Alina's Adventures

Cultivating empathy for the dyslexic child.

When she was a toddler, we used to joke, "Prophet help, Prophet help..". Because she always wanted to help. And she still does.

Reading Robert Frank's The Secret Life Of A Dyslexic Child and imagining how the words jumble and rumble for Prophet as she reads or speaks or tries to understand directions. 

How does it feel to have a bibliomaniac mother who loses herself in books and novels? How does it feel to watch others delight in the written word? How does it feel when family or friends ask what books you're reading-- given your age? How does it feel when people say, "oooooohhh", and change the subject? How does it feel to be the target struck in the center of their ooooh?

Set apart. Ceaselessly self-conscious. Fearful of frustrating others. Angry at your inability to control how the world perceives you. Lonely. Despairing.

The emotions run the gamut from tears to rage, and I think we do a better job of soothing a tearful child than honoring the humanity in an angry one. Robert Frank encourages us to let our child know it is okay to feel furious or sad. Denying the existence of those feelings- or suggesting there is some way to be the kind of person who doesn't get angry- is counterproductive and reduces the likelihood that your child will trust you enough to share her emotions.

I want Micah to share her emotions with me. Most importantly, I want her to share her worst emotions with me. Not her sunny, happy, look-mommy emotions which make the world a brighter place but her impossible, threatening, throat-clenching emotions which make the world a darker place for her. Because these are the emotions she most needs to share. These are the emotions that feel like prison until we can sort through them with someone we trust. 

She is confident on creative, tactile terrain. Like designing her derby doll at the Druid City Brew Pub.

Since Frank can speak about dyslexia from the first-person, we are offered a glimpse into how it feels to navigate a dyslexic world. A few insights from the book followed by my applications: 

"...even though he doesn't know this himself at a young age, he wants his parents-- and everyone else in his world-- to know that his dyslexia is real, and it's not going to just go away."

I told Prophet that her dyslexia is part of how she was made. That our culture values literacy, and this says more about our culture than it says about her.

That she is more valuable than our culture, and that she needs to believe this because it is true. No matter what others say. Her dyslexia can no more be "fixed" than the color of her eyes. 

"I encourage you to take the competition out of the learning process or your dyslexic child may always feel intellectually inferior. Encourage your child to think of her own strengths rather than dwell enviously on the strengths of others.... Learning should not be about competition; the current sensibilities toward that kind of thinking are especially detrimental to kids with learning disabilities."

I told Prophet the she is learning to read at her own pace, and that her relationship with written text is not anyone else's relationship with written text. She does not need to read like other people or enjoy the same books as other people or compare her reading journey to that of others. Her journey is her own, and no one else can map it for her. 

"One of the most important things you can do is to help your child find ways to tell others about his dyslexia."

I told Prophet that fear is always the enemy of our best self. Fear lies to us and teaches us to hide. Eventually, if we take fear too seriously, we becomes the patrons of fear, inventing apologetics for fear.

Eventually, if we hide the truth long enough, we become liars.

We talked about how confidence, and explored how to communicate our own strengths and weaknesses to others in a way that helps them listen. How it's better to laugh at the ways of the world than cry-- but that, often, we may have to do a little of both.

I told her about my challenges with calculus and how thinking about it competitively made me feel like a failure. Even though I wasn't a failure. Even though all I was doing was learning, which involves making mistakes and moving forward. Learning is all about failure. I told her if she wanted to remember anything from our conversation, then it should be this: Fools never fail. Wisdom is what grows in the richly-composted soil of many, many lessons and mistakes. The sturdiest plant, and the wisest mind, is one nourished on past refuse and error.

"The best way to deal with academic competitiveness is to counteract it with your own family's outlook on the value of learning."

I told her that it wasn't fair to tell people she couldn't read (which she says to others regularly). The right thing to say is that she's learning to read. That is the true and honest answer. 

A few additional things I learned which gave me awesome opportunities to seek insight from Prophet about her experiences and how they did or didn't match up.

1. Dialing a phone number can be hard for dyslexics. And kids who reverse numbers will often make the same reversal mistake again and again. Like a loop.
2. Standard forms and permission slips look like a minefield to dyslexics. All the fine print and instructions can be quickly confused or muddled. 
3. When a dyslexic person hears a long list of items or directions to follow, the information may become mixed up in her mind. What looks like hesitation to follow instructions may actually be an attempt to sort the various pieces of info in her mind. Similarly, she might have trouble relating chronological order. 
4. It's easy to miss the point or purpose of a story or what has been read. In a classroom setting, this can be especially alienating since you realize that others understood and you are left with an anxious blank.  
5. Prophet has a hard time retrieving information she has filed away in her brain. Rather than offer a simple answer, she usually weaves a web of associations and arrives at the "correct" answer by process of elimination. Frank explained that this challenge also occurs with properly recording and organizing materials in folders or notebooks. 

I sit in the yard and draw up various game plans, though no game plan will resolve her feelings or make the dyslexia less punitive in our uber-literal, success-driven culture. 

As she works her way through piano lessons, where musical notes alternate with letters and numbers and changing signs, two large black crows exchange carcass data overhead. The crows overheard.

She enjoys reading to Gnome and cousin. When the book is very familiar. When the words have a rhythm she can memorize.

Signs of dyslexia (Yale Center for Dyslexia & Creativity)
What does it feel like to have dyslexia? (ICM)
How it feels for a dyslexic to read (Thoendel Learning Center)
Through your child's eyes (Understood)
Two poems about how dyslexia feels (The Guardian)
ipad apps for dyslexia (Yale Center for Dyslexia & Creativity)

A handy list of notable dyslexics to inspire and encourage

Pablo Picasso, Spanish artist & sculptor
Leonardo da Vinci, artist and inventor
Thomas Edison, discoverer of electricity
Richard Branson, entrepreneur
Sally Gardner, children's book author & illustrator
Ansel Adams, photographer
John Britten, inventor
Jack Horner, paleontologist
Lewis Carroll, author & mathematician
Terry Goodkind, American author
Steve Jobs, co-founder of Apple, Inc.
Rebecca Kamen, artist & sculptor
Walt Disney, 
Albert Einstein, Nobel-prize winning physicist
Anthony Hopkins, British actor
Mirelle Mathieu, French songstress
Paul Oakenfold, music producer
James Russell, scientist & CD inventor
Erin Pizzey, founder of Women's Refuge
Chuck Close, contemporary artist
Hans Christian Andersen, fairy tale author
Alexander Graham Bell, inventor of telephone
David Rockefeller, American business executive & philanthropist 
John F. Kennedy, US president
Eileen Simpson, noted memoirist
Avi, Newbery Honors winning author
Nikola Tesla, scientist & engineer
Gustave Flaubert, French author
Roberto Bolano, Chilean poet and writer
Philip Schultz, Pulitzer-prize winning poet
Pierre Curie, Nobel-prize winning physicist
Ted Turner, president of Turner Broadcasting
Henry Winkler, actor & children's author 
Rehn Guyer, American toy inventor
Joss Stone, British singer
Frank Woolworth, founder of Woolworth's
Dave Pilkey, creator of Captain Underpants
Molly Sliney, champion fencer
George Bernard Shaw, playwright
Zhang Shang, dissident & human rights activist from China
Benjamin Zephaniah, British-Jamaican writer & dub poet
Bob Weir, Grateful Dead guitarist
Florence Welch, British singer of Florence & The Machine
Woodrow Wilson, US president
George Washington, US president
Agatha Christie, mystery novelist
JF Lawton, screenwriter
Richard Ford, Pulitzer-prize winning author
Henry Ford, entrepreneur & automotive innovator
Erin Brokovich, environmental hero
WB Yeats, Irish poet & playwright
Robin Williams, comedian
Whoopi Goldberg, comedian & entertainer
Jay Leno, comedian 
Ann Bancroft, adventurer & record-breaker 
Paul MacCready, "engineer of the century"
Peter Lovatt, dancer & academic
Noel Gallagher, songwriter & musician 
Ingvar Kamprad, founder of IKEA
Michael Faraday, inventor of the Bunsen burner
Darcey Bussell, British ballerina
John Irving, screenwriter & novelist
Willard Wigan, micro-sculptor
Andy Warhol, pop artist
Ignacio Gomez, muralist
Robert Rauschenberg, American painter & graphic artist
Fred J. Epstein, innovative pediatric neurosurgeon
Octavia Estelle Butler, first sci-fi writer to receive MacArthur Genius Grant
Robert Clark, photographer
F. Scott Fitzgerald, writer
Scott Adams, creator of the Dilbert comic strip
Michael Hart, founder of Project Gutenberg 
James Anthony, youngest pilot to fly solo around the world
Fannie Flagg, author of Fried Green Tomatoes
Jules Verne, science fiction & steampunk pioneer

Writing and wringing the moments sapless.

Violet heaven behind the house.

Between polishing, editing, and attacking the Defect/or poetry collection, I steal time for seeds and flowers. It's hard to juggle writing, editing, the foreign country of writing/publishing networks (for which I lack a passport), gardens, homeschooling, social life, reading, travel, etc. etc. but there is not a single one of these moving pieces which I am willing to relinquish. Not even the etc.

Especially not the etc.

So the juggling is a clown show and I think of Norman Manea's writer-as-clown analogies which, pen in one hand and shovel in the other, I am perhaps honing into a local variant. 

The year's first grapes-in-the-grass event....

A Sunday afternoon at Lake Nichol.

A windy day on the banks of Lake Nichol where the Gnome secured her first fire ant bites of the year. One lesson I've learned from my nature-hungry kids is that fire ant prevention rarely works. Not with a crew who insists on living and playing at ground level.

MY FIRE ANT REGIMEN.....because every Alabama mom needs one. Here's what works for me.

1. Iodine applications twice a day with cotton-ball. The iodine solution is the best germ-killer around and it also doubles as an excellent drying agent for the liquid pustules. 
2. Band-aids. Because both Gnome and I have been treated for staph infections which began with fire ant bites. Even if you wash your hands, the itch will be scratched. And if you go back outside and continue gardening (as we did), you need to cover those bites.
3. Last resort for little ones who wake up itching and crying: half teaspoon of Benadryl. 

 Beautiful, irrepressible Prophet turns 7.

2015 is not a birthday party year- we alternate years for parties because it keeps them from overwhelming our lives and expectations- and Prophet welcomed her seventh birthday with love letters from family all over the country. Letters and gifts and the feeling of excitement when every package (including the flowers from Bunicu) are delivered for you.

On the morning of her birthday, the kids climbed into bed with me and we talked about how I howled at the moon on the night when she made her appearance in this world. Lunatic. Moon crazy. Crazy for the moon. Moonstruck. All this and more in less than three hours.

Because Prophet was curious, we watched a few videos of puppies giving birth. It was fascinating to compare them with the videos of human female- the same panting, restlessness, and motions as the contractions progressed. Gnome gobbled it up- and both girls wanted to watch again. So we did.

Since the Eldest explained the menstrual cycle to his sisters a few years ago, I've had to settle for second-place in the look-at-what-cool-things-our-bodies-do department. Nevertheless, there was something incredibly tender and sweet about bonding over the story of her birth and reliving with her. It surprised me when she said that was her favorite part of the day- that morning in bed giggling and laughing and talking and sharing.

Prophet craves intimacy, and I love that she can express this without guile or shame. Her presence- this perpetual convergence of head and heart- makes me a better person. Perhaps not always a nicer person.... But more courageous. And happy. Simply happy. 

Cause the ice skating rink melted.

Last night's torrential rains brought down branches and created new "creeks" in the woods behind our house. There's no time like the time after a big rainstorm watch watersheds in action.

S. and Prophet try to zip up their coats.

S. flashes a debonair grin while Prophet shows off her riot grrrrrin.

J. demonstrated a slight bit of jealousy when presented with the King's outrageous Zappa.

For every lovely moment in life, let there be green porta-potties in the background.

There was the seven square foot jagged rock with puddles in certain portions that captivated the kids. I don't know how many times the climbed the rock, teetering to and fro, looking like they might bust their heads, and then pooling all the energy to let out a passionate "yaaaaaar" and leap from the side of the rock onto the gravel below.

S. atop said gnarly rock.

Be still, my heart.

Little G. and his amazing, expressive eyebrows.

Little G. won't take no, maybe, or later for an answer. He follows his geist.

They are wild, unruly, wacky-yum-yum, and really cute to their parental units.

Mallory and Kenny said the magic words.

Weekend foliage.

It was a beautiful fall weekend in Tennessee, the leaves burning every possible color- including dark, dark purple.

Mallory was a vision in white and tulle- a beautiful, whipper-snapper, ceaselessly sassy bride. Seeing her say the magic words was sweeter than most magic words for their resonance. I know what it means to love your independence and enjoy being a mother and yet- still- hold out for a partner worth marrying rather than settling for something easy and more socially-acceptable than single motherhood. 

I was the bridesmaid who never, ever, ever wanted to catch the bouquet. After every wedding, all I could think was "I don't ever want to be some man's wife." What I wanted was to be myself without having to account for all the ways in which I was different from other females or males in demographic category. When I finally decided to marry, it was not for a traditional dream of male-female hierarchy but for a thoroughly gender-flexible partnership between a person who happened to be a male and a person who happened to be a female both of whom- most importantly- happened to be human beings with their own hopes, dreams, fears, and ideals. 

When Mallory's voice cracked as she said the magic words, I wanted to hug her and say- "This won't be the first time your voice will crack over those words- because they are not small words at all but big, massive, clumsy, impossible words that mean the world and reshape the world. I can't imagine saying them lightly. I can't imagine saying them without fear and trembling.

We basked in the free-flowing love around us. There was a tremendous amount of tenderness at the wedding this past weekend- tenderness between cousins and family members and strangers at the wine bar. It was cheesy and lovely and wonderful to witness. My hopes for Mallory and Kenny are tiny as a pinhead and wide as the moon- May their marriage remain a canvas they never tire of appending, painting, painting over and even re-painting should the need arise. 

Flower-girls Gnome, Little J., and Prophet goof off as only cousins can do.

Now for serious faces.

The ring-bearer of the hour was Gabriel, whose shoes matched Kenny's.

Tennis anyone?

Given my fear of competition- the fear of winning, possibly displacing someone, giving others reason to resent me- it's awesome that Prophet can't hide her contempt at my non-competitive inclinations.

"I love playing," she assures me.

"Why?"

"Because I love winning." The words slide like raspberry jello from her tongue. "Don't you love winning, too?"

"Well, Prophet, it's complicated."

"Nope it's not. Winning is awesome." She looks convinced. 

What else can I say except- "That's one way to look at it."

Hiking the Lily Pad Lake Trail near Silverthorne, Colorado.

My blogging break began to feel like a traffic congestion with all the unsaid unsayables lining up behind the red light, clogging lanes, leaving me no way to move forward except by blogging through. It's funny how beautiful things keep us moving, and too few remarked wonders strand us between this breath and the next.

Back in Colorado, we came across a marvelous trial, the Lily Pad Lake Trail. The Dillon Forest Ranger first suggested it to us- a stunning trail through aspen and lodgepole pine forests, culminating in a lily pad-laden lake.

Each equipped with a backpack and water bottle, we set parked near the base of a hill and ascended for a half-mile before arriving at the official trailhead- just beyond a mountain-top meadow of wildflowers.

Up a small hill and into a meadow of wildflowers.... 

And into Eagle's Nest Wilderness Area, a mecca for plants, fragrant breezes, and moose scat.

After passing through a meadow that gave us an unbelievable view of Lake Dillon and the entire Blue Valley, we stepped into the forest and crossed our first hand-hewn bridge.

Monkshood (Aconitum columbianum)

We stopped to sip some water and snack on fresh peaches at this boulder field almost halfway.

Gnome noticed the lack of underbrush at this altitude- and how much it easier the hiking without the tangle of southern vines wrapped round our feet.

The last stretch before reaching Lily Pad Lake involves a little incline. Prophet takes a breath, counts a step, blows out the number, and starts again. Everyone finds their own way to get up the hills.

And those who rush through run the risk of overlooking tiny divinities, like the shy mountain hareball.

Or the bewildering beauty of the miniscule death camas, a wildflower overflowing with mystery.

Just when you think your legs can't walk another mile, the air so thin it feels shrill in your nostrils, Lily Pad Lake unfolds before you.

And each yellow water lily peers up from the pond's dark black ink.

A reflection upon a reflection.

Pebbles to skip- never enough time to skip every possible pebble.

The hike down is lighter than the ascent, but we didn't pack ample snacks or fruits or chewables. If I had the hike to do over- and I'd do it over and over- I'd pack more food, leave loose more time, and linger longer at Lily Pad Lake.

Hiking through White River National Forest.

Hiking a favorite trail earlier this week.

White River National Forest is a wandering, SAHF's dream. One of our favorite hikes- the hike that doubles as a snowshoe trail during the winter- is located just past the Ski Tip Lodge on the road towards Montezuma. The Ranger called it the "social area" because backpackers and campers like to stop there.

You can park on the left near the large map, which, alas, does not include a sign or name. We dubbed it "Elysium" for lack of a better descriptor. Certainly, the gurgle and gush of the Snake River running along the trail feels heavenly.

After hiking for a few minutes, Gnome spotted a lounge chair away from the trail. We wandered over to theorize while Bunicu snapped a picture.

Recent rainstorms revealed a plethora of fungi peeking up from the moist soil.

Alpine daisies or tansyasters

Soon, the wildflowers and wild shrubs beguiled us in their honey-tongued language.

FIREWEED patch

FIREWEED up close

Between cool shaded areas filled with brilliant purple fireweed, there were patches of sunlight and red clover carpets.

DWARF GOLDENROD 
(Solidago nana)

And the dwarf goldenrod, so small and delicate compared to the gargantuan Alabama variety, attracted a ceaseless stream of little butterflies. Gnome calls them "flutterbys".

SMALL-LEAF PUSSYTOES
(Antennaria neglecta)

Bunica samples the resin from a pine tree. Our fingers stayed scented for so long afterwards. The Eldest used the resin to seal a papercut on his finger. Just because.

Never underestimate the creativity and skill set of backwoods campers and backpackers.

The smiley face a hiker left behind at the trail's end... I can only imagine the keys had been there for a while- the joints were covered in a light sprinkling of orange rust.

WILD STRAWBERRY SNACK

After hiking Elysium, we wanted to take a longer trail- one that allowed us to bring the kids and get a summit view of Summit County. We dropped by the Ranger's station to learn more about local hikes, and finally settled on the Lily Pad Lake trail (details forthcoming).

In the meantime, here's a collection of family-friendly hikes in White River National Forest:

Lily Pad Lake (Easy, 3 miles RT)
Lower Cataract Lake Loop (Easy, 2.02 miles RT)
Gold Hill (Moderate, 3.02 miles OW)
McCullough Gulch (Moderate, 1.27 miles OW)
Mesa Cortina/South Willow Falls (Easy, 4.71 miles OW to South Willow Falls)
Old Dillon Reservoir (Easy, O.77 miles OW)
Sapphire Point Loop (Easy, 0.67 miles loop)
Tenderfoot (Easy, 1.84 miles OW)

How we learned about the Girl Riders Organization (GRO).

Prophet and Mary climb the ramp after co-skating.

Why not wander around a park in Silverthorne and spend those last minutes of daylight surrounded by local chatter? Before you could say lickety-split, the Eldest made a playground friend. 

The Eldest and his friend climbed rocks around the skatepark before daring one another to race through the ramps between skaters. I tried to warn them that watching out for little folks reduces the flow state of skating for the folks on boards.

Just as I was about to launch into my lecture, a nice girl wearing kneepads asked if the kids would like to try skating.

Mary takes Gnome for her first skating spree.

Having watched her skate for half-an-hour or so, I felt confident in her skills and abilities.

"Sure. Why not?" I replied.

Prophet couldn't get enough.

Mary told me about a national group in which female skaters teach young females how to skate. Meanwhile, Gnome and Prophet begged for "one more ride" and "one more try". 

I'm so grateful to Mary for extending a hand, inviting the kids to try her skateboard. Mary is affiliated with the Girl Riders Organization (GRO), which hosts regular free skating clinics at skateparks across the country. Check the GRO Facebook page for details of a skate session near you. 

Silverthorne Skate Park is located at 430 Rainbow Drive right next to the Silverthorne Rec Center in Summit County, Colorado. Though more land sits and waits to be added to the park, the city of Silverthorne has not put this land to use yet. 

If you're interested in putting your skateboarding skills to use to make the world a better place, you MUST check out Skateistan, a nonprofit that teaches Afghani kids to skate. 

Cadillac Ranch.

Visiting Cadillac Ranch just outside Amarillo, Texas is supposed to be a celebration of the American roadways, highways, drive-all-night ways. But it is also an art installation created by the Ant Farm Collective as a tongue-in-cheek pawn to consumerism and kitsch. And there are other things it can't help having become...

Barbed wire keeps us from arriving in clumps, spilling through the metal gate in torrents.

And fake plastic flowers remind us that wildflowers grow in muted shades here- the cost of brilliance being early death and dessication. It takes a few prickles to survive the Texas winds.

We walk but the kids can't help running towards the Caddies. There is something moving about the ten minute walk up to the installation. Something like standing in line on Sunday, waiting for communion.

The way in which one woman sidled slowly up to the cars, staring at them as if grieving, changed the way I looked at the ranch itself. It is not a landmark or a pit-stop so much as it is a pilgrimage, with all the religious connotations and all the attendant devotions.

The devout bring their own cans of spray paint and paint pens, leaving their mark, knowing better than the hope of being remembered.

The littered cans clench the artistic value for me. Cadillac Ranch would be so much less powerful without the piles of waste and refuse, the leftover costs of religious pilgrimage, the way we subvert the earth in the name of one god or another.

I tell the kids how much I love it. Prophet scowls for a second, then says she doesn't understand how "those cars fell like that on their noses".

I marvel at the way in which the neon aesthetic is simultaneously soothing and jarring.

We are pilgrims of Cadillac Ranch. Unlike other religions, this one leaves us free of shame and brimming with hot pink.

Father's Day.

Father's Day was uniquely uneventful this year. Going into our second week without a dryer, the King meditated about various and sundry things while hanging out four loads of laundry. "There's something calming about having to hang everything, then wait for it to dry," he confessed later that night, comparing it to construction work and the way he'd get lost in manual labor. 

Bunica brought by a delicious soup, thus sparing me the opportunity to start fires in the kitchen.

When we took a sunset stroll, the King found what every 21st century father needs most- something to climb and no good reason to refrain. 

So being a father is the weight of the world and the lightness that comes with lifting it high in the hair and hearing it giggle.

It's looking down at the tracks laid by others and wondering if there isn't some heartbreaking limit in the places we can go if we agree to follow them.

It's knowing you can't fix the past but you bear a responsibility for the future.

For what you sow and how you sow it.

It's teaching your son how to love himself outside the emotional and spiritual confines of gender roles and assumptions. Discovering new paths and giving him a sense of self strong enough to sustain the adventures.

It's watching your daughters breakdance on a bridge and not feeling the need to "show" or teach them anything at all- only to watch them and learn from their joy.

It's knowing deep in your veins what Wendell Berry meant when he wrote:

We have ourselves to fear.
We burn the world to live;
Our living blights the leaf.

It's knowing all these things without knowing the sort of simple answers given by ideologies or self-help books. Learning to read the runes scribbled in spray paint. Finding yourself in what you leave behind.

Encounters with insects: The eastern lubber grasshopper, a staple of southern childhood.

Prophet skipped into the house, screaming my name, begging to borrow my phone so she could take a picture of the bugs she'd found on a bucket in the yard. In a flash, she was gone, sucked from the room like a helium balloon from an open car window. 

Upon her return, I recognized the grasshoppers of my younger years. I remember them as having a distinct, almost rubbery smell. My childhood summers were filled with these sleek black grasshoppers and their sportscar-orange stripes.

I also remember the way they oozed a white, creamy substance all over the hot cement street in front of our house. There was a time when dead bugs demanded mass burials and specially-tailored funeral rites.

EASTERN LUBBER GRASSHOPPER (Romalea microptera)

Now, Prophet asks me to marvel over them as if for the first time. I find myself hating the way marvel has assumed a more cerebral hue- the hunger to give it a name, to find out what it eats, where it lives, why it lingers on buckets and metal pipes. 

The eastern lubber grasshopper is limited to the southeastern and south central portion of the United States. The northern boundary is central North Carolina west through southern Tennessee, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, Arkansas, to Texas. 

Our eastern lubbers are juveniles, still too small to boast of wings and more variegated coloration. 

We learn that its wings are purely ornamental- too short for flight, running less than half the length of the abdomen. Also, that our friends cannot fly; they move by jumping short distances. Their range of motion is narrow and their style rather clumsy and slow. The eastern lubber's name reflects this clumsy movement. “Lubber” is derived from an old English word “lobre” which means lazy or clumsy. To call someone a lubber is to brush them with the tar of being big, clumsy, oaf-like, and rather dull-witted. If you've ever heard a sailor call someone a "landlubber", now you understand why it wasn't a compliment.

Eastern lubber is one of only four species in the family Romaleidae found north of Mexico, but there are many other species in South America, and many are winged and agile, so although some other species in this family are called lubbers, the “lubber” designation is not appropriate for the entire family.

Since eastern lubbers are known to prey on garden plants and flowers, many people make use of toxic sprays to keep the lubbers at bay. Fortunately, there are wiser solutions. If you find yourself swimming in a sea of lubbers, pot a few oleanders and place them in strategic locations to deter pests. Oleander is poisonous to eastern lubbers- but eastern lubbers don't know this, and will usually die immediately after consuming the flower or its leaves.

EASTERN LUBBER PRINTABLES

Eastern lubber fact sheet (University of Florida Extension)
Eastern lubber handout (Southeastern University)
Lubber grasshoppers (Fresh From Florida)

Sir Eustace, my sports trophy.

Friday flew straight in the face of every well-laid plan. But it helps to explain why my "home-making" posts are far and few between.

By the time Max and Ellie got back after lunch, the girls had each invented the most hair-curling cries for their fabric baby dolls. When I asked them if I could breastfeed their babies, Prophet refused.

"They're not hungry, mom," she snapped, "They just like to cry. A LOT."

Little B. and Gnome smiled sheepishly. Then Gnome's baby began shrieking as if a small dragon had a baby toe between its long, shiny teeth. "See?" smirked Prophet, her lips compressed into a tight little line that I like to call a "smugile".

After giving myself the pronounced satisfaction of a little solitary eye-rolling, I trotted into the kitchen, where the boys were debating whether to bake banana bread or raspberry-banana bread. "Hey mom," ventured the Eldest, "I looked everywhere and I can't find my Honest Pretzels cookbook..."

"Obviously, you didn't look everywhere," I replied, keeping one ear cocked for fabric baby cries from the back of the castle.

"I did. I swear."

"But the book is clearly somewhere, so not finding the book means you failed to look everywhere because you may have looked in many places while not looking in the place known as somewhere- which is, in fact, a place BECAUSE...." I raised my voice and caught my breath, "your book still exists as a form or familiar recognizable physical MATTER." 

"Mom doesn't like to help me find things," the Eldest said in an aside to Ellie. "She thinks I should find things for myself." Ellie nodded. The boys looked amused.

They shrugged in unison as I set off (rather huffily) in search of the Eldest's cookbook. Twenty minutes later, with "somewhere" feeling more and more like elsewhere, I happened upon a gigantic cockroach, spread on his back, legs curled towards the ceiling. Since he was obviously deceased, I did the only thing that made sense given the circumstances, namely, selected a swatch of linen from the fabric bin and mounted Sir Eustace into a frame for the dining room wall. 

As I hammered a nail into the wall to display our new family friend, Ellie saw it and started laughing. He loved Sir Eustace. In turn, I discovered that Sir Eustace had minimized the cost of admitting I couldn't find the cookbook either- and maybe "somewhere" was actually "nowhere", immaterial.

The Eldest just grinned and said, "That's cool, mom," when I passed over a printed recipe for banana-raspberry bread.

"Actually," I wanted to say, "Cool is your non-shaming response to my huffiness". But I didn't say it. Maybe a residue of huffiness lingered.

As the Eldest prepared his ingredients and Ellie warmed the oven, I decided to make a snack for the crying baby dolls and the five uber-cool kids in the castle. "I'm going to make some microwave popcorn," I said, hoping it sounded official. Ellie watched as I put a fabric napkin under the popcorn bag and set the timer.

"Why'd you put that napkin in there?" Ellie asked. 

"Because the spinny-dish-thingamabob is broken and the popcorn will burn on the bottom if I don't put something under it and we don't really have paper napkins..."

"Only for guests," appended the Eldest, as he mashed bananas with the meat-grinder.

I set the timer for the minimum popping time and prepared to listen for the promised "popping intervals". It took all of forty seconds for the microwave to begin smoking furiously, filling the tiny kitchen with smoke and the familiar odor of burning. Something wasn't right. When the girls dashed into the kitchen screaming "Fire! Fire!", Ellie and the Eldest immediately demonstrated proper bomb-shelter skills by throwing themselves on the floor and covering their heads with their arms. 

At this point, we torn between cracking up and dealing with the current disaster. Somehow, we managed to alternate between both fairly evenly.

Ellie found a fan in the sewing room, and set it up to blow the air away. Prophet announced the rule that "no one opens the microwave door until daddy comes him". This gave her the chance to indulge in her favorite hobby of all, namely, the enforcement of very particular, legalistic rules. I try not to worry so much about whether this rigidity will condemn her to life as a card-carrying Republican. There are other things to think about. Like the smoke.

Meanwhile, the Eldest went on baking as if nothing had happened, while Ellie theorized about the cause of the burning. "You know, it's an urban myth that aluminum blows up microwaves," he said in his most serious voice. He had the floor. "Because, actually, all it does if you put it in the microwave is make a lot of smoke- I mean, A LOT of smoke, kind of like that", he said, pointing towards the closed microwave door. 

Could these kids be any cooler? I mean, here they are, juggling crisis-management, intricate baking recipes, baby dolls that cry no matter what you do to soothe them,  and then babysitting a mom who can't even pop microwave popcorn without setting fires. Someone give these kids a gold medal.

Needless to say, an hour later, the kitchen still reeked of smoke but we snacked ourselves silly anyway, under the shadow of a somber Sir Eustace, the delicious taste of banana-raspberry bread in our mouths. 

It was Tiffany who finally made sense of the whole event- "I like it," she said with reference to the framed Sir Eustace, adding that it made a great "sports trophy". Granted, Sir Eustace was deceased when I found him, so he was more like a roadkill trophy than a sports trophy, but roadkill trophy fails to capture the budding affection (the sentiment that led me to offer Eustace the token of a "Sir").

What Tiffany didn't know, however, was that our microwave held within it a napkin lined with metallic strips, still smoldering (eventually, charred) as a result of my kitchen shenanigans.

"Whatever," I overheard Prophet telling Little B., a sigh heavy in her voice- "I guess that's why Dad always tells Mom not to worry about doing any of that cooking." 

Seeing constellations as a way of remembering history: Following the drinking gourd.

Scroll down for this free printable download.

The Eldest's study of the Civil War led us through the Underground Railroad earlier this week. It's a topic I love to explore because it demonstrates how the actions of a few determined, good people made a difference in the lives of those African-Americans who ran from slavery. 

People trying to escape slavery could not afford to ask most Americans how to get North. Asking directions in a society that held no laws to protect slaves was a risk that usually led to getting caught. The man or woman on the run cannot rely on the friendliness of common folks. Instead, the slaves fleeing towards freedom devised clues and secret codes to help them find the direction of "North" on their journey.

One clue was that moss tends to grow on the North side of trees. So, in long excursions through wooded areas, they could look to the trees to determine their direction.

Out in the fields and plains, however, there were few trees to consult. In treeless areas, these brave individuals consulted the skies. They knew that migrating birds flew north in the summer- so they followed the large groups of birds heading north. They also knew of a star called the "North Star", frequently called "Polaris" in astronomy books and charts. 

Unlike other stars, the North Star never changes position. It always points to the north. If they could find a way to remember how it pointed North, then they could use the North Star as a guide in unwooded areas.

An easy way to remember the North Star's location was by looking for the "drinking gourd". Since many used hollowed-out gourds to dip and drink water, the Big Dipper resembled a drinking gourd to them. Two stars on the edge of the gourd always point to the North Star. By finding the “drinking gourd” in the sky, people traveling at night could always find the North Star.

Escaping slaves like Harriet Tubman, James Pennington, and Josiah Henson probably followed the Drinking Gourd to freedom. The song "Follow the Drinking Gourd" helped keep the memories and instructions of how to follow the invisible and very secret Underground Railroad alive for slaves in the South. The topic was such a neat one that the Eldest played the song on the pinao as I sang the lyrics in a pajama-attired evening performance for all. Then we set out to seek the Drinking Gourd itself on the front lawn. Even Gnome spotted the North Star in the gourd!

Drinking Gourd sheet music (PDF)

Follow the Drinking Gourd (PDF)  

FIND THE DRINKING GOURD ACTIVITY To find the North Star, begin by looking for the Big Dipper constellation. Use the two small stars that form the edge of the cup away from the handle. Follow the line these two stars create to find the North Star.

I like to imagine that someday, far in the future, the kids will be stargazing as their thoughts inevitably return to the many African-Americans who dared follow the drinking gourd in the hopes of finding freedom from the injustice and horror of slavery. These are the stories in the stars- if we only agree to see them.

ADDITIONAL RESOURCES

Follow the Drinking Gourd, a website about the history of the song and motif
Follow the Drinking Gourd video sing-along (Sing An American Story)

How to deal with emerging bullying behavior in a homeschooling home.

We've been witnessing a few bullying behaviors here in the castle- and there's nothing quite as painful to watch as little people using cruelty as a means of motivating one another. It's a form of slow torture for those who aren't content with a social darwinist approach to life. So, tonight, the King and I called a castle meeting to try and sort through a few things with our budding bullies.

One of my favorite free resources for castle meetings is the LifeTree Learning Systems Pax Curricula. A yearlong learning program enables you to teach kids how to make compassionate choices through activities, role-play, games, and empathy-building exercises. We use it for all our kids- and I think the little Gnome gets quite a bit out of it, even if the concepts can be a little abstract at times.

“Peace, according to Montessori philosophy, does not mean weakness, and it does not mean the simple absence of war. It means inner harmony and strong individuality, a full participation in community life, responsiveness to the world, and stewardship of its resources. It means respect for human dignity and diversity, and due diligence in protecting and supporting the rights of all. It is to this definition of peace that we dedicate our most passionate efforts.” 

Tonight, we're going to focus on our imaginary friend, Wendy, who just can't seem to be happy no matter how many things she accrues and manages to take from others. Unlike her friend, William, who can find so many wonderful ways to play with a few sticks, Wendy finds herself angry at others for her own inability to enjoy all the things she has.  She takes to picking on William- demanding his stick and throwing a tantrum when he won't give it to her. She calls him "stupid" and tells him that she hates him and that he is "disgusting".

No matter how much she gets, Wendy always wants more. And Wendy loves to talk about other people- there are so many people she "doesn't like". It's hard not to wonder if there is anything in the world Wendy does like. Selfish behavior aside, it's obvious Wendy doesn't like herself very much. 

I can't wait to see how the kids think we can help Wendy find a way to enjoy what she's given. I also hope they offer a few suggestions on how to help a friend like William when he is being bullied or mistreated. Stay tuned.

The magic of nocturnal life.

Image source: Mental Floss with "10 fun firefly facts"

This weekend, the King cut the backyard grass for the first time in the spring season. At my begging request, he left a small patch of grass and wildflowers uncut under the shade of the pink dogwood trees. "It's for the fireflies," I explained. He shook his head, perhaps amused.

We read a dusty old book over a shared lemonade as the dusk insinuated itself around us. The fireflies gathered in the tall grass near the dogwood, that patch he didn't mow. "They need the tall grass because the female fireflies don't have wings," I whispered, my voice lowered in reverence for the wonder of the falling night.

The females lie down low in the tall grass and wait for their lovers to come calling. The flicker, itself, is the mating call. And response. As soon as the daylight dims, a female firefly prepares to answer potential suitors who happen to come calling. It is she who responds to his signal- not by rising up to chase him or follow him but by flashing her own light in response. And waiting for him to descend into the grass for a rendezvous at the location of her choice. 

The King seemed enchanted; my seemingly irrational supplications concerning strange lawn-mowing patterns rewarded by the haunting presence of firefly love nearby.

As the day grows longer, the night gains all the magic and mystery associated with scarcity. The melody of the owl wafts towards our bedroom window, the one to which the King has trained a confederate jasmine vine to crawl. There is nothing in the world that compares to a spring night in Alabama. 

When Gnome began to mumble something about being "scared of the dark" last week, I devoted myself to preparing a lapbook that might leave night's mystery intact while reducing the fear we associate with things we cannot see. I arm my kids with knowledge for lack of a better alternative- and because knowledge is the best form of self-defense I know.

NOCTURNES OF NATURE LAPBOOK(4 pages PDF)

MORE RESOURCES WE'RE USING TO STUDY NIGHT

NOCTURNES, a Spotify playlist
Nature Day and Night, a stunning book by Richard Adams
"Day and Night" video (Museum Victoria)
Living in Darkness activity and lesson plan (TES)
"As The Earth Turns" student web lesson (Beacon Learning Center)
How to demonstrate day and night (Learn Play Imagine)
"New study shows effects of prehistoric nocturnal life on mammalian vision" (University of Texas)
Nocturnal Life (BBC Wildlife)
Nocturnal Animal Fact Pack (Communication 4 All)*
5 animals you didn't know were nocturnal (WebEcoist)
Different adaptations between nocturnal and diurnal animals (TES)
Nocturnal animal noises video (Tom Woodward)

Visiting a local florist to learn about flowers.

After the girls' ballet recital, I promised them something (I secretly hoped) that would be better than a rose bouquet (which I somehow forgot to purchase). Specifically, I promised them a visit to a local flower shop to pick their own favorite flower, and maybe do a little roamschooling on the side. So we took a little trip to Stephanie's Flowers, a local florist that's been around since I was a child. 

The staff was super friendly and eager to show us inside one of the four freezers where flowers were stored.

Little B. wanted to know which flower she can choose.

"Any flower that looks like it grew just for you," I told her.

Inside the fridge at Stephanie's Flowers, and colder than we'd anticipated, the girls settled on two pink blooms (for Prophet and Little B.) and one yellow bloom for the Gnome.

Then the florist let the girls pick ribbons and tissue paper for wrapping their flowers.

As she wrapped their flowers, we talked about what it means to be a florist- how flowers are chosen and combined based on their colors and textures, how a certain taste for artistry and beauty is involved in the creation of every original bouquet.

Gnome skipped with joy once she had her flower in hand.

The Eldest fell in love with a $70 orchid. I told him good love didn't cost so much.

Finally, we toured the huge inventory and the Eldest kept making a point about how it wasn't fair that he had not earned a flower and how he would dance ballet if it scored a flower for him and that what he wanted most was a flower after his next piano recital, preferably an orchid he could plant and so on...

We are always grateful to local businesses that allow us to learn by visiting and talking to others. There's nothing quite like learning by exploring.

Gardening with kids of all ages: A how-to and how-not.

Our bamboo bean teepee with seeds planted just a week ago with Bill's help.

The bean sprouts curl their way into a winding adulthood- one in which they will be judged for their ability to produce food. It's hard to under-emphasize the thrill of fruiting. Hard to temper my love for the way a seed leads us to the dinner table. Hard to imagine and cultivate an ethic of beauty and wonder completely devoid of practical considerations.

So I steal a few secret minutes while weeding this morning to acknowledge my admiration for the producers of food. And I hope no one says, "Hey mom, what are you thinking about?"

Marigolds growing around the tomato plants, per Mary's aphid-free suggestion.

The Eldests' heirloom Brandywines.

We celebrated yesterday's rain for the way it darkened the soil and replenished our rain barrel. Today, the Brandywine's stalks are covered in a thick coat of white hairs- I imagined the hairs as a fur coat when last night's temperatures dropped and the wind released loose pink and scarlet rose petals, a pattern of fallen skirts.

While planting cucumbers last weekend, the Eldest warned that cucumbers should not be planted close together lest they attack one another and "keep each other small". I laughed and inquired as to his source. He couldn't quite recall if it had been an almanac or a gardening book. So we planted our cucumbers across the garden from one another. Because, as I explained to the King, "Some boys are territorial and require ridiculous accomodations to their insecure egos". 

The King looked as if he either A) understood or B) remained baffled. The thing about the King is you never can tell. His "I get it" expression is almost identical to his "I'm lost" expression.

The Eldest improvised a cucumber cage from twine and bamboo (see rear of photo).

Cucumbers do not cross-pollinate other vining plants. While you don't want crops growing into each other to create a tangle of vines, misshapen or poorly tasting cucumbers because of the pollen from nearby melons, squashes or zucchini plants. Only other cucumber varieties cross-pollinate -- all are the same botanical species. Cross-pollination does not affect cucumber fruit features or qualities, but it does yield hybridized seeds.

Over the years, I've collected quite a few resources for gardening with kids. Given my brown thumbs, it's rather incredible to see how little I've learned. But I sure did curate a tremendous number of informative and useful links.... So I went back through my gardening posts and added the most helpful, useful, and educational ones- the ones that inspire, inform, and amuse about gardening with kids. Thrive and enjoy.

THE BEST OF GARDENING WITH KIDS

Pre-school gardening club weekly activities plan (Little Green Fingers)
Preparing for our brown thumb garden (alina's adventures)
Is it garden bounty or garden booty? (alina's adventures)
Heeding the summons of spring  (alina's adventures)
The hunt for the perfect compost (alina's adventures)
Cucumbers everywhere (alina's adventures)
Planting poppies (alina's adventures)
The Eldest starts his heirloom seeds (alina's adventures)
The surprise that conquered coxsackie (alina's adventures)
Making scarecrows (alina's adventures)
Getting your garden journal and notebook ready (alina's adventures)
Flower gardening with kids (alina's adventures)
Gardening at night (alina's adventures)
The magical garden of Maria Barnes (alina's adventures)
Gardens and good germs (alina's adventures)
Getting my hands dirty (alina's adventures)

Spittlebug crafting session degenerates into spitting contest.

After last week's spittlebug surprise, we found ourselves thinking, "Why note draw some spittlebugs- spittling- on a leaf?"

I provided a model and some watercolor pencils, along with a few leaves cut from used paper bags.

Prophet provided an inspiring variation, with lovely leaf veining.

The Eldest excelled in offering a blueprint.

Gnome and Little B. chose to explore their talents in a different fashion. They decided to hold a spitting content in honor of the "spitting bugs". Fortunately, there is only so much saliva one can spit across a room before insatiable thist kicks in and distracts you from the game. 

I never found who won the spitting bug contest. Perhaps it is just as well.

What happened at Toddler Theatre in Dublin.

There they are- the King, Gnome, Prophet, and Eldest, sitting in the pews of the Abbey Theatre of Dublin, Ohio.

The whole thing was my idea, of course. We went to watch a show billed "Toddler Theatre". The name evoked images of costumed creatures singing and dancing, a play especially crafted for toddlers, an introduction to the fascinating world of theatre, a world well-loved by myself and the King. 

But Gnome and Prophet were neither amused nor intrigued by the interactive toddler dancing and music. They watched with all the curiosity of spectators.

"You two look like intellectual snobs," I parrotted in my best Katherine Hepburn voice. 

Performer Marlene Metz played children’s music on her guitar and sang like a happy mermaid.

Marlene was joined onstage by Ladybug Girl, one of Prophet's favorite characters. I thought this might bring the snobs from their seats.

Prophet quickly informed me, however, that "the Ladybug Girl was not a real one", merely a "pretend version" paid to trick gullible toddlers.

Would you believe it if I told you that the ladies didn't budge from their seats for a second? It was the Eldest who saved the day. Because if anyone in that theatre was singing every single song and clapping right along, inserting his own cheers and "hoorays", it was our 10-year-old boy, the same boy who begged to go down and shake hands with Ladybug Girl, the only child above the age of six on the premises. 

If it weren't for the Eldest, our excursion would have been a bust. Instead, it was an excuse for maniacal laughter when we jumped back in the spaceship and started back towards Bunicu's place. At the first stoplight, the Eldest announced, "Boy, that sure was FUN!". Then he added, "We should do that again sometime," as Prophet and Gnome glared ominously in his direction.

Watching a luna moth emerge and dry its wings.

It was the Eldest who first spotted the bright green friend crouched in a corner of the castle exterior.

"A friendly dragon," we determined. 

Moving closer to establish the requisite rapport, we realized that our friendly dragon was actually a luna moth recently emerged from its pupa and testing its wings in real-time. Luna moths only live for a brief period of time, during which they must first spend a day allowing their fragile, splendid wings to dry.

Things began to happen very quickly- with the same intensity of being in labor, tiny movements leading to fantastic physical changes.

I called Prophet, Gnome, and Little B. to join us.

We watched the moth's fragile wings tremble with each gust of fragrant spring wind.

We studied the perfect symmetry of the lines on its back. Then discussed the shapes we could find in its thorax and abdomen.

Suddenly, the luna moth shuddered and curled into itself. When it curled back out again, two slender appendages with golden endings emerged and remained dangling.

Gnome opens the gate carefully so as not to disturb our moth friend.

When the luna moth tumbled down from its high spot on the wall, we watched with bated breath as it climbed up the side of the wooden fence to rest at the top of the gate. Then we relocated to watch the events from the other side of the fence. 

The Eldest admired the luna moth's "featherlike" antlers, which appeared to be made of perfect, super-sensitive combs.

"I can't believe it is so perfect.... and delicate," he concluded, as he stood, transfixed, by the tiny details witnessed up close, the ones we never bother to seek unless forced before us by a circumstance.

And so we sat, and watched- the little ones resorting to dirt and stones when the waiting felt too laborious. We made up poems and rhymes, which quickly turned to songs and riddles.

Four hours and several bowls of pineapple later, our luna moth friend felt ready to fly. I won't tell you which one of us cried when it finally heaved its amazing wings and fluttered away. The whole watching and waiting was intensely beautiful and awe-inspiring. I learned more about from this brief learning experience than I have learned from any textbook or media about the sublime life of the luna moth. Profoundly grateful for what Barbara Kingsolver calls the "small things". 

The recent memory of camping with cool people.

The weekend before the last, we went camping with Matt and Sarah. 

A week later, the camping gear sits in the garage, still unsorted and unattended. I'm don't report this out of guilt- merely amusement that we managed to find a way to avoid it for the second week in a row.

How to build a fire, per family recipe.

I'm the kind of person that relishes looking back. Yet, writing about an event in the recent past is harder for me than writing about events long-past. The salient memories are still crystallizing, the cream hasn't had time to settle, leaving no outer layer to cull. And so the recent past is murkier than the distant past as my brain still decides what might be worth setting to memory.

Southern Gothic with corn.

I remember thinking, "Sarah is beautiful"- and wanting to tell her so. I remember sorting through the awkwardness of finding a way to tell her I also admired her courage without insinuating a context of grief. Because her courage is not born of grief- her courage is something that struck me from the start, the courage of a woman who dares to proble the complicated knots many of us prefer to leave untouched. Many of us, of course, then wonder why everything feels so tangled.

I remember, somehow, being reminded that the knots are always there. It takes courage to confront them, to ask if there need be a knot or a kink in the line.

Southern Gothic with corn and attempt at nurture.

I remember the abundance of goofiness and vegetables- the familiar goofiness indulged with friends who know the worst of you and choose, somehow, to overlook it whenever possible. Thanks to Matt and Sarah, the King and I had "What did the fox say?" stuck in our heads for most of the weekend. I remember wondering why the tiniest dog insists on being the loudest barker on the campground. 

When I first glimpsed this photo, I remember promising myself to make a slideshow with the words from Wendell Berry's "The Country of Marriage". Something about Sarah's ring caught my eye.

The memory replaces the performance of the action- the excuse for this substitution awaits our attention in the garage.

I remember Prophet's very, very chapped lips- and the search for a buttery ointment to relieve it. 

I remember the Eldest's thrill to hear the steady drumming of a basketball on a court somewhere across the way. "Hey Mom, can I go play pick up?" he asked. I remember smiling, nodding, and telling the King we were witnessing the dawn of a new era.

I remember the girls sitting in the "kids corner" watercoloring various pebbles and rocks. Then leaving them to dry on the rotting log, lined up like psychedelic little soliders.

I remember the expression of utter joy on the Eldest's face when he ran back to the campsite only to announce that his friends, Jack and Andrew, were playing basketball. "I miss them so much, mom- they're 'twilight friends'".

I remember the first time he told me about "twilight friends". "You know," he said, scrunching his forehead, "twilight friends are the ones you remember from long times ago, the ones that are always there, in the twilight." Because twilight is more of a state than a particular place. And twilight never goes away- not completely.

I remember the way the tents were set up on top of a small hill next to the site, where Gnome played imaginary games with Pinka, who fretted about collars and leads and the way freedom is never free.

I remember Linda dropping by for a visit- laughing like a little kid when she discovered we were listening to Pearl Jam. Of all things. I remember singing "Corduroy" aloud without a hint of the usual embarrassment.

I remember the marvelous dance steps of the Gnome.

Of all the ways for our Gnome to dance, it is the wacky steps she can never quite resist.

I remember deciding NOT to tell the Gnome to zip her fly. I figured she has plenty of time to be self-conscious in the future.

I remember the muffled excitement of preparing food together, how sentimental it always feels to watch two old friends tending a fire together.

I remember feeling grateful for Matt and Sarah, for people we can love and cherish without the expectation of unanimous agreement on every subject under the sun. Friends to whom you can pose large, unanswerable questions without needing an answer to know better.

I remember Sarah's expression- a "hobo dinner"- to describe our food being cooked on the campfire. I remember the kids falling asleep with Pinka in the tent as the big kids sat, sipping, around the campfire. I remember lots of Tom Waits, the early years. I remember lots of stars, the midnight version. I remember a mysterious barge, the conspiracy theory variety. I remember falling asleep in the tent, surrounded by little bodies and little puffs of breath.

I remember waking up at 6 am to discover a small thunderstorm and the Eldest, soaking, thanks to the holes in the tent.

I remember flying in the air, coffee splattering across the pavement, and landing on the side of my left knee. I remember why. I remember laughing and thinking the injury would have been worthwhile if I had only managed to meet my goal of kicking the King in the bottom as he carried the trash to the dumpster. 

Simone Weil finds hope in the unbearable distance between heaven and earth. She says that paying attention to someone is a form of prayer.

By this, I think she means that our heart's sustained, intimate connection to another human life is, in itself, a form of worship, an honor or reverence for God's creation. An act of faith. An extended supplication.

I remember my way into the present, and find the memories of that weekend leave a heart on the map. It's a intimate geography, this one. The key is ours to keep. 

What's blooming and budding at the UA Arboretum.

The clouds cleared a little towards the end of the day, enabling us to go for a what's-blooming-and-budding hike at the nearby arboretum. Rucksacks strapped to our backs, we set out on the Poplar Trail "to see what we could see", as Prophet explained.

The Eldest tried to sneak his special gift- Euell Gibbons' Stalking the Wild Asparagus- into his rucksack, but I convinced him to leave it behind and just roam the woods without a field or foraging guide, wander with only our senses and nature journals to to record observations.

Well, wouldn't you know, the left-behind book came up almost immediately when the Eldest spotted what he claimed to be none other than Podophyllum peltatum, or May apple. Since this wasn't the first "May apple" sighting of the season, I was skeptical. But the Eldest assured me these plants were "the real thing".

Also called American mandrake, the May apple is the stuff of magic and mystery. The Eldest buzzed with glee- "Look, there's a tiny flower bud!", he shouted, pointing to a small green berry under the umbrella-like leaves. In his best "old man" voice, he cautioned that much of the plant is poisonous, including the roots, the fruit seeds, and the unripe fruit. 

Prophet spotted the first solitary violet.

A division of labor emerged in which the Eldest identified various tall,gangly trees while the Prophet raised a hullabaloo over any flowers along the path. Never one to be left out, Gnome quickly took it upon herself to frighten every slumbering bird in the forest by shouting, "BUD! B-UUU-D! BUUUUUUD!" every time she spotted a leaf or flower bud. The ghost of Thoreau was horrified by the racket.

Unidentified wildflowers and buds.

"That's poisonous," chirped the Eldest before Gnome could pick one.

The beautiful vine and intoxicating scent of yellow jessamine that drives the insects mad come twilight.

The familiar three leaves of the trillium poked out from beneath autumn's dusky, decomposing blanket.

We marvelled over how the trillium unfurled its tie-dyed leaves, opening its arms wide to reveal a deep purple flower brushed with golden flecks. Should we stop to sketch it? 

The corky growths on a winged elm tree.

"Let's stop by the big magnolia tree," said I-can't-remember-which small folk. Somehow, we agreed to continue hiking, mystified for a moment by the strange (possibly fungal) growth Prophet discovered lining the branches of a small tree. Budmaster Gnome observed that the growth wasn't keeping the tree from budding at the tips of the branches. Carol suggested it might be a winged elm, Ulmus alata, for whom such corky growths are normal. 

We stopped and took out our nature journals- everyone except Pinka started sketching. Fortunately, Gnome brought along a charming little wildflower mystery for us to model. 

Prophet's middle name, "Magnolia", makes sense.

Saucer magnolia

On our way back to the space ship, we lingered over a few lovely varities of magnolia trees, including the Saucer magnolia (or what I called the "saucer cup magnolia") and the sticky-sweet Star magnolia.

Star magnolia

One of my favorite things about nature study is the anticipation of going home with our observations and then trying to identify what we saw. The temptation to plug into the iPhone or reference in the field is tremendous- but much good comes from waiting. It serves as a reminder that the details we capture in our journals are the only evidence that remains for the identification. So we must take thorough descriptive notes and do our best to capture the species in our illustrations.

An early spring hike through Hurricane Creek Park.

We set out for a visit to Hurricane Creek Park, just off the Highway 216 bridge between Cottondale and Peterson. Rather than taking the awesome new PARA trails, we strolled along the stream using the old Eagle Scout trail. What we found was the commencement address of spring, sparing none of our senses.

A few years ago, a little bird named Hayes told us of the clay we could find along the banks of Hurricane Creek- a white-gray beautiful clay. Sure enough, the clay seeped from the dirt in the banks. I only wish I'd brought a bucket to collect it....

Our kids ranged in ages from 3 to 10- the youngest ones wore their own backpacks for the occasion. The unplanned presence of Pinka provided us with a four-legged mammal's perspective on the journey.

"If a rainstorm overtook you, which rocks would you use for shelter?", I asked at one point, remembering the old legends about Native Americans once find sacred spaces along the creek.

We hiked along, observing ferns, tiny buds, lichen, and any flowerings in the making.

The little ones stopped to dam and ford a slim tributary- if a slender sliver of water flowing down the side of a hill can even be called a tributary. They could have lingered for hours, pressing sticks into the miniature waterfalls and watching leaves make their way over the "rapids".

 Prophet watches her friends clamber over creekside rocks.

Creekside portraits abound.

The Eldest mistook the canebrake (or "hair cane") for bamboo. Fortunately, Amy quickly corrected him.

Resting along a bench donated by the Friends of Hurricane Creek.

Amy and I both paused to press our cheeks against the cold, mossy rocks, reminiscing about times in our pasts when only the cold, hard feel of a stone relieved the unbearable Alabama summer heat.

Gnome explains why she wants to eat something soon- and why eating acorns is something to which squirrels and Gnomes are inclined.

E. filled the sample jar with creek water.

Before we knew it, the grumble in our bellies meant water-testing time had officially arrived. Alas, we started testing without reading the instructions prior to our field tests. This means we learned much more about the importance of sampling methods than the actual water quality of the creek.

For instance, Amy found the oxygenation results rather hard to believe. When we sat down in the grass to review the how-to guide, we quickly understood that we had made the mistake of valuing the field sample itself over the rules of collection. "Isn't it better that we learn this the hard way so we can use our mistakes to better teach others?" Amy asked. It seemed to me just the right way to look at things.

Building birdhouses and questioning the rise of the nation-state.

Weekends at the Coryell Castle have a tendency to develop in unexpected ways. This past weekend, the King and the Eldest spent a Saturday building a "wren house" from tornado-fallen wood found along Hurricane Creek. It happened because of a book....

Meanwhile, the girls and I colored the "Coryell Castle" sign for the garden gate. The King cut it from found wood last year, but it languished in the garage, unpainted, until the chirps of a coming spring brought it to our attention. 

"Our house is really small- it's not like other castles," observed Prophet, as she washed a paintbrush in water she'd procured from the rain barrel. 

"That's because all the other castles are way too big," I said (a little too smug). "One day, we humans will be remembered only for our ruins- and the ruin we made of this beautiful planet."

Prophet giggled and leaned against Gnome. "Mommy is in a serious mood," she whispered.

Now, after having built the birdhouse and painted the Coryell Castle sign, the King and I sit watching the girls swing.

Gnome shows off her new ability to propel herself by pumping through the air; she throws her head back and closes her eyes for emphasis. We are charmed.

“She would have made a good Wren,” I say to the King, a reference to the original name we had planned for yonder tiny-swing-thing. He agrees.

Why did we name her M---- rather than Wren? Neither remembers.

The clouds lay like a poisonous white snakeskin over the sky. I want to peel them back and find the proper name for this strange planet-place in which we find (and lose) ourselves on a daily basis.

Prophet settles onto the swing nearest Gnome. Suddenly, Gnome's two pigtales reveal their asymmetry, she lays her head to the side, crumples her face into a cry- “No, Prophet, go away”. Prophet tries to ignore the crescendo of wails demanding that she get off the swing.

I feel myself redden.

“Gnome, you can’t cry because someone sits next to you or breathes near you!”, I snap. I'm surprised by how much this flusters me.

“Next thing you know, you’ll become one of those nationalists!" I practically spit out that last word as if it were an expletive.

"Look," I say, trying to impose some calm on my own outrage, "If you don’t like the person next to you, then it's YOUR job to get up and move. You don’t have a right to remove them or make them leave....” The Alabama Immigration legislation flashes through my mind, alongside sepia-toned photos of Ellis Island and Japanese internment camps. Gnome stops complaining; the girls swing as if their lives depended on feeling their toes touch the clouds.

The King enters my field of vision, picking up trash from the lawn, a large smile on his beardless face. “Did you just call her a nationalist?” he laughs.

“Yes,” I admit. I am that woman in the check-out line who fears that her children will find anything of value in flags, nation-states, and patriotisms. The excuses we imagine for mass killings can never be sacred to me. Fortunately, the King takes a more nuanced view of fences, gates, and the history of the nation-state. 

If it weren't for the subtle poetries of living in the deep South, this girl would be roaming the continents with her backpack, eyes peeled for caravans or other contingencies. I wonder sometimes if my rambling blood courses through the kids' veins- how and when and if they will recognize it, what symptoms will lead them to give it a name.... The mysteries of life disguise themselves in rapture.

Learning all about worms, with special attention to our new friend, the millipede.

Earthworms abound in the moist front-yard soil. The other day, the kids spent hours watching an earthworm worm its way around a puddle before sinking into the soil.  So we decided to play with worms.

Prophet and Little B. practiced their scissor skills by cutting out some worms and watercoloring them.

Why not use their fancy worms for the cover of our small earthworm lapbook? Enter glue stick and worm selection process.

But our worm study really took off (and shifted gears a bit) when Gnome discovered a millipede..... To talk about millipedes, it was necessary for me to utter one of those strange words that sounds like a magic spell to many little folks- namely, myriapods. Unlike our insect friends, myriapods aren't really bugs at all. 

We used our plastic crawlers to compare the two myriapod millipedes to the insect caterpillar.

Nearly 13,000 species of arthropod are classified in the Myriapoda, which means "many-legged ones." Prophet demanded to know what on earth those "arthtroscods" might be.

Arthropods are a group of creatures classified as invertebrates, or animals without a backbone. The arthropod group includes all invertebrates which have a skeleton on the outside of their bodies. The exoskeleton is made of chitin and the legs are jointed. This group is so large that it has been divided again into four sub-groups - insects, crustaceans, spiders and myriapods.

Now for a closer look at the millipede. The millipede's body has a trunk composed of individual segments known as tergites.

It didn't take long for Prophet to notice that her fake plastic worms were not millipedes at all. Indeed, the plastic worms were actually replicas of the fearsome creatures known as centipedes. For lack of a live centipede, we made do with the plastic version.

Centipede Class mini book (PDF)

Explaining why centipedes and millipedes were not in the same class of creatures was difficult. Compared to a centipede, the millipede has shorter antennae on the top of its head. It also lacks the two hooked posterior legs that appear on the head-like anus at the rear of the trunk.

Trillium Montessori has a lovely sorting game for insects and non-insects that makes good use of plastic creatures.

On the crafting side, there are endless millipede and centipede crafts to excite little hands and imaginations. Here are a few I stumbled upon- those wooden spoon millipedes are fantastic.

Centipede friendship bracelets (Friendship Bracelets)
Millipede madness (Always Outside)
Wooden spoon millipedes (Handmade Charlotte)
Curling millipede bracelet (Fusion Knots)

What we learn by watching harvester ants.

Gnome holds her cheap plastic ant after giving it a kiss.

It's all about insects lately. Each night, the insect for the next day is introduced in the form of a cheap, plastic replica. Little B. bounces around the room, begging for her insect before bed. There's just something cool about girls who like bugs.

And there's just something spring-feverish about the moment when you find yourself forking out $10 for an ant farm on a mysterious whim. An art farm without any ants, mind you. 

All week, the little people waited for the daily mail, wondering if our harvester ants might be among the bills and junk. When our tube full of harvester ants finally arrived, a dance party and jubilee ensued. The king tried to hide his own excitement with a serious question about the possibility of ants fleeing the farm for other locations in the castle. Alas, the time for serious questions was long past. I did my best to put his reservations to rest.

It should be called an ant aquarium.

Preparing the ant farm required us to add the sand and water to the bottom portion. The Eldest pushed the paper plug into the bottom portion of the farm so the ants could get down into the sand and tote it into the upper portion, presumably to build the "hills" to which the Eldest kept referring.

Transferring the ants to their farm was not as easy as we'd anticipated. Tired of life in the tube, the ants were stir-crazy, climbing out the sides as I tried to slide them into the narrow slat at the top of the ant farm. Fortunately, the Eldest read the instructions and advised me to put the ants in the fridge for 15 minutes- "it calms them down", he explained.

After 15 minutes of cold air, the ants seemed sluggish. The Eldest helped me transfer to their new farm. In the hubbub, a couple of ants escaped and found sanctuary in the exposed air vents on the floor. No worries, assured the Eldest, since they are all of the same sex. The rest went without saying.

With (most of the) ants safely inside the farm, all that remained was to set about observing our friends get adjust to post-tube life. Sit, watch, jot down a few notes- I could feel my patience muscles growing with each passing minute.

Part of the responsibilities of ant farming include a daily feeding schedule, which the Eldest has managed very well thus far. 

We decided to agree on a question about the ants- one for each day to frame our thoughts and explorations. Our ant friends were very reluctant to explore the southern route into the sand. We watched and waited to see what might transpire. Our first question grew quite naturally from the soil (or sand) of that watching and waiting.

"They're fighting over who has to go first," cried Prophet, the one who always wants to "go first". How do ants decide who will go first? As in most complicated social systems, ants are highly specialized to their particular roles and tasks.

Enter the ant lapbook- and a Types of Ants minibook I made for just this occasion. The Eldest noticed that we didn't have any queens (he also said something about it being "illegal" to ship ant queens around the US of A). 

Types of ants minibook (PDF)

The Eldest reassured us that the ants would work hard during the night- and we might even wake to find a tunnel or two. He was right.

I can't wait to see what tommorrow will bring in the ant farm arena. In the meantime, I overheard Prophet conversing with a friend. "What have you been doing?" her friend asked.

"Oh, ballet.... and I'm an ant farmer now," Prophet confided, adding, "It's really hard work."

"Why? What do you have to do that's so hard?" asked her friend.

"I have to watch the ants," replied Prophet. "I have to watch them A LOT....."

DIY woodland tea party cards.

Since their valentines to E. and A. would travel by mail, the kids buzzed and begged to make "different valentines" for their further-away friends. So we created these woodland tea party cards, which can serve as a valentine or just a special way of connecting with treasured friends by mail.

SUPPLIES

cardboard or cardstock
scissors
glue stick 
watercolor paint
paintbrushes
water
newsprint paper (or another thin kind of paper)
stickers of various woodland creatures
stickers of tea party set (or cut-outs from magazine)
plastic bags and mailing labels

PAINT

Start by using the newsprint paper as a place for a painting frenzy. Arm all with paintbrushes, watercolor paints, and a little glass of water. There is no rhyme or reason to the painting- just the impetus to add an assortment of colors and brush strokes. When finished, set aside the painted paper to dry.

PICK

Now have the kids go through their sticker collection, looking for stickers of woodland animals. At this point, I should add that the kids revised my original idea by including stickers of toadstools and flowers, in addition to the requisite tea party pot and cups. If you don't have tea party stickers, then flip through magazines and cut out a few pictures of tea cups and kettles. Your friends can use a glue stick to add them to the woodland tea party scene.

Stickers were chosen and put into plastic baggies with a label and a name on the front. 

EXPLAIN

Finally, the kids included a message to their friends, instructing them to create their ideal woodland party tea scene with the added request that, perhaps, at their next meeting, they might act out the woodland tea party of their dreams.

As she sealed the envelopes, Prophet told me that she "loved making the kind of valentine" she "wanted to get." My "me, too" went without saying.

An unexpected camellia nature study.

 Gnome and Prophet ran into the house and dropped two handfuls of camellias into my lap. I put the workbooks away and opened my mind to the teachable moment in hand. 

"The queen of the winter flowers, the camellia...." I wondered how her leaves helped her bear the cold weather. Prophet noted that she was the "only pink outside" during the cold. 

"And she always makes flowers when we have snow!" piped Prophet, pleased with her own observation. We agreed that this might mean camellia's blooms were signalled and started by a certain a cold temperature. 

Gnome pointed to the buds.

"One bud is more open than the other," I observed.

Quickly, Gnome pressed her fingertip against the slightly open bud.

Prophet arranged the two buds side by side for a closer look.

How are the petals held together? We answered our question by carefully removing the little cup at the base of the bloom- the part that connected the stem to the flower. The Eldest warned us that our actions would make the bloom "flimsy". 

Our bloom did appear more flimsy from the underside without its basket.

All the looking led us to imagining how the flower would look without its "eye", or the pistil and the stamen at the center. Gnome did the honors of plucking off the petals. Prophet joined the fun. 

 Soon, a pile of pretty petals sat next to the flower parts on the white paper.

The girls wanted to put the camellia back together. I figured it was a great opportunity to review the flower parts in a way that engaged multiple forms of intelligence.

They worked so hard. Gnome concluded, "Mommy, the flower was perfect- we's can't make it perfect like that." If they learned only one thing from our experience, I figured this little lesson was the one to keep.

Since the Eldest had already explored the parts of the camellia, I found a free pamphlet from the Alabama Cooperative Extension which offered a detailed explanation of this winter bloom. 

The Culture of Camellias: The State Flower of Alabama (PDF)

He pored through it and made a list of questions about information in the text. He also determined that the specimen in question was the Kate Mallory, as described in the pamphlet.

Leaf miners nature study: Our discovery of serpentine mines.

It was Prophet who led us to our study of leaf mining insects. Prophet tends to express dismay over what she calls the "ugly leaves" with all the holes and "messy places" on them. I usually stifle a laugh- mostly at the fact that the word "messy" is one she uses negatively, amusing in light of her perpetually-messy mom. And then, I usually look for a segue into something else...

"Let's find out why some leaves have holes in them- and why some leaves get brown blotches," I ventured. The gypsies were game.

They collected as many blotchy or "hole-y" leaves as they could find. We sifted through each leaf, trying to decide what had caused its particular variations. It was hard to ignore the fantastic constrast of textures and webbing in the leaves. I imagined fabrics comprised of similar patterns.

Holding up the leaves against the light helped us see the serpentine mines, distinguished for the way in which they undulated like a precipitous mountain road. The Eldest thought he saw a few blotch mines as well, which he noted, alongside my dissent.

As we sat in the front yard surveying our leaf miners, a gregarious cardinal perched on the fence nearby. He cocked his head to one side and narrowed his little black eye. 

Flipping the leaves, peering closely at the possible miners, we found a hard white crescent along an underside leaf vein. The Eldest seemed certain it was a leaf miner pupa. Certainty, I reminded him, requires corroboration. And corroboration would have to wait until later in the day. 

Prophet wondered about the "dark places" around the holes. The Eldest wasted no time in guessing that the brown spaces were correlated with the mines in the leaves. Or, in his words, "the leaf is being starved of nutrients and is dying in those places because the leaf miners pig out on all the nutrients."

After observing the mined leaves, nature journals came out. Gnome treated her nature study journal with the utmost care, tracing leaves as the Eldest recorded his thoughts ("I like to pretend my eye is a microscope," he explained.)

We talked about why sketching the outline and contour of the leaf required different tools than filling in the colors and shades.

And we pondered the size of these tiny creatures that find their nourishment between the upper and lower surfaces of a the cell walls within a paper-thin leaf. I marveled, aloud, at how the leaf miner leaves his life's itinerary on the surface of a leaf, each one as unique as the creature that created it.

The Eldest found the contour lines of this leaf particularly compelling. It was the prospect of trying to replicate all the amazing interior patterns and veins that intimidated us.

Out came the colored pencils and watercolor paints- we agreed there was no way to capture the intricate details with watercolors alone- hence the pencils- but also that the uniform tone of the leaves would benefit from a watercolor wash at the end.

The Eldests' watercolor impression of his serpentine mine leaf.

Our wind lapbook.

Inspired by our drive through miswestern states pockmarked with wind turbines, the girls and I decided to create a lapbook all about wind this week.

W w handwriting and wind poem (Education.com)
Our introduction.

  Tale of Wendy Wizard (The NEED Project)
A tale about how the sun is related to wind.

Wind and Saltines (The NEED Project)
A fun experiment about how wind moves mills and turbines.

Wind turbine label diagram (Suzie's Home Education Ideas)
A simple introduction to wind turbines.

Windy_paperboat coloring page and how-to

DIY paper boat mobile (Ann Wood)
To make boats and sail them on a puddle or pond.

The North Wind and the Sun, a fable by Aesop (NFB One)

Will the Wind Blow It?: A Simple Science Experiment (PDF)
You will need a fan and a few household items for this fun activity.

The cover of our file folder lapbook.

Snow romping on rewind with a little lesson on sibling rivalry.

During all the wild craze concerning two inches of snow, I decided to steal some quiet moments while the King took the kids on a snow romp. 

The second hand reports from the Eldest emphasized the romping-ness of the affair. Little B. explained that her clothes were "too big" for the slide, and she got stuck.

But the secondhand reports relayed by Prophet emphasized the sibling rivarly that can poke out its head even in the middle of the woods, mid-adventure.

Upon discovering the secret bench in the woods, the King wanted to get a photo. But Little B. said Gnome could not be in the photo- that she "didn't want" to be on a bench with Gnome. The King was confused because there hadn't been any fights or spats between the two, and Gnome was being her usual feisty, three-year-old self. 

"I'm going to take a picture and everybody can be in it," he told Little B. "If you don't want to be in the photo, you don't have to sit on the bench," he added, "but I'm not going to tell some people they can't be in it."

Little B. sulked and thought it over. She finally decided she wanted to be in the photo. However, she would only be in it if she could turn her back towards the Gnome. So the King snapped the first shot.

"Do you guys want to trade places on the bench?" asked the King, hoping it might soothe ruffled feathers. Little B. did not want to trade places- she stayed put. Gnome and Prophet switched. 

When Prophet reported the bench fiasco to me, I went to find Little B. and pulled her into my lap. It seemed important for her to hear what Prophet was saying, to be part of the discussion in an attempt to understand her feelings. Little B. refused to explain why she didn't want Gnome to sit next to her on the bench. At one point, she said it was because she "didn't like" Gnome.

"But you play with Gnome- just the two of you- all the time," I pointed out. "And you hug her and say how much you love to play with her...."

Little B. had a hard time finding words to express her resentment of Gnome. I wanted to validate her feelings while helping her to understand why they might be hurtful and unworthy of her focused attention. So I explained to the three girls that it is the most natural thing in the world to feel frustrated and resentful of siblings after going from being an only child to being part of a troupe of kids within a family.  

"Imagine if you went from being the baby to being one among four," I began. "Until four months ago, Little B. was the baby- she got all the attention the littlest member of the family receives. But she was also the oldest, with all the privileges of being the oldest. Don't you think that sometimes it is hard to explain why being a middle child can be frustrating?"

Prophet nodded. Little B. curled her legs in my lap. I could tell that Prophet's empathy engine was working hard; she began to explain why Little B. might be "missing" getting "all the attention the way you get when you are the only one". Prophet's thoughtfulness really came out, however, when she gave the following example:

"My favorite time with Mommy is when she takes me somewhere with just me and her. We have fun and no one is whining or crying. It makes me feel like Mommy is my best friend when I get to be alone with her."

As Little B. puts on a brave face and tries to sort through all the challenging feelings and emotions coming her way, my best hope is that her siblings will encourage her rather than resenting her in return. Sibling rivalry is one of life's greatest challenges. Learning to communicate one's secret resentments on this front can equip you to handle difficult conversations and situations. My prayers for Little B. and the girls are the beginning to every day.

An age-inclusive art lesson on value scales for kids ranging from 3 to 10.

It was only a matter of time.

You see, I'd given the Prophet her first sketchbook- and we spent a hour working on hatching and cross-hatching yesterday. Today, the sketching menu included an introductory exploration of value scales.... but Little B. and the Gnome staged a rebellion and insisted on getting their "own" sketchbooks.

"This isn't like a coloring book, girls. If you want a sketchbook, then you have to sit and sketch for extended periods of time....

"I kn-oo-ww..." sang Little B., "I wi-i-i-lllll..."

"Me too, Mommy," affirmed the Gnome, while trying to break a colored pencil in half with her teeth.

I suppressed a sigh. "Okay, I will make some extra sketchbooks and invite you two to the sketching circle with the Eldest and the Prophet BUT....." I paused for emphasis, preparing myself for the coming sternness, "If either of you begins that abominable whining sound, you will have to leave the circle right away."

Glances and giggles passed between Gnome and Little B. I wondered if this unexpected addition would diminish my ability to help the Eldest and Prophet develop an understanding of form and value. But there was no time to keep wondering- the gauntlet had been laid down. Art for all it would be.

After drafting cursory sketchbooks, I took out our seminal text- The Interactive Art Activity Book- a gift from Grandma Vicki and invited the kids to dip into it with me.

Each page was filled with tiny folds, corners, and booklets anticipating the touch of tiny hands. As we turned through the book, the excitement built up like the urge to use a restroom after drinking a large movie theatre soda.

My excitement grew with theirs.

The time had come for our spontaneous experiment.

colored pencils
paper (preferably inside a sketchbook)
a black ink pen

We discussed that a color has different shades, or "values". I realized I would need a little riddle or trick to keep them interested in a discussion of color values. So I picked up a red pencil....

ME: How many colors are in the pencil I am holding?

GNOME: One! (giggle)

LITTLE B.: (grin and giggle) One.

PROPHET: It's red. Red is one color.

Everyone agreed that there was one color in one pencil- it seemed intuitive. 

ME: What if I told you there were six colors in this pencil?

PROPHET: (scowling) That is a lie.

GNOME and LITTLE B. (giggling and nodding)

I can always count on Prophet for the black-and-white of any matter, including color theory. So I began to draw a value scale for the red colored pencil in my sketchbook- one in which I hatched and cross-hatched six values for red. The kids loved the trick. 

ME: Now it's your turn to do a little magic....

The Eldest created three value scales, using a tissue paper to smooth the edges between the transitions.

Gnome's super value scales.

For the younger ones, I created a small value scale using revealing three values at the top of their paper. Then I drew in three boxes for three different colored pencils and asked them to color the "lightest" shade, the "medium" shade, and the "darkest" shade. We focused on applying varying degrees of pressure to get the colors.

To emphasize the value in the colors, I asked them to draw a line with soft pressure, a line with medium pressure, and a line with hard pressure to the right of each value scale BEFORE they started to reveal the values. All three little ones blew my mind in their interest and dedication to getting those value scales into their sketchbooks. Little B, who tends to color lightly and hurriedly, was especially remarkable for the time and patience she put into her value scales.

They have earned the privilege of their art classes. And I'm not ashamed to admit the honor is all mine.

Our butterflies and caterpillars lapbook.

I love the caterpillar-butterfly life cycle- it lends itself to such rich narrative metaphors and comparisons. So we began our study of butterflies with the butterfly life cycle.

We used Learn Create Love's butterfly life cycle freebie on the cover, but it was hard to pick from all the stunning butterfly life cycles available for free online. A few other options, depending on your tastes and intent:

Sage and Zoo's butterfly life cycle 
A cute coloring page version that you can cut and paste
Carry on Writing's colorful life cycle 
An Eric Carle version of the cycle

Then I folded over some origami paper and cut out a few butterfly shapes.

"Hmmmm... the butterfly looks incomplete. What is missing?"

Prophet observed that it didn't have a body or "ears".

After cutting a butterfly from watercolored paper, we added a body and labelled the thorax, the abdomen, the head, and the antennae. Prophet learned a new word for bug "ears" or sensors.

The girls colored their own butterflies- and gave them a name. Both names involved variations on the rainbow meme.

We talked about caterpillars- how they metamorph into such beautiful, colorful creatures. Then we discussed why butterflies were, in fact, so beautiful- what was the evolutionary purpose of this design?

Prophet and Gnome illustrated the caterpillar song and the butterfly creation story that I found on a website of Native American legends.

It is the story given by the Papago tribe to explain why butterflies have such beautiful colors, and it includes an interesting perspective on rivalry and jealousy among the animal friends.

Butterfly Song and Creation Myth Booklets (PDF)

We thanked the butterflies of the world for the color they bring to our lives.

And so we looked on our lapbook with pride and a sense of accomplishment and gratefulness for having the chance to make, do and learn together. 

Chatting about scarcity and cost-benefit analysis with little folks.

I decided to out on a limb and experiment with a little story about economic scarcity, trade, and cost-benefit analysis. Why not start teaching economics at the age of 3? Why, if more people learned economics at the age of 3, then command economies and Reagonomics would have been seen for the gluttonous disasters they inevitably became. But I'm getting ahead of myself...

Back to the events in the smallest Castle this side of Switzerland.... I read Aesop's fable of the Crow and the Pitcher aloud to all four kids. Then I told the Eldest it that he would be witnessing an experiment- and that he should take note of what he he observed.

Little B., the Gnome, and the Prophet each received a coloring page depicting a crow and a pitcher. We talked about the crow's wisdom in making a cost-benefit analysis of whether or not to look elsewhere for water. Knowing the drought created a scarcity of water everywhere, the crow decided to think creatively and devise his own solution to the water just out of his reach. 

All fine and good. The Gnome even repeated the word "scarcity" at one point (I wondered whether the word sounded scary, like "scare city", to her). Now the ladies were ready to start coloring. When they asked for crayons, I distributed the resources in a rather frown-inspiring manner:

Prophet= four blue crayons

Little B.= four green crayons

Gnome= four orange crayons

Fortunately, the Eldest hadn't yet figured out where I was going with the experiment. And he didn't get a chance to think much longer because the whining commenced instantaneously, like a synchronized swimming performance.

"But, I want pink!"

"Me, too! Why does she have all the orange?

"I don't like blue. I have four blues! I need another color!"

Little B. was the first to make an offer to "trade" one color for another. The whining turned into a flurry of trading. Colors changed hands repeatedly, though no one seemed to have a solution for the missing pink crayon problem.

The Eldest got a kick out of the experiment results. He had no problem at all writing a journal entry on the most common human solutions to scarcity, mostly trade and specialization. We tossed around a few examples of economic decision-making, or cost-benefit analysis, including the looming question of whether we should pay for our new water pipes out of pocket or put it on credit.

Then we read an article in Wired magazine about four really clever crows who'd obviously read their Aesop. I don't want to give away the article's conclusion, but it paves a path for a little behavioral economics add-on lesson, should the fancy strike.

Then we argued over solutions to another problem endemic to the Castle, namely, scarcity of space. Should we invest in better tools for organization (i.e. special shelving, closets, etc.) or should we add another room to the house? What kinds of social goods are implicated in the consideration of space? And so on- straight into one of those moments where there is no one in the world with whom I'd rather learn than the zany bunch sharing this scarce space with me.

As for those worksheets we didn't finish, I figured the King might enjoy a little econ-chat with the Eldest. Kings are really good at worksheets.

The surprise of snow.

During our first economics lesson this morning- one involving an experiment of crayon scarcity- a little person looked out the window and screamed, "It's SNOWING!" Pandemonium ensued.

Suddenly, the room was taken over by jumping, leaping little people seeking gloves, mittens, hats, coats, and snow, snow, snow. Obviously, our exploration of scarcity would have to make way for our immediate exploration of snow (which does tend to be rather scarce in these parts).

There's something very, very funny about snow in the south.

Of course, little B. needed to try a taste...

The Gnome reminded me of how much she "loves snow".

The Eldest led the group in various tromps around the yard to observe where the snow was accumulating."These are the places we will find snowball-making materials in a few hours..." he declared.

Extensive concern was expressed over Pinka's ability to navigate the snow and find shelter from it within the yard. So the little people pushed the playhouse closer to Pinka within reach of her lead.

Then our neighbors from up the street dropped by to see if the Eldest wanted to play in the snow. And off he went, red-cheeked and bubbling. 

Oh, how I love watching the plans of a day fall away in the face of joy, wonder, and surprise snow play...

Using paperclips to count, measure, and craft.

We decided to explore the bendable, marvelous world of the common paperclip today. As usual, it began with a doodle that turned into a coloring page and handout. You can download your own version (free, as always) below.

PAPERCLIPPINGS HANDOUT AND COLORING PAGE (PDF)

First came the counting. The Prophet counted ten paperclips, reduced the pile by three, increased the pile by seven, and then divided the pile in half. There are so many ways to play counting and math games with paperclips.... So so many. Even the Gnome couldn't help counting out her own pile and making additions to it.

Key to the crafting was the counting out of paperclips and the measuring and lining up of like paperclips. We measured shoes, hands, feet, belts, dolls, and books. 

"That book is 6 paperclips wide and 3 paperclips long," said the Prophet.

PAPERCLIP MEASUREMENT GRAPH (PDF)

After the counting and graphing, the Prophet was ready to start working on her paperclip necklace.

We whipped out the washi tape and started linking the clips.

Borrowing a few tutorials I found online, we spent some time crafting and creating an assortment of necklaces (i.e. we fooled around). Key to the crafting was the counting out of paperclips and the measuring and lining up of like paperclips.

So the chain-making began....

Matching different widths of washi tape to different paperclip sizes.

After making a chain using large and medium sized paperclips in alternating patterns, the girls sorted the thick washi tape rolls from the thin washi tape rolls. We agreed that using the thick washi tape rolls with the larger paperclips would look better and cover the right amount of area. 

We tore off pieces of tape to simplify our "bead-making".

As the Gnome and the Prophet applied the tape, they made sure to cover what the Prophet called "loose ends"- the parts of the paper clip that moved and shifted. In so doing, they ensured that the necklaces would "stick".

Paperclipping possibilities abound.

Making necklaces that spell our names in Morse code- the preface to learning to code computers.

Knowing a little code never hurt anyone. Since the Eldest is currently studying the invention of Morse code, I've been enchanted by what I've learned (yes, the home educators boon- always learning something fascinating I somehow managed to overlook as a student).

A HISTORY OF MORSE CODINGS

Morse code was developed around the same time as the electrical telegraph. In 1836, artist Samuel F. B. Morse, physicist Joseph Henry, and inventor Alfred Vail created the electrical telegraph system to send electric pulses across great distances. Since the system did not give you the capacity to speak or hear noises, the inventors came up with a code which allowed them to communicate using only the electric pulses sent by the telegraph. 

Made up of dots and dashes, Morse code evolved over time. At first, the dots and dashes were printed out by the telgraph machine and read by a trained operator. As time went by, people were trained to hear the "dits" and "dahs" by ear. The news that you had a telegraph waiting meant that someone was sending a very important and timely piece of information to you. Soldiers' wives often dreaded the telegraphs when their husbands were on the battle front.

With the invention of the telephone, most people switched their attention from the telegraph to the phone. But Morse code and the electrical telegraph continued to be used for military and diplomatic communication.

SAMUEL MORSE: ARTIST AND INVENTOR HANDOUT (free PDF)

CRAFT: MAKING MORSE CODE NECKLACES

This crafting endeavor was inspired by Classic Play, a great online resource for ideas on how to play all day. 

We used this copy of the Morse code to print out and "spell" our names.

The Eldest coded for us.

We talked about how we would use the pasta to symbolize "dashes" and the beads to symbolize "dots".

It would be a pity to go through this craft without honing our counting skills....

The Prophet counted out ten beads for each of the ladies to paint.

The Gnone looked on carefully.

The Gnome lines up her pieces into "stripes" to check for broken or bum pasta.

Now the painting of pasta dashes began.

Little B. painstakingly paints a pasta shell.

Stringing our beads took a little time.  

The thin white beads were added as "spacers" between each Morse code letter.

We strung the dashes and dots backwards so the necklaces would "read" our names correctly.

The Gnome proudly displays her Morse name.

Little B. decided to make a gift for her mommy- one which spelled her mommy's name. I hope it brings a smile to her mommy's day.

DIY beautiful birds lapbook.

The birds hover, chatter, and twitter all over the yard. Spring looks to be settling in early this year. And we've been working hard on our Beautiful Birds lapbook.

The Eldest's illustration of Emily's Dickinson's bird poem.

For the lapbook pages made by yours truly, just right-click to download in PDF format.

BEAUTIFUL BIRDS LAPBOOK COVER PAGE 
The girls colored the page and then we labelled the parts of the funky bird.

NEST BOOK 
The girls cut and colored the little book about nests. We used watercolor scraps to make a pocket.

BIRD SONGS BOOKLET 
Used to color and collage in lapbook where blank spaces arise.

TEACUP BIRD FEEDERS INSERTS

BIRD COLORING PAGE from Mr. Printables
Imagining different shapes as part of birds. 

I made a few booklets about feathers, beaks, and feet to contrast the different types found in varying species. We discussed how habitats and food requirements are related to body parts. Then we added them to the right edge of the lapbook with our trusty stapler.

I don't remember where I found this nest and egg printable, but we used it to observe the difference in egg coloring across bird species.

Nature study: A walk in the near-winter woods.

The Eldest led the way through trails he has named and cultivated...

Yesterday, we made use of the stunning, sunshine-dappled weather to take a little stroll through our woods. 

How does the forest change during the late fall and winter?

Apart from the rich, padded carpet of leaves, what else might we observe about the woods behind our home?

We kept our eyes open for certain signs and signals of life in a wintering wood. Having this handy printable- which you can download and print for free- oriented me in my quest with four kids of ages between 3 and 10.

The Almost Winter Woodland Walk Checklist (PDF)

One of the first things we discovered was the sign of a struggle- an area with a large number of white and gray bird feathers. The eldest speculated that a battle with a fox had taken place..

The troupe looked concerned about the feather display.

Micah found some moss growing on old rotted wood.
She broke off a piece to put in her aluminum purse.

We found a tree covered in a thick crust of woody growths.

The little people closed their eyes and ran their fingers over the trunk to "feel the tree".

 

"Look mommy, POPcorn!" shouted an elated little Milla. 

Max quickly corrected her with a warning not to "eat fungi you can't recognize".

Everyone seemed to spot winter shelters at once, including the deep hollows of a rotting tree stump.

Max dubbed this one "a hiberation hideaway for a mouse".

Then Micah spotted the classic "gnome home" in tilted tree.

It was B. who pointed out the evergreen leaves on this shrub we have yet to identify. 

Nearby, just a few paces away, I came across a very strange stick which had a star-like formation of branches coming from the center. Max staked it into the ground and called it a landmark for some land I could not pronounce.

Milla marveled over the bark that tore away easily from a rotting stump when she touched it. 

Micah made sure that everybody stayed together and didn't touch any thorny bushes or fall into any "snake pits". Since she was the only creature prescient enough to bring a purse, she also carried around our woody collections.

We paused to wonder about the webbing inside a fallen magnolia leaf.

"So that's how they stay so strong," remarked The Eldest. 

"And so beautiful," I couldn't resist adding.

And then back we went- through the magic tunnel that leads from the woods to the tiny, rather unfashionabe castle we presume to call "home". It was a lovely little sojourn.

Without further ado, Micah emptied the contents of our almost-winter woodland walk onto an outdoor chair (which she assured me could double as the "nature table"). I love being able to go over each leaf and cone, each twig and bit of moss- the memory in our hands and fingers turn this natural world into something evocative and familiar. 

Discovering Christmas decorating ideas along the Tuscaloosa Tinsel Trail.

Earlier this week, after discovering we were too early for ice skating, the kids, Angie, and I took a stroll down the fantastic Tinsel Trail along the Tuscaloosa Riverwalk. Each tree was sponsored and then decorated by different community businesses, nonprofits, or individuals.

Max found a sign that had fallen over. He quickly picked it up and staked it back in the ground. Because, in his words, "Duh, that's what boys DO, mom." I bit my lip and kept the "ideally" from coming out. One should appreciate the ideal rather than demand it. Or so I've read...

So many trees to see.... There were large, bombastic trees smothered in bows....

Angie strolled along, looking relieved that the ice-skating rink would not give her a chance to skate.

And there were many discoveries and inspirations for our own crafting plans...

1. CD ornaments painted with reindeer scenes.

  

2. Little yarn Dr. Seuss-ish ornaments....

  3. Lovely little critters cut from pinecones and brush....

4. A gauze-wrapped snowman tree.

5. Stockings cut from burlap and decorated with paint and glitter.

6. Candycanes also cut from burlap and painted.

7. Recycled aluminum can ornaments.

8. Aluminum soda can tree people.

9. Classic glitter-dipped pinecones hung with rope.

10. Instruments and horns adding glitter to the tree.

11. Laminated sunshine photos of children at the R.I.S.E. tree.

12. A rope garland lined with bells and pieces of bandana fabric.

13. Hand-painted glass globes with black and red backgrounds.

14. A collection of colorful handprints with glitter decorations.

15. A glue-covered and glitter-dipped CD.

16. A tree covered with toys- this was B.'s "favorite".

17. An Eric Carle inspired butterfly tree-topper.

18. Monopoly money and game pieces as upcycled tree decorations.

Our vote for the wackiest, "cutest" tree- the big mouthed Bama Fan?

As we neared the end of the Trail, Milla found a fellow she deemed intriguing. B. stopped to scope him out. Before I understood what was going down, Micah joined them..

The luckiest faux gingerbread man on the block earned a kiss from three little ladies far sweeter than himself.

We headed back to the spaceship with the words from one advice-giving tree still in our minds- "Peace on earth begins at home". 

Whereupon we made fingerprint creatures and watercolor bookmarks.

Amy brought E. and A. for a long-anticipated visit today- and the kids made the maxmimum possible rumpus. Max and E. helped me with bookmarks before heading outdoors to crush berries and make potage of the sort involving buckets, leaves, and torn twiglets.

 

Max and E. work on their fingerprint animals.

Max's reindeer include Rudolph, whom we now know to be a female reindeer.

SUPPLIES FOR FINGERPRINT CREATURES

white notecards
colored ink pads
tiny fingers
black smudgeproof ink pens

 

Thumbprint dandies.

Amy's advanced degree in fingerprinting opened broad horizons to us.

Meanwhile, as the parents and older siblings slaved away in the name of crafting,
the younger munchkins managed to create a play-fort from blankets and pillows.

Then they sat and waited for the pizza man to bring the coveted cheese sticks.

There was a combination of dissension and lounging in the ranks of the small folks.

 

Max's bookmark.

A.'s bookmark, densely colored.

Micah's fancy bookmark.

Milla's colors bled into one another in a lovely fashion.

B.'s gorgeous color combinations inspired us all.

Micah's camellia preservation tactic which she says E. taught her.

Then Max, B., Micah, and E. went outside to play for a little while while Amy and I sat around and chatted. Have I mentioned how nice it was to just hang out and chat with a fellow female of the friendly and funny sort? 

Notice how they removed the bud petals to reveal the tops of the anthers?

It's pretty obvious why my kids love E. and A.- they are full of the sort of fun that just makes itself, without any prompting or planning. 

The girls' cardboard triangle Christmas trees.

What the ladies whipped up from cardboard.

Our entries for the Lego ornament challenge.

A Mom with A Lesson Plan really got us going this morning with her lego ornament challenge.

Her instructions for Creative Kids Lego Challenge #8: Make tree ornaments from legos. Then share a story about the ornament's past. Pretend that your ornament is very old. Create a story about how this ornament joined your family. Does it have a special spot on the tree? Has it always been loved?

I quoted the kids' renditions of their stories just below their creations. Then we submitted our "work" to the gallery. 

Milla's ornamental tower.

"My fairy brought to me this tower. She sleeps in it and plays. I like to look for her hiding in it."

Micah's super-cool square ornament.

"I found this square in a box in Mommy's craft room. It was with some stuff for a little girl. When I touched it, I felt funny, like magic. So I picked it up and put it on the tree next to the baby ornament. The baby ornament likes to look at it. I think this one must be that little girl's favorite, but nobody in my house knows anything about the little girl. Maybe it's a mystery."

Max's planet ornament.

"This ornament is actually a part of a meteor that came from a planet known as Morkindabble. It's a planet made entirely from legos. Scientists have no idea how it manages to survive in the solar system, and most don't even want to admit that it exists because it's so un-scientific. Seriously, a lego planet?

But it DOES exist- and this ornament is proof. I hung it on the tree by sticking the tiny hole in the side through a branch so it looks like it is orbiting."

Imaginary play: Victorians.

Dreary days do not eliminate the need for play. So we packed up the spaceship and set out for the Children's Hands-On Museum with the explicit purpose of imagary play revolving around life in the Victorian era.

As the ladies played dress-up, Max wrote a brief essay surveying the artifacts and historic information found in the Victorian display. He wrote it from the perspective of an 8-year-old girl who is spending the night with her grandmother and happens to venture into the attic. I will intersperse excerpts of Max's composition throughout the photos of the girls' imaginary explorations.

B. asked if she could be the one to pour tea.

"My Grandmother's Attic" by Max Coryell

This attic is full of 18th century things. I walk up and I see the windows. There are quite a few paintings in the stairwell. The windows have doily lace curtains, and in between a pot of ivy overhangs a picture of four kittens.

On the other side of the window there is a bookshelf. Over this bookshelf, a picture of five kittens and their mother is hung. There is a large locked trunk and, across from it, an old Victorian tea table complete with three chairs, a tray, and four cups of tea. A doll's rocking chair is also there. 

Marvelous whimsical Micah.

An old-fashioned carriage, complete with doll, sits next to a large trunk in the corner, with two more dolls on it. Under a lot of family pictures on a striped wallpapered wall, there is a bed with three more dolls.

Eminent Victorians.

Now I walk over to another window, with the same lace curtains. I notice two more trunks in front of the window. Next to them, a large amount of boys' clothes are in wardrobes, cupboards, and another trunk, but I am not interested in these. Instead, my eyes turn to the rug, then to the dress on a peg by the locked door I tried in vain to open, and lastly, to the many pictures on the wall by the antique cupboard.

The sobriety of Victorian life: Virginia Woolf's version.

There is a large mirror with a white dress hanging on it. Another tea table set and stools sit to next to cupboards, wardrobes, and trunks of clothes for women! There is a coat rack with purses, four portraits, and two dresses! Lamps are everywhere. When I ask Grandma about it, she says, "I keep it this way so when the Old Women's Club comes, we can have tea up here."

"Do you want to spend the night up here?" Grandma continues. "I can assure you my breeding cats will not hurt you." Grandma bred cats. 

I decided I wanted to stay up there. There was so much interesting stuff up there to look at that I wouldn't get bored.

Thus ended Max's story. But then he decided that he could set up a small hunt for kids visiting the Grandmother's Attic at C.H.O.M.- "important things they might want to find and learn more about". He couldn't resist adding a few follow-up questions.

Things to Look for in Grandmother's Attic

The large number of trunks
Were trunks a fashion in Victorian times? Why were they so popular?

Pictures of cats
Were domestic cats popular in Victorian times? Why or why not?

Furniture style
Do you notice any specific style that is popular? If so, what?

Lots of portraits
Why do you think portraits were so common in homes back then?

Types of clothing
What do you notice about the clothes from that time? Why do you think they were popular?

For further exploration, we chased butterflies around the following, among which the printables are marked with an asterisk:

Victorian Britain (Primary History, BBC)
Toys Victorian children played with in the 1800's (Victorian Children)
Rich and Poor Victorian Children 
Victorian Fashion Detectives activity (Teaching Ideas) *
Victorianopoly game (Teaching Ideas) *
The Victorian House with audio (Fun Kids Radio)
A Victorian Child paper doll coloring page (Helen Page)
What the Victorians did for Christmas (Victorian School)
The Great Exhibition of 1851 worksheet (Victorian Workshop) *
Victorian Inventions wordsearch (Teaching Ideas) *
Mind Your Manners Game (McCord Museum)
Victorian Lapbooking pages (Rebecca Black) *
Design a Victorian garden game (Geffrye Museum)
The 1900 House interactive (PBS)
Organizing a Victorian Day Experience (Victorian School) *
Aunt Mary's Primer (Victorian School)
Queen Victoria coloring page (Crayola) *
Victorian Walking Suit coloring page (Karen's Whimsy) *
Victorian Evening Wear coloring page (Karen's Whimsy) *
Victoria As a Girl: The Patient Rebel (BBC)
Victorian Christmas Play (Alex Wilkinson) *
Queen Victoria Timeline worksheet (Teaching Ideas) *
Queen Victoria Mind Map (Mandy Smith) *
List of kings and queens of England (Victorian School) *
Royal family tree from Victoria to present (Victorian School) *
Make your own Victorian school (Victorian School) *

Why the need for wrapping paper led me and the kids to verge on playing a round of exquisite corpse.

I'm blaming it all on my peers. Blaming and crediting, that is.

It's hard not to serenade Joel and the editors of BIG magazine for assuming that kids play "exquisite corpse" on a regular basis. And hard not to love them for providing the impetus to surrealize the munchkins.

On this dreary December day, I decided to try out the art-play project on their website. The goal was to nurture unbridled creative play while abadoning any personal aesthetic that kept parents from "letting go enough" to meet kids in the space of their wildest imaginings. Thus entered their idea for a collaborative ocean.

I had four munchkins ready to reveal the ocean to me. So we chatted as I mixed the watercolor paints (and then diluted them with added water so they would last longer). We created greens, blues, turquoise, purples, and deep aquamarine blues. All was ready to converge...

Start working on the same large piece of paper together following your child’s lead and fill the entire page as the imagined middle of the BIG ocean.

As we explored the medium (in our case, craft paper), we drafted a conversation to map our journey. In this sort of play, words make a fantastic vehicle deeper into the fantastic. Conversation also promotes collaborative teamwork and co-visioning. I took note of the available conversation starters and improvised with a few of my own.

ME: "So, what are the colours, patterns and FEEL of your ocean?"

ME: "What kinds of brush strokes evoke the ocean most to you?"

ME: "Are there any sounds you want to make as you paint the ocean?" 

We closed our eyes and made them as we painted...

ME: "Uh, well... guys, I hate to be a party-pooper but I'd like to listen to some music as we paint. Is it okay if I put on some stormy ocean sounds?"

It was absolutely silent. I found myself happily ignored as they focused on painting.

ME: "What colors do you find in the deepest areas?"

ME: "Do you like the deeper areas?"

ME: "What excites you most about the ocean? Use color and strokes to reveal it."

B.'s fish ventured in the deepest areas because she "didn't wanna be scared".

We also alternated between thick brushes and skinny brushes to emphasize the varying textures of the sea and the way sunlight causes it to sparkle or thicken.

Max's self-identified fish was no less than a sleighback rado.

An ocean devoid of creatures would not stand with this crew, so they set about (at Max's direction) creating their own signature fish- a fish that looked most like themselves as they imagined their fish selves to be.

Micah's handsome, two-sided fish obscured by my lame photography.

Milla's fish was a tiny golden minnow.

B.'s fish pulled up to chat with the minnow.

Two handsome ocean dwellers hanging out.

Joel and his friends at BIG offered three free big boats and characters to set out on a voyage across the ocean to visit different cities. In their words:

You can make your own B.I. G (Bravery, Imagination, Generosity) characters to captain the boats. Or you could even collaborate on your B.I.G characters by drawing them as three fold ‘Exquisite corpse’ drawings.

What adventures happen when the storm comes and the boats capsize under ocean?

What worlds do your characters visit and what city are they from?

Alas, the ocean dwellers were far too involved in their fish games to entertain the prospect of bringing more creatures into the fold. Perhaps our collaborative ocean will expand to include human beings and their boats tomorrow... You just never know.

Using markers to explore patterns.

Max decided to doodle some "edgy embroidery patterns".

Intrigued, Micah asked him to "teach" her how to make her own patterns.

Milla stood by and offered constructive criticism of their efforts.

Pinka took this opportunity to poop on the kitchen floor.

This is why- if you had shown up at the Castle in the past thirty minutes- you would have found me on my hands and knees, scrubbing the tile floor with a sponge while singing along to Chris Cornell's Songbook. "Call Me A Dog" suited the scene perfectly.

Learning about lynx.

After a busy morning riding bikes earlier this week at the Arboretum, Milla opted for a nap. As Max studied his sailing manuals, Bella and Micah worked on their Lynx craft. We talked about cats that we can't keep in our homes as pets. 

B.'s handsome pink-colored lynx

Milla woke up and colored the golden lynx while Micah and I worked together to finish the rainbow lynx, an undiscovered species that roams around the Coryell Castle.

True stories about lynx and bobcats

A part of the small cat group, the lynx can be identified by the tufts of black fur on its ears. There are four species of lynx: the Spanish lynx, Canadian lynx, Eurasian lynx and the bobcat. More facts about lynx we discussed as Bella and Micah colored:

• Live all over remote northern forests in Asia, Europe and North America.
• Distinctive white patch on their ears below the black tuft of hair and a short ruff under their necks.
• Large, heavily padded paws that help them walk on snow.
• Excellent eyesight that allows them to spot prey 250 feet (75 meters) away.
• Elusive and hard to spot, often hiding behind tree stumps or rocks when stalking prey.

Coyotes in East Tuscaloosa.

A suburban Alabama coyote, the kind that is "here to stay".

The past few weeks have put me and my spirit animal in close proximity on several occasions. If I confess my affinity for the coyote, I do so with a caveat, namely, that the mythic character of Coyote doesn't appeal to me. What I love about the coyote is what I also love about the wolf- the relentless habit of howling at the moon, speaking to the night, feeling safe in that silvered light.

Coyote the creature, a wandering loner content to dwell outside the pack, has my respect. But Coyote the myth, the trickster who tries to live outside ethics, who holds himself to no standard apart from his own pleasure, has always struck me as a rather juvenile fantasy, the kind I might have entertained back in the day when I still thought my parents were to blame for the stuff that went wrong in my life. Again, my love for coyote rubs hard against my wariness of Coyote. 

But here's why it matters. Last week, when we were wandering through the Arboretum doing nature journaling, a coyote happily crossed our path. Then he veered into the parking lot. This week, Kenny informed me the coyote population was very high this year- he's seen several in the unofficial dog park in the past few weeks.

Then, lo and behold, when the king joined us for lunch today, trumpets unfurling blue banners, his first words to me announced the presence of coyote on the street just outside our house. A dirty-blonde, reddish, sneaky coyote fellow walking near our mailbox, crossing the street with that typical bouncing step that makes canine friends look sluggish.

The kids and I missed seeing the coyote (Max worried about how the coyote and the fox that lives behind our home would co-exist), but we managed to identify his tracks. The coyote of Cherokee Hills, a legend begging to be narrated.

As usual, the events of the day determined our learning schedule. All my previous plans whistled through the window and the coyote-inspired ruckus gathered momentum. So I found a few fact sheets and tasked Max with reading them and sharing their contents with the girls. The little proffesor loves the opportunity to profess...

Coyotes in Alabama Fact Sheet (Outdoor Alabama)

The Coyote: Facts and Myths (Alabama Cooperative Extension Service)

Meanwhile, I set about doing my bit of research on Alabama coyotes. It seems that the coyote trapping season in Alabama lasts from mid-November through February. Local coyote friends eat small, furry mammals, many of which are out and about during this time, seeking food to store for the winter. 

As I mentioned before, Native American legends have long included a character known as Coyote, whose powers include an ability to blur moral boundaries by playing the trickster. Coyote (the character) cannot ever be trusted. 

One of my favorite tales is an old Caddo story, "Coyote Goes Fishing", in which an elderly Caddo man takes revenge on the ever-deceptive Coyote. It's unusual because it turns that tables on the ever-wiley Coyote.

I shared it aloud with the little people to see what they thought. Did Coyote get what he deserved? What did the Caddos teach in the telling of this tale? Did you feel sympathy for Coyote? Why or why not?

One time Coyote went out hunting along the river and saw some one walking along its banks, carrying something on his back. When he came nearer he saw that it was a man carrying a fish. Coyote came to him, and said: “How do you do, my friend? Where are you going? Where have you been? Where did you get that big snake?”

“Well,” said the man, “I have been out fishing nearly all night, and finally I caught this fish. I was so tired that I did not care to catch another.”

“What!” said Coyote, “do you call that a fish? How did you get hold of it?”

“Well,” said the man, “I will tell you how to get them. When evening comes go down along the edge of the river and break a place in the ice just big enough to put your tail in, and stay there until I come to see you again.”

That same evening Coyote went to the place and found the man waiting for him. It was getting dark. The man told Coyote to sit down by the edge of the water, while he was breaking the ice. Coyote did as the man told him. He did not know that this was a man whom he had tricked some time before and that he was trying to get revenge. The man left Coyote sitting by the bank fishing all that cold night. Toward the middle of the night the water began to freeze on Coyote’s tail, and toward morning the ice got thicker and thicker, and when morning came Coyote tried to get up from his seat, for he was very tired, but he could not. There he was, trying in every way to get free, but he could not move.

When the man came he said to Coyote: “How are you getting along? Are you catching any fish?” Coyote replied: “I think I have caught two or three of them, but can you help me to get them out on dry land?”

“Yes,” said the man, “of course I will, although I want to talk to you before we get the fish out of the water. You remember that a long time ago you were one of my best friends, but finally you tricked me, and now I am getting even with you. You will have to die, for I am going to kill you.”

“My friend,” said Coyote, “I think you are mistaken. I do not think I am the man who played the mean trick on you. You know very well that I never betray my friends while I am able to see. If you will let me go this time I will go and bring the man you are looking for, and I will come back to-morrow evening and assure you that I am your friend.”

“But,” said the man, “I do not see how you are going to get loose to go, do you? I will look for the other man myself, and I will do to him just as I am going to do to you.”

The man went back to his lodge to get his bow and arrows. When he returned to Coyote he took one of the arrows out and showed it to him and said, “You see this?” He began to sing the song that warriors sing just before they kill their enemies. When he had finished the song he shot and killed Coyote.

Then we read "How Coyote Stole Fire", an alternate telling in the line of Coyote legends. It's another favorite- a story that should be told by a blazing bonfire with shadows dancing across the faces and nary a star in the night sky. A story in which reveals nuances in Coyote's character.

While the girls and I discussed the two stories, Max compared them in his journal, focusing on what traits of Coyote each story revealed. If the weather agrees, build a fire outside tonight and share this story with your family. Add a few marshmallows for the squirmiest little ones... I garner it will spark something memorable.

Raking pinestraw.

The king manages the raking scene outside the castle. 

It happened as if by accident.... After Suebee and Pops left, and Carla and Isla hit the road, we found ourselves in the front yard, raking...

Bella was the most eager young raker of the bunch.

She managed to make a pile of her own.

Max, the marvelous leaf blower, blew us away with his earnest efforts.

The king said said it would have been impossible without Max's hard work. I sheepishly agreed. As everyone worked, a man in a red truck drove by seeking pinestraw. We pointed towards the budding piles and he said he would back to collect them. Which he did.

The king and Max used the tarp to haul the huge stacks of pinestraw across the yard. When the tarp was not in use, of course, the girls discovered alternate uses. For example, the tarp became the silver hideaway castle....

And all three ladies agreed to be co-princesses of their silver castle. But princesses in these parts do more tree climbing, mud-pie baking, and gallivanting than tiara-wearing. 

Bella running in triple motion- she kept asking me about this photo and how her head managed to be "over there". Sometimes I wish I had been more serious about physics.

And so the fall day warmed enough to bring a few mosquitos as dusk... Alabama autumns, always beautiful and unpredictable, like the days on our calendar when I agree to accept I cannot control ever minute or millisecond.

Nature journaling and fall leaf loafing: Experiments in learning.

Much of last week was devoted to learning about botany, ecology, and biology. Autumn makes it difficult to ignore the fantastic show of leaves and the cycle of life. So we found ourselves at the University of Alabama Arboretum for two afternoons, identifying trees and nature journaling about gourds and various interesting finding.

If you wonder how I manage to balance the age difference between the little folks, the truth is that I bring along crayons, colored pencils, paper, and, yes, a tricycle. It works most days.

This print of various leaf forms served us well on Thursday- the girls colored the leaves using Max's tree guide. We did our best to color the "fall colors" of each leaf, which ranged from orange to bright red to yellow and back to green.

Milla told me this leaf was actually "a fairy hand".

Max pontificated about chlorophyll and how leaf color is determined in the fall. Then we switched gears and wandered around for a bit. Finally, the ladies found their coloring twitch needed easing, so they colored a printout of the booklet below, which shows the life cycle of a pumpkin. 

Life Cycle of a Pumpkin Mini Booklet (PDF)

Botany Tree Identification Nature Journal Page (PDF)

While writing in his nature journal, seeking the sounds of the season, Max observed that no songbirds were chirping- the only noise was that of the wind rustling through the dying tree leaves. "All the birds have migrated, Mom!" he exclaimed. Micah tried to see the good side of our birdless environment, asserting that "all the birds are at the beach and they are eating and playing". Milla assented with a nod.

Poetry in slow motion: acorns, leaves, "pinestraw pasta", and Milla's shoe.

For at least an hour, everyone was busy observing, chatting, giggling, learning, and admiring the changing world around us. As they studied, I jotted down notes for a poem, the little bones of what looks like a skeleton, and promised myself that I would steal time to finish it... later. Always later.