Conservation Easement

We live in paradise, also known as Central Florida, Green Swamp West, Woodhills Ranch. More than twenty years ago we felt the need to have some rural property. We have a great need to be in the country, not in spitting distance from anyone. And so, as we were looking for some rural place, perhaps on a river, we heard of land north of Tampa and a bit north of Dade City, that was part of the huge Cummer lumber tract, and they wanted to sell out. We looked at this land and it was the prettiest woods and fields we had ever seen. Immediately, we plotted our way to owning a portion of it. At that time we were not rich, but frugal, and beginning to put kids through college. But we used 'creative financing' to buy this land- 250 acres. It was the best gamble of our lives.

At first we camped out on the property. Gradually, as we came to know it, and we had more income, we staked out a future barn site we built, then a house, a guest house, a pool, and now two workshops. Flocks of friends came, our grandchildren, and kids from my school have come every single year for their week at the ranch, the best activity they said. Our daughter grew up here and we have so many memories of nights we had to care for new calves, or plastering ourselves dressed only in nightgowns, against the fence, as a cow stampede went by.

I remember a time when middle school kids were here and we went out in the truck and observed the birth of a calf. This was an amazing event to them. They were totally quiet, watching the whole thing for almost an hour. When the tiny calf stood up, finally, they all cheered.

This place has history for our family and for so many others. We do not want to see little mansions dotted around the gentle hills. We want to keep this ranch pristine, no development. Our neighbors on one side, the Blanchards, have put their 1200 acres into a conservation easement. On the other side is Swiftmud all the way to the Withlacoochee River. With all these properties together, it makes a strong corridor for wildlife to flow for a long distance through the Green Swamp. The birds and owls, turkeys, Florida jays, foxes, all kinds of reptiles, have a place to go and to be. We had the opportunity to add sixty acres to our land, and we did.

A long way around describing a conservation easement. First of all, we want to keep this place as a wild Florida place for future generations. Second, we could not imagine how any of our children would have the resources to keep this place up (even if they wanted ).
By putting this place in a conservaton easement, it lowers the value of the land. No one, not us, not anyone in the future can develop this land. What's here now is all that there can be.

There are several ways one can do this: you can pay to get your land into a land trust, or, if your land is in a critically environmental situation, the state will pay you for the conservation rights. We explored all options, excluding The Nature Conservancy because Andy is involved with that. Swiftmud, our neighbor to the south and to the north was a natural.

Today, we heard that, after all these months of negotiation, SWIFTMUD has granted us the easement. Two newspapers have called for interviews about it. It makes me nervous! All I want to be is an anonymous wildlife conservator. This is a win-win situation. SWIFTMUD has allocated from Florida Forever funds a million dollars for the development rights to our land. Many weeks from now I assume we will get a check. We will pay off the realtor (5%), the surveyors, and the people who made core samples in the cow pens to check for old arsenic, and we will pay a huge 25% capital gains tax. We will fund a 529 for our six grandchildren to go to college, and we will pay down a chair we have funded at USF. Whew! Maybe enough left for a new tractor? Probably not!

But it is still fun to win the lottery!

Grateful Dead Revisited

The Lacoochee gang came for another day at the ranch. I had prepared the dye baths and the pristine damp tee shirts for a morning of creating wild projects. First, we all assembled in my studio to view the clay projects from the last time. They had been glazed and fired and looked so bright and lovely as they were arrayed on the table. The kids, twelve of them, chose their own pieces and wrapped them in newspaper and lots of tape to take home.

Then, we moved out to the barn (it was gently raining), and got started with applying the rubber bands tightly to the shirts. We had four vats of dye. Considering that this is a complicated and very messy project, the kids did well and were pleased with the results. One by one, those shirts began to hang out on the fence to dry. There was no complaining, just utter concentration. I had gloves for the kids, but I noticed that all of us had purple hands.

The rain kept on dripping but there was no thunder or lightning so we spent the next hour in the pool. These kids have so few opportunities to swim and they love it. Now they know the rules (no running), and you can use anything you want - goggles, floats, toys, flippers, snorkels, arm floats- you just have to put everything back. I love watching these kids in the water. They invent games, involve each other. These kids do not have that 'entitled' feeling I have often felt from the prosperous middle class families I know. (As was mine, I might add.)

Dade City! I keep finding nuggets of interest. The Lacochee kids are not those children I keep track of in the New York Times. Today we had a birthday party for two kids. The grandmother, Pam, had made a splendid cake in the fashion of an American Flag. Pam, who might be in her late fifties, came today. She was limping from a bad knee. She is one of those women who raise kids, and then raise kids some more. She and her husband are building a log home by hand. They will give their present home to her daughter and her kids.

For this birthday party there were no gifts, none expected. One of the birthday girls brought to show me her best gift from her mom, a music box with a dancing ballerina and with a drawer below for treasures. The kind of thing my own daughter would have killed for at seven. At this birthday party guests did not have to contribute to the Heifer Foundation. The celebration consisted of a lovely lunch of white bread p and j sandwiches cut into hearts, four kinds of chips, and juice boxes. One of the children was asked to say a blessing for the lunch. I was amazed to hear a very long and articulate prayer. I provided vegetable sticks and a dip made of atheist organic yogurt and ketchup, and some slices of watermelon. Then, we lit the candles, presented the cake and everyone sang 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY'.

I am learning so much from these gentle people. Next to coming to the ranch, their best thing is going to something called "The Christian Edge", a kind of road house up on #301, where whole familes go for lots of activities. Virginia and I are going to make a visit. Maybe we'll take some grandkids. Stay tuned.

After we made the tie dye tee shirts, the kids told me they would wear their shirts for an up-coming seventies night at the Christian Edge (and they would be awesome!)

Even as an oldster, one has to be open to new ideas, even in Dade City.

Painters and Caterpillars

Strange and beautiful caterpillars are dripping from the hickory trees. For a couple of weeks we have noticed the copious caterpillar poop plopping on the driveway and onto the cars. I hear them dropping like rain on the tin roof of the barn, and now, having denuded the trees, the caterpillars are on the ground for about half an hour at which point they burrow into the earth and will be seen no more until a year or two. Then they will continue their cycle of eating leaves and.. The hickories are already leafing out anew.

Strange and beautiful painters live amongst us as well. Steve, and Jared, his son, are painting the house, the guest house, and the barn. The guest house has been painted, and the barn. The main house needs some interior work as well as the outside. They are always here. Our dog tells me that our regular nap/reading time has gone to hell. The painters are replacing rotten siding and they are prying and hammering.

We had just had an enormous number of guests before we left for a week's trip to North Carolina. Steve was to paint the kitchen while we were gone. I had left him a hurried note saying that since we had removed a large tree from the yard, the light in the dining room was different. Should we paint the dining room something different (from the usual off-white?)

When we returned we found that the kitchen and the hall were painted in wonderful vibrant Italianesque shades of yellow and orange. We gulped, then ogled, then loved it. Our decorator!

I love having painters, renovators, and handy people of all kinds helping us maintain our homes. We used to do everything ourselves, and now, though we still do a lot of maintenance on the ranch, we need the help of these wonderful folks.

This evening when I went up to the main house where Andy was making dinner, I asked, "Are we alone? Is anyone here?" They have all gone home for the day so we go for a swim in the pool, no suits, many laps, so cool.

We are so fortunate, here in paradise.

I need to share it, so this week twenty or more kids I know from Lacoochee Elementary School will be coming for a day of making tie-dye tee shirts, swimming, celebrating birthdays, having experiences, and leaving with a book to read and their own fired clay pieces carefully wrapped in newspaper.

We are so fortunate.

Ironweed Summer

Middle of July and the ironweed, my favorite wildflower, is in bloom. The individual blossoms are small but they have that intense purple color of kings. Hardly anyone but natives would want to be in Florida in the middle of summer. The rains, proceeded by wonderful clouds, and ending with double rainbows, are happening each day. The sensual heat envelops us in a humid batting. We give thanks for the air conditioning we have in our work spaces. In the main house we sleep without a/c and use only a fan. We love hearing the frogs and owls by night and the dawn chorus of birds backed up by the insect tympani. We read the morning papers in the cool of the morning on the screen porch. We watch the pileated woodpeckers and the hummingbirds feeding and the butterflies flitting among the flowers and tree trunks. We feel incredibly blessed.

Time to order the new tomato seeds to start for planting in the vegetable garden by the end of August. Andy has made a big new armadillo-proof planter for lettuces.(We have trapped four armadilloes lately!) We bought new mats for the porches so the old ones are going into the vegetable garden as mulch to smother the weeds. The compost pile is cooking away, getting ready to be the planting medium for salad greens. Tomorrow morning before it gets too hot I will turn it over.

We are deciding what trees to plant in the yard outside the dining room. Last week we had a huge hickory tree, rather rotten, and ready to fall on the house in a high wind, removed. The area now looks naked. We are thinking of having several native palms planted there. We are so aware of which trees will withstand hurricanes yet lower the profile of the house and give us some shade from the morning sun.

The pastures are so thick with grass that they laugh and sing. The cows are fat. Blackberries are over, but now we have figs, eggplants, and the grapes are coming on. We have to mow and keep the fences intact.

I wake up each day with a delicious plan. It's a lot of work to keep this farm going, but so worth it! In the heat of the day we are in our studio spaces, painting or making furniture, or whatever.

And all the while, we think, listen or read about the dreadful state of our country and world. We volunteer for environmental and political initiatives. We try to reduce our footprint. I find myself apologizing to my grandchildren!

Soon, we will have many more children visiting us. The Lacochee kids are coming this week for an art and swimming day, several old SunFlower graduates will come for a day or so. And both of us are so looking forward to the annual summer visit of The Girls, four of them who come every summer and just do nothing. Feels just right to me. And then, just on the heels of The Girls, we'll have all our grandchildren and their parents together here at the ranch. I hope there won't be any hurricanes!

We love this place!

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.



.

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.