On the Mountain

The morning the grandkids and all the others left, we stripped the kitchen for the painters. We wanted to be on the road for our trip to North Carolina to see old friends who have a house in the mountains. We hoped that our kitchen would be finished when we returned. About ten in the morning we left with our dog, Lola. She had packed herself in her kennel, not to be left behind!

We love road trips. Traveling through any part of America, this time the southeast, we reconnect with what this country is all about. Our trip was close to six hundred miles, through the rolling low hills of north Florida and into Georgia. We spent the night in Athens, a university town we have often been to on the way to taking our children to camp. We know that Holiday Inns take dogs. The one in Athens is pretty much bare bones accommodations but Lola loves going out and sniffing the scents of worlds beyond imagining for a dog. But then we can tell her to guard the room while we go out and explore this interesting college town, have dinner, and stroll back to our motel.

The next day is suddenly rising up into the Appalacian spine. It gets cooler by the minute. Within two hours we find ourselves in Highlands, North Carolina. We have been here before but I still recoil at the preciousness and perfection of this town full of antiques and expensive clothes and the reek of money. (No Wallmart or Target) Makes me want to go up to anyone and say, "Excuse me for being white and elderly with money to spend". But I don't see anyone to whom I'd adress this.

We drive on per instructions, up many gravel roads and arrive at our destination. Our friends live close to the top of a mountain in a wonderful situation overlooking layers of smoky blue mountains. They are in the midst of doubling the size of their modest house. They are adding a lovely screened porch, a new kitchen and great room. What they are doing seems so appropriate and perfect for them. We feel comfortable there because this home is right for the number of people there, and the footprint is right for a couple who live there and have children and grandchildren and friends visit.

We saw other homes in this development of homes on the mountain. Some of them were amazingly out of scale for our planet. I wonder why a couple of people would want to build an eight thousand square foot home, cantelivered out on a hill, with two functioning bars, swimming pool, etc. etc.?

A road trip is always interesting, fodder for the mind. Seeing the second homes of America's rich and prosperous was pretty intriguing. It's easy to be judgemental, but I have to come clean about my own situation. Our footprint is pretty large.

A Joyful Noise

My mother remarked that when her grown children came back to visit she felt like a cat with kittens. Mom, I know the feeling. We have a house full. Three of our kids, Elizabeth, Ben, and Dan are here. Their spouses, significant others (whatever..) are not with them, but they have the four boys. Diego is fourteen and the youngest, Quincy is two. Pablo is eleven and Silvio is six. They have not been together as a group for a year. This week has been deemed the week that Quincy will be toilet trained and his mother, Elizabeth, has put all seven males here on notice that they WILL be models on the responsible use of a penis. They are to model peeing on bushes and trees and toilets. Quincy will not be wearing diapers. He watched a video on the topic of wonderful underpants while the rest of us ate a lovely dinner of tuna steaks.

They arrived for lunch.( the kids, not the tuna steaks.) Later we spent a lot of time in the pool. It's lovely to see these little boys all swimming together, happily clumped together to dive off the edge or play with the pool toys. Even Diego, the oldest is not too cool to be above playing with the little kids. Silvio, the six year old must have told me five times how happy he is to be here. "Grandma, this is my most wonderfulest day!" He doesn't have opportunities to swim where he lives.

Just wait until tomorrow. We'll go and find the herd of cows, see if there are still any blackberries to be picked, do some art in my studio, paint the incredible dump truck that really dumps that Grandpa Andy made for grandsons of a certain age, swim many times during the day. We'll check the traps we set tonight for armadilloes and raccoons. We'll walk out to the pond and maybe decide to take one of the boats out. Maybe we'll fish. I hope one or two of the boys will help me in the vegetable garden. And at night I want to take all of these boys out to look for fireflies, spider eyes and alligator eyes in the pond.

As we were getting ready for dinner I heard one grandson relentlessly tooting a recorder. Another one was dabbling at the piano. A DVD about trucks was playing in the background. The adults were loudly discussing current American politics. Pots and pans were clanging as the dinner was coming to fruition.

Such a joyful noise!

My Head is Full of Children

Quincy, my youngest grandson, accompanied me in my tour of the garden today. Having been away for a couple of days, I wanted to see how everything was doing. We looked at all the butterflies among the flowers and I named the ones I knew- the yellow sulphers, the pipevine swallowtails, the longwing zebras and the gulf fritillaries. Quincy, at two, is not much of a talker yet, but he could name those butterflies. We moved on to the figs, now covered with fruit. I picked six ripe figs, pouching up my tee shirt to hold them. I was imagining a dessert of those delicious figs topped with cream and a tiny bit of honey. Quincy wanted to try one so I split one in half and gave it to him. He stuffed the whole thing in his mouth. "More fig" he said. So the two of us pigged out on those figs in the steamy Florida afternoon, our mouths dripping with the not so sweet but incredibly delicious flavor and texture.

When kids are here I have to put aside any thought of doing the responsible things I do as an adult. True, there are times I don't want to spark kids' activities, do pool duty, or put away the detritus. But still, as a grandma-aged person, those children energize me. The kids from Lacoochee, the old graduates from SunFlower School, my grandchildren , and the children of friends are always interesting to me, always welcome visitors. There is so much wonderful experience to be had here, and I am glad to share it. It goes both ways.

Quincy was here without his parents. He is comfortable with us and recognizes that we do a few things differently from his parents. No problem. And this is how it is meant to be. The other grandchildren and kids who come to visit us are the same, whatever age. We respect the various lives these children usually lead but we try to give them another view, just to taste.

I have such distinct memories of visiting people who had a totally different lifestyle from my parents'. Along the way, those were pieces I remember and integrated into being the person I am now. We will never know what effect we have on kids. I do know that having children in our heads and lives is the most important thing one can do.



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End of the Garden

Late this afternoon I brought in a basket of leeks, spinach, arugula, baby eggplants , hundreds of cherry tomatoes, and ten tiny fingerling potatoes. For the cook. With the exception of some eggplants and peppers, and the remains of the leeks, this is the last from our wonderfully productive garden this year. I have pulled out the unproductive broccoli and the cucumbers. I will let the tomatoes go to the birds and the worms. Asparagus is gone to seed. The sunflowers remain. Figs and grapes are promising a great harvest.

Today Andy built me a wonderful raised bed for lettuce and greens. It will live in the fenced garden, safe from deer, rabbits, and my worst enemy, the armadilloes. The deep rooted plants such as tomatoes, collards, and the root vegetables will have to take their chances.

All year we have eaten out of this garden. Our salads have been amazing and tasty, always different from the usual baby greens mix one finds in the supermarket. In Florida our mid summer is akin to the north in winter. Very little is local now. We are fortunate in that almost everything growing in our state is local most of the year. But now we are down to okra, black eyed peas, watermelon, some collards, and peanuts.

I have been reading Barbara Kinsolving's book, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. She and her family spent a year living by eating only from what they grew or could purchase locally. This is the Next Big Thing. We have to consider how much carbon is consumed in getting us our food! I think this may be more than a blip on the radar of 'with it young folks'. We are getting rid of sodas sold in schools, and in a very few places, schools are thinking of providing really healthful and locally grown foods.

I have this vision of kids connecting to the food they grow. It's science, it's math, it's practical fun, and most of all, it tastes really good. I am thinking of being the food/science volunteer at Lacoochee next year.

Lacoochee, by the way, won big this year in the FCAT. The school made an A rating, and almost all the kids were above average.

Opening the Kiln

They burst out of the big white car this morning like small clowns at the circus. There were only seven kids,
and only one adult, Candi Jo. The children brandished above their heads the library books they took home last
week. Bringing them back was their ticket to come today. The kids missing were off visiting non-custodial parents and grandparents elsewhere in the state.

I had fired their clay last night so we could open the kiln together. I got a stool for the shortest kids so they could peer down into the big space. We examined the pyrometric cones I use to gauge the heat of the kiln. They touched the warm exterior and then I slowly opened the heavy lid. "Ooh, ah!" There the pieces were, still intact, and a different lighter color than the moist red clay. Shelf by shelf we unloaded everything, pleased that nothing had exploded.

They brought their pieces into the studio where I had set up the glazing station. I explained how to paint their pots and pieces; don't mix the glazes, wash and dry your brushes, apply several coats of each color. They worked companionably, sharing the little containers of colors and making suggestions to each other. I could almost hear a small sigh of relief that they could have all the time they wanted and all the materials they needed. Occasionally, I would ask them if there wasn't something else they wanted to add to the glaze. And, often they would focus for a lot longer, embellishing their pieces.

The finished underglazed pieces were now ready for the overglaze. I decided that the two middle school aged kids could be in charge of this process. They carefully covered each piece. All the while I was explaining from time to time that this glaze is really pulverized glass and it will melt in the heat of the kiln and cover each piece with a shiny surface. So it is important not to let the glaze get on the bottom of the pieces or it will stick to the kiln shelves. I look at the array to be fired and I see that not one has glaze spots on the bottom.

While we are working I ask them about the books they read this week. It was clear that none of them did more than page through them. No one was excited about their book. Candi Jo, clearly had not read any of them out loud. I told them about the book I was currently reading. They were polite. Parents don't get it that they are models for their kids, especially as readers.

What the kids really wanted to tell me as they overglazed were some of the horrific events in their lives. "Miss Molly, I have a fifteen year old sister I never get to see and I miss her so much!" She and her sister were separated after systematic abuse and neglect. Her sister went to foster care and she went to live with her grandmother. "Miss Molly, I was abused. That's why we don't live with.."

I want to clap my hands over my ears. I don't want to hear about this. I want so desperately to help these kids leap over great hurdles and succeed. Maybe the best I can do is provide a safe and friendly time to do art, talk to a supportive adult, spend time swimming in the pool, and eat healthful snacks. Raymond, eleven and curious about everything and who clearly has something special going for him, wants to learn how to use the potter's wheel. I would love to have him come and do this, but he would have to come alone, without the usual crowd. I ponder how I could make this happen..

Raymond doesn't read! When I presented the new library books, they were snapped up. By now I know the kids a little bit, so I selected things I thought they would enjoy. Raymond selected a first grade level book on caterpillars. "Here is a very good book about Florida wildfires", I enticed. No way. Caterpillars it was. I looked for a pottery book for him but I had nothing non-technical to offer.

It is my old axe to grind - reading as the key to success. Next week I think I will begin to read something out loud as the kids work on their art.

Apart from school (and all of them go to summer school!), the main thing in their lives is Jesus. Several of the kids made I love Jesus clay pieces. They go to Bible School in the summer, and, apart from their day with Miss Molly, they said, the best thing is going to "The Christian Edge" every Saturday night. This is a coffee house, family friendly, where there are various Christian themed events. (!) I would guess this is happening all across our country. I am learning all the time how great the social/educational/economic chasm is in our country.

When the kids leave I go up to the house and read the national papers. The NYT and the Wall Street Journal always have the latest silliness about how parents get pregnant, choose baby names or strollers - all costing megabucks. It has no relationship whatsoever to what I observe here in rural Florida. A lot to think about. (If Raymond learns to be a good potter won't that be a gift?)

Remembering my Father

My father would be close to one hundred years old if he were alive today.

And if he knew I was remembering him on Fathers' Day he would be appalled. He had no tolerance for what he called ' those Hallmark holidays'.

He died thirty years ago of a sudden heart attack. He was almost seventy, way too young to go. There was so much I had to ask him but never got the chance.

It was a wild ride through childhood and adolescence with this man, an absent minded professor of classics, a libertarian in the basic sense, my mentor and tormentor. He read to his five children every single night of the year. We read the entire works of Hawthorn and Shakespeare. We grew up knowing mythology. We played chess and checkers, dominoes and backgammon.

One of the rooms in our salt box colonial house in upstate New York was Pa's study. He had an immense desk overflowing with piles of papers and books (overdue to a professor.) Usually the cats slept there. As a little kid I knew I would always be welcome there. "Pa, draw me a picture!" And he would take me on his lap and create a drawing with his black ink pen, usually the same thing - a person sitting in a chair. It was in that study that my brother and I learned to read. My brother, who was six, two years older than I, sat close beside Pa on the old couch, and they went through 'Dick and Jane'. I hung over the back of the couch, mouthing the words, no doubt being very annoying.

When I was six my father took me with him when he went to Harvard to teach for a semester. The other four kids stayed back with my mother. Why was this? I don't know.(Was I so difficult I should be sent away?) We went on the train, an adventure for me. I had a new warm coat for the trip. We would spend nights with my father's brother who had a house on Beacon Hill in Boston. Each day my father took me to the Peabody Museum where I would stay until he picked me up at lunchtime. Mind you, this was not a day care situation. I loved wandering among the glass flowers. I don't remember any adults there and I have no memory of being bored or scared.

Fast forward to adolescence. After my father got his passport reinstated after the McCarthy mess, our family began years of travel on various fellowships. Five kids! The first trip was to Rome. By this time I was thirteen, always in love with someone or something. I had no time for Pa. But he insisted I go with him to explore Etruscan graves with the enigmatic writing. My father was an amazing teacher! To this day I recall the wonder of thinking about that little known society. He could give a young person just enough but not too much. He made you think.

After a few years back in the States we were off for a stint in Beirut. My father would teach at the American University there. My mother took the two youngest kids by boat and would meet up with the rest of us in Beirut. My father took the three oldest of us for an odyssey that began in Switzerland where we picked up a VW bug. We drove all the way to Lebanon. The youngest brother spent most of the trip in the well behind the second seat. No one had seat belts. No one had cell phones. We drove down through northern Italy, into Yugoslavia, Greece, Turkey, and on into the middle east.

Needless to say, we had very little money for this venture so we spent nights in some pretty rank places. I remember the night when Pa was brushing his teeth in one of our flea bag hostelries. A grape came up out of the drain as he was rinsing his toothbrush. He just gave us 'This Look' and said he was going out to sleep in the car. From then on we have always thought of this as "the grape incident".

Sometime along the way Pa dislocated his knee. We took him to an emergency room in Yugoslavia but they couldn't do anything. My older brother was old enough to drive so we kept on going. By the time we got to Beirut, we just dropped Pa off at the hospital. When my mother arrived, Pa was already recovering from knee surgery and the rest of us were ensconced in our new apartment.

My father's office at the American University was located in the natural history department. All kinds of dusty stuffed birds looked down at his desk. Cabinets lining the walls were full of birds' nests and old bones. Seemed kind of natural to me, knowing my father.

We all loved living in Beirut. My older brother soon left to study at the Sorbonne, so I was the oldest child living there in my family. It was the first time in my life I needed to think about politics and the dire problems of the refugee camps. I went to school with a few Americans, some Europeans, and many Arabs.

Part of Pa's fellowship requirements was to travel around to other middle east countries and give lectures on classical antiquities. I accompanied him to be the person who managed the slide show. (I did not want to do this because I was enmeshed in my life of friends in Beirut and I had a serious boyfriend.) I remember one trip when we were to go as far as Iraq, through the Bekaa Valley, into Syria and beyond. We were going to an archeaology site where an entire ancient city was being dug up.

This place was out in East Jesus, beyond the beyond. There was no real road, only a track through the kitty litter desert. Dark descended and the VW bug plowed on. Suddenly we are attacked by something BIG! I see that a donkey has crashed through our windshield. Pa and I gather ourselves. No one was hurt! Then a shepherd appears, the owner of the donkey. We give him 50 piasters. (How do you value a donkey?) We shake the glass out from our clothes and minus a windshield, drive on to our destination. Pa is so cool, this oblivious absent-minded professor. Never for one moment does he give me any reason to worry. (yeah, we could be kidnapped, murdered, dismembered, whatever.) But my dad is cool.

Minus the windshield we arrive after sunset at the archaeology dig site in the middle of nowhere. The Iraqi scientists who have spent their days carefully excavating an ancient city in eastern Iraq have prepared a lovely supper for us. Song sparrows on a spit. Sheep eyeballs in some kind of soup. I took one look and I was ready to die and ascend at this very moment into the sky in a ball of fire. Pa reads my expression and, taking my arm, jerks me back behind the building. "You are going to be gracious! You may even like it. I am counting on you."

It was the hardest meal I have ever eaten but eat it I did. (Many years later I thought of this as I ate guinea pigs in Peru.)

I could ask my father anything. (Was Jesus a Communist?) He respected all questions. He was brilliant and famous, and most of all he was the kind of person who made you think you were his most favorite and loved person.

So, to you, Pa, on this Fathers' Day, I remember you with love.

Lacoochee comes to the ranch

In the last week of school at Lacoochee Elementary, I wrote an invitation to a few families to come for an art day at our ranch. As CareyAnne, their teacher, says, these kids need experience. I struck out on contacting the Hispanic families. No phones, and no way to get in touch with them. As the day approached I heard nothing. I had no idea whether there would be many kids coming or none at all. Then, the day before,two families called to say they were coming - and they were bringing many kids.

Two vans pulled up, on time, spilling out nine kids. A good number, I thought. There were the two kids I knew and their siblings and friends. One child, an eleven year old boy, Raymond, was a kid I had met a few times at school and wanted to know him. Just because of nothing Raymond helped me on occasion when I was toting my bags and boxes into school. So I was delighted to have him be a part of the Friday art group. The kids ranged from eleven on down to seven years old.

These kids were so different from the 'entitled' kids I am familiar with. They were excruciatingly polite and persisted in calling me "Miss Molly". They were enthralled with the clay project I presented. The clay drying shelves are now crowded with pinch pots and little clay cats and tiny other things.The two moms seemed to enjoy working in clay alongside their kids. These kids loved having ENOUGH! Time flew and it was soon time to clean up the clay and have a snack of watermelon.

All morning the kids had been working in my art studio or in the barn. I had been running from group to group encouraging, teaching them how to connect the clay pieces and showing them how they could use the clay tools.

It was time to finish this up and have time for a swim in the pool. We walked up to the pool after everyone had changed into swimsuits. The kids were so eager to swim! They burst into the water, and gradually began to get out the water stuff they needed. We have a box of goggles, fins, floats. They were much quieter than the usual kids I know. Not many of them could really swim so they stayed comfortably by the edges. With time, they began to get their heads underwater, some went to jump into the pool at the deep end. They were really enjoying it! Of course, I was watching everyone like a hawk, overview teacher, count the heads.

I am so used to kids who swim like fish. St. Petersburg, where my kids grew up, has many pools and beaches and every kid in town pretty much learns to swim at an early age, goes on swim teams and is at home in the water. Dade City and Lacoochee do not have any available public pool. (a legacy of segregation?)

The Friday art event turned out better than I would have expected. We have decided to do it again next week. By then, the clay pieces will have been fired and ready to glaze.

Raymond was the only person who came who was curious about anything. He wanted to know much more about the clay process, he asked about this property. He asked me what I did, what my work was. The two moms who came were curiously incurious. They never asked me anything that I can recall. What a gulf we are trying to bridge! What could they ask?

After swimming one of the moms was irritated with her child who was being difficult and hauled off and hit her with the buckle top of a swimsuit. I could hear the little girl screaming and I rushed to her to see what was wrong. I was appalled, but what could I say? There was no blood, and I know this child to be a drama queen, but still, you don't hit kids. I took the little girl's hand in mine. It was all I could do.

When the kids gathered to collect their belongings I invited them to select a book from the pile of library books I had checked out. Reading one and bringing it back was their ticket to come next week. This was fantastic, delicious, and the kids loved selecting their books. It was my opportunity to tell the moms how important it is to read with your kids. I got one of them to promise me she'd read out loud to her kids this week. Who knows?

Probably the word will get out that Miss Molly has a great pool, cool art stuff, free snacks, and there will be twice as many kids next Friday.

Jim's House

 

Jim's House

We know we have arrived when we see the bumper sticker on the car in front of us on the ferry line that says, 'keep Vashon weird'. We are making one of our several trips this year to visit our Washington family members who live on this island in Puget Sound. Vashon is about ten miles long and a few miles wide. Going there is a step back in time. There are maybe three traffic lights on the whole island.

For the last several years, when we have visited, we have stayed in Jim's house. We know where the key is stashed and we know that the hot tub will be up and running. Jim is married to my sister. He's wonderfully handsome in a craggy sort of way with a dour sense of humor you have to get used to. Jim married my sister, the stellar and famous tile artist, thirteen years ago. He took on my sister's two youngest kids as his own and became a partner not only in raising the kids but also in my sister's tile business.

My sister met Jim as he was working as a master carpenter on her dream house. Jim had a house of his own. As a very young man, he'd had the vision of building a wonderful house in the woods. I can only imagine the incredible energy and drive he must have had as he built it. This house was never finished and now it stands proud in a glade surrounded with evergreen trees. It is an idiosyncratic mix of height and wood and peaks and gables. Everyone who sets foot in this house immediately is charmed and then embarks on a 'what if' odyssey. It has such style and potential. The bedroom where we sleep looks out on fir trees, full moons, rainbows at 5 a.m., deer browsing on the ornamental shrubs, swallows coming and going to the boxes Jim has installed on the sides of his house.

But the house still needs drywall, trim, some plumbing and a lot of everything else to be anything more than a lovely place to 'camp out'

Jim and my sister, Irene, live in their 'real' house a few miles away where they raise the kids, have the business, keep the dogs, and where Jim has created the most beautiful gardens I have ever seen in the whole world. But for all these years Jim has kept his own house as a place of refuge. Until very lately, Jim and Irene and the kids would retreat to Jim's house on some weekends. There is no phone, t.v. washer and dryer or internet there. It was a chance to connect with family.

For years, no one except the immediate family was even allowed to see Jim's house. And then it became sort of a family guest house. Jim could see how much we all loved being there instead of hanging out in one of the island's bed and breakfasts.

Just the odor of it makes me happy! It smells like old wood, a bit of mold, the tangy odor of the plants ringing the outside. The kitchen is basic and one must rummage around to find anything. The furniture from the local thrift store is rump sprung and oddly decorative.

But I look up at the amazingly constructed walls (still devoid of the drywall covering), and I marvel at the workmanship that has gone into this house. This was something quite like a master's thesis, or a PhD unfinished.

I do not know what will happen with Jim's house. He may sell it. Obviously it is very valuable (and there are his two soon to be college age kids). In my own life I have sold property I have loved, and breathed a sigh of relief and never looked back. Whatever Jim decides to do with his house is far from mine to say.

I have loved being a short time lodger in Jim's house. I have loved the enveloping warm light from the big windows overlooking the meadow, the space, the smell of raw wood, all the stairs beckoning me to fascinating small high spaces. Most of all I have loved the sense of youthful creativity and possibilities. And I understand that Jim has moved on as we all do.

Rain Magic

All day yesterday it was overcast, promising rain. It didn't happen, and not only was it still crispy dry for weeks with the whiff of smoke from the Green Swamp burning, the sun didn't shine. It made us all crabby and we scanned the sky for the rain clouds. "Looks like rain", we said mindlessly again and again.

And then, last night it began to rain, sometimes in torrents that drummed on our tin roof and sometimes it enveloped us in a fine mist. The frogs began their harsh and raucous calls. The rain has lasted into today, intermittently. We awoke in a frenzy of relief, eager to go out and see what the rain had wrought. It has rained pretty much all day.

Something about rain is just magical fertilizer. Of course everything looks green and full- the resurrection ferns and green fly orchids on the trees, the pastures,and everything else in god's wild yonder- all plumped up. When I inspected the vegetable garden during a sun break, I could see an enormous eggplant, several peppers, some cucumbers, lots of tomatoes,the climbing Malabar spinach, and the ever new crop of green beans. I can't believe that we have all these vegetables ready in early June! Usually, everything is gone and dried up by this time of the summer. It has been only four days since I trapped and dispatched the armadillo who ravaged the garden each night. It almost seems as if those plants that were left, heaved a sigh of relief not to be dug up every night. They decided to make a comeback.

Living in the country is a leap of faith. You have to think about the creatures out there- cows, deer, pigs, coyotes, tortoises, foxes, turkeys, and so much else. Who does what for whom? I have become humble about the way subtle ecosystems work. We think about what the 'experts' tell us about how to manage exotic invasive plants. We spend a lot of energy getting rid of the invasive soda apples in the pastures. We think about managing the invasive feral pig population, but so far have done nothing. We are becoming familiar with the different kinds of grasses we have on our land, some great,some invasive. (Andy and I are actually non-native invasives..)

I find this life fascinating. I love my forays out into the woods and swamp to examine things or to pick blackberries with my little grandson, Quincy, in the big patch in the pine island field.

And I love having the time to catch up on my life-time deficit of artistic creativity. Wonderful to be free to write, paint, sew, pot, garden, whatever.

Thunder is rumbling again. Perhaps more magical rain is in the offing.

Book Club

When I was in my twenties I participated in a women's consciousness raising group. We sat around in a candle-lit room in a circle on an avocado colored shag rug and talked about our mothers and griped about the men in our lives. Gradually I lost interest and I left the group. I hadn't had much real connection with my mother for years and I was pretty satisfied with the man in my life (who actually did the laundry). I didn't want to sit on the floor anymore. Those women were so dissatisfied with everything. I loved that regular connection with women,and I supported women's lib in every way, but I craved more substance from an organized happening.

I can't exactly remember how it began, but a number of women who had loose connections to the newspaper, got together to form a book club. I was asked to join in the very early days. Now there are ten of us. There were never more than twelve. The membership has undergone subtle changes. A few people moved away, some just couldn't put in the time to read a book a month, and some left for unclear reasons. Other people joined. We have never explicitly thought of it as a womens' thing. It just happened that way. The core group has been very steady.

We have been doing the book club for twenty-five years, the last Tuesday of each month. The deal was, and still is, the book club host of the month selects the book, sends out notices, prepares a dinner,leads the discussion, and cleans up afterwards. We all gather at 7:30 p.m., chat over a glass of wine, eat dinner, and then begin the discussion. Suzanne is the unofficial secretary who reminds us of who is to be the next host. She also keeps a list of all the books we have read.

We were all working women and we all have kids. In the early days of book club it was so hard to host a meeting. We persuaded our husbands to mind the children, take them out (anywhere!) and get them out of our hair for just an evening. I do not remember at any time that small children screamed or dashed in to our meetings, wanting their mom. A few times we would see well-behaved kids coming through the room,toting violin cases or soccer balls, and all of us knew that it was a pretty hard deal for families to let mom alone to have an adult evening at home without them. I knew I dreaded the punishment I got when it was my turn to be the book club host. Even today, when all our children are grown, I might see the host's husband lurking around looking uncomfortable.

I look at the four pages of single spaced, double columns of books we have read in these twenty-five years. I am amazed! We have read lots of novels, of course, a lot of non-fiction, classics, biography, sociology. There are some books on the list I can barely remember, others are as clear to me as if I read them last month. I hated some of them. We learned to love some authors and we compared their works. Many choices opened up wonderful far ranging discussions. There were evenings when our meeting lasted far into the night.

But what could account for this incredible longevity of a book club? We all love to read, and all of us are thoughtful and smart. Our group has never dissolved into just talking about the purely personal. Our mission is to read and discuss the book. Several members are good friends with others, but as a group we are never mired in the personal tellings of our lives. We don't know each other's birthdays, we never discuss health issues, we don't send each other holiday cards. Book club is the most socially 'free' thing we do. And we treasure it. You can come to book club in the clothes you were wearing at work, or in sweats or shorts. Costume is not important. Each month almost everyone comes.

And yet, each of us knows that we could call on any member if we needed to in time of trouble. Over the life of the group, there have been divorces, the agonizing launching of our children, life threatening health issues, work problems and the whole spectrum of human failures. There have been triumphs as well.

Several of our members are known to be wonderful cooks. We all look forward to going to book club THAT night! Often, the host cooks up something with a theme that refers to our month's book. (but how many Italian themed books have we read?) Others of us just scrape up something and hope for the best. But whatever it is, we relish it. A few years ago we thought it would be better if we only did dessert and coffee. That lasted for one month; we wanted that dinner, whatever it was!

Next month it is my turn. I have selected the book, sent out the notices by e-mail and postcard. Fortunately, the book has an Italian theme. My husband (the family chef) will be out of town, the kids are grown and gone, the dog is small, and hopefully, the contractor will not be replacing the living room windows. Ravioli?

End of the Day

After supper, when the long shadows stretched dark fingers across the green pastures, we drove out in the golf cart with the dog to see if we could pick any blackberries in the patch in the Pine Island Field. The patch has millions of berries, but few were ripe. The trick is to get them before the birds do. Considering that we ate a good number, we picked enough for a cobbler tomorrow night when we will have guests.

It is the end of the academic year; teachers are packing up their classrooms,tears are shed, young people are graduating, and everyone is heaving sighs of relief at having made it so far. I remember those days, not so long ago, when I knew school was over, but I had all those lengthy evaluations to do. Immediately, I'd spread everything out and get started. Summer really never began until I had carefully written each family about their child. It always took at least an hour for each student. And, now, I don't have to do that!

I continue to believe we truly live in paradise. Despite the armadillo wars, I love to garden and spend hours each day tweaking the many flower beds,watching the butterflies and birds and picking beans and tomatoes and whatever else is ready. I have a plan for growing my vegetables despite the armadillos. Having time to paint, write, sew and make pottery in my studio pleases me immensely. It is interesting to begin having a new social life here in the hinterlands.

We continue to feel socially responsible so we are activists in several things. Andy works hard as chair of the Florida Nature Conservancy, and I am on the board of Pathfinder. And there are all the kids who are in our lives one way and another. No golf, no spa life, no bingo for us. We are slowly learning to identify much of the flora and fauna around us, much more fun than a cruise. We love the hard and constant work it takes to run a ranch.

Thousands of fireflies are twinkling at the edge of the woods, mirroring the stars above. Something is rustling in the palmettos and the barred owls have begun their nocturnal hooting and cackling. Soon I will hear the coyotes singing their evening song. We go to bed in a screened room open to the outdoors. The frogs and chuck-wills-widows sing us to sleep.

Armadillo Wars, part 2

I don't understand armadillo culture. They do what they do. Every single night they come into my garden, though the security is high. They breach the perimeter through the fence, stones, logs, old tractor parts, and chicken wire. They dig deep, those insurgents, and they are bent on destruction. I certainly do not understand their religion. I cannot reason with them and they have no clue about fairness and democracy. I do not really think they are out to get me. I JUST THINK THEY HAVE THEIR OWN AGENDA. Perhaps they want their women in veils, and certainly they want the tasty worms and grubs they find in the soil. But now I will do it differently.

So, I have declared victory for the armadillos. I still want to grow vegetables (democratically). I will have raised beds, well out of reach of those armadillos. I will take an old cow watering trough with the rusted out bottom and install it in the garden. I will also have Andy make a few raised garden boxes. I am not defeated. I think that the armadillos and I can maybe live in harmony. Shooting them or axing them, like Lizzie Borden, is not an option.

It is always interesting, living in the country. Not only are you aware of all the critters, you see the wildflowers that bloom in their season, the changeable sky, and you feel the strange winds. You hear the dawn chorus of birds and you follow their songs throughout the day. I am so blessed, even with armadillos.

Last Day at Lacoochee

Tomorrow is the last day of school for the kids in Pasco County. I arrived this morning at Lacoochee School with my dog, Lola, and a cooler full of home made ice cream and blueberries to top it off. I could tell right off that this was the end game, no one was teaching the pitiful scripted lessons and the rubber band had gone slack. The kids were thrilled to see my little dog and get a chance to pet her. Some of them asked if she had mange or fleas (no, and no). These kids have dogs in their families but they don't know about a well cared for and well behaved dog. (This dog is probably better cared for than they are!) Lola went about her business of caring for kids (she was raised in a classroom.) When I read a story to the children, Lola was cuddled up between the kids, everyone happy.

Then it was time to go to the awards assembly in the cafeteria. We told Lola to go into her kennel and guard the classroom. Ms. Yager's kids hunkered down on the bleacher seats to await the awards. I sat among them, and these good and patient children really thought they would get an award. They duly applauded each child who got an award, but really, they were awaiting their turn. The principal and the vice principal looked spiffy and beautiful in their pointy shoes and amazingly voluminous hairdos. They smiled a lot, and clearly, they were enjoying this time when kids were being affirmed. There were a lot of grand awards for just being there. And we all know that 90 percent of success is being there. And there were other awards in art and music and reading (NOT math, or history, or, or..) The kids next to me were getting more and more itchy as the ceremony went on. Most of the kids getting awards were Anglos, and a few black kids. For the most part, the Hispanic kids were left in the dust.

The kids near me started to lean all over me.They whispered things to me. One child started to cry. I snaked my arm around behind him and stroked his neck. At this moment I could envision some kind of magical realism in which, strangely enough, an angel would appear to each child bearing a huge trophy of affirmation.
Except for one child, who got a two foot trophy for perfect attendance, none of CareyAnne's kids got an award. I would have loved to see this whole class get an award for 'heart'. This was a very hard class, and it would be difficult for anyone to deal with these kids every day. But CareyAnne did, so magnificently, with such love and creativity. In my mind she gets a ten foot trophy.

I have learned so much this year, volunteering in a title one school. I am humbled and awed to think I know so little about the hardships of these good and patient parents and their children. I am dismayed to see the mediocrity of leadership and the teachers (who can't often speak grammatically, nor read!) And yet, these people are out there, working hard, trying their best in a joyless situation.

I think that I may have burned my bridges at Lacoochee, (Surely, someone from there may have read this blog?) Certainly, for the whole year, no one in the administration at Lacoochee has ever spoken to me, ever thanked me for volunteering, or ever thanked me for providing funds for field trips. Just seems odd. And, there is a big part of me that thinks that I should not expect any thanks for anything.

So, Happy Times, Lacoochee Elementary School. I am interested in you, I love the kids, I want to be there, but it is really hard to be a volunteer without any affirmation whatsoever.

Picnic at Lacoochee

The kids knew we were going to have a picnic today. The cafeteria was to be closed because the fifth graders were having their graduation lunch, so all the other kids would have boxed lunches (crud) sent to the classrooms. But Ms. Yager's class was having a picnic!

I was excited today because I love to give presents. And I love those kids. First, I sent Ms. Yager out of the class for five minutes and the kids gathered on the green rug so they could see what was in the BIG BAG. It was the quilt I had put together from the squares the children had made last week on the theme of 'If I could Fly', from the story, "Tar Beach" by Faith Ringold, the incredible quilt maker. The kids were enthralled and excited to be able to give their teacher this gift they had made. They lifted up the edge and haltingly read: 'For CareyAnne, a gifted teacher, from Miss Molly and the students.' They marveled to see their very own squares displayed on a royal blue background.bCareyAnne came in and the kids were so excited to give her this gift they had made. They told her that she could wrap up in this quilt on cool days in Arizona - where she is going to be next year.

Next, I distributed book gifts to each student. I told them ahead of time that each book was different because each student was different and unique. Each book was wrapped and labeled and we opened them one by one. These needy kids were just great. They appreciated each other's books and waited patiently for theirs. And for the next half hour everyone was reading their books, sharing with others. It was magical humming as kids read, leaned on each other, sat on laps, and exclaimed about their delight. They could not believe that these books were theirs forever and they could take them home. I had chosen several books in Spanish or in both Spanish and English so that families could read the books together. And, indeed, several of the kids came to me to say that their moms would read this with them.

The picnic was wonderful! We spread out on a king size sheet under an old oak tree. The kids sat around the edge. Many helpers put out the plates, cutlery and food items. All the kids waited until everyone was served, and then they dug in to a picnic of fried chicken, pasta salad, raw vegetables with yogurt dip, pickles, French bread, watermelon and brownies. No one complained and everyone ate. Many wanted seconds. Lots of these needy kids wanted seconds before the firsts were finished! The bottled water in an iced cooler was a hit, as my husband had predicted. There was nothing left! The whole thing was fun, sweaty, and dirty from the black sand of the Florida dry season and the energy of children.

When we went inside, grubby, satisfied, and full of love for each other, being cool in that air conditioned no-windows classroom, it seemed it was O.K for the moment. We spent the next hour playing a version of 'school store'. At the beginning of the day (after the mice sang the National Anthem), CareyAnne had given each child five dollars in play money. For each time a student tattled or argued he/she would deduct 50 cents. We were relentless about recording these transgressions! At the end of the day each child would have whatever money left to spend at the class sticker store (a math activity in which the kids had to make change). Every child had a chance to step a time or two to purchase stickers of his/he upr choice

After the kids 'got it' about the tattling and arguing, it was incredibly pleasant and communal. They began to pay attention to each other and they tried to understand that some things that happen, just happen by mistake. No big deal. You don't have to tattle or report on it. Each child bought many stickers at the 'store'. Only one child, a problem one, tried to steal money. I am saddened to think I can see into his future- a young man out of control, manipulating the truth, probably violent.

This school has taught me so much. This is a Title One school, one of the poorest. It is out in Nowhere, East Overshoe, actually Lacoochee, FL. (close to where I live.) I have a vision for such schools as this. It is here that we need the VERY BEST in the way of principals and teachers. But that is not the case here, and I imagine this is true everywhere. There is no joy at Lacoochee Elementary School as far as I can see from being there for two years. I have never gotten the slightest indication that anyone teaching here goes home energized. It is difficult even on the most wonderful mornings to get anyone to respond to my cheery "Good Morning!" Their heads are down, they are determined to get through the day. There is no excited talk of pedagogical issues,no interest in kids (other than to complain about them),they don't read and they have no close feeling of being a team with a mission.

Except in the classroom, no one has ever either met my eyes in friendliness, or sent me a thank you. Many of the teachers I have met there do not speak grammatical English, and I am not talking about Hispanics. But I do not think that these teachers are dim. They don't have leadership!

What if you got an energetic and intelligent principal for such poor schools as Lacoochee? Someone with energy and creativity and the desire to create a crackerjack team of teachers? Someone who could recruit teachers with idealism. Someone who could lead and energize? Someone who could inspire teachers and students? Someone who could get down and dirty with students on their level, leave the pointy toed high heels in the dust, and be just human? What if such a principal could attract the best and brightest teachers? What if the principal could let the current teachers know IF THEY HAD A JOB FOR THE UPCOMING YEAR? What are we thinking? And actually, how can we expect our children to be good readers if the PARENTS AND TEACHERS DON'T READ?

We are failing our children if we don't get it together better. Our teachers and especially our principals need to be the best! What are we thinking to let the mediocre and worse teach our kids? Our kids spend the majority of their daily lives in school. It is of the highest priority that their time there is quality time. I believe that teachers should be paid as the highest ranks of workers and that we should, in turn, expect the highest quality from them.

Our children are our future, as all of you know.

Kids on the Ranch

Today we had nine kids, seven of them boys, from my old school, come up to our ranch for a long day. In previous years we have had as many as fifteen kids for three or four days, but this time it was not to be. They arrived in the late morning, vans full of excited kids. Three of the kids would stay overnight with their parents in the guest house, and all the rest would leave at eight in the evening.

Going to Molly's ranch has been an annual tradition, some say maybe the best field trip of all. Here they have the freedom to be outdoors, choose what they want to do from the cornucopia of physical, social, and artistic offerings. Today, many kids wanted to make sculptures from found materials. We had many glue guns available and an entire set of drawers of very old 'stuff', sort of hardware and nuts and bolts and odd metal things. We had small pieces of wood for bases. The kids pulled out the drawers and discovered many things and shapes and textures. Their creations are worthy of a museum exhibition.

We went on a truck ride around the property, the kids bouncing around in the truck bed and dodging overhanging branches and screaming with delight at every pothole. We stopped to pump a pitcher pump that barely worked. (we needed to come back for that since the cows had knocked over the priming water can.) We stopped at the mulberry trees so the kids could pick the ripe ones . Their faces were stained red with delight.

We had lunch of 'build your own sandwiches', and then it was on to volleyball and archeology-digging in a distant very hot and sweaty mound of lime rock to find Indian artifacts. The kids found amazing spear points, chert shards, and hand axes. They persevered and were focused way past what I would have thought. We had to make them stop! I was worried that they would get sunstroke.

Some kids were enthralled with being in the fabric studio and both boys and girls made pillows and other things. From time to time, I checked in on them and helped them sew up seams on the sewing machine. Other kids were still making their sculptures. Life was humming. Up at the main house Andy was preparing pizzas for supper with a few kids who wanted to participate. He is great at helping kids learn the ropes of cooking. I can't look; he lets kids use incredibly sharp knives and cut onions. He speaks to them as if they were just reasonable people and perfectly competent. They love this and respond.

We spend an hour or so with everyone in the swimming pool leaping from the jacuzzi into the pool, howling with delight. Many of the kids come and whisper to tell me often how much they love being here, and of course, it is music to my ears.

These kids are my heart's delight! I have known them since they were toddlers, and they know I am still interested in them. They are the last group I have known, so it is indeed bittersweet. But I also know that I am no longer interested in or able to deal with ten year olds on a daily basis; I need my own space and time after teaching for so many years. My energy is now going to other things.

These kids who were here today know that they will always be welcome here. They thanked Andy and me over and over for their day here. ( aw shucks..) Many others, older, come back here and keep in touch by email. They know they are always welcome here. They know we will always be supportive and helpful as they begin their adult lives.

This will not be true for my Lacoochee kids! However much I love them and care what happens in their lives, however bright some child might be, their parents will not be able to respond. Of course I would love to have them be a part of the line of many kids who have been my students and then become young adults we have mentored and funded and cared for. But I fear that the gulf is too wide and deep. Few of their parents will touch in to ask anything of their teacher, let alone to thank me, a volunteer, for the interesting activities I have given their kids, or just to say, "Hi". They have no clue. Public school teaching, generally, is a hard scrabble life.

Garden Invasion

The vegetable garden looks like triplets have been jumping on the bed. Everything is rumpled and dug up: there are holes under my tomatoes, excavations under the leeks, the beans are teetering and the onions have fallen over. Lettuces are covered in dirt, and the cheddar cauliflower I carefully grew from seed are limp from the abrupt airing. Three of the romanesco broccoli lie dead.

This is ALL OUT WAR! The armadillos have attacked! The perimeter has been breached. For all of this gardening season, there were no deer, no squirrels, no pigs, and no armadillos. We have had produce constantly all winter and spring from a garden protected by a seven foot fence and dug six inches into the soil. We have had lovely lettuces, broccoli, kale, collards and onions all winter. Now we have beans and peas, and peppers, tomatoes, squash and cucumbers coming. Before the night forays of the armadillos we had ten rare fingerling potato plants, just up and starting to produce those wonderful long blue potatoes you can't get unless you grow them yourself. All gone.

I spend several hours replacing the plants I could save, filling in the holes, plumping up the mulch. I hear the dull thump of the gopher tortoise who lives just outside the fence. He's benign, my friend. But since he's a protected species, I can't extend the garden. As I replace mulch the dapper head of a black racer rises up out of the mulch. He swirls around for a few minutes before exiting.

I look carefully at the garden perimeter, trying to figure out where the critters come in. I think I have found out several places of entry. I am ready with old tent stakes, rocks, (try to find rocks in Florida!) logs, strange pieces of junk, and the HAVE-A-HEART traps! By now the outside edges of the garden are kin to Watts Towers with their strange mix of wood, logs, rocks, and things I found in the barn that were meant for other purposes. I can't believe that I, a normal elderly person would be doing all this. If all this fails, I will get my friend, Warren, to stake out the garden and shoot them. I'm serious.

This is the first full year I have had vegetable and flower gardens that I could really observe and take care of. I am thrilled to see the flowers I planted bloom. I look at them several times a day and I have carefully monitored the progress of things I thought were weeds, but turned out to have lovely blooms. I check out the vegetable garden, more serious than flowers because we need to eat them. I am always looking up plants and flowers in my books and on-line. I am learning stuff. I am captivated. In the dry season I need to water every garden every day, but keep in mind to conserve water.

Last night we had a good rain. It was gift. The pastures look so green, the resurrection ferns on the trees are plumping out, and for this one day I did not have to water the gardens. It was so moist that I went out with the rake and hoe to plant some wild flowers in memory of an old friend who died today. She'd be glad to think of wild phlox, calendula, and poppies growing somewhere in rural Florida in her name.

FCAT, again!

The news in the paper and on my computer was that the FCAT scores were down. My little school, Lacoochee, was significantly down, worse, in some ways than the others.

I read the sample reading question and I wonder how we can judge kids (and whole schools) on such questions as these. Remember that the kids I see each week have no idea what a green bean is, nor a pea, nor a bat. They have no experiences in either English or Spanish. How can we expect that they will do well on a reading comprehension test that assumes they are all familiar with the usual Anglo body of information?

Last night we had our two year old grandson visiting us. After his bath and supper we went upstairs, brushed teeth, and settled down on the bed to read a story. I chose one from our shelf of kids' books, "Tikki Tikki Tembo No Sa Rembo". This was way far from his experience. But he loved the cadence of the repetition, and he loved the pictures of China. So. He'll grow up with this little piece of knowledge about China, myths, and how they name children.

Kids in poverty do not have regular routines of sweet smelling baths and supper and bookshelves full of bedtime stories, and kisses from grandpa. But then, they are expected to perform on FCAT tests! What are we thinking?

There are some children who despite all odds are flourishing. Marisol comes to mind. (She is clearly the most able child in the class, though one of the youngest). I think that Marisol's parents, whom I have never met, and who have many children, try really hard. I think they must know that their children are bright and somehow they must give them sustenance for the mind. We must try and find out what such parents as Marisol's do to foster achieving and creative children. There is a language barrier here, but we must figure out why they are so successful.

This week at Lacoochee, the teachers were having a workshop on writing. The kids from Kindergarten on up had to write a sample for, what else, the FCAT. I looked at some of the writing, from my group, from a "prompt" about 'what made my teacher proud.' What the kids wrote was absolute crap. Of course the spelling, grammar, and exposition was seat of the pants basic. I wonder what they would have written from a more emotionally true prompt from a single word such as "violence" or "kisses" or "roaches"? And they could write from their hearts and experiences, not from a formula? I wonder if these teachers and administrators and legislators have ever had the chance to write from their interests and hearts. I wonder if they have ever heard of Sylvia Ashton Warner?

I wish these good and patient children and their teachers could have a leader with energy, creativity and vision who could show them that achievement of students is not measured in FCAT scores, but in the content of their characters, their creativity, and their interest in everything about this planet.

The News from Lacoochee

I find that I want to write about this little elementary school miles from nowhere way out amidst the fields of purple phlox and far away from my usual world of soccer moms and multitasking. I have learned so much this year about what America is right now. I have come to know these sixteen good and patient children. I know which of them whines, which one sulks, which one is a "handful", which one never takes a bath, which ones have parents who care about them. I see how the school works. I love Annette in the office who is so kind and helpful to all parents, and the cafeteria ladies who run lunch with an iron hand in a velvet glove. I love the ladies who run the impoverished media center to the best of their abilities.

Today I brought my tote bag full of just-picked beans and pea pods from our garden and a dip made of non-fat organic yogurt with just a dab of mayonnaise and ketchup. I saved this for later because we had a 'science' project to do in which the kids put cut out photos of various animals and placed them on large pieces of construction paper according to whether they were reptiles, mammals, fish, and so on. They had never heard of arachnids. But it was fun for all. In some of the National Geographic magazines we perused there were pictures of naked people, and that made quite a stir. Nasty! Some of the little girls sashayed slowly around, carefully placing their photos. Other kids went right to business. Finally, we had all the pictures placed in their correct categories. Then each child had a chance to glue down photos of a phylum of their choice. A lot of kids wanted to put photos of the great white shark, tarantulas, and panthers in one category (scary things?). But we persevered in the scientific mode, though the emotional classification might be more important.

When all the glued and cut out animals were done and hung on the board, we made a circle on the rug. I showed them the green beans. Not one of them had ever seen such a thing before. We looked at the pea pods and split a few open. I popped them into the mouths of the nearest kids. Then the kids went to their seats and I distributed handfuls of beans and pea pods and tomatoes along with the dip. The kids were entranced, loved the vegetables, but not the tomato skins. Nothing was left! "Miss Molly, can I have the recipe?" So I wrote it out and copied it for any child who wanted it.

When we go to lunch, both my hands are held by kids who want to tell me about their grandmother or their brother, or want me to help them check for spiders who may be lurking in the corridor. They know they should be totally quiet but this is impossible for these good and patient children.

In the teachers' lunch room where I had taken the pitiful lunch provided to volunteers, I am always surprised that the staff there never engages in any serious pedagogical conversation. This day was no different. One woman, a kindergarten aide, as usual, launches her monologue about her health and the problems with the Veterans Administration of her husband, a Viet Nam Vet. There are maybe six of us there. The woman goes on about what are terrible problems not being addressed. I try to steer the conversation to the more global concerns of our American failure to deal with wounded veterans of wars and how this issue is becoming so much more intense now with Iraq. I remark that we have lately come to know that the facilities at Walter Reed and others are barely adequate. Everyone continues trying to eat the dried carrots and they do not comment. I say that I believe it is particularly hard now since we have an all volunteer fighting force. I ask the woman if her husband had been drafted into the Viet Nam war. He was a volunteer, as it turns out.

One teacher there looks up and asks, "Aren't our troops drafted?" My jaw drops. Where have you been, woman? This woman teaches our kids. What is she thinking or reading? I try to explain. Again, I have bitten off more than I can chew. Aargh!

Your Fifteen Minutes of Fame

Collectively we have such a short memory. In the last few years we refer to this as the fifteen minutes of fame. Today in our issue of the paper we saw a photo of a man who now does fairs and flea markets, but who once was impaled on a sharp point. He is pictured with his shirt held up revealing the scar, his belly button obscured. This is his fifteen minutes of fame.

Most of us do not have anything so graphic to mark our fifteen minutes. We worked hard over many years, and indeed, may have influenced many lives and made a big impact. Veterans of wars used to call my husband because they had a story to tell about their experiences. But no one wants to hear these because the fifteen minutes are up.

As a retired person, I am getting comfortable with this. You did what you did, and you hope it was useful. You go on to other things if you have the energy, but you don't ever expect to have that fifteen minutes again. It's liberating. Occasionally, you have dreams and wishes about what you left. In some moments, you think you could do it better than those you left in charge. And even if you could, you are now gone. Whatever it is to be, your successors must manage.

I am on the board of a small non-profit I believe in. There have been problems with the successor of the retired founder, an executive director who may not be the person needed to do the job. It is so hard for the founder to step back and let it happen. No one wants her to back off, yet we know she must.

For me, as a retired founder of an institution, it took some heart rending ugliness to make me understand that my fifteen minutes were up. I thought my heart was broken. I still think I know best. But, my fifteen minutes are up. And my heart is not broken after all. I wish them well and continue to be interested. I think my spouse could say the same.

Gardening!

My passion is gardening. I am outdoors most of any day I can, tweaking my flower beds and examining my vegetables. After reading the paper in the morning, I walk out to inspect the beds of petunias, soon to be overrun with the native dune sunflowers. But for now, this bed is a riot of colors. I have sown zinnias, nasturtiums and cosmos in their midst and I see that they are soon to produce flowers. I pull off the dead flowers and cut back the blackberries that always encroach in this bed.

The two raised flower beds my husband put in a few years ago to contain roses (the deer ate every one of them!), now have a huge variety of native plants, deer and rabbit proof. This year when I now have enough time here I can monitor what grows well. A number of strange and beautiful lobed leafed plants grew up like weeds, but I thought they were so beautiful I let them grow on, wondering what they would be. My mystery plants turned out to be native blanket flowers and they are now blooming profusely with cheerful red and yellow blossoms.

I look at all the shrubs and trees and plants that were given me by friends. Here is the citrus tree and the two red crepe myrtles given to me by Marie, here is the native shrimp plant (now gone wild and everywhere) given to me by another friend. Here is the blue porter weed that miraculously survived two freezes this year, given to me by Susie. And there is the wisteria vine Maria gave me and it is now twining along the fence. There is the blousy Japanese jasmine from my sister, now ready to bloom outside our back porch shower. Everywhere I look there are the gardening tracks of friends.

When I went out to water today there was a bright green anole on the red hose. "Wrong color!" I said to him, but he paid no attention. If you're not a gardener, you won't get this entry. I am, as they say, elderly (grandma molly). When I was in my twenties I barely knew the difference between a tulip and a daffodil. And now I have the interest to know the different types of wild sage. You never know what passions will envelop you!

Down by the grape arbor and the asparagus bed there was a place where there was a gopher tortoise burrow and we couldn't touch it. So I began to plant stuff nearby, some grasses and some wildflowers I got in the mail. One day I noticed some lovely things blooming. I watered it along with the asparagus and grapes and now it is a feast for my eyes. I don't know what any of the flowers are, nothing I have ever seen before. They are ethereal, many colors and shapes. This is a true gift to me.

The water garden with its lotus and water lettuce is looking good. The water lilies are coming along. I pause to examine the mosquito fish darting around in this very small pond, and a couple of leopard frogs jump into the water. I water the iris growing nearby and I see that there are bloom stalks ready to happen. I notice that the flapjack plants which suffered so in the winter frost are now growing well. Hummingbirds buzz by my head, as happy as I am to be here.

In front of the screen porch the crepe myrtle trees are leafing out and soon they will be a cloud of ethereal white blossoms. But for now, the cardinals and wrens own the territory with their loud and burbling calls. The hummingbirds buzz into the native shrimp plants and red sage.

This is the first year I have been able to see all this unfold. I am amazed and humbled. All year we have eaten vegetables from our garden. It is an exquisite pleasure to go out each evening and pick what's there to eat. We have salad almost year round (July and August are too hot), and there is always something else. Right now we have an excess of peas and beans, so I give them away to my neighbors, and I see that cucumbers, spinach, tomatoes and eggplant are not far behind. This was the first year that I have grown everything from seed. My grandson Quincy, helped me plant the tomato seeds in the flat and he wasn't very methodical, so the varieties are still a mystery to me. I've got to get him to help me pick the worms off the cukes!

Growing a garden is a lot of work! Every day one must examine what grows, deadhead the flowers, pick the vegetables, water, dig new planting holes, fertilize, weed, mulch, look at stuff, bend over, lift, pick off worms, walk many steps, turn over the compost pile. But, all in all, it's a kind of meditation, beautiful for the soul and mind. I feel that I am caring for the earth and for my family. What could be a better gift than a basket of fresh lovely greens from the garden?

Lacoochee, again

On Tuesday I went into Lacoochee elementary school with a huge box of fired and glazed clay pieces the kids had made. I really would have liked to have the principal look at these colorful and delightful bas reliefs, maybe ooh and ah. But no.

As is usual, a number of parents and kids helped carry the bags into the classroom. We spread out the clay artworks on the tables, and I got the activities of the day ready to go. Today we were were going to make butter by shaking heavy cream. Then we would spread this on the homemade bread I had made early that morning. I also had some organic fruit spread to add to the bread. And there was the pyramid of beautiful organic apples!

After the pledge, we got down to business. First the kids had to fill in some scripted and dreary science sheets. They whipped through this, eying the apples and the mysterious containers of cream. Then, they and CareyAnne, their spectacular teacher, gathered on the rug and we began to make the butter. We put the cream into a shaker and everyone took turns shaking. CareyAnne got right into it, asking the kids to count their shakes by ones, then twos, then threes. She asked them questions about turning a liquid into a solid, where did cream come from, and many other things. She sang a ditty to make it happen. It seemed easy! The kids were totally engaged with the physicality of it. We passed out the paper plates with a slice of bread on each one, Giovanna passed out the butter and Danielle administered the jam. It was heaven!

We go to lunch and two kids hold my hands. I think of Laura, one of my all time favorite students (who is now a sophomore at Harvard) who held my hand every day for a year. When you hold the hand of a trusted adult, what you say is noted. Laura talked about her dog, Curley. These Lacoochee kids tell me about their little brother who is getting ear tubes. What's this? I try to explain. They tell me about their mom who will have surgery tomorrow. I wish our trip to the lunch room was longer because they have so many issues to discuss. Maybe Laura had some other issues beyond her dog, but it didn't matter. She knew her teacher would understand everything. And so it is with these Lacoochee kids.

The big buzz in the teacher lunchroom was that kindergartners were being tested on writing: they had a "prompt" and then were supposed to write expository writing from this. They had forty-five minutes to do this! Are we all crazy? Has no one ever read the literature on child development, maybe Piaget? (One teacher called this "suppository" writing.)

I think that this principal of this school (who tries to look like Dolly Parton with her amazing hair and nails and high heeled shoes) does not get it. For openers, why would someone in a rural school, not want to look available to the land and to kids? Get real! Wear clothes you can bend and run and stretch in, can get dirty! And then, a principal should galvanize the staff to be a real team, full of creative energy, and instead of back-biting each other, come together to make this school a model for the nation. It could happen. This staff is as good as any!

This is heresy, I know. Probably, if anyone at the school reads this I would be out of there for sure. I am reasonably certain that no one (except CareyAnne) at Lacoochee cares.

We need to energize public school teachers! They are the best!

The Saddest Week, What Can We Do?

We have heard and seen so much about the carnage at Virginia Tech this week, maybe too much. The kids there have been spectacular and articulate in the midst of such a terrible event. Everyone weeps to think of losing a part of our best and brightest. And we weep to think about the unspeakable end of life for that troubled young man, Cho.

It is understandable to want to fix the blame on this somewhere. Do we need to have more accountability from gun dealers? Could campus security have been better? And on and on.

What I wonder is where were adults when this troubled child didn't speak? Cho came to the U.S.A. when he was eight. When he was 23 he killed 32 people. I have not read or heard anywhere about his life in elementary school. Was he speaking then? According to an article in the New York Times today, at least a few relatives in South Korea were worried about him. Where were neighbors and friends and teachers in the U.S.A as this child struggled in a new place, trying to learn a new language and culture?

As a teacher for many years, I must ask those teachers who had Cho in their classes, "Didn't you notice anything? Did you wonder why this child did not speak? Did you talk to his parents? Did you engage the other children in a plan to help him? Did you get psychiatric help for an obviously troubled child? Did you try to love and understand him? Why didn't you act?" None of the media stories help me on this.

When Lorenzo came to Lacoochee School with a gun a month ago, there was some hesitation, but fairly soon the event was given the weight it deserved. Bringing a gun to school was obviously a cry for help.(Not to mention threatening!). Lorenzo was put into the hands of a counselor every morning. His cry for help was noted, even in this poor rural school.

We live in such a populous world! We must train our children to take care of each other and be aware of our fellows. (The Catholic church and the British have good reason to think that seven or eight is a good age for kids to have their first communion or begin school.) I am sometimes exasperated with those kids who 'tattle' on others. I should rejoice! These kids have got it about the way they think they and others should behave. They are positively not going to become shooters of dozens. At eight they already have the basics of knowing right from wrong. The kids I am concerned about never 'tattle'. Did anyone ever see this about Cho?

One thing I think we could do for our young people in college is to let them know during their orientation that they really are responsible for each other, and that means having to do hard things sometimes. There could be an anonymous hot line for a student to speak of his/her concerns about a fellow student. Of course this assumes that the student's concerns would be followed up.

During my sophomore year in college, I was in a triple room. One of my roommates clearly had some major issues, not homicidal, but troubling. In that easier world, we were able to get help for her. The college was helpful like kind of distant and concerned parents.

In our time now, we send our kids off and they are totally free agents. That is good in a way. Maybe our institutions of higher learning now need to take the time to help these young people wend their way in a hugely more populous world. Young people today aren't magically more mature than I was at that age. But I do know they are a part of a much more complicated world.

We need to try everything under the sun to make people of whatever age and station understand the necessity of being responsible for each other. We need to start early!

The Harris Burdick Stories

Last night we went into St. Petersburg to hear a chamber concert at our wunderful local theater only a two minute walk from our apartment. Six musicians from our orchestra were to play strings and bassoon, mostly twentieth century compositions and a new world premiere presentation by the bassoonist.

As we approached the theater we were bumping up behind several old ladies, bent over in their sensible outfits and shoes, also on their way to the concert. In that warm evening I could smell that peculiar musty odor of the aged, a combination of old clothes, mothballs, and desperation. As we milled about in the lobby waiting in the 'will call' line to get our tickets, I saw a sea of white heads, but a few young people as well.

Our seats were in the very front of the theater, almost at the center. I could anticipate looking up the pants' legs of the performers. I sat next to a very old woman who wore an enormous hat, sneakers, and a flowery dress. We chatted some, as seat mates do. She seemed quite normal to me but when the concert began she was wild! She loved it! She waved her arms and clapped excessively after every piece. Hey, this wasn't my mother, so I was not in the least bothered or embarrassed.

One of the last pieces was presented by the cellist, a composition by James Stephenson. This was a piece inspired by "The Harris Burdick Stories". My ears pricked up. This book by Chris Van Arlsburg has been my favorite for years. As the story goes, a mysterious author brings a set of drawings with captions to an editor. The author says he'll be back the next day with the stories that accompany the pictures. But he never does! So the pictures are a mystery.

Over the years when I have been a teacher of writing we have used this book of illustrations as jumping off point for some great creative writing. I would copy the illustrations on good paper and let the kids choose which one they wanted to write about. The Harris Burdick pictures produced some of the best writing I have ever seen from ten and eleven year olds. Even years later I can remember some of the stories those children wrote. For some strange reason these illustrations truly made the students stretch. I can still remember the plots devised by Laura, Alex, Cody,Katie, Naren, Arielle, and so many others. I always wanted to see what could be done with this amazing text by musicians or dancers.

James Stephenson did not disappoint me. He chose the illustration, 'Another time, another place', a picture I know by heart. He really got it- the children working a hand cart on the railroad tracks and headed toward what seemed to me to be Mt. St. Michel. I wish he could have come to our classroom to expand those young minds.

Earlier in the day I had been doing my gig as a volunteer at Lacoochee elementary, the poorest school in Pasco County. No fifth graders there were engaged in the delicious possibilities of a really juicy writing assignment. You can only write the FCAT way, in five steps.

CareyAnne, my group teacher was going to spend the day in teacher meetings, and to my dismay, she had a substitute, Ms. C, with whom I had worked before. CareyAnne told her just to let Miss Molly do her thing, but also here are a few things you should also do. Ms.C had her coffee cup on hand and it was clear she wanted to be the "disciplinarian" for the day. O.K. by me. All kids were there, as it was Tuesday. Lorenzo was more than usually odoriferous as he gave me a fierce hug.

Today, our food activity was pasta. I had put a kettle of water on to boil on the hot plate, Andy provided homemade red sauce , and cheese to grate. I had ten different kinds of pasta (including squid ink angel hair) for the kids to look at and handle. BUT FIRST, we had to do the pledge and sing a dispirited version of the national anthem (which can only be sung by mice at the top register).

Also, I had brought in the fired clay items from the week before. Today they were to glaze them. Ms. C. felt responsible to her "lesson plan" and duly trotted out a science lesson. This entire thing was a worksheet about stars. She read the introduction in the most amazingly sing-song voice I have ever heard. "Stars. Are. In. The. Sky." You get the idea. My eyes rolled back and I saw a number of kids looking at me, getting it. The worksheet gave the kids a totally wrong idea about astronomy. Very bad science. But never mind, the kids were paying no attention to it anyway. Hey, it didn't take more than ten minutes so we were on to doing the glazing and the pasta.

I wanted the kids to spend some time comparing the weight of things- pasta, beans, corn, rice, so I arranged a station with the scales. There are sixteen kids doing cooking and clay glazing and I am dancing as fast as I can. I ask Ms. C. to take on the weighing station. She says she can't do this because she doesn't know how. With sixteen kids knocking on my hip, a pot of boiling pasta, Marisol and Kelbie grating cheese, glazes needing attention, I give her a three second tutorial, and we go on from there.

The glazed pieces are wonderful, everyone LOVED the pasta. Some stuff got weighed and there was no homicide. After lunch we even had enough time to read a book. The kids were looking forward to going outside for a fifteen minute recess. These good and patient children! I am sorry to say that I think none of these kids will have the exquisite opportunity to think of the Harris Burdick stories, let alone write about them. Neither their parents nor their teachers have ever heard of Harris Burdick/ Chris Van Alsburg. And so, I keep on reading to these kids.

The "Expert"

Sometimes after I have spent my time as a volunteer in my local public school classroom, I think I have come on too strong. After thirty years of inventing and nurturing a school, constantly shaping and adjusting, trying new ideas and letting go of those that weren't working, I have some expertise. I can't help seeing that if I were a young and idealistic teacher right now, and I had the opportunity, I would leave this broken system and do exactly what I did thirty years ago; start something new! This public school system is beyond me in its ponderous drive towards the next educational panacea. Not much has changed in thirty years (though there are some notable exceptions dotted across the country.)

I go every week to volunteer because I love teaching, I love the affirmation of kids, and I feel the responsibility to make even a small difference in the lives of children. And I even fantasize that I could effect a few changes!

Yesterday I went in with notably heavy baggage- 25 pounds of red clay, the fixings for a huge fruit salad, ideas for stories and activities. After unloading my baggage to the bench in front of the office, I parked my car and returned to check in and receive my' pervert-free clearance' from the office. None of the regular bunch was out front but I did spy one of the kindergarten teachers walking by. I have never known his name because these teachers never introduce themselves (or maybe they don't care to.) I have seen this man in the teachers' lunch room and I have always thought him to be especially grumpy.

This day it is cold and spitting blessed rain. "Good morning!", I crow in my best Sally Sunshine voice. "You are looking so handsome and brawny. Would you mind helping me with these things?"

He makes a few disparaging remarks about how he knows I just said that to get him to help. But he does smile and take the clay to the classroom. When we get there I tell him that his reward is to get the first pick of the magazines I always bring. He audibly snorts. "This intellectual stuff! No way!" But he shuffles through the New Yorkers, the Science News, Audubon, Harvard and Brown magazines, and finally settles on The New York Review of Books. "This will impress people," he mutters and wanders off to his classroom. Later, I send him a Dixie cup of the fruit salad we made in our classroom. I find out that his name is Dan. I am relentless today.

My idea today is to have the kids make clay bas relief heads using no tools but their fingers and old dull pencils. After the dispirited rendition of the pledge and the national anthem, we all ignore all the announcements and pronouncements. Seventeen kids doing at least two things takes a lot of energy. Marisol and Johnny are at the food station cutting up the fruit. CareyAnne, the teacher, is overseeing the cutting up of strawberries, bananas, melons and the rest.

Dynasty, the fifth grade helper, has made a model for what we are going to do and now she is using a wire cutter to create slabs for everyone as the base for their bas relief head. She can only spend half an hour in this class. (No one is absent on Miss Molly's day.) We have done a number of clay projects throughout the year. The kids are now used to the process of making it, firing it, glazing it, and then firing it again. The hardest thing for kids is learning how to attach clay pieces to each other. It is April and now most of them know how to score each piece, add slurry, press firmly. They have had experience knowing what happens when you don't! They now know that I will not fire anything without a readable name on it.

I look at these eighteen pieces now drying in my studio and I think of what a long way we have gone this year. These artworks are amazing and lovely. I envision them hanging on the wall outside the Lacoochee office, adorning the lives of children.

After the clay pieces are finished and hands are washed I read two stories to the kids. I used to be so tender about bringing/doing everything I did at Lacoochee. But today I just asked the librarian, Michelle, "Hey, I need two or three good books to read aloud right now." Without missing a beat, she suggests and finds three books for me - and she doesn't even check them out! She knows I'll bring them back. It seems so normal and fine. She made good choices; the kids are interested. I am really good at reading out loud to kids. (Lots of experience!) I ask them to fill in the next words, and they do. "See! Reading is about the experience you have! You really know lots about how to read!" They preen. And they are eager.

CareyAnne, the teacher, is such an inclusive, intelligent and loving person. The kids know this. I know this. I think that I was incredibly lucky to have wound up in her classroom. I am not the best with younger kids but it has been a great experience for me.

This teacher is very good, the best. She has a group of hard kids., socioeconomically at the bottom rung. She sees each one with possibilities and a future. She respects her students and loves each one. I have never heard her gripe. She is open to new ideas. Her students may not do the best on the FCAT, and not because of her best efforts. She will not be nominated as teacher of the year because this little school is close to nothing in the system. These people are working hard!

The principal of Lacoochee has never made much contact with me and I do not know her at all. I kind of expected that she would have thanked me for making possible the field trip to MOSI for the whole primary group. I really would have liked her to come into our classroom and say, "Oh wow! What wonderful clay items the kids have made!" , or even, "Thanks for funding a school field trip". Oh, well, I said that I wanted to be anonymous.. and I am.

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)