right rear leg. We thought perhaps that our daughter's huge dog might have stepped on her? Or was Lola just punishing us for having left her for over two weeks? Or what?

All of today I have been on edge about Lola. Is this the end? I keep thinking that she'll be so much better by the afternoon. Will she be a candidate for weiner dog wheels? Tomorrow morning I will take her to the vet of course. She is still very much enjoying meals, a good sign. I keep checking on her, telling her loving words. She looks at me in that trusting open-eyed way our pets do.

Strange, how we connect with our pets. We can cry about them when we cannot cry about our real people.

Lola came to us as a six week old puppy with skin much too big for her body. She's a dappled girl, resembled a small pumpernickel loaf of bread, with one blue eye. From the first, Lola was a people person. On the second night of having her we abandoned the crate for the night. Whining, all she wanted was to be asleep under Andy's chin. She settled down, no comlaints, "now I'm where I meant to be for the night."

This dog is a comedian. She easily got the manners of being housebroken, coming when called, walking on a leash, etc. She isn't a barker, except to let us know when someone is coming. She is such a great companion and takes long walks with us. She loves the ranch and many times I see her out in the pastures stalking armadilloes.

When some family member or friend comes in, Lola wags her pencil tail to say she loves that person. She is our best greeter of guests: when a car drives up, Lola lets us know and then we let her out to say hello and lead our friends in.

Many times when we have been away for awhile, I truly miss our dog! Where is that little warm body in the bed? Where is that small dog wagging her tail when we go by? Where is that funny dog who rolls belly-side up and casts her one blue eye and one brown eye at us? Where is that funny dog who greets us at the door with everything wriggling and gives unconditional love?

We love this dog! She has given us so much pleasure and fun. I cannot imagine life without her.

Stay tuned.

The Comforts of Home

Walking down the driveway from the house to my studio tonight the full moon casts shadows and reflects off the metal roofs and the glossy oranges. I hear the music playing above the summer sounds of crickets and I look back towards the big screened porch with the twinkling lights where Andy is working on a jigsaw puzzle. I am headed for a Saturday evening of painting in this room of my own.

It has been a long time since we have had a regular weekend with our own small routines we love so much: the morning walk with the dog, BLT's for breakfast ( a run out to the garden for the lettuce),reading the paper on the porch, discussing the politics of the day, checking e-mail and working outdoors on our various projects. We listen for the daily bugling of the sandhill cranes as they come in to land near the pond.

These dry days I must be constantly watering the flower beds. I need to weed the vegetable garden and tie up the tomatoes and check for worms on the cucumbers. Andy will begin to make sure we have enough wood ready for those few days we can have a fire in the fireplace.

We love our family and friends but we need to have these occasional weekends of not being the good hosts, just being us with a comfort food supper and the quiet of the night listening to the owls and coyotes somewhere out there.

I'm jet lagged, glad to be home, and my head is full of Europe. Every time I leave the USA I think almost constantly about my own country, comparing and contrasting it to this new place I am in.

On this trip to Paris I was overwhelmed by the user- friendliness of being a pedestrian in a big city. We rented an apartment in the heart of the Latin Quarter. Stepping out of our place we were immediately on the street among thousands of people, all going about their business. They are mostly young, all of them thin.

For the two weeks we were there, we walked almost everywhere we wanted to go. At every intersection of even the tiniest alleys and streets, there are zebra stripes in the street. All vehicular traffic stops at these for pedestrians. As well, there are little green 'running man' lights at every intersection. The pedestrians stop when the 'red man' sign shows, letting the cars go by. A pedestrian never has to wait long for the 'green man' sign. It is very clear to all that the pedestrian is king here, no matter what. Parisians respect each other, whether they are in cars or on foot.
People are on the street at all hours of the day and night. Parisians love their streets! They love to shop and look in the store windows and eat at the sidewalk cafes. They buy chocolates and bread, walk their dogs and push children in strollers. They demonstrate for causes and they listen to the public music of swing bands in the squares and in the public transportation. And they respect the rights and spaces of each other in a crowded city.

The sidewalks are mostly spacious, the intersections well thought out. Early every morning street cleaners go out and open the water hydrants. They get out their stiff brooms and clean the sidewalks and gutters. Then the mechanical street sweepers come through to suck up left over debris. By the time the early morning people come out to buy their papers and fresh pastries for breakfast, the ancient streets are pristinely clean of last night's left-overs, dog do, and remnants of revelry.

Gas has always been expensive, so there are no gas guzzler cars to be seen. There is even a tiny car, the 'smart car', no bigger than an easy chair, one sees everywhere.

The public transportation system is truly wonderful to American eyes. It was easy to get anywhere on the trains; everything was clearly signed and if there was any confusion one could ask the people behind the ticket desks.

All this accessible pedestrian life seemed somewhat closed to the physically challenged. It was assumed that anyone could walk up or down long staircases, a large lack in an otherwise almost perfect system. American cities could learn from the French.