Grown Kids Coming Home

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Boxing Day!

Christmas Music, bah humbug?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Cranes are Dancing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Disaster Strikes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Singing to my father

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Raising Good Children

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas Shopping, Walmart Style

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanksgiving

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Career week

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

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

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

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

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

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

Weekend Grandparents

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, the Real Stuff

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lola in trouble

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stay tuned.

The Comforts of Home

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Village

Our grandson Quincy celebrated his second birthday on Saturday. His moms put on an amazing bash, an open house in the afternoon. The table was laden with delicious food, beautifully prepared by my caterer daughter-in-law; my daughter had made a fish cake, colorfully decorated and oozing with child-friendly frosting, and there was a giant cooler full of drinks. The guests ranged from grandparent age to babies not yet confident on their legs.

What all fifty of us had in common was Quincy, this most fortunate of children raised and loved by our village. This child was desired and planned for, conceived by artificial insemination. It was to have been a perfect pregnancy. The ultrasound decisively said the baby was female. But in the last few months of it, it became apparent that there was something terribly wrong. My daughter was covered in an angry rash, the baby wasn't growing enough. She went to specialists and no one knew what was happening. She is an information specialist by training and tracked down what turned out to be the correct diagnosis of Choliostasis (sp?), life threatening for mother and child, so she immediately checked in to the hospital to deliver Quincy by C section, a month early.

Andy and I were in New York City doing a long planned whirlwind of urban culture. I remember the constant cell phone calls, updates on everybody's condition. Then, when we were in a restaurant near Lincoln Center I came close to praying. The waiter noticed our stricken faces and as he did the phone rang again. One of the aunts on the line to tell us that, though it was hairy, the baby had been born, and it seemed that our daughter and the baby would live. Everyone in the restuarant cheered. I cried. "But," said the aunt, "there's this problem. The baby is a BOY! It's not Olivia, but Quincy."

After dinner we went shopping for preemie clothes-in blue. We went to the wonderful opera then, feeling incredibly fortunate. The idea of losing a daughter had been too much to bear.

And now, seeing this strapping two year old, far from that tiny widget he was back then, I rejoice. At his party he was serene and focused. He never melted down as one expects birthday boys and girls would. He was most interested in playing with his old familiar true toys. As grandma I think him to be the cutest child on earth (as I think of my other grandchildren are too.)

What's special about Quincy is that he lives here in our village, surrounded by family and friends who care about him and are helping him grow to be the man he's meant to be. Every week, Quincy is a part of some sort of village gathering. We share meals, fun times at various homes or at the library story hour, or at parks and museums.

We are the grandparents and we love and appreciate all the help from our village of family and friends in raising this wonderful boy.

Counting the Days

When I was working full time the other staff members had a joke that no one should be in the parking lot on Friday afternoons or they would be flattened. They knew I would be so eager to leave town nothing would keep me from it. I knew that if I left before the 3:00 rush I could pick up the dog and cruise home without major delays. I was counting the days; Friday night and I could be at the ranch in time for supper. And then there was Saturday and Sunday, all mine. Friday late afternoons there was time to check the gardens and the pastures. After supper I could go out in the dark and see if there were alligators in the pond or animals next to it. Away from the city apartment with the blaring streetlights and traffic noise, I could sleep well at the ranch in the lullaby of frogs and whipporwills.

In the weeks of vacation days I would say a private litany counting the days I had here at the ranch.

Even in retirement, I still count the days. Right now we are counting down to three days from now when we get on a plane that will take us to Paris for a two week vacation.

But really, I am counting the days until we return. I think about the vegetable garden. Will those tomatoes be ripe when we get back? Will the Mexican bean rollers have decimated those beautiful rows of bean plants? Will the lettuce be totally out of control and bolted? Will the cucumbers have wandered all over the row? And will Curley, our bull, behave himself, do what he's supposed to do, and not taunt our neighbor's bull?

I am loving the thought of going to Paris. We have rented an apartment in the Latin Quarter and we'll be there with family and friends. None of us are taking cell phones or computers, a bold move. If I have an outrageous need to be connected, no doubt I can find the neighborhood Pakistani internet place.

On day eleven, as on all vacations, I have a kind of melt down of homesickness. And I will count the days until I come home.

Family First

It hasn't always been this way; putting my family first. When we moved to Florida my oldest son was eight. "I'm glad you aren't always on the phone," he observed. Of course, I hardly knew anyone to be with on the phone those first few months. I wasn't working outside the home, but I was itchy to start. Kids hate that ringing phone which means that their parent will be temporarily lost to them.

Soon,, the boys were in school, and I was working in their school, and on the phone a lot to other parents. Life took on a rhythm. Eventually, I began to work at a new school; it became my life's work. When our oldest child was twelve, we had another child, a daughter, who went to work with me from day one.

But, even though I was physically there a lot of the time for the three kids, I was caring for many others too. The kids knew that I didn't work for the Little League with a glad heart. I was not fascinated to watch unending laps swum for the swim team. I found night time high school basketball pretty tedious,(except for the time when four players lost their retainers and were scrabbling around on the gym floor). I absolutely could not be in the cheering section very often for bike races. When our daughter and niece were doing gymnastics I never watched what they were doing because I was correcting papers from my school kids. The best that could be said was that, apart form driving everyone everywhere, I showed up.

I had an afterschool homework group for my sons and some of their friends and they generally stayed for supper. We had a generous household, full of kids. But what I know in my heart of hearts is that I didn't have enough time for each of them.

Now that I am retired I have time - and there is never enough of it. Family still wants a piece of me. I think of each of my six grandchildren. Only one lives nearby so he gets a lot of attention from us. I try to connect with the others very often with phone calls, e-mails, gifts, visits. I had no idea how much time this takes!

We need to make visits to the far places our children and grandchildren live. I still have that old feeling of needing some unfolding time for us after all these years of working full-tilt. There is unfinished business for us, the parents, apart from our children and grandchildren.

Family comes first. They know this. We are not yet old enough for our kids to have to care for us:they would be horrified to think of it now. They know that there is a window of time when parents can freely be parents and grandparents, strong but accepting.

Andy and were discussing our youngest grandson today. What we notice about him is so detailed compared with what we noticed about our own kids! I love the way life gives one second chances to attend to important stuff.

Armadilloes, scourge of my yard

Lola is up at the main house, barking ferociously in that tone I know is, "I see an armadillo, and I will bark it to death!"

Now that it is cool and dry most evenings, the armadilloes are out foraging for grubs and worms. They would like to work in my vegetable garden but I thwart them by burying fence several feet deep and keeping the gate locked. It has taken me years of trying just about anything to keep these critters from devastating the lettuce, digging up the carrots, and making mayhem in the beans in their nosey search. By spring our yard looks like a mine field with all those excavations. And you could easily break a bone stepping the wrong way into their holes.

Warren calls armadilloes 'those possums in fender skirts'. These nine banded armadilloes are all over Florida and the gulf coast, gradual migrants from Central and South America. They have very few predators, except for developers. Since we are developer-free, we have a lot of armadilloes. Yes, they are sort of cute in a prehistoric way. They seem quite oblivious as they jump up in the air as you approach, or never notice and keep on snuffling along.

In addition to the physical barrier of the fencing, I am a trapper. (I have tried repellants and they don't work!) I have two have-a-heart traps I set each night. And I always hope the traps will be empty in the morning because I have trouble freeing the prisoners. I hope that Andy will be here to do this chore. At the very least I hope we have trapped only armadilloes, not foxes or opossums or raccoons or feral cats, which we do from time to time.

We drive the traps down the lane a mile or two and open them near the property of our only distasteful neighbor. Actually, I think the armadilloes always come back!

Last night when Lola and I were out for her bedtime pee, an armadillo was spotted next to the vegetable garden. Lots of barking! Lola cornered a pretty big one, lots bigger than she is. Lola stabbed it with her sharp little dashchund nose and I drummed on it with my flashlight. (They are so dumb.) Finally, it scuttled out into the pasture and we could all call it a night.

I am in constant battle with these creatures. I don't want them in the garden or digging up the yard. Yet, I am beguiled by their soft grunts, their totally amazing shape, and their endurance. I love to watch the quadruplet babies who scuffle among the leaves in back of my studio.

Digging

We are out in the 90 degree October morning digging trenches for a new irrigation system. Warren, our dear neighbor and the farm manager, appeared with many yards of pvc pipe and pipe dope, cutters, elbow joints, spiggots. He had called earlier to tell us that he couldn't make it today for this project because he had to fix his mama's screen porch, so we were enjoying reading the papers on our porch.

The trailer rattles up with all the supplies and Warren announces that he couldn't deal with Mama and her boyfriend (he's eighty- three) and the boyfriend's daughter. As always, I am mesmerized by Warren's monologue, his salty complaints about his family, what he said, what she said, everything told with a twinkle in those amazing blue eyes. I think Warren could do these monologues as a stand-up comic. I tell him so. He knows that we appreciate him. I refer to Warren as the hydrologist and there is lots of fun banter. But we get to work with spades.

We have been on this property for more than fifteen years, built several buildings, and put in a lot of pvc pipe and electrical conduits. No one ever made a map of exactly what pipes were where under there so we need to dig this thing by hand so we don't split any crucial lines. We locate where the water line should come from the pump. As we begin to dig, we find not only huge roots, but mysterious pipes and conduits. We find old snuff bottles, trash, even a few rocks and an intact flower pot. Warren, as the chief hydrologist, knows exactly where the lines need to be cut and spiggots installed. Andy and I keep on digging. My eyes are on the prize of having a truly convenient watering system for the vegetable garden and the flower beds.

The sandy soil is very dry, not hard for spades to cut through. But it's hot and hard work. There is so much of it! I think of the kids in that wonderful novel, "Holes". As it gets hotter and harder and buggier, think of those prisoners who dig for miles with teaspoons to get out of jail. We are slapping the mosquitoes, mopping our faces, and fending off the lovebugs.

We drink lots of water and I ask Warren how he got to be so competent.

I think you learn a lot about a person working side-by-side on a project. He told me how he worked with his dad, and then how he coached his son, telling us insightful funny anecdotes. Now his son is an incredibly 'can do' person. Our children are also very competent; our sons can not only do their day jobs, they can also build, plumb, do electrical stuff, fix cars, cook. No task fazes our daughter, from starting a business to installing a bathroom to being a wonderful hands-on mom.

Finally, after five hours or so of really hard work, the project is done! We turn on the water, all the spiggots have great pressure, I am incredibly grateful to these two men who love me and know how much I have wanted this. I hug Warren hard.

Tonight we are tired dogs, ready to flop down and pant with that delicious physically spent feeling of having put in a heavy day of creative work.

Most of our friends and family do not 'get it' that we who have one foot in the urban worlds of St. Pete, New York, Washington, Paris, Rome, also need to be viscerally connected to the rural life of central Florida. To be here we need to mow the fields, grow vegetables, take care of the cows, and enjoy the life cycles of the hummingbirds and the spiders. We need to watch the sand hill cranes dance, and mark the changes of seasons listening to the whiporwills or noticing when the chimney swifts come and go. We need to have the time to introduce our youngest grandchild to fish and lizards and ant lions. We need to have our older grandsons get familiar with the rural life. All this takes time. There is never enough of it.

The moon is full, and though I am so tired after a day of digging trenches, I will walk out, amazed at the long moon shadows on the pastures, and I will rejoice in my good fortune.

Caring for our Kids

O.K. this is a grandma blog. But let's think about Mark Foley. Everyone believes that this man did a really disgusting thing, betrayed the trust of his constituants and of young people. This issue has gotten into the swarmy political swamp. Democrats are gleeful and Republicans are apologetic.

Let's be real. Our politicians of both parties lie to us, protect their power, and are less than ethical, with the exception of a few. I think of Jimmy Carter, for one.

Having been a teacher for forty years, a parent of three, a grandparent of six, and a mentor of dozens of kids, I am aware that these things are not simple. I am enraged and greatly saddened everytime I read in the papers that yet another child has been killed at the hands of people who are meant to protect them. I am saddened that so many parents do not cherish and care for their kids. It is especially hard to think about situations in which our vulnerable children have been abused.

One of my sisters has a daughter now living in an abusive situation; I believe they call it the Stockholm syndrome, and she and the kids are hostage to the power of the man in the family. We try to wend our way through this, letting my niece know that she can call on us at any time

Another friend had a nanny who was abusive to her kids. She did not know this for a long time but it has marked them.

My daughter-in-law's father is now in prison for the abuses to his daughters. I think that so many of you out there have visceral knowledge of the abuse of power from an adult to a child.

In the United States we are still so weird and puritanical about sexual matters. We cannot speak of some things, yet we let our little girls be such sexual beings by dress and technology!

Maybe the sad case of Mark Foley will get a dialog going. Here was a lonely guy who didn't have the requisite family and he wanted the affirmation of youth? We fall back on religious stuff, but I always wonder if our religions protest too much?

I am suspect of politicians who have no visible family! How can they know about what it is to love to distraction their kids and grandkids?


There are so many terrible abuses our young have to endure! So many of our kids were abused by priests in their Catholic schools, many others by their families. What are we to think?

Life on the ranch

For the price of a medium used car we are now the owners of a herd of cattle: twenty commercial grade cows of various ages, a lame bull, and a tiny calf. These cows, with some substitutions over the years, have been here since we bought the place fifteen years ago. They were actually owned by a guy who ran them on our place, fixed fences, and the roads because we needed the cattle here for our agricultural tax exemption and to keep the open spaces "mowed".

This man had a stroke and became disabled. He needed to sell the cows. He was always pretty cheap with feed and fertilizer. But we didn't care, we didn't have to be concerned with anything but looking at those wonderfully pastoral creatures crunching with lowered heads,lowering the tax, smelling sweet with grass and in the distance.

With our dear neighbor, Warren, we decided to buy the herd. Warren would do the work and we'd see what profit could come of this. Warren knows cows and he knows the country so we feel secure there. I've had a few ideas about making this herd a grass fed, maybe organic operation, no hormones, no finishing the calves at feedlot. I check out library books on cattle husbandry and I avidly read "Progressive Farmer". We talk to our rancher neighbors about the price per pound of calves at market.

An article in the New York Times this week described people such as us as 'lifestyle' or 'hobby' farmers. I guess. For at least a while we will continue to deal with the cows as they have been. Warren has ideas about how to feed them more nutritiously. We talk about rotation of pastures. I think this new adventure will take time.

This morning, Andy had to make an errand run to the tractor supply company to get a new battery for the solar powered electric gate to the ranch. I went along because I love that place. He checked out the battery department (out of what we needed) and I swooned in the boots department, grooving on the sharp new leather smell of authentic boots, and then I tried on cowgirl hats. In the parking lot outside I had to stop where bands of small cub scouts were selling hot boiled (Bald) peanuts, hot dogs and popcorn to raise money for something. There were pony rides going on too, and the odors of the remembered leather boots, horse flesh, and trashy food were all mixed up.

I love this life! I love it for itself and I love it because I have other options. We had to stop at Farmers' Feed to see if they had the battery we needed. They did. I love this place too. I love the huge sign board they have up displaying the price of hay rolls, equestrian kibbles, cattle nutrition pellets, chickens, rabbit feed. I love talking to Tim, the manager about the difference between onion plants and onion sets, which kind of collards is best.

When I was in the fifth grade we took something called the Kuder Preference Test. This was supposed to indicate what we would really like to do in our future lives. I came out equally as forest ranger, artist, and social worker. This has proved to be true! Maybe not quite forest ranger, but certainly I have that deep interest in everything that lives outdoors (cows!). My days are mostly spent in artistic activities, and I have been a teacher all my life.

The herd of cows, ours, are now moving past my studio. Now that we have a fence there, they cannot come into the courtyard. I think they are looking at the cucumber vine and the tubs of chrysanthemums out of reach.

Many of you read this and e-mail me. That's great, and thank you. But it isn't really hard to sign onto a blog so you can comment and be part of a dialog. Just try it. You won't lose your soul.

Late in the afternoon when the shadows were long on the meadows and we could get a whiff of some cool autumn air, we went out in the golf cart. Andy was driving, Quincy our almost-two year old grandson, and Lola the dachshund were packed in between us. It seemed like heaven.

Quincy is here for the third overnight with his grandparents. He's a very secure little guy, has his routine, loves everything. We drove up from the city this morning and he didn't say a word. I pointed out some things to him and he paid attention as I could see in his big eyes in the rear view mirror. But mostly he was busy sucking his thumb and fondling his 'lovey'.

When we arrived he immediately went about exploring his familiar places, lovey forgotten. He wanted to connect with his favorite cupbords and he wanted to climb onto our high canopied bed, check out our voice mail, see if the remotes were in order. I had been awake since very early and actually wanted to check my e-mail, be an adult. No way!

But the day passed so quickly. I just kick back and spend time under the pear tree watching our youngest grandson look at the fish and the snails in the water lily pond. I gave him a spray bottle of water so he could spray the fish, good for at least a half hour while I weeded out the spent water lilies and the abundant anacharis,and watered the garden beds.

With kids, everything is new and slow. Everything needs attention. I see this even in the local primary class where I volunteer one day a week. These kids are somewhat older, but they are still little. I am coming to understand the terrible disconnect between what we know about child development and what is expected from those wonderful public school teachers.

In the various permutations of the no child left behind act, it plays out that almost every child will be left behind because they are always being pulled out of class to be tested or tutored or tweaked in some way. I have never been in a class that didn't have several children pulled out in the middle of an activity. This week, for the first time, we took all the kids outside (Yikes!) to plant seeds for a garden. So, when the 'pull out' people came for the kids, they were nowhere to be found. They were outdoors planting bean seeds and scattering wildflowers.

Our grown up kids

A lot of us retirees and older workers have grown children. Some of us are fortunate to have them living in the near-by community so we get to see them often. Two of my three children live thousands of miles away. We get together several times a year.

Adult children often have no idea what their parents are thinking or feeling. It was a seamless thing to segue into adulthood; the parents will always be the same. But we aren't! We are changing, maybe even more radically than they are.

A few years ago, my husband had major surgery for prostate cancer in a city far away from here. I had no idea at the time how hard this would be for me to do alone. On the day after the surgery I knew I needed help. Two of my kids were unavailable, but our middle son dropped his work and family obligations, not easy, and came down to help me. He was wonderfully supportive in every way and only left to return to his work and family when it was clear that we could manage. I will always be thankful to him.

This same son came for a week to say good-bye to his dying grandmother. He sat by her bedside, heard her stories, made closure. His older brother had earlier spent many hours in the hospital with his grandmother. My daughter met me when I flew east with my mother's body, in the town where my mother wanted to be buried. My daughter had arranged the rental car, the hotel, everything. I was exhausted after hours of funeral, jet lag, grief, rain. I remember the wet autumn leaves plastered to the pavement when we attended the burial.

These children of ours (for all of us), come through when it counts. On a daily, weekly, monthly basis, I wonder what they are thinking, or do they think about us at all? Are they at all interested in us as persons with interests, talents, lives? As parents, we all tell our kids what we are about. But sometimes I wonder what it would take for an adult child to ask, very simply, "Hey, Mom or Dad, what are you doing today?"

They take it for granted that we would tell them if we about to croak. They take it for granted that we love to have their children in our space. (We do!)

I try and think back on the times when we were in the same circumstances with our parents and I can't come up with anything positive. We did talk about our parents but I am not sure we let them know how much we cared about what they were doing. Maybe we didn't.

Having a daughter is certainly a corrective. We speak on the phone most days. We know what each other is doing. I rejoice in knowing her small son. But, like my sons, she never does ask me or her father what we found important to do this day.

I wish I could be a young adult again, knowing what I now do, so I could really truly ask my parents and my husband's parents, because I really cared, "Tell me, what are you dong now? What interests you?"

Mulch

My newly planted vegetable garden is thriving under its bed of mulch. For several years I have only put mulch on this garden. I use old rotted hay, sawdust, compost, vegetable parings, grass clippings, spanish moss, dried cow pies, leaves and whatever else comes to hand. When the time comes for planting, I make rows or holes and plant the seeds or seedlings. This way, I have very few weeds, and I get wonderful crops. Mulch!

A wonderful teacher in my school a number of years ago described her teaching as "mulch". This teacher, Ann, said that she introduced such a number of things to her kids, took them on field trips, had so many wonderful projects going in her classroom because she looked at it as mulch. "They won't remember everything, but they'll have it as mulch for their brains."

Intellectual mulch is having had many many experiences, opportunities to ask and wonder and get competent. Mulch is being read to on a daily basis, going out to look at the natural world, listening to experts, feeling free to ask any question, going on field trips, dropping everything to go and see something wonderful happening such as a pod of manatees in the bay or interesting birds in the trees.

When I went in to visit my old school I could see the tracks of mulch. Last week we had an earthquake in Florida, an amazing event! Immediately, the teachers perceived this as a teachable moment, not to be dismissed. They got in some experts, put up maps of plate techtonics, got a unit going about this and volcanoes! Kids were doing projects on volcanoes and the movement of plates. The kids were excited and wanted to tell me about this.

At the public school where I volunteer, my day was wonderful too. There was some breakthrough on reading (I think.) But in this place of no windows to the outside in any way, no one brought up the topic of the earthquake or anything else that was happening in the outside world. The theme of the week was "teeth", not to be trifled with. The mulch was so thin! (In the teachers' lounge there is no newspaper, no periodical, nothing!)

In the beginning of the day these kids look at the t.v. monitor, pledge allegiance to the flag, sing an off-tune rendition of "My Country 'Tis of thee", and get down to business. And the business is FCAT, nevermind that they are developmentally really too young to be readers.

These kids need to be mulched! They need to play, to paint, sing, dance, play with blocks, to create their own games. They need to get outside and exercise their bodies. They need to look at the natural world, wonder at ant lions and butterflies.

But there isn't time. Jeb and his bro say that no child should be left behind.

The Tribe

When my mother was growing older, going from the old-elderly to the old-old, we wanted her to leave her house and move to a continued care facility where she would be looked after in the daily details of life. We looked at a number of attractive places (I thought!) She looked carefully and always said, "This is too much like boarding school" and she wouldn't go. At the time I didn't really understand what she was getting at. I think she was reacting to the prospect of living only with people her age, seeing only one small slice of life on a daily basis.

A few months ago we went to a 65th birthday party for a beloved friend. It was a lovely gathering, a wonderful dinner, good conversation. But as we drove home it dawned on me that what was missing at this wonderful party was the harmony of people of different ages. Everyone at this party was the same age! All of us, the Q-tips in a certain stage of life, talking about our retirement plans, the trips we want to do, the community presence we all are, had a certain complaisance about being the age we are.

We, family and friends are a tribe, and a tribe includes people of all ages. I feel really comfortable when the people surrounding me range from small babies to the very elderly. Babies and small kids, especially teenagers, are messy and needy. They get in my space and they require a lot of tending, physical and emotional. This is what makes me alive!

I'm glad when they come, and I'm glad when they leave. Each summer we have several groups of 'not related' kids, as well as our grandsons, come to stay on the ranch. And from time to time, college age kids come for a weekend. I love this tribal feeling of people connecting who love each other. They stay in the main house, or if they're older, in the guest house. We congregate for good meals, we talk our heads off, we spend time making things in the studios and they help in the garden or in the pastures.

It's quantity time, not quality time. The kids just hang out. They help with the cooking, feel free to use anything we have. (Just put it back!) Andy and I are somewhat oblivious so we're not uptight about swimming towels or taking out the garbage. Eventually, everything gets done.

This summer when Katie, Maddy, and Alex came, they did a fantastic job helping me in the garden - weeding, mulching and preparing for the new fall planting. Stephan and Phil can always be counted upon to collect cow pies for the asparagus bed. Diego and Pablo cooked and made many items in the studios. I look forward to seeing Ariel and her brother Michael. The college students are so tired that all they want to do is veg out! Our tribe keeps in touch! I love hearing how they're doing in college. I'll be meeting Julie in Paris this October. (I've known her since birth)

When we celebrate birthdays and holidays we have all ages here! My sisters, Irene and Maria, and my brother Brooks, are sometimes here for festivities, sometimes not. Sometimes our sons, Chris and Ben, and nephew Dan and daughters, Elizabeth and Gina, celebrate holidays with us. But I am not counting. We are a tribe, family and friends of all ages. Whoever is here, we'll have a party!

Bugs!

Driving the twenty-five miles to Lakeland today I could hear the constant raindrop splatter on my windshield, not of rain, but of the love bugs. The windshield washer won't clean them off so I drove peering through a smear. Every September and every April we have to endure these pests. They don't sting or carry any diseases I know of. They are just there in such numbers, insinuating themselves into any open door or window, flying slowly in tandem, intent on their inner karma. Then they die in piles on the windowsills and floors, and of course on our cars. So we all become love bug undertakers for a few weeks twice a year.

But when the love bugs come it is also the glorious peak season of the spiders and the butterflies. The hummingbirds left right on schedule for their flight back to Mexico on September 4th. I haven't seen any monarchs lately. Perhaps they drafted a ride back to Mexico with the ruby throats.

The late summer wildflowers and the butterfly attractors I've planted are covered with a moving mist of colors. Yellow sulphers seem to love the native red sage and the Mexican petunias are covered with white peacocks and giant swallowtails. Zebra longwings love the passionflower vines. I spend time meandering around the yard, delighted with this late summer extravaganza. Occasionally, I'll see a caterpillar. I'm finding the Audubon butterfly handbook pretty good at helping me identify them.

By far the very best of the September wildlife around here is the spider population. I find these creatures so beautiful and fascinating. Those HUGE golden orb weavers are strong women! It has been a bountiful summer for them and they are very large, and getting bigger with each love bug they ingest. They have amazing fluffy leggings on their legs. There are at least six of them in near proximity to my daily routes. There is the one we have to duck under who has made her web across the walkway from the porch door. Her spouse, a tiny skinny guy, waits patiently (and warily) in the periphery of her web. He's hoping for a gig some night.

This morning I saw a huge owl take off and I wanted a closer look. Striding down the lane into the woods, I ran into a huge mess of sticky golden web. I did the Florida Flap, a kind of whole body dance step we all do when we unexpectedly get into too close contact with the insect fauna. These golden orb weavers, at maturity, must have a leg span of about four or five inches. They make a two layer web; the orb is backed up with a layer of untidy silk. They sit at the center, very much in charge.

I also like the yellow garden orbweavers, the argiopes,who adorn their webs with amazing zig-zags. These spiders seem more polite somehow, not so showy, and not so in your face as the golden silk spiders.

When my grandchildren or other kids come, if the evening is clear, we go out and do "spider eyes". We walk in the grass and hold flashlights on our heads between our eyes. We look at the ground. I tell them to look for lights sparkling like diamonds, keep it in view and zero in with the flashlight. They are charmed that every single time they can find a spider on the ground. I think these are some sort of wolf spider.

I have lived in the northeast for many years so I know about the bugs they have there. No roaches! They do have those horrid black flies, gnats that stay all summer and make any outside activity an endurance contest, and the prevalence of disease-bearing ticks to scare any normal person who just wants to hike in the woods. Give me Florida any day or season. Our bugs are huge, and with the exception of love bugs, they are interesting if you want to get aquainted, and avoidable if you don't. Yes, I am considering the mosquito population. I do live on the edge of the Green Swamp. We keep our old tires drained, pay attention to any standing water, and use mosquito dunks. We have no problem.

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Killing Our Children's Minds and Souls

There were a few moments today while I volunteered in my primary age classroom in the local public school when I considered quitting, or at least changing my station to something mindless. I could put up bulletin boards - but there aren't any. I could tend the school garden- but no one has any time to plant and water and wonder. All time is devoted to the FCAT, the no child left behind act.
I appeared on schedule with my bulging sacks; I had paints and brushes and styrofoam plates to decorate with this week's theme of "teeth". (I have to bring absolutely everything.) I had a sack of bleached skulls with teeth I had collected on the farm. There were skulls of alligators and boars and smaller ones I could not identify. And lots of teeth. I had a mountain of fresh fruits and vegetables for the kids to chomp with their own teeth. I had twenty lovely picture books from the library. I had a new bookshelf for the classroom which Andy made in an afternoon.
Here's what happens in a typical classroom: the kids come in after breakfast in the cafeteria. They have been trained to go immediately and quietly to work. They spend all week on a certain book, 'teeth' this week. It is probably the most unappealing book I have ever seen, no color, printed on cheap paper. It's identical to the huge colored book that resides each week on the easel at the front of the class. The prose, simple for primary kids, is unbelievably boring. Obviously there is a controlled vocabulary of fewer than twenty words. By Tuesday, most of the kids know it by heart, but these patient and good kids know that they will have to struggle with it all week like a gray used towel on the floor, appearing in front of them for days. They are interupted by the required Pledge of Allegiance, coming from a large TV, and everyone sings "My Country Tis of Thee".
Now it's back to the book of the week and the various canned worksheets before them on the tables. The kids seem dispirited and resigned. There is no spark of interest anywhere to be found. They look expectantly at my bulging sacks. In every available free second the teacher goes to her computer to tend to the endless paperwork involved in the program so that no child will be left behind.
I go around and whisper encouragement from kid to kid. Justin wants to know if I brought food today. Kelbie, eyes shining, tells me that she brought the promised Florida pear from her very own tree. Tommy, the only capable reader, tells me he wants me to read one of my books. I tell him he can help me choose it. Adrian, so bright and bored, the bad boy, must know he's such a favorite with me. I'm looking forward to seeing what Felix, a wonderful artist, will do with the painting project I have in mind. Melissa follows me around.
There are no windows in this room, no toys or blocks, no art center, no science center, few inviting books on a child's level, no pets. There is no time for anything but those horrid weekly books. The teaching is completely scripted. This is so disrespectful to a teacher, I think, reducing the job to technician.
'My' teacher is the same age as my oldest child. She's obviously really good. She's patient and good like her students. She's driven to have her students up to the high mark, and if anyone ever could, she does everything to make them succeed by the program. I love it when I see a few glimpses of her individuality, when she extends the lesson, drops the script, and talks to them, sometimes in German, about some fact or other that might come up.
But she hews to the program. Doggedly, she makes these pre-literate kids write their daily output just as FCAT requires in five steps, nevermind that most of the kids can't read yet, much less write anything. And certainly, who would want to write about that boring stuff that isn't what your heart wants to write? (My Dad got drunk and drove off last night) They love their teacher, and clearly, they know she loves them.
Most kids really do not learn to read until they are at least seven years old. (Why are we teaching a dog to talk?) Kids need to have many experiences, lots of them physical. FCAT has no emotional content, important for someone who is five or fifteen! At this school the kids get only two half hour recesses each week! They never see the light of day. Aargh!
Back to today:
I am patiently waiting for my opportunity to grab a bit of time for our art activity. But, to my dismay, the teacher says that only the kids who have done a good job on their homework (Homework??! for seven year olds?) can participate. I am devastated. I was so eager to see what Felix, or Adrian, or Marisol or Justin would do. I had no input about homework, of course, so this was a great blow. I signal the 'bad' kids with my eyebrows that I understand, get back to you later, buddy. Later, I told the teacher that this wasn't a part of my deal. I volunteer to teach all the kids. I am not into punitive actions, FCAT be damned.
What I know is that the reason a third of our children do not graduate from high school is that the public school system has killed their minds and souls. We need to rethink this. FCAT is not the answer.

New Fence

Bruce, the handyman who knows how to do everything, came over today and installed a lovely fence with two gates between the studios. I have never been so enthusiastic about anything. This encloses the space between Andy's woodshop and my studio so that the cows can't come in and wreak havoc by night. Now I can think about planting some shrubs and flowers (deer-proof) and being able to walk barefoot in this new space. What gardening potential!
It happened just in time. After Bruce finished with the new fence, the cowboys came with their dogs and horses to round up the calves who were to be sold. They had two long trailers to take away the eighteen calves. Right now the cows are bellowing and screaming for their young (now each more than six hundred pounds!) Tonight I hear the cows enraged, crying for their young- and, no doubt, wanting to drop many non-verbal negative messages between the studios. But they can't! Thanks to Bruce.
I always knew from the time I was a small child that I wanted very much to be connected to the natural world. I love being here on a farm where all I can see in any direction is my own land. I love showing my grandson Quincy the enormous golden orb weaver spiders, doodle bugs in the sand, wild pigs, tortoise holes.
I look forward to the times when we can walk out in the full moon, as we have done with our older grandchildren and many other kids. There are no fences or gates, no flashlights, as we walk through the round field and over the culvert and to the lane that leads to the last field. The full moon makes everything bright. You can see fireflies blinking in the palmettos and you believe, as you hold a small hand tightly in yours, that anything is possible even in this impossible world.

Remembering 9/11

September 10, 2006

Every American will mark in some way this fifth aniversary of that terrible day. We all have the memories of where we were, what we did and thought. I went back to look at my journal of that sad and alarming time. Andy and I came up to the ranch the weekend following the disaster. There was a tropical storm, constant rain and the power was out. We were so agitated that all we could do was walk about in the rain- sodden fields, criss-crossing through the grass as the skies wept and we cried. I very much wanted to have my entire family huddled close and never go away again. On that terrible day we watched the towers go over and over again on television as if by watching we might somehow expunge the images. We had spent anxious hours trying to connect with our daughter who lived in Washington and worked downtown. Finally we did and she was o.k. Everyone has these stories.

Five years later the world seems so much more complicated, really so much more threatening. We've gotten over anthrax powder, wrapping our homes in vinyl, colored security alerts. We're getting used to taking off our shoes in airports. But lots of us will never get used to having our citizen rights curtailed. Some of us still revere our Constitution.

After 9/11 I think that many people became better consumers of information. We learned what we could about Islam, the geography of the Middle East, global warming and oil. We learned a lot of disgusting things about the venality of our present administration (both parties!).

I can feel so depressed about our country five years after 9/11. I do know that three of my six grandchildren have been born since that fateful day. Should this give me hope?

Personal Space

When Andy and I were working all the time there was a definite schedule to our comings and goings. I left the house before seven and he had a couple of hours to read the paper and do whatever he did before he left for work. I returned to the house between four and five and it gave me time to read the paper, catch up on things, shed my shoes, walk the dog.
Andy came home after six in time to cook dinner and chat. After cleaning up the kitchen I went to my office on the bottom floor to finish the day's work, and he went to his lair on the top floor to do whatever he needed to do. Many weeks Andy had to travel to other cities for work. Rarely, I would accompany him. Mostly, when I was here and he was there, we spoke a lot on the phone. But both of us had a certain amount of autonomy.
I am not a foodie. I love the usual evening dinners Andy cooks for me, never a repeat, always something interesting and appealing. But when he is not home, I just eat to live. Baked potatoes, cottage cheese, a whole tomato,a peach, nuts, lots of fruit- and all of it at strange times when my stomach tells me it is time to feed it.
Now that we are here together much of the time I think about what it means to have personal space. We have this huge farm! It's always possible to go somewhere by oneself. I have my studio and Andy has his woodshop. For the first time in many years we do not have multitudes of kids in our space.
But yet, we share the bathroom off the master bedroom. I think I have to be quick with the shower because someone else is waiting. I could take my potions and lotions and dentle floss up to the guest bathroom. But so far I haven't.
We are arranging our new personal space. I know he thinks of the same issues. It's just that for so many years we had our own space and times. Now, it has to be renegotiated. We are tender about each other's needs for having privacy, but it isn't easy.

Community Affairs

When I was working full tilt I didn't have time to be a thoughtful board member of community organizations. Yes, I did a few, but the meetings happened when I had already put in nine or more hours of work as a teacher/director of our school. I left the hard work to 'others' who were retired or didn't work at a 'real' job. I didn't really pay attention to the financial spread sheets and I let it slide onto others (the elderly and retired!) to attend to the nuts and bolts of whichever non-profit I was supposed to be helping.
As a very young person working in an art museum and in charge of docents, I spurned those well-meaning community volunteers as people who could not be counted upon. They came in on uncertain schedules, and I, working for pay, could not understand where they were coming from. I dismissed them as ladies in white gloves with money, Junior Leaguers, and men who didn't have anything else to do.
And now, I am them! I don't belong to the Junior League, my fingernails are gritty with Florida sand, but now is the time when I am a comitted volunteer. I have been so arrogant! Our American life counts upon the legions of volunteers in all aspects of our culture! I think about the people who build homes for low income people, the folks who are still working in the New Orleans area to restore a liveable life, the people who go to foreign lands because they believe that people should be free of AIDS, or malaria or cleft palates.
I am a believer in giving people tools to help themselves. It was important to me to construct a school program to fund a Heifer International project.
So now I am excited to be a community volunteer. I work one day a week in a local public school ( one of the poorest in the nation and state). I am an activist on several community boards. I believe that one needs to give back to the world. The people who do this are the ones who make our country what it tries to be. It may sound naive, but I think that to do this is to be a good American.

Living on the land

September 2, 2006

Whenever I visit anywhere else I am pleased that my feet and fingernails are smooth and clean. It is quite different here; it rains intermittently and we are both out for several hours each day. In the pasture Andy tracks down the soda apples, an invasive weed. He fixes the fences and takes his chain saw to trim back fallen wood. He mows the pastures and the verges of our mile long driveway.
Beginning of September, and it is time to get the vegetable garden in. Even though I have been attending to the garden all summer, mulching, weeding and anticipating, the hard work is now before me. It is tropical heat and humidity so I try and get in three hours of work early in the morning.
We are so dirty all the time! This is Florida muck- black, sandy, clingy. I have to bleach just about everything and each of us uses at least three changes of clothing each day. And it is a major time burner to pick the 'hitch hikers' off our clothing.
Today I finished the work of getting everything out of the vegetable garden to be ready for the new arrivals. The beautiful, but marred with mildew, zinias had to go. There were several eggplants still producing, as well as peppers, so I left those. I put in three new tomato plants and some very hot peppers. By this time I was definitely wilting in the sun so I spent the next couple of hours pruning the plants by the swimming pool, adding compost to the containers,attending to the mealy bugs on the key lime tree, cleaning the pool deck. By now it was time to shuck off my clothes and go for a long cooling swim.
Going back to the house I noticed so many areas needing pruning back. Living here in the near tropics one needs to beat back the wild growth every single day. Showering on the back porch, I noticed the grape vines all over the place- little shop of horrors! Wasp nests over the shower head, barking tree frogs right here, some shoes left over from a few weeks ago, now enclosed by grape tendrils.
I love living here where the air is sweet, the stars are vivid, the creatures make room for me. I love doing the hard physical labor it takes to make this my home. I think I may even be able to come to term with the cows!