Time Out of Mind

Like a sulky, overextended student, I have been escaping the duties and responsibilities of my position and running to my poison of choice this week. In the middle of the afternoon, no less. Worse than that, I have even had my two young children join me in my escape. Turn me over to the authorities.

Or don't. My chosen mode of running away, it so happens, is the world of British Sitcoms. The mother of all such sitcoms for my family is, and has been for many years, As Time Goes By, starring Judi Dench and Geoffrey Palmer. We've seen most of the episodes multiple times and keep our eyes out for the ones we've never come across.

The first episode I ever watched seemed deadly dull. Ordinary things happening to ordinary people, and this was supposed to be funny? But for some reason I kept watching anyway. I soon realized that the show had a way of elevating the mundane to the level of light, uplifting comedy. Everyday foibles that we humans tend to exhibit become the stuff of gentle, though loving, mockery. We are delighted to see perfectly respectable adults behaving in ways that we, and people we know, sometimes behave, and the best part is that on the show, at least, they are always caught doing it. They always learn a lesson . . . if only for that episode.

The Hardcastles—the couple portrayed by Dench and Palmer—are like good neighbors, people you'd like to know and have coffee with. When we're not laughing at the silly misunderstandings in which they often find themselves, we find ourselves agreeing with the sometimes serious and sage advice that comes through their interactions. They make us feel safe and that at least things are right in some corners of the world. There is a settled stability to the characters and their everyday comings and goings that reflects the everyday, ordinary life of most of us, which, to those of us not reading about ourselves on a supermarket tabloid, is a most reassuring thing.

Never mind that the show ended in 2002 with a reunion special in 2005. Some things are simply timeless, the predictability of human interaction being one of them.

Indeed, the steady, mature pace of the show and of the lives of the Hardcastles allows us to slow the frenetic pace of modern life for 20 or so minutes, turn off the news and the noise of the outside world and just breathe. In the range of possible methods of escapism, I think it's a pretty healthy one. And if my children choose to join me in this escape, I have no problem with it.

Midstream in a Rushing River

The middle of life.

Kids, younger and older; college and kindergarten. Parents, thankfully still alive and well. The pace of life seems relentless. The weekends are barely memorable blips on the screen passing by at lightening speed. Can't stop too long to linger over a memory newly created because the next task is immediately before you and multi-tasking is the tallest order of every day. Divide your attention so that you can get a mediocre little of a lot of things done. At least, that's what it feels like.

Confession time. Truth? I've had a terrible week in some ways. I've snapped at my kids because they weren't doing enough school/house/whatever work. I've snapped at my husband for the same reasons. I look at my calendar and see very few, if any, blank spots. Even though I'm a "Stay-at-Home" mom and effectively work for myself (on an operational level, at least), I do have formal responsibilities—tasks I've taken on within different groups for the sake of us all, to participate, to give back. In and of itself, this is not a problem. I mean, other people do it and seem to manage, right?

So what's the problem? Is there a problem? Well, for one thing, I'm not perfect, and THAT's a problem. I can't do it all, all the time, and do it superlatively. What's my problem? I know, I know, that part is called perfectionism. But that's not all, is it?

No, there is also the fact of being in the middle of life. Things, including me, are changing. The physical plant is changing management and distribution systems, isn't it? It's in a transitional phase, and how many of those go off without a hitch? I'm not sure whether I'll still have a job after all is said and done. No, that's not true. I likely will still have a job for quite a few years to come, but I may well end up being demoted, turned into middle management. Wait a sec . . . that's what I am now. Huh.

Fortunately, I do believe, based on experience and observation, both my own and others', that the dark night of the soul doesn't last forever. There are too many things left to do in life as long as I have breath and the benefit of my faculties. This, too, shall pass, and when it does, I will just get up, shake the dust from my fallen self, and keep going, however imperfectly, remembering once again to clear the calendar here and there for the sake of those roses I've been too busy to smell.

Insecure, er, That Is, I Mean Romantic Love

Romantic Love versus True Love is a subject I've pondered occasionally over the years, and I finally feel compelled to put some of those thoughts down here. Over time we, in our culture, have developed some ideas that I think are worth fleshing out and following to their logical conclusion.

Let's start with the idealized version of "romantic love" or being "in love". The typical experience, I would say, begins with noticing someone who appears to attract you more than the average, to the point where you develop a radar whenever this person is in the general vicinity. At some point, you find yourself looking for this person to be present wherever you are. Soon, you begin to hope that you will see them or run into them more frequently. Eventually, there develops an almost obsessive feeling of wanting to place your physical person in the path of this special someone at every opportunity. Am I right so far?

Alongside the mental and emotional experience, though, there is a physical experience happening as well. The eyes and ears become more alert, the heart rate picks up at a nanosecond's notice at the mere thought of seeing this person, and when you first see him or her after some absence, it feels as if the burst of adrenalin suddenly pulsing through your entire midsection is going to cause your entire body to explode. The mouth may become dry, the breathing somewhat labored, the palms of the hands sweaty or even itchy, and the mouth refuses to form the words it would normally have no problem pronouncing. Sound at all familiar?

Now, let's look at what we'll call "settled, mature love", or "True Love." What? It's boring many of you would say? Hmmm. Maybe you're right. The heart no longer beats violently in the chest. Speech is no longer difficult and may even be too easy at times. You don't spend all your time thinking of this person and what the next planned outing might be. The palms remain unremarkably normal. No adrenalin. Nothing out of the ordinary to speak of. Life goes on.

Is it over? Has the flame gone out? Many these days would answer, "Yes." They would throw in the towel on a relationship that they considered to be past its prime. Too bad. They'll never know what they are missing.

I have observed over the years, by watching mature marriages as well as young love, that there are distinct stages to love relationships:

The Young Love or Pony Love Stage: Love is immature. It is fresh, new, unpredictable, unstable, untried by adversity, fun, euphoric. In short, it is a thrilling roller coaster ride. And as we all know, roller coaster rides last all of maybe two minutes. The romantic stage of love last approximately two years, maybe less.

The only way that this thrilling stage of being "in love" can exist in the first place is because of its basic insecurity and instability. Does she love me? Will he call me? When will I see her? What if he's found someone he's more interested in than me? These may or may not be questions solidly in the forefront of the mind, but they are there nevertheless.

Once those questions have been answered and the relationship moves into a more secure, more stable phase, there is far less uncertainty and even a comfortable predictability to our interactions. Things are mellowing out, cool, cozy . . . comfy . . .  satisfying . . .

. . . until we realize that this has been going on for some time. Wait—what just happened? When did it happen? Why did it happen? Where is the thrill? Where did it go?! Bring it back!

Well, here is what happened.


Your relationship became stable. You learned that you could count on one another (assuming your relationship is not dysfunctional—not a topic for this post).

Is this not what you wanted? Did you want and expect that this would be the most passionate, most enduring love in all of human history? Did you think that only a life of romance awaited? Of course! It must! After all, how else do people stay married 40, 50, even 75 years? Oh, they stayed together out of habit. It was just tradition and societal expectation that kept them together. Of course.

Please forgive my teasing. Here is the straight talk. The relationship became solid and stable, and the highly erratic, unsustainable feelings that we call romantic love settled down, giving way to a comfortable predictability which, to many is far more satisfying that what preceded it.

Unfortunately for many others, especially in our times, the roller coaster has become an addiction. The adrenalin rush brought on by the insecurity of new love is taken to be the desirable norm rather than the fight-or-flight response that it truly is. It is no different, in many ways, than a drug addiction. They will seek the thrill regardless of the consequences to themselves or others. It is the thrill of the chase, the hunting or being hunted. They can't get enough, and as soon as the thrill of one relationship is gone, they will move on to the next, and the next. They will spend the better part of their lives, and certainly the majority of their youth, playing this no-win game.

A stable relationship, on the other hand, allows for a progression of the individual. If you think about how much time and energy are spent on "new" relationships, it makes sense that once those resources are no longer required for romance, they can be used for personal growth and the deepening of the bond between the couple. In other words, rather than merely covering shallow, wide expanses of interpersonal territory,  development of the couple's relationship can become deep, even profound to the point of the sublime.

But Romance Hoppers won't ever know that, will they?

Some wise up, some do not, bringing to mind the 1973 song "Desperado" by the Eagles. Have a listen. Have a good day. If you're on that roller coaster, consider getting off it. If you've left it behind, cheers, and I hope you soar.

An Attitude of Gratitude

This school year I have begun a new practice with my younger children. We're consciously, intentionally practicing the art of gratitude, of thanksgiving.

After we have said our prayers, we each say at least one thing that we are grateful for in our lives so that we may not forget, among the disturbances of the coming day, that we still have reasons to be grateful. It makes us think. And it makes it harder to look at life and feel that everything is going all wrong. After all, it can't be going all wrong if we said just two hours ago that there were some very good things about our lives. I truly am hoping that over time we will all experience the increased inability to complain about things.


So I'll share with you one thing I am grateful for about this day.

It was a lovely, dark, September morning when I stepped out to go to my coffee-date-with-a-computer. As it wasn't raining, I peeled back the lid of the car—we are blessed to have a sun/moon roof—and opened the front windows on both sides of the car.

The temperature and humidity were perfect, at least to me, and I had the dark, still morning all to myself. Well, maybe I shared it with an occasional jogger or quietly moving car, fellow enjoyers of the morning. But we all kept respectfully to ourselves. The only breaking of what would otherwise have been pure silence was the singing of crickets.

Somehow it is easy to think of music as a uniquely human construct or idea, and to some extent, it is. But every now and then I have to rejigger my thinking and contemplate the sounds of nature as the only true music, divine music. It is beautiful. It is easiest to hear this music in the very early morning when the world of man has not yet joined the symphony. It is at its purest then.

Even the sound of machinery can have a certain beauty to it. Mostly not, but having lived in a city when I was a child, I do find a certain comfort in the sound of cars passing in the earlier part of the evening, when I am falling asleep. There is comfort in the knowledge of not being alone in the world, of there being other people with places to go, families to see. At least, that's the way it seemed to me as a child. So now the gentle hum of a car on the road at 9:00 or 10:00 at night is something like a lullaby.

In winter there are no early birds out singing. There are no crickets, no frogs or other animals making their warm weather sounds. There is just a cold silence. Perhaps there is the wind. Sometimes there is the sound of wind chimes that a neighbor leaves out throughout the year. But mostly there is the chilly quiet that provides such a perfect background for the silvery tree branches that reach rigidly up to the sky.

The most silent of all are the mornings that are snow-covered, when there is little movement from anyone or anything. School is out, and workers who have to go to work must first dig their cars out of the snow that piled up during the night. The snow is insulation. It is a sound barrier, a muffler. The world has slowed its tempo for just a little while, and a certain peace descends. People seem happier, calmer. Slow is good every now and then. It helps us to remember.

I'm quite happy with the peaceful ambience of winter just now, so the music of fluffy white clouds in a blue summer sky will have to wait for a while.

And for this moment I am grateful.

Why We Home Educate

It is a common question to hear, if not explicitly, then at least in people's facial expressions and intonations.

Why do we, or anyone, choose to home school?

The reasons, as any parent will tell you, are many and varied, and never quite the same for any two families. I do try to refrain from criticizing "other" educational means, even though I am sorely tempted, because I've experienced just about every method known to modern America, either myself or through my children, and I can say with some measure of authority, that there are advantages and disadvantages to them all. Period.

No, rather than belabor any flaws of traditional schools, I will focus on the positive (and maybe some potential negative) aspects of home education.

At the moment, I have one in college, one who's a nearing the end of high school, one in elementary school and one just starting out in kindergarten. We have, at various points in the past, home schooled them. Early and mid-elementary school was the time when we had the older ones home for about three years, and the one who is now finishing high school is at home, earning her diploma through an online high school. She much prefers it to walking down the street to the local school.

When the two oldest were younger, we found ourselves moving from one state to another, renting in one location with the intention of buying a house in another. At first, we had them in a parochial school in the northeast, and when we moved south, we wanted to keep them in a similar situation to that which they'd left behind, so we chose another parochial school. Only problem was, I was spending two hours on the road and waiting in the car line every day, and halfway through the year my children were still not approaching the material (math, specifically) that they had been doing the previous year. We were repeating old information without any evidence that we would even reach the previous year's material.

We withdrew them from the school and decided to do it ourselves. As I said, we knew we would be moving, so to put them into the local school for half a year before moving them to yet another school the following fall just didn't seem like the right thing to do.

Fast forward a bit. What we found with home schooling was that we had better oversight of just what our children were learning, and we knew what their homework would be because we were the ones assigning it, so we knew immediately how to help them when they needed it (unlike our recent experience with an "institution", but I did say I wasn't going there, didn't I?).

We also found that we could do a lot more hands-on learning through field trips, not that we went crazy on them, but they were always an option, and we had the flexibility to take advantage of some of them when they arose on the spur of the moment. We attended plays, visited museums during the day, attending scout meetings and sports practices and games at times that were actually convenient (i.e. NOT during rush hour), we could have dinner at a reasonable hour and consistently in the evenings.

We were also able to plan our getaways. our vacations, when it was convenient in our schedule instead of having to forgo opportunities simply because the authorities wanted it that way—simply because it works better in their system. One October, for two weeks, we traveled to Japan to visit for the first time since moving back to the U.S. The weather was perfect (not sweltering like the summer would have been), and it worked with my husband's work schedule. Another year, we traveled to Paris and London for three weeks, piggybacking on my husband's business school "field trip". We traveled to different cities, and his trip was only ten days, so we spent the last week-and-a-half together puttering around London and loving life, for the most part.

A long-term benefit of having our children at home for their education was, and always will be, the closeness that developed in our family, between the siblings themselves, and between our children and us. If there is one thing that I think could make a huge difference in the state of the American family it would be to keep children home and learning with Mom and/or Dad for more years than we do. Is it all peachy and wonderful all the time? Absolutely not! Did we have our share of bad days and exasperation with one another? Of course!

But did we learn how to compromise, share, and take turns? Yes, we did. And we still do. We learned to talk things through in a civilized manner, and I can say without any hesitation that we have never (so far) had a "typical teenager" living in our house. We have largely avoided the strife that appears to have become the hallmark of the average American family, at least if you read the newspapers or watch television.

Now, there are other variables at play in our family life, too. We are Orthodox Christians, we attend church regularly, and our closest friends tend, by and large, to be people we know from church (with similar values and a like-minded approach to the importance of the family in society). We have chosen to forgo a second income (a decision we made long ago, before we had children), in order to have the relationship that we have now with our children. I realize that this may not be possible, or in some cases even desirable, for every family, but it's simply the way we have worked ours.

Home schooling, or home education, as I would prefer to call it, is not something that can be pushed at anyone. It is a de facto lifestyle change for anyone, child or parent, who is used to having the kiddies in school for seven hours a day, five days a week, so it is a decision not to be undertaken lightly. Many households are dependent on two parents working, out of necessity or habit, and to change that arrangement requires quite a bit of soul-searching and preparation. As for the expense, home schooling is not the least expensive option, though with school fees and fundraisers, even public schools are more expensive than I recall them being when I was a child.

Doing it yourself, however, is a truly viable means of educating your own children if you're up for it. It's not the strange, freaky thing that it was painted to be for so long. Will there be problem cases that appear in the news from time to time? Yes. There are bizarre happenings all over the world, most of them not involving homeschool families, and plenty about kids who are or were schooled by traditional means.

At its best, home education is a joy. At its worst, it's  . . . "Eh, we had a bad morning. Let's take a break and get back on track."

As my five-year-old likes to say, "I can live with that."

An Ode to Endless Summer

I wonder if an endless summer would still seem like a good thing after months of temperatures in the 90's and 100's. I'm inclined to think I might eventually become weary of such a season. Really, if summer were truly endless, the entire concept of "season" would go right out of the window. The word implies that there must be change throughout the year, throughout life. "To everything there is a season . . ."

The first day after Labor Day has taken a wet and cooler turn. I can't say that it is truly unwelcome, though it feels more like a visitor who will be staying briefly, then leaving again until the next short and pleasant visit.

But, as happens every year, I must grudgingly accept that this brief cooling off is merely Autumn moving into the room, resting its big suitcase on the newly unfolded luggage rack and where it will come back a little later to move its accoutrements into the slightly more permanent home of the dresser drawers and armoire. The smell of sand and sunscreen in the bathroom will soon be replaced by the musky scent of crisp leaves and cold air, eventually giving way to wood smoke and spiced cider.

It's me. I'm the one slow to shift gears. And I know I am far from being the only one.

Summer is still, in my mind, the time of year when "everyone" gets to be a kid, to live a carefree life. No bulky layers to pull on and heft around outside while still trying to move naturally and freely. No shivering with cold and being told to put a sweater on while you're indoors. When stepping out of the shower there's no wishing for a heat lamp to replace the tub-to-towel-to-bathrobe ritual designed to avoid the goosebumps of clean skin in cold weather.

Summer is the time when colors are bright and cheerful. Shorts, skirts, T-shirts, sandals, seer-sucker, woven hats, and suntans with sun-streaked hair. Children drawing with sidewalk chalk and becoming rainbow-colored themselves. Little league teams dotting fields all over the county. Owners walking dogs and walkers walking themselves by 6:00 a.m., enjoying the early sunrise and the later sunset. Fruits from the garden that taste better than any at even the "best" grocery stores and even more so because you grew them yourself.

Summer, when the demands of school and extra-curricular activities lessen their grip and allow for deeper breaths and staring up at the blue sky. When rain either comes in dramatic, twenty-minute bursts, complete with light show and sending everyone for cover in the late afternoon, or gently falls, cooling the hot asphalt and sending little steam drifts waving upward, moisture floating back into the air to be saved up for later.

Summer, when the smoke from hot coals mingling with food runs, flying through the streets, taunting and goading the neighbors into competing to see who can out-grill all the others. The loud whine of motors moving across the ground just before the smell of cut-grass—and the sound of the sneezes that sometimes follow. The majestic, fluffy white clouds that drift leisurely through the sky like benevolent guardians keeping watch over the fragile beings below.

To be realistic, however, I must admit to wanting my outside temperatures low enough to keep my windows open all day long, and summers in the mid-Atlantic do not often, if ever, accommodate that wish. And perhaps it's just as well. If I don't want summer to leave even after it has forced me to shutter my windows from the oppressive heat, I can only imagine how I would feel if summer was truly perfect. I suppose I will just have to welcome Autumn with open arms, smiling warmly and entertaining it for a while until the next guest chases it away and takes over the room.

Manners

Time for a subject that affects us all . . .

People can often be heard to complain about or, less frequently, to compliment someone else's manners. As with many things in life, the good is often not recognized as quickly or with as much clamor as the bad and the ugly.

But what are manners? Wikipedia does a pretty good job of describing the reason for manners, also known as etiquette, and some of the attendant challenges involved in observing them.

Growing up in Virginia, I learned a very specific set of rules of etiquette, which, of course, I took to be universal. It has been quite an adjustment throughout my adulthood to adapt to the highly diverse population in which we live, and I'm guessing—pretty accurately, I think—that many of our multi-ethnic society's interpersonal abrasions can be directly linked to our family and cultural understandings of what constitutes good manners. What is good manners in one culture is a non-issue, or even bad manners, in another. Personally, my own bias is toward the adoption of the rules, even if unspoken, of the country in which you find yourself.

The problem with my thinking, however, is obvious from my own experience living in another country. My husband and I used to live in Japan, and I know that it is highly unlikely that anyone not growing up in a culture will ever truly figure out all of the complexities and nuances involved in properly and fully observing the etiquette rules of that culture. Bring all of those various codes together in one place, as in the U.S., and it is no wonder that people are unsure when and if to be offended by the actions and possible intentions of others.

Even so, however, some manners would seem self-evident. For example, I have to fight the irritation I feel when someone breaches what, to me at least, is a minimum of etiquette, such as saying, "Thank you," when someone holds open a door, thereby allowing the another to walk through it. In the first place, it is a polite consideration to hold the door for someone else, often a stranger, and in the second place, the holder of the door is implicitly and voluntarily giving a primacy of honor to the one who walks through the door first. Unless you're THE KING or QUEEN—and we don't have any of those in this country (in real life, anyway)—no one should even be thinking of walking past the door holder without acknowledging his or her act of kind thoughtfulness. Just my opinion, sure, but I can't help but wonder how much nicer everyone's day would be with an extra thank you or two thrown in.

Having stated the above, I must admit to many breaches of the rules of etiquette as I learned them growing up. My biggest offense, I think, is in not sending formal "Thank you" notes to people for favors and gifts especially. I cringe at the number of times I have failed to send one. I was quite good about it when I was younger, but once became a grown-up and had seemingly a million other urgent matters to deal with, I am ashamed to admit that it was a practice that often stuck around on my To-Do list until it was almost more embarrassing to follow through than it was to forge ahead. I should have forged ahead. At least I might only be half as chagrined at my own lack of manners.

The bigger problem is what the generations are losing as we move down the timeline of history and culture. Last year, my then-sixteen-year-old daughter fumed one day after I had been nearly run down by a tall teen-aged girl who was walking into a clothing store right "past" me without any intention of stepping aside for a woman who was obviously her elder. I thought I would have to peel my daughter off the ceiling. Only my finer sensibilities were injured, however, and the silver lining to this episode was that I know my daughters have learned their manners. Bless all those parents who have taught their children well, and bless all those children who take to heart the lessons given them by their parents. Those lessons will serve you well.

It's never too late to begin adding manners back in to daily life—even if that life has become busier and ever more complicated. Perhaps one day we will have a universally practiced code of good manners in our country (I'm a realist—I'm not buying stock in that one), but until then, I'm going to put my Thank-you's at the top of my To-Do list, and do my best to cross them off rather than have them stare unblinkingly back at me.

For those who care to, when you have a few moments here is a list of websites that came up pretty quickly in my search this morning. Some are humorous, some are seriously packed with information for any and all circumstances (yes, it takes a tome to get it all down!), but all are useful in one way or another.

George Washington's Rules of Civility:

Emily Post

ThinkQuest-A History of Etiquette

Independent.ie—A Brief History of Manners . . .

U.S. Flag Etiquette

Etiquette Hell


Cheers.

Can Dog Really Be My Co-Pilot?

We've gone round and round about this one, and I am the lynchpin in this decision. To dog or not to dog, that is the question. Everyone in my family wants one. My husband could go either way, but he won't bite unless I give the green light.

That's because he knows exactly who gets responsibility for the little guy or gal in the end. The buck stops with Mom. To continue the terrible puns, allusions, and other plays on words, "Ask not for whom the dog barketh, it barketh for thee" . . . Mother.

On the one hand, a companion might be a good way for all of us to let off steam—to play with someone who accepts you unconditionally, warts and all, and never argues, a pet that you can love and who loves you back. On the other hand, the arguing among the bi-peds might increase when it comes time to decide who gets to walk and scoop after the critter. (Nah, no arguing allowed.).

The real sticking point for the adults in the household, however, is what to do with our furry friend when it comes time to travel from A to Z and points in between. We are accustomed to being able to pack up and go at will without having to consider what to do with an animal in our care. Do we board or make other pet-sitting arrangements, or do we take with? If we take with, do we have all supplies with us for the trip? Do we need to make special arrangements with airlines or on trains? Do we need to search out special hotels that accommodate pets?

So much drama. It's like having a permanent baby in the house. Instead of a diaper bag, however, we get to pack up the pooch purse. It frequently is enough just to have every human at our house responsible for her own belongings, never mind another living being and it's accoutrements. And my husband is incredibly good about planning and logistical management, but this would be one more piece of the moving puzzle to figure into the equation. He could handle it, I know, but . . .

Ahhhh. Still deliberating. I'll let you know when we decide anything. If we decide anything. At the moment, procrastination does seem to have its merits.

Learning What Should Have been Learnt

So we're working on efficiency at my household. I don't think I completely learned how to be efficient in my youth. If I had, I would have "learnt" how, not "learned" how, and I would have spelt the word with one fewer letters the first time instead of explaining that my American English spell-check does not recognize the British English spelling. . . . Anyway . . . where were we?

Oh, yes. Efficiency. You can see my predicament. Many of you share it, don't you? Don't kid yourselves. You're not fooling anyone.

As I said, we are working on the subject at my house. I do a very good job of stopping to talk to my children to make sure they've got a shoulder to cry on, a good talking-to, perhaps a slightly older and wiser perspective on a given topic, or just generally explain something that is vague to them. I also do a good job of spending quality time talking with my husband, sharing news and views, chuckles, and appreciation for the darndest things my children said during the day.

Unfortunately, I'm not the multi-tasker that our dear society claims that all women were born naturally to be. Personally, I think it's bunk. I guess I'm more man-like (and I know quite a few women who are likewise in this regard.) than the "average" woman, because I can really only concentrate on one thing at a time with any hope of getting it done a) at all, and b) with any competence. So much for multi-tasking. I like to tell people that I can't chew and walk gum at the same time.

Hence the need for efficiency training at my house.

No, now that our youngest is an over-the-hill five year-old, it is time to move into a new phase of life for all of us. My husband is a fantastic people manager, and I've enlisted his expertise to help keep me on track and moving in the right direction.

He has offered to take on certain household responsibilities so that I can be relieved of them as I move more toward my "working life". You know, life as someone in addition to being "MOM". I put that in all caps as a tribute to all those moms out there who still have the "just a mom", "SAHM" label applied to them at school functions and those events that used to be called cocktail parties.

SAMH's (Stay-At-Home-Mother, for those who aren't familiar with the acronym) of my acquaintance rarely get the chance to stay at home. Most would love to, but there are so many things to accomplish so that the world doesn't collapse in a heap—Oh, wait, it IS doing that just now, isn't it? Some moms somewhere haven't been doing their jobs properly, methinks. 

As I was saying before I got sidetracked yet again (do you see my dilemma now?) . . . my dear husband has stepped into the breach to offer his skills in managing my shift into more of a non-SAMH career capacity. He negotiated with my post-adolescent daughter a few hours per week for my escape to a local bar (coffee, of course) for the purpose of having some mostly uninterrupted writing time. You're reading the first fruits of that arrangement right now.

So, with the intention of increasing our efficiency, please allow me to welcome you to Kosars, Inc.! Details to follow. Eventually. I hope.

Lyricism and The South

We recently made a trip down south to see my brother-in-law and his family in Florida. The weather was hot and melty. So were the beaches. The waters of the Gulf, however, were perfect. Not too cold, not too hot, at least in the few times I was able to get to the beach.

On the way back, we decided to make a slight detour to visit old St. Augustine on the Atlantic coast, and we were so glad that we did. We took a tour of the Castello di San Marco and were just in time to watch the Cannon Firing Demonstration. We then had lunch at a Mexican restaurant overlooking both the water and the fort. It was a great way to get off of I-95 for a little while on our way to Savannah, Georgia, which was our next stop.

We arrived in Savannah for a two-night stay, checked into our hotel and went downtown to do a bit of the tourist thing. The real touring didn't begin, however, until the next morning. My seventeen-year-old had a tour of the Savannah College of Art & Design (SCAD) planned for the afternoon, so we made sure to get up nice and early to get a few things done beforehand.

The first place a couple of us wanted to go was to the very interesting and, by American standards, ancient cemeteries around Savannah. We made it to two of them, both very interesting in what they revealed about life in the early centuries of life in The South as well as some of the individual characters who played a part in forming its history.

The second we didn't reach until later in the day just before closing time at 5:00 in the afternoon. We only had time to drive through it and see from the inside of the car what mysteries might be revealed in the sometimes plain, sometimes poetic epitaphs on the stones. More than once I wished I had a large sheet of paper and a piece of charcoal so that I could make a rubbing of words that were no longer visible to the naked eye.

I admit to being just a bit disappointed that the now-famous statue of the Bird Girl had been moved to the nearby Telfair Museum of Art where, I imagine, all the mystique has been swept away amidst the rest of the collections the museum holds. (Disclaimer: we didn't actually go to the museum, so I cannot vouch for this assumption at all, and lest I appear to be a troglodyte of the lowest order, I do enjoy museums very much. I simply go by my own experience that objets d'art with a history or backstory seem to lose a smidgeon of their lustre and oomph when placed all alone in a marble edifice behind a velvet cordon and tagged with only their vital statistics. Somehow, though the work itself may be magnificent, the original, and therefore proper, atmosphere is lacking.)

But on with the rest of our day.

After the first cemetary, we visited the Juliet Gordon Lowe birthplace. She was the founder of the Girl Scouts of America, of course, and I, for one, enjoyed the tour of this home. It reminded me of my grandmother's and other relatives' homes from way back when. Hearing stories about other people's lives makes them real, makes them familiar, makes them like family and friends. What a hoot Lowe's mother, Nelly, must have been, sliding down the steep bannisters at the age of 82. We didn't spend a great deal of time in very many gift shops on our travels this time, but we did leave this one with a few keepsakes for the younger girls. My one daughter who is in the Girl Scouts was thrilled to be able to add a patch and a pin to her uniform for this upcoming scouting year.

We were hungry for an early lunch at this point, and my husband had this one covered. We went to the Pirates' House for a southern buffet-style meal. Everything we ate we agreed was delicious, and I kept going back for the vegetables. With our health-conscious diets these days in climes slightly north, we don't get to eat very many vegetables cooked the way we ate them that day. Sigh. It was amusing to interact with the character actors who stroll through the dining rooms, some threatening to abscond with members of the dining party before making them walk the plank. In their defense, they did offer bits of historical facts regarding some of the pirates, so it wasn't complete camp on the set. It was fun.

Next came our tour of the aforementioned SCAD. Delightful. We had a fantastic tour guide for a couple of hours, a junior from Mexico. Though there was one other prospective family on the tour with us, we felt that the tour was basically a private one. As my seventeen-year-old had already toured SCAD with her father earlier in the year at what I can only call the semi-annual, collegiate cattle call, this tour reinforced her desire to apply for admission after her senior year. I could see why. Now we just need to finance it . . . donations gladly and humbly accepted.

To get a feel for the local scene surrounding the college, we hopped over to a local cafe for an afternoon pick-me-up. It was like one giant living room, sofas, armchairs, and coffee tables everywhere, though plenty of drinker-diners were also plugged in and WiFi-ing around the periphery of the large, open room as well.

At this point there was only one place left to see, and you, Dear Reader, have already seen it—the second cemetery—and you've seen almost as much as we did with our ever-so-brief drive-through. So much for Savannah this time around.

Next time I'll have to talk about the rest of The South, or at least those parts of it that can be thought about, observed, experienced, and maybe even purchased around the infamous I-95 corridor.

'Night Ya'll.

Move Over Hollywood, Kate's Here Now.

Sitting in a pink plastic chair at a black MDF table at a writer's group of one . . . namely me . . . so far. I've been meaning to get here for some time. Now that I am here, I feel like an old-timer. In my own life, of course, that's what I am, but I am hoping to find myself in a somewhat larger group before long.

. . . . .

I might as well blog about William & Kate.

Yes, we watched their nuptials on the telly back in April. We even recorded it for family members not yet awake and present at the time, if I'm not mistaken.

There are those who would take a cynical view of the whole affair, I'm sure. I know it, in fact. But I, for one, welcome the relief from Hollywood, which so often seeks to claim the status of grand know-it-all-and-primary-influencer-of-all-that-would-be-popular (I just made that title up—I love putting words together.). The new duchess' style is of a quality not often (not EVER) seen coming from H'wood. Sad, but true.

I look forward to seeing all the Kate knock-offs that are sure to come along over the next few years—a fashion trove longed for by many. Bikinis and college antics aside, Her Royal Highness The Duchess of Cambridge displays taste as well as modesty, and let's face it, we have lived without both for a very long time, indeed, in celebrity circuses, er, I mean, circles. Sure, you can have modesty with or without style, and many have come to equate style with a shedding of anything resembling modesty, but why can't we have both style and modesty?

Let's look at this. Gaga, Britney, Beyonce, Rihanna, Flavor-of-the-Week, you name her, she's taking off most of her clothes in a public display of  . . . power? Somehow, I don't think so. That kind of power only lasts as long as she can defy gravity, the sun, the wind, and any other natural force known to mankind.

I find it a very interesting argument to make that women can take it all off in the name of empowerment. I mean if you can now buy carbon credits to offset your own carbon footprint, I wonder what kind of effect women in developed countries walking around barely dressed has on women in developing nations. Does the half-naked woman's ensuing empowerment lift up the women in impoverished and/or war-torn countries? Or does it merely encourage the further oppression, humiliation, and dehumanization of these women that we so frequently read about as we sip our quadruple-shot, foamed milk, stevia-sweetened coffee and tsk tsk a weekend morning away before heading out to the gym?

I mean, really, what kind of turmoil does this kind of fleshly exposure create in other, largely unseen parts of the world for people into whose eyes they will likely never have to look? Hollywood types are fond of a good cause to bolster their ratings. What about the human trafficking of women and children? Do they see any connection at all between what H'wood exports in the name of "art" and "entertainment" and the plight of so many who find themselves living the wrong life, at the wrong time, and in the wrong place? I wonder what these women would have to say to the scantily clad figures prancing around on stage, in front of cameras, gliding across red carpets, and spread across magazine pages. That they feel empowered and emboldened by the stars' various states of undress? Not likely.

No, I cannot emphasize how glad I am that the new royal has such good taste and good sense. Far from being restricted, she appears at ease. Her style commands respect rather than leers. Any message she chooses to put forth in future humanitarian campaigns will not have to compete with an excess of exposed skin and decolletage for her audience's attention. And the more she inspires others to do the same, the more she shares the wealth, the more empowerment there might be to go around. Sit down, Hollywood. It's Kate's turn now.

Out and About

The girls, that is.

My oldest needed to finish up some paperwork at an embassy for her student visa, so she left with my husband and her two next eldest sisters for a day trip to Washington, D.C. this morning. My husband, of course, will end up at his place of work after aforementioned officialdom is satisfied, while the other three will end up who knows where. Sounds a little bit scary, doesn't it?

That's a good thing.

I learned a number of years ago how important it is to let the proverbial apron strings get a smidgeon longer whenever the appropriate opportunity arose. The trick was to listen to my own sense of reason. My visceral reaction is always, "But, wait! She's too young to do (fill in blank here) all by herself!" In reality, most of the time, "she" (whichever one she was) was not truly "all by herself," and if I scratched just a little bit beneath the surface of what I was think-feeling, I could easily identify what I can only say in the broadest terms was my own discomfort at letting go.

I was the one feeling the separation anxiety, the irrational fear, the outsized sense of my own power. I feared that if I let her out of my sight, something terrible would happen. Did I really have the power to stop something terrible from happening, even under the safest of situations by merely willing it to be? Ultimately—and honestly—no. Was there some magical power surrounding me that prevented anyone from getting hurt while in my presence and mine alone? Huh. As if. Had evil and misfortune so thoroughly pervaded the area outside my safe perimeter that the least little toe dipping into that dark unknown would instantaneously be mangled and obliterated beyond the sphere of all that lives? Mmm. Probably not.

In the angel/devil debate going on in the shoulder area of my consciousness, the devil (not mine, thank you very much) always points me in the direction of irrational and unexamined fears. Always. Fortunately for all involved, however, my angel (yes, mine, thank you very much), a much more powerful and inviting influence, always asks me questions designed to flesh out the reality of the situation, especially the ultimate question, "What's the worst case scenario?" Often, even the worst case is not truly all that bad. But even when it is, the next question is, "And what is the likelihood that this worst case scenario will come to pass?" The usual answer generally is, "Not very likely."

The devil in this scene would have me strangle my relationships with my own children and prevent the growth of each child toward mature adulthood, the person she was meant to be. That can't be good.

My angel, on the other hand—sorry, I meant shoulder—would help me to be my own best self. My angel would help me to be a braver, stronger, more courageous person. Even if I were not a Christian, believing in God and his infinite goodness, mercy and wisdom, I would fare better still—as would my children—if I believe that like attracts like, positive thinking leads to positive results. If I think only the worst, then my mind is already halfway there and it can't be long before the results follow.

"As a man thinketh, so is he . . . " Proverbs 23:7

To put it all together, I have had the great blessing of watching my children grow over the years, even as they, in their mortal vulnerability, have helped me to grow as their equally mortal parent and guide. It's been a two-way street. With adequate preparation, watchful prayer, and faith in the good, I have been able to let them go, little steps at a time, and have seen the fruit of this growth in all of us.

Today, my not-yet-ten-year-old is on an adventure with her older sisters. They are riding the metro, walking the city streets, eating, just the three of them, in a diner or burger joint somewhere, and all this in between and in search of a museum, a gallery, an import shop, an ethnic grocery, skyscrapers, or maybe just cloud-viewing in a city park.

Today, they are all growing together, the two eldest taking on the responsibility of guiding the youngest of them, and the youngest stepping up to enjoy the more grown-up activity of being with her sisters, just being out and about.

In the Garden

All righty, then . . .

We've been in the garden many evenings and some weekend days of late, weeding and tilling the soil where we hope soon to see thriving vegetation of the edible and fragrant varieties. After a two-year wait on a list somewhere, we were finally given the green light to choose a plot at our nearest local community garden. We were thrilled, though the weather was so wet for so long that it took us some time to get around to weeding and preparing the soil for planting. We still haven't planted anything, though that should change any day now, and definitely before next week's multi-day rain sets in.

We usually take our nine and five-year-old daughters with us to get them outside in the fresh air, though being true children of the technological age, I must confess, they are often at a loss as to what to do with themselves once they are there. We are attempting to retrain their brains, to have them fall deeply into their own imaginations for entertainment, and it is sometimes rough going.

Living in a townhouse makes it challenging to get the girls outside for free play. There are cars parked in what would otherwise be a front yard, a mere walk-in closet of a backyard, bounded at the back by a six-foot high privacy fence which prevents any truly satisfactory view of the narrow common area between the rows of properties. Throwing the kids outside to play is not such an appealing option. The nine-year-old learned to ride her bicycle on a grassy hill behind the house for lack of a cul-de-sac.

I'm whining, I know. But we may have found a way around that particular challenge. The garden plot.

We've met a few of our gardening neighbors who are very friendly and helpful, and we appear to have chosen a lot that is very near the park concert venue, so that in the summer, on Thursday evenings, we will have backdoor passes to all the shows that happen through. Music, picnic, playing, blankets, gardening—sounds idyllic. I won't take that statement to the bank yet, but I am at least hopeful that our summer will be filled with music, fresh air, imagination, and, if we're lucky and industrious, a bountiful harvest from our garden. Cheers.

Time Passages

"I'm late! I'm late! For a very important date! No time to say, 'hello,' Goodbye! I'm late, I'm late, I'm late!"

So lamented the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland.

I hear there are ways of slowing down time, but I have yet to find one that I can consistently practice. Some days seem to go by much more quickly than others, and those are the days that seem to be the least productive.

When you're young, and things do manage to get done, it seems there must be some cosmic To-Do list, and Time simply presents itself in a natural unfolding, during which, everything you need to do actually happens. Homework (generally) got done, there was time to relax, time to eat and sleep, time to spend doing nothing at all. But I suppose every child feels that way when the bulk of life's heavy lifting is being handled by their parents, or grandparents, or anyone older than themselves.

At least, that used to be my experience.

I don't really think it's a generational thing. I watch my own children now, and I wonder where that extra bit of childhood time went. They don't seem to have enough time in the day to play and just do nothing. Certainly some of the "nothing time" we used to have is now spent doing "something" on the computer, and the television is always a reliable way to remove quality time from the daily schedule. But even so.

My nine-year-old's typical school day is spent like this:

She wakes up, gets her breakfast, and gets dressed, me cracking the whip while repeatedly pointing to the clock. She catches the bus just before 9:00 in the morning and doesn't begin school until 9:15. She spends her day in whatever way it is judged at the school that she should be spending her day, and she comes back through the front door at 4:15 in the afternoon. If there are after-school activities, we must dash madly back out the door so that we are not made late by traffic, of which there is an overabundance in our area, especially at that time of the day, and then we come home again to have dinner, do homework and get to bed, waking up the next morning to do the same thing over again, five days a week, 180 days a year. I happen to be one of those parents who wish summer could be so much longer.

Is that all there is? We do our best not to schedule activities on the weekend so that we can visit with family and friends, take an impromptu road trip somewhere, or just do nothing except housework, shopping, yardwork, go to church, read the Saturday morning Financial Times, have breakfast, lunch, or dinner out on the deck. And all the while, it feels as if we are just barely squeezing ourselves into a contrived state of relaxation. "Relax, will you!"

I can remember two times in my life when the time seemed to keep a sane pace. One, as mentioned above, is my own childhood—and I should mention here that when I was a child, the Blue Laws were still in effect. No shopping or work were to be done, no business to be transacted, no banks open and no such thing as an ATM, though as I recall grocery and drug stores were still open. While these restrictions may have been religious in origin, I don't think they really hurt the average person who had to live with them.

I, being a child without any real responsibility, found Sundays to be rather tedious and boring because there was "Nothing to do!" Much to my chagrin, I remember being glad when they were done away with and we could go galavanting to our heart's content. Oh, the folly! Just the same as I wish I could conjure all those preschool naps I was expected to take and didn't want to, I likewise wish I could have my Sundays returned to me with no expectation that I would hop to it and do whatever was being requested—even damanded—of me. (I'm about this close to enforcing my own Blue Laws for my family!).

The second time I remember feeling that life had slowed down sufficiently was when I home schooled my older two children, one of whom is now in college, the other of whom is doing online high school. We had just bought a house, my husband lost his job six weeks later, we had a baby six weeks after that, and he spent the next nine months searching for a job. Except, of course, for the minor anxiety that a lack of real income will cause in such circumstances, our time was precious. My husband taught the girls their history and spent more time getting to know the newest member of the family than he otherwise could have. And I was able to get rest and get away from the house more than I otherwise would have been able to.

Even when he finally found a job in another city and we spent a year-and-a-half living mostly apart, the time still felt like my own. It's funny how much of your family's time you can reclaim when you take the structured school regimen out of the picture. People would marvel that we were able to live that way for so long. "How in the world are you home schooling with your husband not even around!" I suspect that not having another adult's schedule and agenda to contend with as well was tremendously helpful during this time, to be honest, but we'll make that our little secret.

It is enough to say that once we sold one house and bought a newer one (this time with no yard) in a densely populated area to once again live together—all of us, as a family—time sped up. My older children went to school for a number of years, which sped things up even more, as they rarely went to the same school. Traffic patterns had to be noted or you could easily spend the bulk of your life in the car. Schedules were compressed, short distances became major undertakings and long journeys. Poly-multi-tasking became the order of the day. And you know, when you try to do too many things at once, you never feel like you complete any of them satisfactorily. If you can complete them at all.

A few things have changed over the past year. One of my children has moved on to college, so there is one less agenda to take into account. One has stopped attending the local public high school in favor of online high school. The other two will be at home with me next year, so we may actually be able to return to some semblance of a dignified family life.

We'll see. We've thrown in a community garden plot, maybe a dog and some fish in the near future, and we still have the requisite music lessons, sports, and other childhood occurrences that will continue to ebb and flow over the next several years. But I am hoping that we can usher in a new age of enlightenment, halcyon days of doing what we were created to and truly long to do, to live.

My Ideal School—Structure

I'm just going to make an outline here, a list as much as anything.

K-4 & 5: Classical learning, with a Montessori-style emphasis on practical life skills. Half-day seems sufficient to me, though I know that the working schedules of parents may not make it as appealing as full-day.

1st through 3rd/5th: Grammar Stage, though the material is presented according to level of ability.

Dialectic: Middle School

Rhetoric: High School

Ideally?

Lunch is a sit-down affair in which children do learn to use a napkin (preferably a cloth one) AND good table manners. As an example, I offer you this interesting link to the web site of a woman who, not so long ago, moved to France and is sharing her experience by comparing the typical French school menu to the typical American school menu: brightonyourhealth

Of course, it is impossible to bring this about in a school with many hundreds of children, so . . .

Ideally?

Schools should be small and run K-4 through 12th. In my experience, in smaller schools where the grades run the gamut, there is better social adjustment among all the students. The younger ones look to the older ones for good examples of how to behave, while the older ones benefit from the knowledge that the younger ones do look up to them. It's a circle-of-life kind of thing. The way our public system currently works in the U.S. is that it breaks that circle, leaving a lot of loose ends, and don't even get me started on the "Lord of the Flies" known as middle school.

Middle schoolers, perhaps more than anyone else, need the example, the attention, and positive interaction with those a little bit older than themselves. I would go so far as to say that they actually crave it. They want the chance to express themselves and to be validated when appropriate, and perhaps "smacked down" (resepectfully, of course) when they need it.

I believe that part of the reason that our children are remaining children so long (well into their twenties, according to "experts") is that the "socialization" that is occurring in the public school system is not helpful, but is, in fact, damaging to many as they develop from children to young adults. Babies, after all, graduate from milk to solid foods at the right age, losing their milk teeth and gaining adult teeth to better handle the solids. Can you imagine a ten year-old who has never had anything but milk to drink his entire life? Wouldn't you expect there to be some deleterious physical consequence as a result?

Ideally?

Now, this is a real kicker. It is very hard to make happen, whether public or private school is in question.

The school should be near to the home of the child. Impossible I know. But it would be ideal, in my opinion. Otherwise, everyone loses valuable time to the commute, and isn't time one of our greatest luxuries? I remember having time to just be bored as a child, and like nap time, I wish I could have bottled that time and saved it for later. sigh.

Being able to walk (safely) to school would provide time for children and parents to talk (or comfortably say nothing), to breathe deeply, to enjoy the weather (or appreciate the indoors!), and to notice the natural world, which is so easy to overlook and take for granted when, as a Ugandan Orthodox priest once said, we "move from our little box that we call home, to our little box on wheels, to another little box that we call school or work." He was right. Still is.

'Nuff for now.

My Ideal School—The Classical Model

Where were we? Oh, yes . . . Education in the classical style.

I happened to visit yesterday a home school cooperative that utilizes a classical model of education. The kindergarten classes were learning Latin, the 2nd Law of Thermodynamics—albeit it on a very simple level—and a little bit of the history of the Vietnam War, with simple geography lessons about Southeast Asia. The five year-olds were learning to identify the countries by shape and location, and they seemed to enjoy doing it, as the parent/teacher made it thoroughly hands-on and engaging.

The older elementary students were learning the same lessons, but on a higher level, and in more detail.

The high school students had a completely different curriculum, which is to be expected, because they have already learned what the younger students are learning, but when I sat in on a group of 7th graders, they were playing a game of Jeopardy, "hosted" by the parent/teacher, in which there were two teams playing for nothing more than the highest number of points (as opposed to dollars or other prizes). the questions were spread over many different subject areas, and I would have to admit that I didn't know many of the answers myself. Though the middle and high school students only attend school one day per week, the program is strenuous enough that they must make the most of the intervening time to finish the assigned work by the next class day.

The time that I spent observing these students in their respective classes was informative and rewarding.

The classical model of education can basically be broken down into three parts:

The Grammar Stage, in which children memorize and recite their facts. These students are in their earlier elementary school stage.

The Dialectic Stage, in which facts continue to be memorized, but students learn to analyze the information they're taking in and to discuss it in depth. These students are in the upper elementary and middle school stage.

The Rhetoric Stage, in which students study and learn at a higher level, doing research, learning not only to discuss, but to debate, to speak publicly and give oral presentations. I've noticed that students who are educated through this stage tend to be more poised and have more confidence when speaking with and in front of adults. Why? Simple. Because they've practiced.

By the time the student has matriculated, he/she is pretty well prepared to move into adulthood, which is no small accomplishment in today's culture, in my humble opinion.

My Ideal School—Part 1

Forgive me, I must blog about my ideal school. My husband said I should, and I think he is right. Caution: potential ranting ahead.

First up, the Classical Education.

I never understood why all my school subjects were handled as separate universes, sufficient unto themselves, when I was in public school (Private school is frequently not much different, mind you.).

Each subject, and let's list them for the sake of clarity—math, English (also known as Language Arts), history, science, music, art, handwriting (a rapidly dying art, I'm afraid, in the orgy [forgive me] of keyboarding that is taking place in our insanely frenetic world) . . . did I miss any? Probably. Anyway, each subject, was taught without any real reference to the others.

In history we might be learning about the French Revolution, while in math we're grinding away at Algebra without ever knowing who first discovered these functions and what made them want to. And over here we might be reading "The Catcher in the Rye", but learning about Degas and Beethoven.

Is it any wonder we don't retain what were being fed? Why should be hop back and forth around the world and across several eras all at once? Why couldn't we just pack up our trunks, make the journey, and plop our selves down for a good old-fashioned visit, remaining in one place and time for a few weeks or even—gasp!—a whole month?

Why don't we start with the ancients and learn about the individuals who discovered and implemented the principles of mathematics and science? It would have been simple enough in the early days, right? And I bet more students would retain more of what they learned in the process.

We could then proceed around the world, chronologically, using—and this is REALLY important—Original Source Material. That's right. Instead of reading about the Magna Carta, the would read the Magna Carta; instead of reading about the the Declaration of Independence, the would read the real thing, or a reasonable facsimile thereof; instead of reading pre-selected excerpts, pull-quotes and captions, they would get their (ideally greedy) little hands on the real deal.

To give them bits and pieces of an education is like giving a child a toy that is meant to mimic real tools and devices that big people, accomplished people, fully individuated people (And remind me again, exactly how do the aforementioned get that way? By eating pretend food and playing make believe at everything they do in life?) use for creating and operating in the real world. As anyone who has spent time with a small child will know, they will not long remain satisfied with the play kitchen, the pretend remote, the fake car keys, the computer replica, the toy tools, and other colorful plastic items of the same ilk.

No, of course not. They want the real thing. They understand intrinsically that they're being given a predigested copy of something that must be appealing or no one would have bothered with its imitation. But why, they ask, do I not get the real thing? Why is that being kept from me?

Are children wrong to feel this way? I know how I feel about news media choosing for me what is important for me to know and what is not. I know how I feel when an item that I purchase does not work well or breaks long before it was supposed to. It feels fake. I feel cheated.

So, why do we do this to our children? Why do we cheat them? Why in the world would we cheat their minds of the opportunity to learn as much as they are capable of learning? Why do we assume that the limitations we set for ourselves are necessarily appropriate for them? Many of us grew up on the gruel of mediocre education, but does what was deemed "good enough" for us have to be the same bar we set for our children?

Some of my teachers in school were outstanding. Some I barely remember. Along with the bland information they presented. The only texts I remember are the originals that we were somehow fortunate enough to be handed, or the ones I read on my own. Is that the way it should be? No wonder our children retreat to computers, T.V. and video games. It's for the lack of anything more interesting to come from the adults entrusted with educating them in the things they need to know to live this life, in this world.

And we only get one chance. Once they're out of school their education, or lack thereof, is a part of who they are and will be. No mulligans, I'm afraid. How many children, when out of school during a break or summer vacation, pick up a book that requires anything of them? How many high schoolers will pick up a book that requires more than a sixth grade reading level? Or do they need Manga actually to finish reading the story? Once upon a time, not so very long ago, it was stated that in order to read the original King James Version of the Bible, one needed an 11th or 12th grade reading ability. What is it now, I wonder? Masters, maybe? PhD?

Enough of my rant. Back to Classical Education. Back to the original drawing board. Back to my ideal school.

To be continued . . .

For Aspiring "Know-It-Alls" . . . (It's Not What You Think)

So tired of it I finally kicked it. I think.

All my life I have felt the need to apologize for being good at certain things because my particular abilities made other people uncomfortable. Well, not everyone obviously, but some people.

I won't tell you how old I am to save you the sudden rush of discomfort that inevitably follows such an admission, either because you pity me for taking so long to get to this point or because you are older than I am and haven't arrived there yet yourself. Either way . . .

I was watching an episode of "Mad Men" recently in which the lead character, Don Draper, tells a young female employee, Peggy, who aspires to climb the ranks in the advertising world by using her talents in that arena (God forbid!) that she should never apologize for doing something well. She felt guilty for succeeding. Something clicked.

In any case, I verbalized to myself out loud this morning that I refuse to apologize for being good at the things I am good at. Period. God gave each of us our gifts in the expectation that we would use them appropriately, and it is not possible to use them appropriately if you keep them locked in a dark safe so that they might not offend.

Besides, it is glaringly apparent that some people aren't bothered in the least that they might be offending others, even when they are obviously in the wrong. So why should I make myself a hostage to this practice? And anyway, the gift I have in mind is of the sort that that is actually quite helpful when I use it, and, technically, I'm depriving people of something that might help them if I don't offer it to them. So, you see, I am actually obligated to use my gifts, and how can you apologize for something that you are morally obligated to do?

My "secret" gift that I've orphaned for so long?

Being a know-it-all.

There have been so many times in my life when I have felt it impossible to tell someone something that seemed obvious to me, but which seemed to elude them. And many times when I did speak up, I was even accused of being a know-it-all. When you're very young, that can hurt. So I shut up. No, I'm not talking necessarily about family, either. In some cases, yes, but in other cases, no.

Gradually, over recent years, through painful experience, and learning to stick my neck out in little bits here and there, I have realized that my contributions are, indeed, contributions, and not simply "butting in" or "showing off." I used to cringe at the prospect of telling someone something that I thought they might need to hear for fear of being told off for it. I hate confrontation. Or at least I used to. It doesn't bother me so much anymore. Don't get me wrong, I don't run around speaking my mind any time and any place I choose. Just when and where I feel it's the right thing to do.

The fear of confrontation came, I think, from the fear that, in any given encounter, I might have to stuff my own feelings, invalidate my own opinions, and, in fact, violate my own psyche in order to accommodate the person standing or sitting before me. After all, I was strong enough to take it, and they might not be. Right?

Slowly, I've come to see such instances not so much as "CONFRONTATIONS", but as "Opportunities," which, when taken, usually leave both parties stronger for the exercise. Where I used to see "potential foes," I tend now to see "potential friends, cohorts, or allies." Of course, I've had to learn the "language" that accompanies being a know-it-all, but each time I allow myself to exercise my particular gifts, I come away calmer, more lucid, stronger, more positive. And a heck of a lot more comfortable in my own skin.

Now, when someone doesn't appreciate what I might have to offer, I can let it slide right off my back . . . most of the time, anyway. I'd be lying if I said I have become impervious to rejection. But I'm much better at handling it today than I have been on any day of the past 40+ years.

Not so long ago—even very recently, really—I would never have allowed myself to write something like this in a public space. But I have, and I don't plan to apologize for having done so today.

Well . . . one month later . . .

If I ever pen a memoir or an autobiography of myself (Perish the thought!), I believe I shall have to call it something like "Fits & Starts" or "Dribs & Drabs." I would hate to live life on a timer, but some things seem just to beg for one. Writing, for me, is one of those cases.

I'm now finally sitting down to start my agent query letters, however many there might end up being. Wish me luck. Say a prayer. See you later . . .