If you could see her now. She's tucked the spotted stuffed bunny her dear friend Anna gave her and puffy pink Olivia from her sweet friends Leesa and El under one tiny little arm. Her other hand cradles her perfect little girl face. She's snuggled and completely zonked under the rosy quilt on my bed, at least until daddy gets home and moves her to her own little pink palace.

Precious. A pearl. Glorious. My little girly.

It was Pooh Bear's very first soccer practice ever this evening, and she's plum tuckered out. She had to wear the entire game day outfit even though game day is next Saturday. It took her half an hour to get dressed. The shorts, the smallest AYSO has to offer, are far and away too large, so we gathered the waist to half it's size with a draw string. It took two tries to get the neon orange socks as long as the Amazon River to fit just right in her new pink soccer shoes. The shin guards velcroed around and met at the back of skinny her calves. I stood amazed at practice as she jumped at every command of her terrific coaches like the best dog in obedience school.
Pooh Bear shares the team with another splendid tough girl and some very aggressive real little boys, but she's hanging right in there. Personally, I'm not sure how I'd handle four pint sized monsters stomping around my legs, but she plowed her own way through the mob like the boy in Where the Wild Things Are.

There's probably nothing much more humorous or spellbinding than a hive of familiar five year olds buzzing around a ball.

I can go to bed now. I've documented another first on my blog for her. I get a hint of melancholy realizing she's my last chance at firsts. Time's a swirling away and I'm running after his old coat tails...

Inside Scoop

Fatigue. Is that something you want the air traffic controller or pilots to be experiencing while you fly?

So did fatigue play any role in the plane crash in Lexington, Ky. last week? You bet it did.
The pilots flew on the turn around shift after little sleep. Normal? Oh, yes. The air traffic controller had a grand total of two hours sleep in 24 hours. A common occurance? Absolutely.

Anyone out there wonder why there was only one air traffic controller on duty in Lexington that morning? The FAA is cutting costs and corners all over the place including in refusing to staff two controllers during the quiet hours of midnight to six a.m. The controller in that tower was forced to consolidate his tower and radar duties as noone else was scheduled to help. It happens everyday across this nation. Do you think him checking the radar or on some other plane after confirming the correct runway with the pilots of that flight puts him at fault? Marian Blakely, head of the FAA, is either blatantly lying or does not have the slightest understanding of how air traffic controlling works when she proclaimed something along the lines of, "Whether or not another person had been there, the crash in Lexington would have happened anyway." That unfortunate controller could have visually followed that wayward plane if he had not had other duties, like radar, for which another controller could have been responsible.

This summer, 36% of congress failed to vote for further negotiations between the FAA and the National Air Traffic Controllers Association (NATCA) specifically on the issues of safety and fatigue imposed by the FAA cost cutting measures. The FAA painted air traffic controllers as whiney, greedy and lazy, and for some unknown reason, 36% of congress agreed. Maybe, just maybe congress will wake from its slumber to re-evaluate. The FAA is becoming an enemy of the people rather than the government servant it is intended to be.

A personal reflection
My sweet husband leaves the house a little after 5 a.m. on Monday to be at work by 6 a.m. He arrives home around 3 p.m. He rarely tries to nap as it's the middle of the day and because we'll have a family dinner, soccer for Wise One, Scouts for Peace, dance for Pooh Bear, and soccer in another town for Tater in the few hours between his next shift. He'll leave the same Monday evening for work around 10 p.m. and return after 7 a.m. on Tuesday. Though study after study indicates a nap produces better work, the FAA has completely ruled out napping on breaks. And of course, no breaks are allowed when the last controller leaves my husband at midnight in the tower alone until the next shift workers appear at 6 a.m. Yes, you read that correctly. NO breaks, not even for the potty or a drink from midnight to 6 a.m. in the event no other controller is scheduled or one gets sick. My buddies Helen and Clay tell me they'd be sued to kingdom come if they didn't provide appropriate breaks for their private business employees. However, my husband's employee IS the government and the FAA makes the rules.


Why so much fatigue in air traffic controllers besides the crazy hours?

There is a national shortage of air traffic controllers.
Philadelphia is 40 controllers short. No to worry, Albaquerque Center lacks 100 necessary employees. Even little old Knoxville will be short very soon as many retire under harsh FAA treatment. And the FAA has the nerve to insist NATCA consider their unwanted measures to be some sort of contract without any kind of vote. Believe me, the FAA would not get a favorable vote from NATCA members at this point.

And the strategy of the FAA to overcome the shortage?

Pay new people off the street less than miniumum wage to train and offer the top salary of $31,000 per year after whether they work at O'Hare or Knoxville. And how safe does it sound to hire people off the street to work at the busiest airport in the nation anyway?

AND

Mandatory overtime for controllers, 10 hour shifts, 6 days a week.

I am not joking.

No guaranteed vacation. If a family plans a trip, air traffic controllers can be called back to work smack dab in the middle.

Breaks, which formerly were scheduled every two hours for safety reasons, are no longer neccesary at all according to the FAA.

Sick days can be denied. Wouldn't a nice case of diaherria coupled with no breaks equal disaster?

FAA policy: Work ones who hold thousands of lives in their hands harder and longer.

If you think this is a bad idea, you might just want to drop a note saying so to your congressman. Ours apparently finds my husband and all others in his professsion to be whiney, lazy, and greedy.

A friend of mine is teaching Good Shepherd work in Uganda for one month. This was something she sent from her journal today:

Peace is the source of life. (Kenya)
If you cannot resolve your problems in peace, you cannot solve war. (Somalia)
The weak long for revenge but the strong seek justice. (South Africa)
Those who refuse to forgive break a bridge on which they must pass. (Cameroon)
Peace is like a treasure that shall never part from you. (Kenya)
Never break the pot that keeps you together. (Kenya)
Peace is the mother of friendship. (Sierra Leon)
To agree together is to make progress. (Tanzania)
A united family eats from the same plate. (Uganda)
If there is love there is peace. (Swahili)
If you offend, ask pardon; if offended, forgive. (Ethiopia)
The happiness of a single [wo]man causes peace to all. (Ethiopia)

Claire thinks I need some serious sensitivity training. She agreed to rehabilitate two abandoned newborn squirrels, and finds my objections to be profoundly sad. Rehabilitation means feeding the varmints formula every three hours by a syringe and doing what their mother would normally do to get them to eliminate afterwards, cleaning their cage, regulating their temperature, clearing up their diarrhea, and other endless tasks I can't fathom doing for a creature that looks just like a nasty rat. Claire insisted I drop by and see how very cute and cuddly they were. Call me crazy, but I have no interest in baby squirrels unless it's to watch them do what squirrels do in the wild. On rare occasions, I find the creatures to be amusing to observe. I certainly don't want to ever touch one. It gives me the hebee jebees just thinking about it.
Apparently the squirrels have opened their eyes, and are becoming much more active this last week. All the more reason for me to stay clear. Imagine one escaping and madly racing about the house.
Claire has a grandma who has passed on, and Claire thinks when I meet her grandma in the afterlife, (she was another bright woman who also did not dig squirrels either) we'll walk together down a glistening heavenly path to a squirrel refuge to snuggle and care for baby winged angel squirrels who departed earth too soon. Claire believes the scales of squirrel prejudice will melt away from my heart when I set foot through the pearly gates. She thinks I lack squirrel compassion.
Personally, I think Grandma and I will slap our knees, hoot and holler over the fact that God will not allow squirrels upstairs, because they simply aren't as cute, let's say, as goats. Now there is an animal in which to dedicate one's time.

The more I think about it, the funnier it gets.

Picture this in your mind's eye. My sista's biker husband, Harley, most likely wearing black leather, enters the airport the very first day of the "liquid scare" holding my bouncing baby niece dressed head to toe in pink. Noone knows why, but suddenly all liquids are banned from carry on bags. Harley immediately becomes uncomfortable realizing he's carrying a very important yet odd liquid which must pass through security. He asks a security guard who assures him the liquid may NOT board the plane, but Harley knows hell will pay if this particular substance is left behind. Harley is directed to a posted listing of possible exceptions. He wipes his brow in relief, kisses baby Kelby on her tiny dainty nose, and proceeds to the security checkpoint when he finds his cargo listed as not banned. He reaches the security persons busily checking bags, takes in a deep breath, and opens his carry on.

Security Person: "Sir, all liquids are banned. You may not take these items on the plane as they contain liquid."
Harley: "I checked the list, and this is an exception."
Security Person: "What exactly is this?"
Harley coughs and mutters into his leather jacket's arm: "Brmlk."
Security Person: "Please, speak up sir."
Harley looking around and sighing: "It's my wife's breastmilk."

In England, he would have had to take a sip to prove it harmless. So, did Harley raise his fist in the air and proclaim, "God bless America?"

My Tator turned eleven yesterday. Buck wondered out loud if his birthmom may have been thinking of him. I paused to bless her again for the gift he is to our family.

Tator invited a whole slew of boys to the Cove, a lovely park with a nice swimmin' hole. Then the crowd came home with us for an overnight.

The boys stayed up late and got up early as any group of friends might to pack the most fun into a day. When I sleepily made my way to the kitchen this morning some were playing board games quietly and some were sharing comics on the couches, "Do you like this- when Calvin pretends to be rabid by foaming his mouth up with toothpaste?" and "My move. Spy disarms your bomb." I am amazed at the maturity of these young men. They all used to run around like screaming madman day and night, inside and out, but those times have faded and made way for a more civilized troop. They self limit their riots to the outdoors now.

Buck dug up a hilarious video from Tator's birthday seven years ago which only one of the bunch hadn't attended. Everyone laughed until we cried. The little ones have turned into mighty awesome young men. And talk about polite! How many boys between ten and fifteen nowadays speak in complete sentences let alone remember to include "Please" and "Thanks" to boot?

We are blessed to have these families in our lives. Blessed to call them friends.

Why? Why on earth did critics pan it? Did they feel fooled by the poor marketing strategy into thinking it would be a horror film of some kind? Is that what disappointed them? Did they fall asleep watching? Though I can’t see how? Was it the plain title? Buck had a very funny explanation, but it gives away a tiny secret in the movie, and I couldn't do that to anyone. My guess it that these movie critics went in spiritually deadened or dull. They did not have ears to hear or eyes to hear the incredibly powerful message of hope and destiny in parable form.

I went into Lady in the Water hoping it might just speak to Buck’s heart for his forty second birthday. We both walked out after the movie choked up, unable to speak for a while. Then once we began to unravel the parable together, we couldn’t stop. I was caught up for a while in the character of Story and her unfolding meanings- the poor, the vulnerable, sacred history, the church , the innocent, those who cannot speak for themselves but impact our world with their very presence. Buck was undone by the respected man who exclaimed, “We want all it to be true!” Yes, we do, sir.

I wouldn’t dare ruin anything for you with details. Every inch tells us the best and only way it will all work out is to discover for ourselves in community.

One caution for sensitive viewers- the lurking enemy in the story is terribly frightening, much like our very real enemies. I for one, did not think this to be overdone or just for effect. There seemed to be purpose and meaning in every particular of film; where there was evil, special provision was given to overcome it.

I do not enjoy watching movies a second time, but when this one comes out on DVD, I’d like to buy it- and I have never once bought a single movie for myself before. Then I intend to share it with two or three particular groups of dear friends and asking the following questions,

“What is it that we going to do as a community?”

and

"What are the gifts we've laid down and refused to use because they've became to painful?"

What questions did the movie bring up for you?

techincal blues

Why haven't I blogged lately?

I haven't had time. I've spent every last free moment performing multiple tasks to enable my computer to continue service with the rather unhelpful and unmoveable online-school-who-shall-remain-nameless-for-the-moment. Last weekend, the nameless-and-obviously unconcerned-online-school updated their security which left "a handful" of unimportant and insignificant dial-up homeschoolers coughing in the dust!

Have I mentioned before how very much I'd like to have DSL in my home, but Charter, the only company who would actually came out and survey the prospect, considers my home to be in an inaccesable location? I'm thinking of sticking my three boys in overalls, forcing shovels into their grubby little hands, equipping the trio with a strand of cable a half mile long, handing the rascals a cellphone with the number for Charter on speed dial, then barring the door until I can casually sit at my desk and access the internet through a cable in less than the twinkle of an eye. Don't worry, the working children can drink all they want from the green garden hose, there are plenty of tomatoes in the garden to eat, and they can kill a chicken and cook it over a fire if they develop a need for a protein source while digging to China and back.

OR maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't have to commit my boys to a chain gang if the unmentioned-and-currently-extremly- irrtitating-online-school could come up with a simple way for me to log in again. Like, for example, the simple way that existed before their updates last weekend?

As it stands now, I must dial up AOL and then disable the accelerator. To tell the honest truth, before Thursday I didn't know what or where the accelerator was located, but with some quality time spent with a chipper technical help assistant, I got an education. The techie, however, did not inform me that if I disable the accelerator before I log on to AOL, AOL would pitch a hissy fit and toss me offline every five seconds and subsequently would desperately try to reconnect in some vicious circle which lasted as long as the contestant played. (I competed more times than I'd ever like to admit.) Now after the accelerator is disabled, I cruise right onto the online school's website. No problem. The page boast on the best of education, great service, easy access blah, blah, blah. Next I click ols (online school) which may or may not lead me to a log in page. My husband says, "If you stick out your tongue and lift your right foot while pressing the keyboard key, it most likely will work." If the computer gods are with me and in a good mood, I might be able to cheerfully type in my username and password. But here's the major hitch, mostly the page loads, and loads, and loads, and loads, until well, it doesn't really load. Carefully and constantly repeat these steps for between one half to one full hour and maybe my account eventually pops up. Buck thinks pointing at the screen, winking, and yelling at the top of his lungs, "That's what I'm talking about!" enhances the process. I suppose he's right, because it definately gets a giggle from me.

Did I mention that last week, before the online school made updates, the process was quite mundane? Painless even?

I have left a message for a technical supervisor to call me back. I'm quite certain this will have absolutely no effect, but when I mention my highly public blog disclosing the name of his company, that'll get some action, boy howdy!

School woes

My oldest son Peace is wrestling with the whole "school is boring" thing. And it's not because he has a huge load of work. His co-op doesn't start till next week, so I've given him a little writing, dictation, a few problems of math, a simple assignment to help his sister, and a science or history diddy due every day until he begins his courses.

I do not remember ever even thinking, "Why do I have to do schoolwork?" or "Algebra and writing are useless." I just went to school and did the best I could in every single subject. Everyday.

So what do I do with an apathetic seventh grader? We attended orientation at the co-op last night, and I watched in horror as the teachers went over their expectations while he played with the lead in his mechanical pencil. Good night! Not a great start.

This is my child who attended a public magnet school in kindergarten and first grade. He intimately knows the tedium of school and begged me to never send him back- Peace wanted to be outside in the spring, not stuck at a desk, same as me. So a one day a week co-op with four days of assignments to follow seems like a good compromise for this year. I spent the last few years stalking him during homeschool to keep him on task which made me feel like some kind of academic ogre. Now I've enlisted the help of four other monsters to take over torturing the boy.

I worry I won't find the fine balance between supporting him and doing for him in order that he'll make the grade. Grades for him have been in my hands for the last five years, and I simply had him do his work until it was correct. Now I have other teachers in the mix who'll evaluate.

I suppose transition is always an unfamiliar and therefore a somewhat uncomfortable place. I'm in that awkward place as a mom and feel the chaffing rub. God help me get things right with this son.

Write Away From Singapore

I'm adding a dear friend, new to the blogging world, to my blogroll.

Write Away From Singapore

Heather and I met a zillion years ago- yes, dinosaurs walked the earth. She volunteered for me in an inner city afterschool program I administrated, my former job in a faraway life before I became entirely consumed by motherhood.

Heather and I became friends as a result of our work together. The kind of friend who'll dash over in the middle of the night to take care sleeping babies, so my husband could rush me to the hospital for a medical emergency.

Now Heather is raising her own babies in Singapore with the dearest of husbands. And blogging about it.

The Shepherd's Call

I took a little child’s hand in mine. We were to walk together for awhile. I was to lead him to the Father. It was a task that overcame me, so awful was the responsibility. And so I talked to the child only of the Father. I pointed to the sternness of His face were the child to displease Him. I spoke of the child’s goodness as something that would appease the Father’s wrath. We walked under the tall trees. I said the Father had the power to bring them crashing down with His thunderbolts. We walked in the sunshine. I told him of the greatness of the Father who made the burning, blazing. Sun. And one twilight we met the Father. The child hid behind me. He was afraid. He wound not take the Father’s hand. I was between the child and the Father. I wondered. I had been so conscientious, so serious.

I took a little child’s hand in mine. I was to lead him to the Father. I felt burdened with a multiplicity of things I had to teach him. We did not ramble. We hastened from spot to spot. At one moment we compared the leaves of different trees. The next moment we were examining a bird’s nest. While the child questioned me about it, I hurried him away to chase a butterfly. Did he chance to fall asleep, I wakened him, lest he miss something I wished him to see. We spoke of the Father. Oh, yes, often and rapidly, I poured into his little ear all the stories I thought he ought to know. But we were often interrupted by the wind blowing, of which we must trace its source. And then in the twilight we met the Father. The child merely glanced at Him and then his gaze wandered in a dozen directions. The Father stretched out His hand. The child was not interested enough to take it. Feverish spots burned in his cheeks. He dropped exhausted to the ground and fell asleep. Again I was between the child and the Father. I wondered. I had taught him so many things.

I took a little child’s hand to lead him to the Father. My heart full of gratitude for the privilege. We walked slowly. I suited my steps to the short ones of the child. We spoke of many things the child noticed. Sometimes we picked the Father’s flowers and stroked their soft petals and loved their bright colors….Sometimes we watched one of the Father’s birds. We watched it build its nest and lay its eggs. We wondered, elated a the care it gave its young….Often we told stories of the Father. I told them to the child and the child told them again to me. We told them, the child and I over and over again. Sometimes we stopped to rest, leaning against one of the Father’s trees and letting His cool breeze cool our brows, never speaking. And then in the twilight we met the Father. The child’s eyes shone. He looked lovingly, trustingly into the Father’s face. He put his hand into the Father’s hand. I was for the moment forgotten. I was content.

Journals of the Catechesis of the Good Shepherd 1984-1997, page 16

These words sum up my passion. Sometimes, this is what I eat, drink, and sleep for days at a time. I know many might find my work to be one great big yawn or even offensive. And I can't explain "the why" behind how children's spiritual formation interests me so, except to say, it's way down deep inside me.

Though I have many irons in the fire, my calling lately is concentrated on The Shepherd's Call, a project to invite Protestant Evangelicals like myself to reflective ways of working with children in ministry. When my dear friend and Shepherd's Call partner and I launch our website, I'll let you know.

I have a confession to make. Hopefully, we can still be friends even though I've openly disclosed a severe character flaw.

I like Woody Allen movies. Not all of them, but many. Yes, he's a morally depraved individual, but he makes me laugh. Hard. And I like to laugh, even if the jokes are written and spoken by a man who has sex with his adopted daughter.

Here's a blurb from a scene in Scoop which made me guffaw at the theater with Buck on Sunday.

Woody: "What persuasion are you?"
Upper Class English Woman at a fancy party: "Persuasion? Do you mean religion?"
Woody: "Yes."
Woman: "Christian. And you?"
Woody: "I used to be of the Hebrew persuasion, but I've since converted. Now I'm a narcissist."

Yes, he is. And he even jokes about it on screen in front of millions of people. I think he may have written the entire movie on the off chance that he could get some action on the side with his co-star Scarlet Johanson.

Though Manhatten Murder Mystery and Bullets over Broadway (don't you just love John Cusack?) are my all time favorite Woody Allen films, I enjoyed Scoop, another quirky whodunnit.


So, can we still be friends? I promise never to invite Woody over for dinner while children are present.

Fall is upon us

In examining my fall schedule, I find myself filled with angst. Maybe I feel this way every year, but I can’t remember exactly. Finally after three years, we’ve decided to do local AYSO soccer instead of driving into Knoxville for our old soccer league. This means I and my children won’t see our dearest of friends every Saturday game day. Pooh Bear is finally old enough and interested, so we’ll have four completely different AYSO teams to keep up with. Is that even possible? Especially since one child has a three day a week practice schedule for a competitive team. What are the chances I could ask one or more of my children to stop loving soccer? Or stop being a boy full of energy to burn? Include Scouts, a one day co-op for Peace, my Shepherd’s Call work, and ballet and I’ve got my hands completely full.

What. Am. I. Thinking?

School is kicking my tail already. I mentioned how we’ve moved to an academically challenging plan, and I am definitely on task of teaching four or more hours a day. The semi-unschooling approach I used last year, worked but not well. This year I’m hoping my children make leaps instead of steps. I suppose we’re off to a great start seeing the work they’ve put in so far.

The final piece to the madness is that Buck’s schedule has changed to the very unrelaxing days of Wednesday and Thursdays off. We must get all our family business done during school days which is completely unsettling for me. We like to work and play together and then kick back, but this set of days off won’t permit. (Buck tells me in October he’ll start working mandatory overtime, because the FAA has once again ignored the air traffic control union’s warning to plan ahead for a shortage of personnel. Don’t worry, air traffic controllers are in short supply everywhere now, and it’s only going to get much worse as those who are eligible retire to free themselves from the new unreasonable FAA stipulations. How could it matter that the people who keep our skies safe are dreadfully tired from overwork? Some facilities are literally lack a hundred workers with no promise of more to come. Buck and I voted against our congressman yesterday in the elections, because he did not take the time to understand the situation when it was put before congress last month, but he somehow managed to win anyway without our votes.)

One thing I’ve introduced to my family this week is savingdinner.com. The company provides a menu and organized shopping list for six dinners and sides a week. Takes the thinking out of “what’s for dinner?” for a woman who hates to figure dinner every. Single. Afternoon. It’s helping keep my family well fed in the chaos.

I know I get snippy with my husband’s shift change every year, and I today I promise my family to do better than the last few grumpy days. Hopefully I’ll find grace and peace again in the midst of such busyness.

To the clerk at Movie Gallery

I greedily tore open the thin red package from Netflix with great anticipation. After my all my squirrels fell asleep tucked away in their little beds, I popped the DVD into the player and nestled under my own blankets. I pressed "play" with a tickle of excitement in my belly. The cafe scene was quaint and dear- stuffy educated old man joins gorgeous and simple young lady for coffee. Good start. A groggy Buck joined me when gentleman Lawrence invited his new glamorous friend to attend the G-8 summit in Iceland as his guest. Alrighty. When simple yet stunning girl began to spout unsolicited and well-rehearsed facts about international poverty to heads of states, I became disillusioned with the charm of the movie. The story line seemed quite plausible up until that moment. My curiousity waned.

While The Girl in the Cafe captured my attention, I wasn't riveted. My apologies to the chatty clerk at Movie Gallery for not falling in love with this movie. I know it totally rocked your world; it just ever so slightly nudged mine.

Gardens as autobiography

I've come a long way in three years. My improving gardens are evidence of my progress.

Though I had an expert gardener and professional chef at my very own fingertips in my step father while I was a teenager, I regret I did much more pulling away and distancing myself than reaching toward an incredibly gifted man for all the wisdom I greatly desire as a grown woman. The consequence remains that I must learn these things hard way, since I refused in my careless youth. And just so you know, I've since spoken with my former step dad over my regrets. He responded with grace and kindness.

Onto the garden tales.

The first year, I learned the ropes about the best locations (by water source, in full sun, etc.) and the basics of tilling and planting. Things grew into a lush jungle, making picking impossible, because I ignored spacing advice. I allowed the zuchinni grow into a mighty tasteless giants. I harvested the corn too soon, before kernels formed, and too late when the kernels became sadly shriveled. My tomatoes got some kind of blight before picking and they withered on the vine. However, we got the very best green beans ever that year. I haven't grown good tasting beans since. That year I also planted an herb garden. It flourished, but I honestly didn't know how to cook with those beautiful green delights or how preserve them like the ones in the jars at the grocery store. I learned much about what sprouts and plants look like when they spring up from the earth which has been helpful in identifying volunteers I'd like to keep. The only successful zinnias have been replanted volunteers. The first year's garden was the most labor intensive both mentally and physically.

The second year, I still didn't space plants well again. Buck expanded the size of the garden for me. I grew one ton of tomatoes, but I couldn't eat enough to keep up with them. I gave away many plump red treats to people, and threw a zillion to the grateful chickens. My sweet peppers went crazy, and I found easy ways to freeze them for future use. I put much energy into learning how to sprout things from seeds. I found myself to lack the discipline of everyday misting and later hardening seedlings slowly. I planted a few asparagus plants which I knew wouldn't produce till the following year. The second year I expanded both my garden and growing knowledge a bit.

This year, I spaced much better though the tomatoes are a bit too close together. I was able to harvest the first asparagus. I didn't pull volunteer whatevers, because I didn't have the heart, so the fung sway (how do you spell that?) is way off. For example, an unplanned sweet one hundred entirely over took my leeks. I grew many heads of fresh cabbage which exhibited a nice display of insect bites, and my previous nasty experience with the electric green worms in our perfectly matching green broccoli in our dinner did me in. Completely. The green beans I planted are somewhat hairy and not too tasty for a palate which recalls grandma's freshly snapped green beans cooked to perfection in dripping bacon grease. The plants turned out to be bush beans instead of pole beans. I bought the seeds because I was attracted to the "stringless" variety, but I'm not buying those again. Sugar snap peas were awesome. We had great zuchinni until some nasty triangle sand colored bugs consumed it.

Also, over the course of this year, I've incorporated all my spices (basil, thyme, oregano, sage, rosemary, parsley, mint) into my cooking now which has been a huge accomplishment to me. I've even bunched tidy groups spices to dry on the hanging pan rack over the island in my kitchen. Martha Stewart might be proud. However, I silently kicked myself in the grocery store today for not planting cilantro and needing to spend an entire dollar on a not-so-delightful looking sagging bunch of it for an upcoming recipe.

Though there is a blight on my tomatoes again, I have plenty to harvest. I promised myself this summer to make a plan other than having the leftover maters become chicken candy. My garden buddy, Hauna, gave me an "easy" recipe for tomato sauce. I hesitate to claim ease of it all due to the fact that one must follow a rather long journey through Oz from picking to freezer:

1. pick 12 pounds of tomatoes
2. wash them
3. weigh tomatoes, pick more if not 12 pounds
4. core and quarter tomatoes
5. wash and cut endless other fresh veggies like carrots, celery, peppers, mushrooms
6. Peel and chop 12 cloves of garlic
7. Pick, wash, and prepare 8 combined tablespoons of basil, thyme, oregano, and parsley
8. Roast everything for 45 minutes
9. Cool
10. Slightly food process eveything
11. Pour into freezer bags
12. Click heels three times

Viola! There's no place like homemade spaghetti sauce.

Buck and I have put several bags in the freezer for the winter...if the tastey stuff doesn't get eaten before frost appears.

My kitchen counter is collecting twelve more pounds for the next batch.

Next year, I will:
-expand my spice garden
-plant only tomatoes, corn, mild peppers, good tasting pole green beans, maybe some melons, zuchinni and yellow squash, cucumbers, and of course, flowers- everywhere. I know I will use all the tempting fruit of these.

I have three very successful plots of lavender planted last year but established this year. It is my favorite plant of all due to the magnificent aroma wafting from each stacked purple bloom. I pick stalks for most every flower arrangement I've made this summer to top the tables about my home. I've made a few lavender wands. Have you heard of lavender wands? They are something you may rest on your pillow which smell heavenly and are guaranteed to lead a restless soul to slumber.

Sydney Eddison says, "Gardens are a form of autobiography." In which case, I think mine might read, "A lost opportunity revisited. A few weeds and fencing imperfections, problems with bugs occasionally, though fruit bearing and lovely. Overall a fanciful and splendid place to linger and discover."

Homeschool at it's best

Instead of writing his book report on the Revolutionary War, Peace handed me the following written out on notebook paper this morning:

The Twelve Reasons I Don’t Want to do this Report

1. I don’t like the subject.
2. I think writing a report is dull.
3. I I want to do math instead.
4. I don’t want to write.
5. I think it’s tedious.
6. It has no real purpose I can see.
7. I’d rather pet my cat.
8. I want to go outside.
9. I think we should stop it.
10. It’s not fun.
11. The outdoors call to me.
12. I get writer’s cramp too easily (like now).

But I’ll do it anyway.

True Vyne School of Nature

What sort of cruel person would make her children start school in July? That would be me. With five years of home schooling under my belt, I‘ve realized the need to school earlier every year, because somewhere after mid-March standardized testing, my teaching efforts fizzle. All I want to do in April is be in my garden. Last year, my dear husband gently started school on August 1 for our children while I was in Santa Barbara. This year, I’m happy to announce True Vyne School of Nature is now underway before August.

Last week, Buck and I tore apart the home school room. No more flies, hardened play dough, or turned over potted plant dirt on the window sills, a stuffed vacuum bag of crayons and pet hair later, oodles of part-way consumed workbooks burned (why did I keep those so long?), twaddly books tucked away in a box for the used book store adds a pleasant order to a room meant to store the delicious secrets of learning.

True Vyne School of Nature has not only a fresh room, but a fresh outlook on academic endeavors from our somewhat delight directed approaches before. I chose books and activities this year which will challenge my children to go deeper than we’ve ever gone into academics. And I have only two moments of slight twinges of regret so far. First, my oldest will attend a co-op one day a week and study his materials for his courses the rest of the week. Once I opened and explored my new and excellent materials in the mail for my other boys, I wondered if I’d could have accomplished the same goals as the co-op with the same supplies I’d ordered for home. The second regret came after attending a meeting with a Charlotte Mason expert. She had an uncanny grasp on CM pedagogy like no one I’ve ever spoken with before. Somehow she imparted a holistic way to accomplish the method to include all the variables I could not figure out. My regret comes from giving in a bit to a few more textbooks than I’d like this year.

My dear home schooling friend Claire helped me tremendously in setting the day to day structure of learning. Every child has a basket with necessary materials for a few weeks. Everyone has been assigned a color; Tator bright green for all his bursting energy, Wise One blue for his placid nature, Pooh Bear pink for extremely obvious reasons, Peace purple for his majestic presence. Children’s baskets have their color of ribbon tied about for easy recognition. Books are placed inside the baskets with colored masking tape on the spine in children’s colors. Days of the week also sort pages of assignments with paper clips in books. Monday=green for a fresh start. Tuesday=blue for the long week ahead. Wednesday=purple for things looking a little more rosy and bright. Thursday= yellow because we‘re slowing down. Friday=orange because our family never really stops. The colors and systems make the education of four more manageable for me.

Friday I spent a few hours organizing Tator’s work with the paper clips. Last night I worked for three hours on Wise One’s assignments over the next two weeks. Peace has a fairly light workload until his intense courses start. He’ll be working on typing, read great books, a little math review, and join us for science and history.

What to do with Pooh Bear? If she could have her way, she’d like to be an only child for me to sit and read to and do endless workbook pages ( please, no) beside her. She quickly has become an “assignment” on each boy’s to-do list. Peace is to draw from Draw Write Now with her. Wise One is to read a story book to her. Tator will do math with her. I’m trying my fourth reading curriculum with her called Talking Letters. Last year, she begged me to teach her to read so I dragged out the tried and true methods from the boys (Teach Your Child to Read in 100 Easy Lessons, Sing, Spell, Read, Write, Reading Reflex). She made her way to the blending part in each curriculum and got completely stuck. I can see she just doesn’t have it all put together in her busy little girl brain to bring it all together, so before she could feel terribly frustrated, I just switched her to something new. I’d wait to do reading with her altogether until next year, if she didn’t want to try so badly. We’ll see how that all turns out after this next Talking Letters go round. Talking Letters attracted me at the home school fair this year with it’s simple beauty. The letters tell stories.

One of my students is coloring on my bed, so perhaps I’d better attend to her while it’s quiet as the boys are all still fast asleep.

A Solution to the Middle East Crisis

I decided to see if the writing of Oscar Romero might hold a solution to the crisis in the Middle East. His country, El Salvador, was a trainwreck when he walked this earth, and pondering his activist demeanor I believed he might have had something to say about conflict resolution for nations trapped in the cycle of violence. Romero experienced pieces of heaven and hell as he labored to bring men and women of a war torn nation to peace. Lo and behold, he offered these words in a public speech published in The Violence of Love, thoughts from almost thirty years ago which I see as an applicable means of resolution between Israel and Palestine today:

"Whoever fulfills the duty of love fulfills the whole law,"
says St. Paul.
"You shall not steal,
you shall not kill, you shall do no wrong to another-
all this is contained in one phrase:
you shall love your neighbor."

If there were love of neighbor
there would be no terrorism,
no repression,
no selfishness,
none of such cruel inequalities in society,
no abductions,
no crimes.

Love sums up the law.
Not only that, it gives Christian meaning
to all human relations.
Even those who call themselves atheists,
when they are humane,
fulfill the essence of the relationship
that God wants among human beings:
Love.

Love gives plenitude to all human duties,
and without love justice is only the sword
With love, justice beomcs a brother's embrace.
Without love, laws are arduous, repressive, cruel,
mere policemen.
But when there is love-
security forces would be superfluous;
there would be no jails or tortures,
no will to beat anyone.
September 10, 1978

So I pray for the peace of Jerusalem. May Israel and Palestine find the law of love. Can you imagine the day when all arms will be laid down and beat into plowshares? No more tears or sorrow? No more death? Come quickly!

A Living Book

I positively love a good story. Up until now, you could not have convinced me to read history just for fun. However this book is fun.

The Devil in the White City does not teach history, it brings America to life. Larson brilliantly parallels the lives of two very real men, one building a fascinating white fairytale city and another exploiting residents and visitors who come to explore the wonderland of exhibits created for the 1893 Chicago World's Fair.

I am not especially interested in architecture, but Larson's writing of Daniel Burnham and associates drew me into the lives of "Whose Who" in terms of history making architects and their work. Also, it tied together contemporaries for me like Wild Bill Cody and Susan B. Anthony. Did you know they met at the fair?

The intrigue carefully woven into the story about the one of America's first serial killers, H. H. Holmes kept me page turning. And Larson did a terrific job focusing on the humanity of each of Holmes victims instead of gore.

This would become required reading if I were teaching a course on the turn of the 20th century.

What have we been up to?

The Smoky Mountain Invitational Swim Meet

All three boys swam their little hearts out. However, Pooh Bear wasn't up for such a gigantic and daunting pool. Honestly, she still can't go 25 meters without stopping yet, but I think she could save her own life if she accidently fell into a pool. I never expected her to even join swim team this year, but those Weeki Wachee mermaids from vacation dropped a sparkly seashell of love for water straight into her admiring heart.

I don't know the results for all of today's races. Tator and a friend, Charlie, could have scored some points for our itty bitty little team.

SMI doesn't invite year-round-swimmers, so ordinary children have a great chance in the races. One family I see there every year has several children who win most events.
I asked, "Why not swim year round then? You have some talented swimmers in your family."
To which the wise woman chuckled in reply, "We have too many other fun things to do than swimming. That year-round stuff just takes over your life."


Peace DQed in the IM for who knows what reason, but the other races he did his best.

It was as hot as blazes both days, and I'm perfectly salty from all the sweatin'.

We brought home two swim friends and I stopped at the store to pick up frozen pizza, chips, icecream for a celebration ( I know that's a little lame, but it's the best I can do while my dh is at work and I'm in charge of 5 boys and one princess). Only once did an employee have to snag my attention and gently point out that one of the boys was climbing up mountain stacks of soft drink cans.

While six children picked out one movie, which can be quite harrowing and take an awful long while, I spoke with the chatty clerk. He was a twentyish guy who looked like he was waiting for his break into professional soccer. It amused me terribly when he decided I must immediately borrow The Woman in the Cafe and then come back and tell me how I liked it. Didn't he notice my brood of children swarming his store? Just as he was about to dash to the shelf to hand me his one beloved copy of the DVD, he looked absolutely crushed as I stopped him, "It's on my Netflix queue, and I don't know when it's due to come to my house." He moaned, "You have to come back and talk to me about it with me though after you've watched it." Maybe I should ask him to join my book club too? Nah, I don't have a book club.

The children picked an Ernest movie. Now that's classy!