Our Adult Children

No one told us how much time we had to devote to our adult kids. We educated them, drove endless miles to piano lessons, swim meets, soccer. Then they left home for college or far away places, and we kept on paying tuition, a small price to pay for the blessedly empty nest.

The leaving of our own nest was somewhat ragged, but nothing like what so many of my friends have had to endure. One of our kids spent time in three different colleges: not that he failed out. He was a seeker of the perfect place. He never did graduate, but he had his life in balance. Our middle child started out as perfectly as a parent can want, in a highly selective college. Then he took off for a semester in the woods while we worried. He finished college and went on to graduate school. He was his way, had a mission to change the world through urban studies. And this he is doing.

Our youngest, we thought the most dicey, (and surely the most vivid!), came back to our community after college and graduate school. We had given up on thinking that any of our children would live nearby. But here she is, with her wonderful partner and their small son.
They are entrepreneurs and have started a catering business - so far quite successful. Our daughter has the energy of ten. Not only does she run the business aspect of the catering gig, she works as the reference librarian at our local university and does a lot of tutoring. And raises a wonderful kid.

A few evenings ago, we went to look at the catering kitchen. I was blown away! This is a huge commercial kitchen and when we saw it there was a stocky young man, Pinky, who was using the kitchen to produce trays and trays of highly decorated sweets. When the catering does not need the kitchen they rent it out to people who need to make chocolate fountains and other stuff. I guess it is always in action. I could not believe that this commercial kitchen did not exist until the end on November!

My daughter-in-law, the brawn of this operation, is a fantastic chef, incredibly efficient, and cuts no corners with her food creations. The pair of them, and their third person who does p.r, seem to have a real winner. I am glad to have been an investor. What a thrill to be here to see this business evolve..

You never know what life will bring you. Sometimes your kids are a terrible disappointment for a time. I have friends whose adult kids are struggling with depression and angst, drug addiction, or are in a relationship with an abusive partner, or they just are strangers to their parents. Some of my friends have adult children who have pretty much abandoned their parents. Mostly these things will pass with time. Or they won't. This is why we have a strong network of our own friends, those who can always be counted on when family fails.

I believe that we are in charge of our lives, not some god out there. It puts more responsibility on us. No praying. No one is going to do it for us. We are in charge, responsible. We should do good because it is good, not to get to heaven. Just be good and generous. Our kids will see and understand, and eventually come back to us with love and caring.

As it is now,I love my adult children and the adult children of my friends. As I say, the outcome is still ragged but I know, with time, everything will be fine. (Says Sally Sunshine)

Gifts

When Nancy and Neville pulled up in their car, they had bags and bundles and the dog. Immediately, Nancy began unwrapping the gifts she had for us: clothes she found at an upscale thrift shop for grandson Quincy, a pop-up tent for him and the dead racquet balls in a wonderful cylindrical container. She gave me a new tote bag, perfect and emblazoned with my initials, and a cooking doo-dad for Andy. She never comes empty-handed. In exchange, there was the wedging table Andy had made for her at my suggestion. I am thinking that we are very like some primitive emissaries from neighboring tribes, honoring each other with potlatch.

Later, Marie and Jim arrive. Marie has a huge impatience plant for me. She knows how much I love flowers and my yard is full of things she has given me over the years. There is now a huge orange tree, ("Marie"), that reliably produces huge quantities of fruit. There are many crepe myrtle trees she has given me, now about to leaf out. My yard is full of gifts.

We stroll down to the studio where I have the finished quilt for Marie, something I have been working on for a few weeks, a celebration of the many trips we have taken together. By the door is a large rosemary tree Marie gave me a couple of months ago.

For my daughter I have a small tee shirt I think she'll like, and she gives Nancy a shirt as well. She has a bundle of magazines for Marie. We women are constantly giving each other things. The men are talking, giving bits of their personal lives, giving opinions.

Have you ever noticed that it is mostly women who give gifts? Everyone knows that if women boycotted Christmas shopping our economy would collapse. Men are generous creatures in their own way(they give time and money, mostly) but they do not give many gifts. They know it is expected that they should give their partners gifts on birthdays and Christmas. Andy is the most generous person I know; he gives away money in such thoughtful ways, he gives his time for great causes, he shows people how to do things, which is the best gift of all. He gives the gift of cooking wonderful food for all our friends. But he agonizes about what to give me for my birthday.

Women often do not have a lot of money to give. Instead, they give of themselves whether it is the product of specialized shopping, or of their own hands. They enable others. My friend Virginia comes to us with a basket of key limes or a bowl of perfectly sectioned oranges. My friend, Nancy D. provides us with interesting jig saw puzzles, and gives me the most wonderful nightgowns. Lucy gives such amazingly funny items that we find ourselves using every day. This Lucy hand knitted dozens of fluffy scarves to give to all the women at a banquet last year. This may have been the high water mark of gift-giving! We women are always giving each other books. We never go empty handed. We save magazines and clippings for each other, we pass along gently used items to each other.

Never a week passes when I do not send someone something. I love to get those cards and those boxes from my sisters who think of me with hand-made necklaces or the kind of candles she knows I like. I love sending odd items off to my grandchildren: new spiderman underpants, a funny dress, a string of 'car' lights. This gift giving makes us feel connected! Is it something on the X chromosome?

Gift giving is such a fundamental aspect of being female. Things are not everything, however. Generosity in both the male and female models go together. We just all have to keep giving wherever and whenever we see the need to celebrate each other or help in the community.

Weekend Grandchild

My hands smell clean like fresh baby and just washed strawberry blond hair. I arrive down at the barn/studio complex and see the Christmas lights twinkling. Quincy turned them on earlier. The yard is littered with balls and bats and sandbox toys. After his bath, I have just put Quincy, now two and a half, to bed in his big boy youth crib.Quincy is spending the weekend with his grandparents, two of many who love and adore him.

He has kissed his grandpa goodnight and gathered up his things ( eight dead racquet balls, two 'loveys', a toy airplane, and a tiny bed with a very teeny girl doll in it, and a large stuffed rabbit. This guy needs his gear.) He sits cuddled on my lap in the rocking chair that once held his mother and we read "Goodnight Moon". His eyes begin to close. It is a moment of incredible sweetness and possibility. I breathe a sigh of relief. Finally, I can have some time of my own.

Quincy is the fifth of six grandchildren, the youngest boy. All of them are wonderful, blessed to be healthy and bright. They come to visit and we are thrilled. We try to visit the faraway places the other five live as often as we can. The three oldest grandchildren lived near us when they were very small, so we have some sense of them. They have come back regularly to visit and we look forward to those long summer visits.

But Quincy lives nearby and never a week goes by when we do not see him. We see all those incremental milestones of development. Quincy started out premature, a tiny thing, so skinny, and now he is huge for his age! We hear all the verbal development going on, and we note his amazing gifts for figuring out how everything works. Tonight I asked him to help me set the table for dinner. He got out a huge ugly plastic pitcher and proceeded to fill it with water from the fridge. I put a candle out, he got forks, and we were all set.

We have spent the day doing this and that-grocery shopping, checking out a local business cen ter, visiting a wonderful local playground, and calling on neighbors who have a new orphaned calf who must be bottle fed. Quincy toted his racquet balls- looking like a person struggling to carry a water heater- to all of these things, and was interested in everything.

This lovely boy, so young, is getting so many experiences, as such children do. (I carefully show him a green anole lizard and also a Florida fence lizard. We check out the differences. And who knows if he pays attention at his age?) But it is mulch for the mind! My neighbor's grandson, a four year old, was helping his granddad get ready to raise an orphan calf.

So many of those good and patient children at Lacoochee Elementary School have never had these everyday experiences that mulch their minds. Go places, talk about what you see and what you think. Read a book, stroke a tree frog, pick vegetables, feed an orphan calf, and maybe see a real city. They have no parents or mentors who could be interested.

Andy and I and Quincy, squinched up tight in the golf cart, rode back down the road from seeing the new calf. Quincy was blowing bubbles from his little bottle as we went and the breeze from the motion of the golf cart made many bubbles trail out behind us. We looked at each other, delighted in the day.

Collards and Curleques

There was hardly any room in the Lacoochee School parking lot today. A huge fancy bus emblazoned with Ronald MacDonald was idling there, surging with the impressive groans of major air conditioning. At first I thought it was the lunch coming. Nothing about the diet these kids get surprises me anymore. But, no, it was the health bus from Tampa General Hospital that comes several times a month to attend to the health and dental needs of these good and patient children. I found the last parking spot next to one of those mud bogging, giant wheeled pickups. (Whose parent has this? Or, what teacher?)

My coterie of helpers, Melissa and her family, Dynasty, the patrol girl from fifth grade and all the rest were there to help me dislodge my bags and boxes from the car. Then I go into the office to get my stick-on badge that lets everyone know I am not a felon or a pervert. I'd be dead meat if they asked about religion or politics. I am pleased to see my photographs of kids prominently displayed in the office.

In the classroom, more dank than usual considering the glorious Florida morning outside, Dynasty helps me unload and prepare. Today I have many enormous collard leaves picked this morning from the garden. We're going to have collards Brazilian style, cut in thin ribbons and stir fried with garlic. I set up the electric burner, get out the skillet and all the other fixings. Our teacher, CareyAnne, looks weary today. She is looking forward to spring break which happens in three days. "They're all yours today," she says. Of course I am delighted to have free reign with these fifteen kids. Dynasty helps me make an art station where the kids will get their supplies to paint and construct giant curleques out of paper plates and we will hang these from the ceiling in celebration of spring.

After the T.V. Pledge, there is a new patriotic song, actually our National Anthem. This is a totally unsingable thing, unless you can sing high like a mouse and then suddenly descend to a walrus-like bass. The kids don't even try and look longingly at the 'projects' awaiting them.

Lorenzo still has not bathed since the field trip. His shoes must be part of the problem. I see why he is seated in the far reaches of the classroom. He keeps darting around, pushing the boundaries.

We get down to business. The classroom is quiet and humming as we prepare the collards. None of these southern children have ever seen anything like this. (??) They think it is lettuce. But they are eager to try anything. I have brought in a few radishes for them to try. I tell them that I do not like them: too bitter. But it is a new vegetable they have never seen and a few courageous souls try them.

As the first batch of collards comes off the burner and is served up, Adrian loudly announces that it smells stinky. Since it is so calm today, I can do a small etiquette thing about how you must behave if you don't like a food; don't shove it in a drawer, don't call attention to the fact that you hate it, just quietly take it to the trash and let it die there. But, please, just taste a little bit. Maybe five kids really liked it. The rest were polite, with coaching. CareyAnne says it takes five to seven tries on a new food before kids accept it. This was try #1 on collards.

We began the painting, a big success. I love how these kids are so eager to help, and today, they are actually very cooperative with each other. They share paints and change the paint water without being asked. By now they have some competence with paints. They can follow the simple directions pretty well. There are even a few moments when no child was knocking on my hips ("Miss Molly!, Miss Molly!") CareyAnne put some classical music on to play, and I had the peaceful feeling that school was a real respite for these children who have to deal with such extreme issues in their lives. Right now, in this small snatch of time, they could think about what colors to use, what designs to make, and think about how it would all look as it twirled in the zephyrs of the classroom. They also liked having Miss Molly stand on the tables and attach their twirlygigs to the ceiling. (No one here thinks of me as an old lady!)

One by one, they finish, and many of them are eager helpers in cleaning up the tables. After lunch, when their creations are dry, we will hang them over their tables. We had time to read a story. The kids helped me select one, Margaret Brown's "The Little House", and everyone settled down on the carpet in rapt attention. I got just a little glimpse of kids just being regular kids, focused and interested. They have never seen a city, and they do not think about issues of encroaching development, nor do they have parents who do. But I look at them, so young and trusting, and I want to enable them to be the persons they can be. Lorenzo is beyond all the help the school or anyone else has to offer. Marisol will go to college and leave Lacoochee in the dust.

After lunch, CareyAnne takes them outside as she does every day. (Her personal recess; she knows those kids need to run and play.) I take the big pieces of sidewalk chalk and start to draw the outlines of kids lying down on the pavement. When we are finished there are so many wonderful chalk drawings of kids in strange crime scene positions.

It has been an easy day with lots of things the kids can remember. CareyAnne has coaxed the girls to be assertive, not be the shy and non-verbal creatures they were at the start of the year. When I ask her how she has done this she answers with one word, "Love!" When recess is over, she gathers them to her, on to the next thing, and it is clear that her relationship with these good and patient children is the best thing in their lives.

When I leave, I have many helpers to carry my bags and boxes back to my car.

The Field trip gift from Hell

We have been prosperous people, but careful and lucky. We have everything we need; decent housing, basic cars that work, three pairs of jeans each, no debt. We can help our kids financially, and we live on the most wonderful piece of space in the entire world. We try to make our footprint on this earth as small as possible, but yet it is huge. So we give away as much as possible of our time and money and products and ideas.

This year, as I began working in a primary class at Lacoochee elementary school, I started small. Each week I brought in something interesting to do, to make,to explore, to cook, and to read. This has been great, and I have come to know these kids quite well. The kids come out to greet me each Tuesday and help me trundle in with my voluminous bags of supplies.

The group teacher really wanted to take these kids OUT to see some things they had never discovered. I was open to funding a field trip to wherever. Turned out that the whole primary department had to go on whatever trip, a hundred kids! O.K., a hundred kids.. I went to the principal to propose this and immediately the school went into action, they got the busses, signed up for the Museum of Science and Industry in Tampa (an hour away). I signed the check with the proviso that this contribution must be anonymous. My group teacher really wanted me to come, and she really wanted me to be the keeper of a couple of really wild kids. O.K.

When I arrived in the classroom today many children told me they had awakened in the night thinking about the day to come. Some of them were excited to think that for this special occasion they had a lunch packed from home! Most of the others relied on the lunches packed by the school (more than 90% free lunches). No one was absent this day. They each picked up their identification badges to be worn on lanyards on their necks. They are good and patient children.

We had two busses. Our group was on a bubble gum pink bus, ready and waiting, belching fumes. The various classes moved promptly into the busses, and I worked to make sure that every child was seat belted in (clearly not a priority for these kids nor their teachers!) My seatmate was Lorenzo, the little guy who made the papers last week for bringing a gun to school. Lorenzo, tiny and adorably cute, must not have had a bath in weeks. The odors emanating from him almost made me gag.

I am thinking of the last busses I have been on; lovely soft seats, coolers of fresh cold water, seat belts arranged so that one could actually use them. But, I am here in the trenches, nothing but basic, lots of directives telling us that there is positively NO EATING OR DRINKING ON THIS BUS!! Fortunately, the trip to MOSI is less than an hour long.

Lorenzo is so small he can barely see out the window, pinned like a moth to wax by the tightened seatbelt. I get out a piece of paper from my purse and start folding an origami creation. He is entranced as this becomes a cat. Completed, I give this to him and for the rest of the trip he grips this with his fingers, making the whiskers jump.

When we arrive, we have to wait in the bus for way too long. (a hundred kids have to be processed!) The lunches are put into bins and then we go stand in more lines waiting to be processed like hogs. Then we can be free to visit the hurricane exhibit - way cool!!. Now it's time to have lunch, more lines. The kids gulp their lunches so we can go see the monsters of the deep exhibit before the IMAX show. The kids, at first, just run around the exhibit hall, yelling and pushing all the buttons. They cannot focus on anything. I see out of the corners of my eyes, regular families with kids who stop in front of the explanatory signs and discuss these with their kids. These families look alarmed as they see this swarm of Lacoochee killer bees spending seconds, wreaking havoc, moving on with absolutely no understanding. Two or three kids in my group come to me to ask what's this or that. But they don't really want to know, at least not yet.

My group teacher, CareyAnne, says, nevermind, this is their first experience. One has to begin somewhere, and this is fine. She's right.

At the IMAX presentation, I know I am in Hell. Lorenzo, stinking to high heaven from old shoes and who knows how many bath free days, sits beside me screaming in anticipation, saying he is scared, dizzy, needs a drink, has to use the restroom, and kicks the seat in front of him. On my other side sits Brittany who also wants to use the restroom and otherwise whines and tattles about this and that. This is really an interesting movie! But I am thinking about how in the world can such a movie make any sense to these kids? There is this Oh! Wow! component, the hugeness of the IMAX format.

Where do you start? On the way back, Lorenzo soon conks out and takes a nap on the seat beside me. Marisol, across the aisle, is chatty. Marisol is the brightest kid in the group. She has big dark eyes that take in everything. She starts out by telling me that she can read anything on this bus. Which of course she can: "No eating or drinking on this bus!" "Pull cord in case of emergency" and all the rest. Turns out that this child is one of the youngest in the group and had her seventh birthday in January. She is big for seven, and by now a really competent reader. I tell her that I have thought her to be older. She grins, showing me the tell-tale tooth loss of an early seven-year-old. I also notice the cavities in her mouth. Marisol has two devoted parents, many siblings, too. Her parents speak only Spanish but they have many books at home. Her dad works 'in farming', which I interpret to mean that he is a picker of produce.

Marisol has a spark, no doubt. I want to save these kids, give them a vision of what they could be. What can be done for Lorenzo?

To understand poverty in our country one has to have some of the experiences of knowing it. It's not enough to just know the numbers. I am trying to get even a little understanding of all this. Today, more than ever, I realize that the gulf is so huge between the poor and the middle class in America, I don't know how we can bridge it. What I do know is that all our kids are worthy lof the best attention we can give them.

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof

It has been a worst and best scenario this weekend. The best is that it was spring and all the leaves are light tiny green, the sky cloudless and bright blue, the birds nesting with delighted calls. The hummingbirds are back and the garden is in full harvest mode. We had some of the BEST weekend guests and Andy made a great dinner with lots of vegetables from the garden enjoyed by all. I love my nephew, Dan, and his partner, Inia. We took a long walk with the dogs to the river. The dogs loved wallowing in the mud and came up with water weeds clinging to their faces, then shaking diamond drops into the crystal air. I love this family!

We kept very busy. Andy was in his workshop all Sunday making a piece of furniture for a friend, and I am working on the last tedious part of making a big quilt for my friend, Marie. I have loved this project, an homage to Kandinsky, but now I am trying to make the batting even with all the layers, and it stretches, so I constantly have to reposition the pins.

And all the while I am thinking those horrid thoughts. Do I have breast cancer? The biopsy was done on Thursday. I am bruised and sore, trying not to lift anything heavy. They promise they will let me know asap. But I have had to endure a long weekend of not knowing. In my mind I have many scenarios. If the biopsy is positive my life will change for the immediate future. Radiation? Chemo? Will I feel awful? Will I lose my beautiful curly hair? (The only physical feature I can count on.)

I have told only a few close people because I don't want to alarm anyone if this is a big nothing. All during the weekend I am thinking of the friends and family I know who have had the bad diagnosis - and survived. I think also of all the people I know who have had to endure such travails and continue on with their interesting and energetic lives. I think of those people with terrible diagnoses of disease who continue on. Who am I to be anxious? My husband conquered prostate cancer.

I am sixty six years old. I have always been in perfect health, energetic and fit. I do not have to dance on one leg or blow into a computer to communicate. At night, looking up at the stars, I have rejoiced in my good fortune, my good life full of children, friends, good work and happy times. At my age (though I think of myself still as the person I was at ten), I have come to realize that I have certainly had a good run for my money, and if I were to die tomorrow, it would be maybe o.k.

But now, with the scare of the possibility of something life threatening, I realize that I don't want to die soon. I am curious about what will happen in the world. I want to see how my grandchildren turn out, I want to finish my book and know who will be the next president, and how it will be to spend some retirement years with my interesting spouse. I have quilts to make and gardens to grow and community work to address. I have so much stuff to do!

In my younger years, when things were in the balance, I made deals with some sort of god. But now I am making no bargains. What will be will be and I shall deal.


IT WAS A BIG NOTHING! I am o.k. (not counting the colorful after effects of a biopsy.) So I went outdoors and put in another flower garden and watched the hummingbirds whiz by.

Jobs well done - and not!

It has been a very long week. On Monday the guy, Steve, from Culligan, came by to change the filters on our water system. I remembered him from last year. This was the guy who spends hours tinkering with the system which makes clear water out of iron laden pump water. And when he leaves, nothing works! It was the same this year as last. He left his van running. I asked him to turn the motor off because I didn't want the fumes, the noise, and the wasting of energy. He left, after I had paid him, and as usual, the water pressure was so low it couldn't have watered an anemic chicken. So he had to return to fix it. This, after repeated calls and many minutes on those dreadful 'holds' to surly service department people. We insisted that it be fixed today. Apparently he had installed the wrong filter. This took five days! No one ever said "Sorry, we'll fix it, we'll make it right." This company made me feel that it was our mistake.

Earlier in the week I had to undergo a biopsy (don't worry, nothing life threatening). I dreaded this procedure. When I went to have it done, I had to wait a bit, not long, but then there was this wonderful technician who scooted her chair up to me, eyeball to eyeball, and explained everything - probably more than I wanted to know-and took me in tow for the whole ordeal (which wasn't actually very hard). She rubbed my back and after it was over brought me a warm blanket. She included me, showed me the computer images, and recognized me as a real person who was anxious at the time. The next day she called to see how I was doing, and she explained the process of getting results from the pathology lab. This person hasn't forgotten that she is doing business with real people.

On the other hand, my regular doctor never called me, never returned my calls.

Wouldn't it be great if the Culligan people would call the next day and ask, "How's your water system after the servicing?"

Often, I watch how people deal with their clients. In the Dade City Post Office, the people behind the desk are wonderfully quick, efficient, and friendly. I never mind going there to mail stuff. They seem to care about their customers.

I hope I never have left people hanging out and wondering. It's so easy to give a call or make an announcement about what's either happening or not. Seems to me that it is such a mean petty bureaucratic mindset to control people by not letting them know what's up.

What do you think?

Flags

We have always flown the American flag on our flagpole at the barn next to my studio. This latest one was given to us by our representative, Bill Young. It is a good quality one and at one time, we were given to believe, it was flown over the Capitol. Whatever! I love flags and I have many of them - flowers, birds, even tractors, different holidays-riffling in the breeze on our porch. When they become faded I replace them so they are always bright and colorful.

But my favorite is Old Glory, really a magnificent flag as flags go. I love the symbolism of the stars and stripes, the evolution of it as we gained states. Whipping in the wind or hanging flaccid, it is always there as I come and go. It somehow keeps me grounded about our country, now in such turmoil.

Each day as I pass our flag I can't help thinking about the tiny American flags on the uniforms of our troops in Iraq. One day, after hearing on the radio of the latest dreadful bombing in Bagdad, I stood looking at the flag, now drooping in the light of late afternoon. I stood there with tears flowing at the thought of so many people, men, women and children, dead and maimed in the name of this flag. I think of the troops ('Support our troops') who are so different from the troops we sent to VietNam. In this Iraq war the troops are not draftees. They come from all the small towns of America, wanting somehow to get away and out of dead end lives.

In the Viet Nam war era when there was a draft, troops came from all walks of life. Ivy league or farm worker, they were all in the same pool. Our brightest and best were at risk. It made us sit up and take notice. Now, in the all volunteer forces, our leaders seem not to value the troops who come mainly from the lower class. (Does any child from the affluent or middle class that you know volunteer to fight in Iraq?) These young people, so incredibly valuable as are all our children, must shoulder the burden, even without knowing exactly what they were getting in for.

Then, as they exit this horrendous war, maimed and traumatized and needing strong support, it seems no one cares for them. Yes, we have those plastic things on our cars (Support our troops). Our president has never asked us to support our troops in any meaningful way. He has never asked for any sacrifices beyond our peace of mind. What has happened in Iraq is a beyond terrible thing, and we think we should continue going to the malls and buying stuff.

WHAT ARE WE THINKING?

May- September

It has been a particularly hard week for me, lots to do and many trips back and forth between Dade City and St. Pete. I hate that commute with ever more cars on the road no matter what time of day it is. With each trip I see more developments happening, gobbling up the ranches and cypress domes. I came back home today early after a late night of seeing the opera "Madam Butterfly".

When we were in New york a few weeks ago, I had wanted to take my friend to an opera in the big city. Unfortunately all that was happening was a really inaccessible oriental one, not something to present as a first time opera. So last night it was Pucini, at his sentimental best, and here in our fair city. We loved it!

I had to get back to welcome our weekend guests. This was to be a wedding present for them- a weekend in our guest house which overlooks a lovely pond and is within shouting distance of owls, cows and other nocturnal critters. We promised them a gourmet dinner and leisurely walks. The man is almost sixty and his bride is twenty-three. I had no idea because I had not gone to their wedding. I knew she was recently arrived from Ukrania, did not speak English. I was imagining someone over forty at least. I stocked the guest house with tea and imagined doing pantomimes of things I wanted to say.

This young woman is wonderful looking with that careless lithe affect of youth in our times. I did not see a tattoo on her lower back, the trademark of young American women, but I imagine it will happen soon. She does not speak English perfectly yet, but she listens and speaks copiously. She is a firecracker, playful, curious and greedy for life. Why has she married this older person, I wonder? (I know why my older friend has married her!) She does not drive and rarely goes out of their apartment alone. She has only been in the USA for a month and waits for her green card so she can resume her studies in business. Meantime, she watches T.V. and cooks meals for her new husband. But! This is a young woman who will have a meteoric rise I know not where

We were charmed. I want to take her under my wing, and not because she is needy. Right after dinner I gave her the key to the golf cart, gave her a brief tutorial, and she was off and away, giggling with glee. She's almost young enough to be our grandchild, and I think she'd get along with them just fine!

I am here to show her that life is grand and full of interesting and attainable goals. We'll start by taking walks around the downtown, learn to drive, maybe get a part time job where she can practice her English. Where will she be in five years?

My older friend is protective of her and seems to keep her like a private and exquisite painting on the wall. Unlike paintings, people are not static. He is on edge already. At dinner he was so careful about what and how much he ate; his bride was chomping down with strong young white teeth and asking for seconds.

I sat back with a smile, loving every minute.

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.