Alina's Adventures

Darryl Patton, "The Southern Herbalist", shares his plant knowledge in Hoover tomorrow.

Tomorrow afternoon, you have the chance to learn about wild foods and foraging with Darryl Patton, "The Southern Herbalist". Darryl will take kids and parents on a fascinating tour of Southern plants  that can serve as food and medicines. 

"Wild Plants: Earth's Free Feast and Pharmacy with Darryl Patton" will be held on January 30th from 2 to 4 pm in a classroom at Hoover Tactical,(yes, it's a firearms store, which of course makes me a little uneasy)near Hoover, Alabama. But I'm going to trust the sponsors, including Sheriff Mike Hale and Fresh Air Family's Prepared, Not Scared safety/survival courses for kids and adults.

The cost is $10 for members and $15 for non-members. But I think the experience is worth it. Here's why...

Mr. Tommie Bass, Lookout Mountain's herbalist

The Southern Herbalist has learned from those who came before him. Darryl's book, Mountain Medicine: The Herbal Remedies of Tommie Bass, takes us through the life and mind of a man who grew. There is a wonderful 

I first met Tommie Bass as a result of several people telling me stories of the ‘Herb Man’ up in Leesburg not far from where I lived. It seemed as if I were constantly running into people who either knew of him, or had family who knew and had been treated by this white-haired gentleman. Reading about him on the front page of the Wall Street Journal in 1985 had also served to pique my curiosity.

My first trip to his home was one which I will never forget. It also served to show me a little of the extent to which he is known and respected in his community. Even without an address to go by, and I had no trouble finding his house. All I had to say was that we were looking for Tommie Bass, the Herb Man, and people immediately told us how to find him.

For the next two hours, I was treated to fascinating stories of Leesburg and Lookout Mountain in the first half of this century, stories of herbal treatments, and even a couple of songs played on the French Harp. It turned out to be the most interesting day of my life.

I found Tommie to be the most humble and guileless person I had ever met. There is nothing pretentious about this man. What you see on one visit is the same person you see on subsequent return trips. His overriding concern is to bring some ease to his fellow man. He is not out to make a dollar at the expense of others’ ailments. He is a seeker of neither glory nor fame.

Mr. Tommie Bass

Among Tommie's remedies:

 For sinus trouble, he may recommend drinking a tea of Wild Cherry Bark or inhaling the steam from a boiling pot of ‘Rabbit Terbaker.’ Overweight folks will be told the wonders of Chickweed and Queen Anne’s Lace. “They’ll do the trick!”

Women suffering from what Tommie calls ‘Women’s Trouble’ need to know there is nothing like Red Maple, Black Cohosh or Squawvine tea. Pokeroot is good for the itch and, “Of course,” says Tommie, “Yellowroot will cure stomach ulcers.”

To hear Tommie tell it is to know that Wild Cucumber Tree bark and Prickly Ash are the most wonderful things in the world for arthritis.

Kids and adults can prepare for this event by listening to Mr. Bass talk about mountain life and herbs right here. I think hearing his voice adds another layer of value to his words.

Darryl shares thoughts on Eastern Red Cedar/Juniper. 

For those familiar with Euell Gibbon's incredible Stalking the Wild Asparagus, I can honestly say it changed my son's life when he received it as a gift from our dear neighbors, Doug and Carol Brooks. Now you can sign up for a free newsletter combining Euell and Darryl's wisdom, as well as enjoy archived issues online.

Other great resources and online treasures from Darryl include:

A-Z Herbal References Guide, with a heavy focus on Alabama
"How to forecast weather by nature" 
"The history of using sassafras"
"Stalking the Wild Day Lily," an adventure
The mysteries of rabbit tobacco (Pseudognaphlium obtusifolium)
"Beautyberry, herbal bug repellent", one the Eldest will love
Darryl's list of links

Ice skating adventures in Pelham.

Booted and ready to test the ice...

Late last year, we went on a ice skating adventure at the Pelham Civic Center, which has special hours and classes for homeschoolers. 

Then begins the extensive period of wall-crawling...

Gnome on a roll...

The excitement of letting go of the wall... that first taste of possibility.

My mom's favorite saying- "Try, try again..."- echoed in my head as I skated. It made me happy to hear her words coming from my mouth when I most needed them. When Gnome fell on her stomach and the effort of encouragement was too heavy in comparison to the familiar ease of soothing and kissing and saying, "Okay, we don't have to keep trying..."

But the image of her laughing, skating, beckoning from across the ice. "Look kids, pretend she's over there. Skate to Buni." Because Buni never stopped trying. Buni never gave up.

Prophet has a ball...

and Gnome celebrates being wall-free.

I am so grateful for the opportunities to slip, fall, and fumble with my kids. And I am always deeply grateful for the friends which make such goofy joy possible. I miss you, Amy Lewis Sides.

At the UA Arboretum with Suebee and Pops.

Suebee flips through The Tuscaloosa News which, of course, is not exactly the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. She and Pops were thrilled to pose for this morning photograph in the front yard. Thrilled, I tell you.

Suebee and Pops came for the weekend last month, their trunk filled with toys and the backseat bearing a surprise visit from cousin Jael. The girls caught up on gab and bikes and pinecone tossings. 

We spent one afternoon traipsing around the Arboretum.

Okay, that's a lie. They traipsed while I hid behind a tree and worked on a fiction collection. When I say worked, I mean a strange combination of scribbling, editing, and trying not blur the ink by crying. 

The King took photos of what I missed. As Suebee started off on the trail, Pops ushered stragglers forward. 

Suebee tells Pat very clearly NOT to take photos of her hiking up the trail from behind. Having viewed the entire roll of film, I know for a fact that he refrained from taking rear pictures.

A beautiful golden flower filled with yellow stars. A face that could launch a thousand stories.

Among the missings was a dance performance at the open-air amphitheater.

Jael bops. Prophet looks cinematic. Gnome explores head-banging.

Clearly, there was booty-shaking which took place.

Let it be noted that there is nothing I appreciate like a good, mid-forest booty shake.

Gnome, Prophet, Sueebee, and Jael pose for a photo along the trails. Poor Prophet refused to apply chapstick around her mouth-- "it doesn't make sense, mom... my chin is not the same as my lips". So I had to formulate a term called chapped upper chin to describe the way the space around the lips gets chapped if you lick it during cold weather.  

They sauntered to the top of the treehouse.

A serious version of something in the treehouse.

My favorite version of anything. Because it happens to include Him.

And then this.

Rust a relic of Darden Cemetery.

Why not take our sketchbooks to a tiny cemetery and see what falls on the page?

As a prompt, the kids "collected" nouns- everything from oak leaves to infant tombstones. The Eldest settled into leaves and quickly began sketching the peculiar lineaments of lichen on stones.

Prophet copies the letters from gravestones- she feels confident when copying letters because they don't flip around on her as much. What is more difficult about dyslexia- the lagging behind on reading curves or the sense that letters play tricks with you, a fundamental mistrust of the written word?

Gnome abandoned her sketchbook to chase a squirrel. Something about the shadows and the silhouettes of a four-year-old's sketchbook wanted to become a story... but there is not time enough in the universe for all the stories I want to tell.

Upon her return, Gnome attempted various sketches before getting frustrated that her drawings "didn't match." The eraser washed across the paper.

"It doesn't have to match," I said, "just to capture the way you see it." Never let the perfect be the enemy of the good.

The Eldest sauntered through a corridor of graves and paused briefly to remind me how easy it is to get frustrated- and how hard to crawl out of it. There are moments when he takes life in stride (this one) and moments when he stomps hard enough to hurt.

The fence captivated all four of us so that we found ourselves sketch-collecting it together. Four people scrunched down like pinecones catching the fence from different angles.

I wondered who made the small fence- it didn't look like anything I've seen around Tuscaloosa- maybe a small business that passed away. Is there irreverence in attributing death to a business, in saying aloud what we believe at heart- that the life of a business bears more value than the life of children whose mothers raise them alone, scrimping every penny, worrying about whether they can afford the power bill this month?

How will they blend their colored pencils to capture the vagaries of rust?

We collected nouns and marveled over rust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, those with enough mullah may also earn rust.

The old cattle barn in Hurricane Creek Park.

Fred Fisher, the husband of Angelynn Parks Fisher, spent many happy days at Hurricane Creek where his father-in-law, the late Stanley Parks, owned a large chunk of property. Upon the death of the late Stanley Parks, this property was sold to the Trust for Public Land, a land trust, for the purpose of fulfilling Stanley's wish that the public enjoy this land for perpetuity.

This area is known as Hurricane Creek Park, though the Friends of Hurricane Creek (disclaimer: I am on the Board of this organization) would prefer the name be Stanley Parks Nature Preserve. If you walk the trails, you'll discover all kinds of stories. 

The North Loop leads through the area where Mr. Fisher once raised a barn and kept cattle.

You can recognize the premises by the mossy fence and the massive old tree, a survivor of storms and incubator of stories.

The relics of remain to be interpreted. Once upon a time, there was a barn built painstakingly by men to house and nurture cattle. 

A tornado whirled through and demolished the barn and the workshop, the hallowed family places and spaces, pockets of nature that begin to feel like home. What you see is the remains-- what looks like junk from here is the skeleton of a family story.

What was this? What can we read beyond the rust? How do we keep the past from haunting us by its incompleteness?

After roaming through the old stable area, remembering Mr. Fisher mentioned horses- horseback rides through the woods at family events- I think of how much care we put into places that disappear. How much we hope in our hearts that someone will keep these places from disappearing completely. How only stories keep breathing when material expires.

The Eldest looks for tadpoles in the lake created by Mr. Fisher as a watering hole for the cattle. If you're looking for stories written in trees, visit Hurricane Creek Park and wander through the North Loop. Do it for the late Stanley Parks, whose family left this land for you.

The Second Annual Fall Ball.

Late last weekend, we celebrated our Annual Fall Ball, an acknowledgement of the glorious seasonal cycle in wear their most flamboyant dresses for one final dance before dropping them. The origins of the Fall Ball event were inspired by George Cooper's poem, which I modified to suit our circumstances. 

Prophet lingers near a corner of the yard, hunting for "orange leaves". She returns with a golden leaf instead.

The King helped Prophet identify the warm golden leaf she found using our favorite tree ID book- an out-of-print Little Golden Books guide from less sophisticated days.

Gnome participated this year for the first time, adding her own leaf chronicle of colors. She was our most enthusiastic leaf finder.

As you can see, however, the leaf identification was less than thrilling for her. Fortunately, the King relished leaf ID.

The Eldest took his sweet time, wandering through underbrush, considering vines and shrubs as well as trees. I snuck a photo of his work in progress while he dallied near the garden, which still bears green tomatoes, and continues to fruit despite recent freeze.

Sweet Isla on our hike in Tannehill last week.

"And then the party ended, the season's lost and found." 

If you'd like to add your own tradition of a Fall Ball, the printables and description from last year are free. And they exist for you to enjoy.

Taos, briefly.

We drove through Taos and wandered the streets for an hour. Prophet declared that she was "going to live in Taos when I grow up". Gnome seconded the sentiment.

"You can't live with me in the same house, though," insisted Prophet.

"Yes, I am," declared the unstoppable Gnome.

"No you're not! Mo-o-o-o-m, tell her she can't live in my house in Taos!"

Mom declined to get involved.

"I'm going to live with you just cause that's what I'm a gonna do," announced Gnome. I admire the way she doesn't fear rejection and doesn't get defensive or catty (which tends to be the usual response). Fortunately, there was much to distract them from this minor disagreement.

Including piles of delicious food. We feasted on tex-mex at The Alley Cantina.

I slipped away for a few seconds to jot notes in my journal. If it weren't for the bewitching effect of the drain pipes- their linear form contrasting so sharply with the rounded silhouettes of the pueblos- I might have used my "alone time" more wisely.

Imagine the noisy fun of a torrential rain on the streets of Taos.

And then this juxtaposition of metal pipes with a lodgepole pine fence. Lovely, beguiling Taos.

A snapping turtle egg at Hurricane Creek.

A tiny snapping turtle egg found at Watson's Bend.

While helping to cut and move privet and other invasive plants along Hurricane Creek, I stumbled upon something that looked like a perfect little pebble.... and yet, there was a translucence or fragility about the creamy exterior.

So I grabbed my camera- which gave me one measly photo before demanding more battery juice- and snapped a picture. The closer I drew to the pebble, the more clear it became that this pebble was actually an egg.

When I asked other volunteers about what sort of egg it might be, Curtis scratched his head, peered at the egg, and then told me it was probably a snapping turtle egg that didn't get covered very well. Curtis didn't think the egg would survive and manage to hatch.

An hour later, the Eldest and Ellie emerged from their morning-long swim in the cool creek waters to describe having seen a teeny baby snapping turtle wallowing through the sand-gravel bar. In the Eldests' words:

"It was speckled, and looked alot like a rock. But we could tell by its bright back and litle legs that it wasn't a rock. The baby snapper had a teeny head with a teeny beak. We inched up closer in the water and watched it swim around. Then it settled again, laying belly-down flat on a rock. I doubt a predator would have been able to see it."

I only wish I could have seen it, too. Part of me thinks that little egg might survive in spite of the odds (they call that part "the optimist"). Maybe we'll sneak over to Watson's Bend early in the week and see if the egg has moved or cracked.

Thoughts on shadows through a shutter.

A walk along the covered overpass to Arcadia Elementary.

Even Aristotle knew that darkness is defeated by that tiny shard of light that squeezes through a small hole in the closed window shutters. 

And that the image of any object standing in liminal space between sunshine and shadow projects itself on the wall of a room, reversed.

We mistake the projections of the camera obscura for something concrete. I guess I'm just not sure yet whether that is the willingness to entertain our own illusions is tantamount to self-delusion.

Sunday silhouettes and cloudscapes.

What began as a plan to play basketball turned into an afternoon of cloudscapes. Looking up at the clouds and each other from the vantage point of a dandelion.

The King settles into a brief observation of Cumulus mediocris. 

Nothing occurs without a context. Our context was clouds- and the study of weather and sky Prophet declares her favorite to be the cumulonimbus- the one which portends a promise of thunder and lighting. 

She prefers the name "thunderhead". And she asks the Eldest, again and again, to tell her about the anvil at the head of the cloud and how it predicts the direction in which the storm is moving.

For the Eldest, the clouds make it hard to concentrate on other things- things of this world, things like basketball games. I like the way he prefers not to fight the daydreaming sky, adjusting his plans as needed. He's a person who acknowledges the leverage of a cloudscape.

Gnome sits astride the elephant and shakes it with her tiny arms. The effect is one of dispersion- each wave a break too soft to crest. The scattering and dispersion creates its own forms. Hail, little Gnome, ye shaker of clouds and creator of cirrus-scapes.

Each of us has his own way of interacting with the clouds. I incline towards the clouds- hoping to somehow scoop them into my body, where their mass mobilizes them into new shapes, always the yearning for new stories. 

"Tell me," I say to the Eldest, "which cloud formations strike you as the most stable and the most unstable."

"Sure," he begins to point and pontificate. Then he asks if I'm worried about the weather, or why I want to know.

"I don't care so much for the stable formations," I try to explain that the unstable clouds are the ones I want to follow, the ones which will eventually be forced by their own inner dynamics to spill into stories- some involving rain and backyard vegetable gardens, others revolving around the way pressure changes and reconfigures us as less than massive. 

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.

A boy and his hostas.

The Eldest has gone ga-ga for hostas. 

When we paid a weekend visit to The Plant Lady on Sunday afternoon, he managed to talk up such a hosta-appreciating storm that she gave him an $8 hosta as a gift. He promised to treasure it and guard it with his life.

I assured her that he was not kidding. Not at all. Meanwhile, the girls managed to score some free popsicles and I left with a blackberry bush. Hard to find anything to regret in such an outing. 

A nature walk with Diane Kappel-Smith.

Dutchman's breeches in Dublin, Ohio.

All the recent, rather immediate demands of a growing garden have kept me from reflecting on our trip to Ohio- from mining it for tiny kernels of insight.

But this morning, I found a crack, the kind that swells into a crevice, between the comings and doings.

As the kids worked on their book reviews, I flipped back through the photographs of our nature outings with the writings of Diane Kappel-Smith in the forefront of my mind. In retrospect, posting the photos alongside the text makes me feel as if Diane and I walked the woods together.

It's so much easier to write about the wonder and obvious beauty of nature than it is to acknowledge the extent to which it satisfies and cultivates a craving for fantasy. Surely I am not the only woman to have trudged through muddy trails with Thoreau at my side.

Today, I walk with Wintering in my head. Or, rather, I return and revisit under the electrifying influence of a particular writer who has more to reveal to me in all the things I have seen.

Walk with me. 

"I come back to the papery leaves, the spring beauties, the sun which reaches me here, now, unfiltered. The twigs, leaves, and flowers that are on their way are already formed, were made last summer and packed away in scales and sheaths; all they have to do is expand like balloons, and then their branch tips will begin their hurry to make more."

Diane Kappel-Smith

"Trees grown in the open are thicker of trunk because the wind has blown them, and they choose to thicken in the parts of themselves most stressed by their own bending. Trees in the dense woods where the wood can't push them are thin as wands".

I would make an exception for the dense, heavy hardwoods growing in the Carpathian mountains of Transylvania. Their trunks are as thick as houses, possibly because their location on the side of high altitude mountains demands heftiness as a form of hardiness for the snow-heavy Transylvanian winters and sharp mountainside winds. 

Of course, if American corporations have their way, these old trees will soon be logged to make fancy dining room tables for the rapacious consumers of Hollywood and Aspen. But I hope against hope that something happens to stop them.

BLOODROOT

The large white petals of the bloodroot plant radiate outward, but often only last for one day. One of the ways to recognize this plant is the leaf often looks like it wants to wrap itself around the flower. If you cut the stem or dig the root, it will bleed a bright red-orange juice.

"In these maples and birch and beech the branches reach out year after year, running skyward like the fingers of rivulets when water is poured on dry ground."

Critical Thinking Exercise on Diana Kappel-Smith review (PDF)
A little something I made for the Eldest and wanted to share.

YELLOW TROUT LILY

Trout Lilies like to keep their feet wet and are common, especially along river floodplains. There are both white and yellow species here. The six petals are usually recurved like this. The mottled leaves is a diagnostic character.

I love the way the leaves resemble purple tie-dyed shirts.

A golden goodbye whose shadow is even lovelier than its hue.

Painted faces and fresh strawberries at Homegrown Alabama.

Little B.'s free face painting from Homegrown Alabama.

I love Homegrown Alabama. The people are as locally-fresh and unfabricated as the veggies, cheeses, and craftmanship we find there.

The Eldest didn't shy away from face painting.

A few weeks ago, we went straight from ballet to the Homegrown Alabama market on the UA campus (located on the front lawn of our church). Prophet couldn't resist pointing out that we hadn't "been to church in years", by which I think she meant weeks. 

While the Eldest hunted down tomatoes, Gnome, Prophet, and Little B. hung out in the children's area in the hopes of getting as many animals painted on their faces and hands as time would permit.

I discovered a delicious new goat cheese, purchased a Left Hand soap gift for Bill's super-late birthday present, scored another bottle of Hewett's honey, and simply enjoyed being able to touch and sample local creations while the little people were otherwise occupied. 

Little B. is upset that I agree to take a picture of Prophet as well.

Then there were the strawberries....

Alabama homegrown strawberries for the taste test.

Originally, I purchased the strawberries to toss with the hearty arugula from Snow Bend's farm, but my salad plans fell apart upon our return to the castle. You see, the kids decided the weather was perfect for the succulent sweetnesss, as indicated by their boisterous parade bringing grocery-store strawberries into the backyard.

"Why not turn this into a contest?" I inquired. "Let's pit homegrown strawberries against those of Winn-Dixie. The winner receives the Coryell Castle Seal of Approval."

More cheers and merry-making, a consensus to taste-test had been established. 

The results of the taste conclusively determined that the homegrown strawberries tasted better- "more tart and tangy"- than the grocery store strawberries.

In less than five minutes, two bowls of strawberries had disappeared from the planet known to its inhabitants as Earth. Alas, my arugula-strawberry salad with goat cheese will have to wait until next week- next Thursday, to be precise.

Officially, in the overly-concise language of nonprofit mission statements:

"Homegrown Alabama is a student-led group at the University of Alabama that seeks to educate students about the value of local produce, as well as to foster partnerships between local farmers and the University of Alabama".

You can visit the Homegrown Alabama Farmers Market at the Canterbury Episcopal Chapel lawn every Thursday, April 17- October 23 from  3:00–6:00 p.m. It's a lovely segue between school and dinner- a lovely way to fill in the blanks of what should be brought to table.

Geocaching for Riverboxes at the Dublin Arts Center.

After parking outside the Dublin Arts Council, we took a moment to savor the view. Then we decided to go ahead and hunt for the first geocache, a riverbox with an uncanny name, D'art's No Litter Cat Box, one that deserved further investigation.

For those unfamiliar with riverboxes, the Dublin Arts Center sponsors a series of geocaches called Riverboxes, all of which are created by local artists or artisans. You can download a Riverbox Passport and guide for free online. 

The Eldest survyed the base of a statue on the front lawn of the Dublin Arts Center. He held the printouts which included only descriptive clues (rather than GPS coordinates) to the riverbox.

Once we got within ten feet of the cache, we were alerted to its hiding spot by the simultaneous chirp of three children- "Found it!" The riverbox was filled with swag and goodies. We left our names and logged it in the Coryell Castle Geocaching Logbook.

Upon entering the Dublin Arts Center, we discovered a large, golden tabby cat curled atop a desk near the front door. For a few moments, no one else appeared- it was just us and the cat. Gnome wasted no time in sneaking a pet.

Soon, a friendly lady appeared to introduce us to D'art, the gallery cat, the namesake of the riverbox we had just discovered. The ladies offered supplications and thanks for the swag. Meanwhile, the Eldest had wandered into the art gallery. We followed suit.

In addition to the wood art exhibit, there was a funky-looking piano in the center of the room. First they gawked at it.

Then they rocked it.

Because a funky blue-polka dot piano is only yours for the playing once in life. And who would you be to refuse it?

We set out down the hill behind the Arts Center in search of our second riverbox, Riverbox of the Sun. The littlest ones took the lead.

Bunicu stops to scout out a stump.

Inside the Riverbox of the Sun, we found a collection of painted rocks and pebbles, the sort of swag that hangs heavy in the pocket. Prophet counted the pebbles before announcing that each of us could only take one so that a total of twelve pebbles would remain.

As the Eldest and I did the dull work of logging and noting, other members of the caravan argued the case for running down the rest of the hill to the bank of swollen Scioto River. 

Bunicu apparently spotted a few geese across the way, and the King noted a geocache located on the uninhabitable 10 foot island plumb center of the river. "It would only take a minute to swim across and log it......" observed the King.

Fortunately, everyone got distracted by the presence of an eerie building out back- the kind of building that ached to tell us a good, old-fashioned ghost story. Possibly the dwelling of the Scioto River rambler, a ghost known to travel with a hobo stick and knotted kerchief? If not a ghost, then at least an excellent creative writing prompt for the Eldest and his journal.

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.

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.

A neighborhood winter walk to warm us up... in nonsense verse.

 A gaggle of gigglers strolling down the neighborhood street,

wondering what creatures they might happen-chance to meet.

Up Dead Man's Hill, our legs burning like fire,

Leonard Cohen would have liked that bird on that wire.

A baby-wearing mom-friend smiles at the summit,

While a prosperous gnome asks "Hey, are we done yet"?

The joys of a winter walk are too many to count,

we frown at the sunset that bids us dismount.

Stunning sunburst lichen.

Going for a morning walk in the snow the other day, we came across the coolest lichen on a rock near an aspen grove. So orange it burned my eyes- and yet, I could not look away. Off went the gloves so I could reach down and touch it; nothing crumbled away. Out came the camera to snap a quick photo to help me identify this beauty later in the week.

Now, I am trying to identify my rust-hued lichen friend, and the process (as anyone who has befriended a lichen can acknowledge) is anything but easy. I figured this lichen friend must be fairly popular in alpine zones, since other hikers also discovered it in late July on their descent from South Arapaho Peak. A similar orange lichen also exists in the mountains of Yellowstone, the Austrian Alps, and throughout the Rocky Mountains, including Moraine Park. What does this lichen need to grow? Is is the altitude?

Maybe not. Other nature lovers have stumbled across this lichen in various parts of Antarctica, including Cormorant Island and Cape Royds. So altitude or zone alone will not answer my questions. 

Leave it to Jeff Mitton to come up with the interesting stuff. It seems my lichen friend is an elegant sunburst lichen, or Xanthoria elegans. The key to the sunburst lichen seems to be nitrogen.

Jeff explains that X. elegans is "highly tolerant of water-soluble forms of nitrogen, and this tolerance influences its distribution and abundance". He then goes on to explain why this matters and why it is stupendously cool:

Mammal urine contains urea, a molecule containing two atoms of nitrogen, and their feces also contain nitrogen. Birds release uric acid, a molecule containing four atoms of nitrogen, in a thick white paste that reveals nest sites on rocky cliffs.

The elegant sunburst lichen thrives at the burrow entrances of small mammals and conspicuously illuminates sentry posts where they sit vigilantly watching their territory. Orange lichens also identify hunting perches of birds and grow in profusion in seabird colony nesting sites.

The elegant sunburst lichen alerts naturalists to long-term haunts of small mammals. At the Notch, the highest point of Trail Ridge Road, extensive scree slopes drape from the road down into Forest Canyon. Pika alarm calls can be heard, but pikas are devilishly difficult to spot. However, bright orange lichens mark entrances to burrows and sites where pikas have surveyed their world for centuries and perhaps even millennia.

Sit quietly, a respectable distance away from the telltale lichen and you will exhaust the pika’s timidity and patience. Pikas will soon resume haying, or gathering leaves and stems to accumulate a hay pile, the larder that will get them through the coming winter.

Elegant sunburst lichens also reveal places where yellow-bellied marmots linger and do what comes naturally. With binoculars, I have watched marmots sitting on cliffs high above Forest Canyon, enjoying a majestic vista from a sentry post marked by brilliant lichens.

The elegant sunburst lichen has an extraordinary range. It grows from wave-splashed marine shores to the peaks of high mountains and from the Arctic to the Antarctic. It grows on all continents except Australia.

Xanthoria elegansis currently recognized as a single species, but it varies markedly from place to place. In the Canadian Arctic its colors and the form and abundance of its reproductive structures vary regularly among habitats, suggesting that what we call the elegant sunburst lichen will eventually be recognized as several species.

Its extensive geographic range and its conspicuous color attracted the attention of lichenologists, archeologists and historians who use lichens to estimate the ages of rock surfaces. Lichens grow slowly, at relatively regular rates, so a lichen’s size can be used to estimate its age and to make inferences about the duration that its foundation has been exposed. An elegant sunburst lichen takes one to two decades to become established and after that its radius increases by about 0.5 millimeters per year, or an inch in 50 years.

Who was the remorseless culprit who fertilized the rock in Moraine Park, encouraging brilliant lichens to grow? The likely suspects include least chipmunks, golden-mantled ground squirrels and Wyoming ground squirrels.

 I can't wait to share this with the kids and return to our elegant sunburst lichen friend in the hopes of ferreting out what mammal lives nearby.

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) *

54 ways to learn through exploring the autumn outside.

 “Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.”
Albert Camus

1. Find symmetry in nature.
(Buggy and Buddy)

2. Use pinecones to forecast the weather.
(Sorting Sprinkles)

3. Write a poem about about how it's not just a stick.
(Child's Play Music)

4. Collect and sort different parts of trees.
(Inspiration Laboratories)

5. Make a neighborhood tree guide.
(Kid World Citizen)

6. Use trigonometry to find out the height of your favorite trees.
(Science Sparks)

7. Create mini-nature weaving looms to preserve your treasures.
(Housing A Forest)

8. Observe and journal about a stump ecoystem.

9. Find a large log and make painted coasters.
(bread and buttons)

10. Observe a day in the life of a backyard birdbath.
(The Locust-Fork News Journal)

11. Make a A-frame winter shelter in your backyard.
(Mother Earth News)

12. Go shrooming.

13. Whittle together.
(Acorn Pies)

14. Sing the autumn fairy song.
(Let's Play Kids Music)

15. Try some leaf sewing on your nature walk.
(How We Learn)

16. Celebrate your local "Fall Ball".

17. Paint on seed pods.
(Danya Banya)

18. Make colorful homemade stick wind chimes.
(Happy Hooligans)

19. Find a sacred stump and tell its story.

20. Play and craft with helicopter seeds.
(Lalymom)

21. Make a twig bow and arrow.
(Acorn Pies)

22. Make rock dominoes.
(Childcareland Blog)

23. Rake some pinestraw and donate it to your school garden.

24. Build an insect hotel.
(Babble Dabble Do)

25. Blaze your own woodland trail.
(My Nearest and Dearest)

26. Whip up some fancy dinner place cards from fall leaves.
(Cool Progeny)

27. Craft a thankful mobile- try using found natural objects.
(Made By Joel)

28. Find triangles and circles in nature on a nature walk.

29. Make fern prints.
(My Nearest and Dearest)

30. Fall madly in love with a longleaf pine tree.

31. Try leaf sorting- all you need is chalk and the great outdoors.
(How Wee Learn)

32. Create a stick family- and a story to boot.
(Craftulate)

33. Watercolor leaf prints.

34. Get acquainted with all the action around another tree stump.

35. Now consider building a little loom on it.
(Babble Dabble Do)

36. Join the Knowing Nature Challenge.

37. Play with sticks.
(Picklebums)

38. Delve into some acorn math.
(Living Montessori Now)

39. Go on a sound walk.
(Mother Goose Programs)

40. Plan an extended soundwalk through a local park. 
(Hildergard Westerkemp)

41. Make a home for hedgehogs.
(Breathing Places)

42. Play with leaves and markers.
(House Wren Studios)

43. Hone the fine art of fox walking.
(Hedgehog Leatherworks)

44. Make the easiest leaf wreath ever.
(willowday)

45. Pen an Ode to Autumn.

46. Practice your Tree Poses together in the grass.

47. Make a mobile of acorn people.
(Shared Threads)

48. Use the season as a reason for extra hugs and softened voices.

49. Create autumn nature prints in sculpey or clay.
(The Artful Parent)

50. Concoct delightful, open-ended autumn trees.
(Full Circle)

51. Fashion simple autumn leaf crowns from your special tree.
(Twig and Toadstool)

52. Start an Apple Day tradition.
(Storybook Woods)

53. Play the 5 trees outdoor game.
(5 Orange Potatoes)

54. Just sit in a sunny spot and sketch what you see- the world that surrounds you.

And if the weather is too wet for outdoor explorations, consider making a cardboard tree play house with instructions and templates from Spoonful. Because we can't control the weather outside- we can only vow to honor the weather within.

The Alabama Blues Project Fundraiser, or how Max got a fancy new harp.

Because he lost his backpack with his harp, chess notebook, and several expensive field guides contained within, I purchased a new harp for him- one that cost five times as much as the one he lost. I'm not good at incentives.

He looked forward to playing with the spontaneous combustion of the soul sisters- but the soul sisters were sick. Imagine our fun fortune when he got the chance to play with the Blues Project Intermediate Band. 

Even the chapped lips couldn't stop him from the thrill of those wooden reeds. In fact, he rushed to the restroom to wash his mouth before touching his lips to his harp. Explanation: "Mom, you know that chapstick can clog the reeds..." I can't remember if he added the provisional "Duh". 

After explaining the sad story of Trayvon's death to him, Max finally agreed that wearing his hoodie during the performance might not be advisable. On the other hand, he said he wanted to wear his hoodie whenever he walked in a park or a street in memory of Trayvon. (Sheesh- the Max has an even stronger sense of justice than his mother...)

Candlelight, a steady dose of blues, and the soft glimmer of a brand new harp that nothing can keep you from playing- what more can we ask of life?

 

Honoring Jon Daniels' life and love.

Pilgrims in Hayneville hold an icon of Jonathan Daniels on this year's pilgrimage.

If you do a quick online search for the name "Jon Daniels", you'll find multiple links to the manager of a major sports team. What you probably won't find, however, is a link to the "Jon Daniels" that made such a difference in the world as we have come to know it.

Jonathan Myrick Daniels (March 20, 1939 – August 20, 1965) was an Episcopal seminarian, killed for his work in the American civil rights movement. His death helped galvanize support for the civil rights movement within the Episcopal church. He is regarded as a martyr in the Episcopal church. The wikipedia entry offers more facts and details. Now I'll offer my own shrivelled synposis.

While Jon was studying at the Episcopal Divinity School in Cambridge, Massachusetts in the spring of 1965, Martin Luther King Jr. put out a call for students and clergy to come to Alabama and participate in a march from Selma to the state capital of Montgomery. The students debated how to respond to a call from the dark- a darkness made more palpable by its social and intellectual distance. Tim Abbott shares his father's own encounter with King's call, as well as with Jon Daniels:

Dad describes his own growing activism and the late night conversations with his fellow seminarians in which "we were honing our positions and our hearts on what had to be done."  He remembers his classmate Jonathan Daniels as a complex man, and totally non-violent. "I was in a very different place than he was, in terms of active activism and spirituality" he told me.  "In his liturgical way he could sing the Magnificat and feel as if that was his calling, a true Epiphany, and I wasn't there yet.  I was studying religion rather than living it the way he was.  I was much closer to the activism, on the verge, but there were too many easy rationalizations for not going down to Selma.  They weren't about self-protecting - I was not as concerned about personal harm, though perhaps I should have been - but felt I had obligations at school...When he went to Selma with the 1st wave, a couple of seminarians went with him..."

Thus Jon answered the call. And then he missed his bus back to Cambridge. Feeling pulled by the social breakdown he witnesses in Alabama, Jon stayed behind in Selma the rest of that semester to help the civil rights movement.  He returned to Cambridge for his final exams, and then went back to Alabama in July. Because something unspeakable kept pulling this highly-disciplined, non-flamboyant, dedicated young seminarian back...

There was a moment, of course, when Jon’s commitment to the beloved community became clear. This moment came prior to his time in Selma at a time when he was working in Wilcox County, specifically in the town of Camden, where sharecropping remained the primary industry for blacks. In Camden, Jon first experienced tear gas and came to see the ribald fear of blacks to become a casualty of the march for their own freedom.

He found himself inhabiting his own "existential moment". To have an existential moment is to become aware of the fact that our lives have signficance and that we exist within them- that we are responsible for them and to a spiritual sense of self characterized by a concern for integrity. An older man who lives on my street likes to call those moments "epiphanies"; I'm inclined to follow his judgement. 

The impact of this epiphany on Jon's faith was life-giving. He wrote:

My hostility really lasted until last week. I think it was when I got teargassed leading a march in Camden that I began to change. I saw that the men who came at me were themselves not free: it was not that cruelty was so sweet to them (though I’m afraid sometimes it is) but that they didn’t know what else to do. Even though they were white and hateful and my enemy, they were human beings, too. I found myself feeling a kind of grim affection for them, at least a love that was real and ‘existential’ rather than abstract….. Last week in Camden I began to discover a new freedom in the Cross: freedom to love the enemy. And in that freedom, the freedom (without hypocrisy) to will and to try to set him free.

On August 14th, Daniels was arrested for protesting against a "whites only" store, and he was sent to a county jail in Haynesville, Alabama, along with several others.  After their release on August 20th, Daniels, along with a Catholic priest and two young African-Americans, went to a local store to get a soft drink.  They were met at the door by the store's owner, Tom Coleman, who was carrying a shotgun.  When Coleman aimed the gun at 17 year old Ruby Sales, Daniels pushed her away, and he caught the full impact of the blast in his chest, killing him instantly.

The story of his murder was reported nationally in the immediate aftermath of his death, and once again after his killer was acquitted by an all-white Alabama jury.

Jon completed his college education at Virginia Military Institute, where he was a valedictorian, before deciding to attend seminary. This is his VMI class photograph.

As a seminarian, Jon struggled to continue his studies while fulfilling his spiritual calling to serve the torn communities of our state. Soon, his experiences in Alabama began to inform and supplement his theological education; the abstractions of theory rubbed shoulders with the reality of love in an angry, selfish world. It became hard for Jon to separate the texts from the people he encountered along the way. For his theology Professor William J. Wolf, Jon submitted a paper he’d prepared during the summer entitled “Theological Reflections on My Experience in Selma”. In it, he described his experiences as the source of a "living theology", a faith lived anew in each day of one's life, a love lived with immanence and resolve:

All of this is the raw material for living theology.  And yet in as deep a sense, from my point of view, it is the product of living theology.  The doctrines of the creeds, the enacted faith of the sacraments, were the essential preconditions of the experience itself.  The faith with which I went to Selma has not changed: it has grown.  Darkening coals have kindled. Faith has taken wing and flown with a song in its wings. 'My soul doth magnify the Lord, and my Spirit hath rejoiced in God my Savior...'

I lost fear in the Black Belt when I began to know in my bones and sinews that I had truly been baptized into the Lord's Death and Resurrection, that in the only sense that really matters I am already dead, and my life is hid with Christ in God…

The point is simply, of course, that one’s motives are usually mixed- and one had better know it. It occurred to me that though I was reasonably certain that I was in Selma because the Holy Spirit had sent me there, there nevertheless remained a fundamental distinction between my will and His.

This paper was read at Jon's funeral as a eulogy. I read it now as a testament to the message of love he left behind. How many of us know the saints that live just down the street? How many times have we encountered a love so certain that we find our fears and anxieties dissipate as the urge to share this love becomes a central part of our lives.

The signs of the times- the signs Jon prayed would disappear, and take with them, the paralyzing fear felt by many blacks in Alabama.

Jon Daniels is a model for all of us who lose sight of the way in which love demands that we respond with unconditional love in the immediate, absolute present. Carpe diem is not a slogan that urges us to throw back as many beers as possible during a football game- it's a slogan that reminds us no love and no faithful action can be postponed to a "better time" or a "better place". The only time we can be sure of is this moment. The only acceptable time to do what is right- to honor the image of God in every life- is the present. Living in the moment means loving in the moment. Nothing is a greater, more worthy challenge.

The life and ministry of Jon Daniels is remembered on August 14th every year by the Episcopal Church. In this context, the role of the Episcopal Society for Cultural and Racial Unity (ESCRU) played a pivotal role in eventually integrating southern public institutions. Members of ESCRU felt that Daniel’s alleged murderer, Tom Coleman, was acquitted wrongfully and that white juries would continue to fail to convict those that should be found guilty of race and hate crimes. In response to the acquittal, ESCRU launched Operation Southern Justice, a campaign and lawsuit undertaken in conjunction with the National Council of Churches and other groups to integrate southern juries.

The Episcopal Diocese of Alabama supports an annual pilgrimage to Hayneville to honor Jon Daniels' sacrifice. 2013 marked the 15th annual Jonathan Daniels Pilgrimage. Though we missed it this year, our calendars will keep this date open for August of next year. I was especially inspired by a 2010 pilgrim's post about how the experience impacted her life and spirit....

For more on the life and death of Jon Daniels:

Outside Agitator, the wonderful biography written by Charles Eagles (and published by the University of Alabama Press) that led me to Jon Daniels' life
"But My Heart Is Black," an article by Jon published Oct. 29, 1965
"A Burning Bush", an article by Jon written in April 1965
Jonathan Daniels lectionary 
Jon Daniels (Encyclopedia of Alabama)
Daniels' 1961 Valedictory Address (Virginia Military Institute)  
Daniels' Yearbook page (Virginia Military Institute) 
Memorial plaque for Daniels in Hayneville, Alabama 
White House tape transcripts of Pres. Johnson's response to Daniels' murder 
Liturgical lesson plan for "A Love That Forgives" 
Bishop Fisher's blog post about Jon Daniels 
"The Journey of Jonathan Daniels" (Sentinel Source) 
"Memory and Denial Are Kissing Cousins" (Greensleeves) 

Eating at restaurants with little ones is always an adventure.

The adventure inadvertently includes the rest of the restaurant-goers, as it were. Some are sympathetic, smiling, and happy to be alive; others scowl, revealing that persistent pre-snarl and I left imagining the lecture they'll deliver on "well-behaved children" and public spaces. 

Milla tangles with me at the Mellow Mushroom.

Perhaps the conversation is familiar to you- or on your list of interactions to avoid. Let's imagine it goes something like this:

DISGRUNTLED EATER: (Rolling his eyes in your direction) Ma'am, your child (he spits the word out with distaste) is singing too loud...

WORRIED MOM: Oh, sir, I'm sorry. (turning to Milla) Milla, you have to sing in a whisper- we are at a restaurant.

MILLA: Okay Mommy. But we outside- you tell me I can sing outside.

WORRIED MOM: (Casts glance at disgruntled eater, who is following the conversation carefully) Yes, but not here Milla. This is a pizza patio where people come to eat.

DISGRUNTLED EATER: It is, after all, a PUBLIC place so bratty kids can't do whatever they want.

WORRIED MOM: (Getting annoyed with his tone) That's right- it is public place where all kinds of people come to eat, drink, talk, and hang out. There is no sign that says, "Autistic children are banned."

DISGRUNTLED EATER: Is she (pointing to Milla) autistic? Because that would explain her behavior.

WORRIED MOM: No, sir, she is not on the autism spectrum. She is 2 years old, which also explains her behavior. There is no sign which bans two-year-olds. Would you like for us to move to another table further away from you?

DISGRUNTLED EATER: Yes, I would. But it just so happens that I am sitting in the middle so any table will be the same distance from me.

WORRIED MOM: Well, sir, maybe the patio isn't the right place for you. Maybe you should go inside. There, you won't be bothered by the traffic honks, the sounds of rap blaring from car speakers, or the usual pedestrian noises. You may, however, find yourself inconvenienced by the loud television sportcasts and newscasts.

DISGRUNTED MAN: I am a paying customer and I did not pay to hear that baby (pronounced with distaste) sing some baby song while I eat.

WORRIED MOM: I see. You're not the kind of man who appreciates a serenade. If I had known, I would have brought a set of ear plugs for you so you can drown out the sound of life around you as you eat your pizza. Do you have a favorite song that Milla could sing for you?

DISGRUNTLED MAN: That's it- I'm moving inside. You people are crazy.

 

Milla dangles on the iron railing.

Well, that conversation did not happen on this day- the day mom and I went to talk about writing and my most recent handwritten adventures into Hannah Arendt's head.

I am grateful to have a mom who respects what I value in life- a mom who has learned that the unruliness of my hair and the tears in my jeans are a topic I prefer to avoid in conversation, a mom who enterains my interest in ideas and enjoys chasing them to different conclusions.

“What it means to be human is to bring up your children in safety, educate them, keep them healthy, teach them how to care for themselves and others, allow them to develop in their own way among adults who are sane and responsibile, who know the value of the world and not its economic potential. It means art, it means time, it means all the invisibles never counted by the GDP and the census figures. It means knowing that life has an inside as well as an outside. And I think it means love."
                                Jeanette Winterson, novelist, poet, and author 

Adventures at the Faunsdale Bar & Grill.

In another Alabama town with no stop lights or main intersections, the King and I satisfied our curiosity abou the Faunsdale Bar & Grill. 

As I scoured through the local newspaper in the hopes of running across some bunnies or hens for sale, the King instructed the ladies in a the fine art of how to roll and blow a good spitball through a plastic straw. Max couldn't resist the opportunity to arrange and rearrange the condiment bottles- a favorite pasttime since the tender age of two.

Waiting for the lucscious burgers and cabbage to arrive, I got a little restless and decided to wander up and down the street looking for stories to help make sense of Faunsdale. Any bit of rubbish held out the prospect of further illumination. 

The "bar" next door was closed. The owner later told me that it is only open on certain days because Faunsdale is such a small town that there isn't a demand for a full-time bar and juke joint. I noticed that the flag above the entrance had been perched there for a long time. Was it intended to be symbol of history or a sign of warning? One never knows, and I seldom dare begin those conversations when still waiting for my food to be arrive.

The main street didn't give me much to read or untangle- not even crushed cigarettes suggesting a favored local brand.

So I focused on the bricks and the cobwebs between them- the way in which the spider's web healed the cracks by bridging them, by bringing everything back together on the surface with home-spun silk. 

I sat on the hot cement sidewalk for a moment and tried to imagine what the future might bring to Faunsdale- if the future even bothered to visit. And then I remembered that a hot burger overflowing with mayo and tomatoes was waiting for me just two hollers down the street. So I left the sidewalks, the spiders and their stories in the hands of a less hungry suitor that may chance to pause and read what they see.

A visit to the Alabama Rural Heritage Center.

 

En route to the beach, we bit back into our royal plan of making a pilgrimage to every Rural Studio construction in the state.  So we stopped and spent some time exploring the Alabama Rural Heritage Center in the tiny town of Thomaston. The wide open spaces combine with ingenious construction innovations to produce the effect that made Rural Studio so famous.

The kids explore the handmade local wares.

Unlike other schools of architecture, the Rural Studio celebrates the story which emerges from every single design and construction. In many cases, the designers create a website which reveals the plans and charts the journey through the project. The ARHC building's story, like the audacity of those who first dared to dream it, is preserved eternally at the project website. 

In August of 2003, the Alabama Rural Heritage Foundation, and the Rural Studio of Auburn University began a partnership helped along by a $400,000 grant from HUD with the intent of helping to stimulate economic development in the community of Thomaston. Using less than half of this grant money, five determined Auburn students in the Rural Studio Program, Abbey Barnett, Melissa Harold, Paul Kardous, Nathan Makemson, and Robert White, embarked on a thesis project to design and construct the Alabama Rural Heritage Center (ARHC).

Free experimental beams made from recycled, compacted trash.

Rather than starting from scratch, the students renovated the Home Economics building of the old Marengo County High School and constructed a new 5,000 square-foot addition which includes a gift shop, commercial kitchen, packaging room, and vegetable cleaning/processing area. A separate grant allowed the students to add an outdoor pavilion/deck intended for use by the community.

True to the Sambo's building philosophy, the students' construction process made use of experimental and eco-minded materials, including the free "trash beams" pictured above. 

On April 9, 2005, The Alabama Rural Heritage Foundation celebrated the grand-opening of the new Alabama Rural Heritage Center. 

Max concurred with the ingenuity of offering free meteorites to little people. Each of the kids selected at least two "Alabama meteorites" with accompanying brochure. I crossed my fingers quietly, hoping that the idea for a "meteorite fight" would not leak from my brain to theirs.

The sense of community is enhanced by the prodiguous pamphlets, signs, and cards announcing the work and support of local artists, artisans, and nonprofit centers. Deeply-rooted communities tend to be those that engage us at multiple levels- from our individual preferences and affinities to our group identities and social concerns. 

The gift shop overflowed with the with the creations of local artists, artisans, and traditional crafters. Since many creators leave a business card next to their creations, it's more like a gallery of local creatives than it is a gift shop. The gourmet Mama Nem's Red Pepper Jelly is made and sold in-house.

Local historian and advocate Foster Dickinson collaborated with Nancy Anderson to birth a book/curriculum guide which is now on my wish-list, Treasuring Alabama's Black Belt: Multidisciplinary Approaches to Teaching Place. If you can't find it in stores, I'm sure ARHC wouldn't mind maling a copy in exchange for a phone call and little mullah. 

Hours of operation for the gift ship are Thurday and Friday from 10 am to 4 pm and Saturdays from 10 am to 1 pm.  You can also make purchases by email ([email protected]) or by placing a call to 334-627-3388. The kitchen and dining area are still available for rent if you're seeking a special place to host an event in Alabama. 

The kind lady who eagerly answered all my questions at the gift shop (and who even went so far as to compliment me on my "well-behaved children") explained a little project she had started on the back wall of the old school. This project, the Kid's Korner, featured art for sale by young Alabama kids who donate their creations as a fundraiser for the Center.

When she said the project "wasn't going as well as she had hoped", I had a feeling we'd be mailing some art donations from the Coryell Castle before the tomatoes got fat enough to fall from the vines. If you live locally and find yourself staring at that same "feeling", just write a short note about the artists, scoop up the art, and mail the whole cornucopia to Rural Heritage and Gift Shop, 133 Sixth Avenue, Thomaston, AL 36783.

Otherwise, scurry over to their Facebook page to learn more about upcoming events and opportunities.

The Cahaba Lily Festival: A best-kept secret.

Those Saturday visits to West Blocton always leave the ruffling of favorite memories in their wake. Actually, the Cahaba Lily Festival is not a secret at all- it is well-publicized and you can find details at the Cahaba Lily website. 

We arrived in West Blocton one hour after we rolled out of Saturday morning bed at 10 am. The streets were closed to traffic so the entire Coryell Caravan wandered around and chatted with some of our favorite artists, including Sue Blackshear, who was displaying her paintings.

Inside the Cahaba Lily Center, folks from all walks of life were enjoying homemade food and the company of fellow lily-lovers. We missed Larry Davenport's morning lecture, which gnawed at me quite a bit since Larry is one of the naturalists who helped put the lily on the map. Larry began to study the Cahaba lily in 1989 "as a candidate species for a threatened or endangered listing with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service". What began as a small project turned into a fantastic flower reconaissance as Larry "expanded the known lily populations in Alabama, Georgia, and South Carolina from an initial 10 to 70.”

Milla dangles her pony bag as she takes in the streets of West Blocton.

But it takes a community and a dedicated citizenry to save a river and its fairy tale flowers. Around 20 years ago, Dr. Randall Haddock and other local lily lovers formed the Cahaba River Society, a state-wide model for cooperative and sustainable ecological preservation. At about the same time, the tiny town of West Blocton began their festival to honor the local lily. For Haddock, "the lily immediately became symbolic of the beauty, fragility, and certainly the resilience of the Cahaba River itself.

Patrick and Kevin discuss paddling the Cahaba as Milla weighs her options of possibly touching more art.

Conservation photographer Beth Maynor Young, who has taken some of the most famous photos of the Cahaba lily, describes it as "pompous" and daring enough to dwell in the middle of a river in rapids. But she can't cloak her respect and awe for this persistent, fragile flower. Beth has expressed her sadness over the fact that the Cahaba lilies grew in so many Southern rivers located along the fall line back in the days before the dams.

Milla found a few paintings on the sidewalk that no one seemed to be guarding. She took the opportunity to "touch that purple", as she put it. Then we loaded up and set out for lunch along the banks of the Cahaba at the Cahaba River National Wildlife Refuge. You can get there by driving approximately six miles east of West Blocton on County road 24. Access is provided by a gravel road on the south (right) side of Bibb County Road 24 approximately 250 yards past the refuge entrance sign. Prepare for river clay-colored dirt roads.

The king had packed a picnic basket so we sat down along the banks of the Cahaba to snack and read brochures about local life along the Cahaba. We learned that the area in which we were picnicking was greatly impacted by previous human actions. Coal mining first occurred within the area that is now the refuge in the mid-1800's. Piper #2 underground coal mine cut through the refuge. A portion of the area was strip mined in the mid-1900's. This mining pit is still visible today.

Following the depletion of coal within the refuge area, commercial timber companies purchased most of the area that is today Cahaba River NWR. Most longleaf pine left following coal mining days were cut and, over the years, replanted to loblolly pine. Efforts at longleaf pine restoration are currently underway- exciting!

We spotted a few specklings of Cahaba lilies off in the water. At this point, the earnest plotting began- "I'm going to cross those rocks and then swim to that lily patch..." and so on.

Photo taken by Alan Cressler.

So what's all the fuss over a flower? The Cahaba Lily is also known as Hymenocallis coronaria. The plant grows in rivers across the southeast United States. Current populations exist in South Carolina, Georgia and Alabama, where it is sometimes referred to as the Shoals Lily because it grows in shoals.

Photo taken by Alan Cressler.

At 182 miles, the Cahaba River is the longest free-flowing river remaining in Alabama. It is also one of the favored living locations for the aptly-named Cahaba lily. The Cahaba River houses 64 rare and imperiled plant and animal species, thirteen of which cannot be found anywhere else in the world. In fact, with 131 fish species, the river holds more than any other river its size in North America. In defiance of the dams, the river and the lily stand together every spring.

Hargrove Shoals, located near the small town of Centreville, contains the single largest lily concentration in the world. Marking the center of the river and roughly a center point for the state, this is where the lily-lovers come to seek her enchantment year after year. 

The flowers bloom between early May and late June. They usually open late in the day and begin to wither the next day. In most cases only one flower will open each day. The seeds take shelter in the crevices of rocks found in swift-moving currents. In this sense, each lily is a momentary marvel.

Max had no qualms about mingling with all the lily-spotters out in the shoals. He eventually made his way over to the farthest patch of lilies all on his own as I tried to keep the girls from eating snail shells that looked like candy. 

See that lily patch up in the left hand corner of the photo above? That's where Max claims to have touched one of the lilies with all the smugness of a medievalist on a pilgrimage. Granted, it takes at least 30-45 minutes of carefully stepping over slippery rocks and through knee-deep rapids around plants and small crevices to earn the right to see a lily up close.

If you missed the festival, you can still learn about the lily at the Cahaba Lily Center in West Blocton (driving directions here). My sources for this post include a brochure from the Cahaba National Wildlife Refuge, an article in Flower Magazine, the 2013 Cahaba River Festival Flyer, the US Fish and Wildlife Service, and various kind persons who take pleasure in passing on what they know.

On our list of things to do in West Blocton this month: Hike Piper Trail in the Cahaba River National Wildlife Refuge. Only one mile long and one way in with the same way out makes it toddler-friendly. Benches dot the trail, and two overlook platforms allow you to look down at the Cahaba River and get a birds eye view of the lilies below. The entrance to the trail is one mile east of River Trace Road on Bibb County Road 24.

Be part of Budburst's Summer Solstice Event!

Something fun to plan for the summer solstice on June 21st this year. To participate in Budburst's Summer Solstice Event, all you need is an internet connection and a desire to learn more about the plants around you. Of course, the super-eager can also make use of the phone app. So here's what you do:

First, go online and register for free.

Then choose a plant to monitor. Our opinion is that native plants are the most rewarding.

Determine your plant's location using latitute and longitude. You'll need this to add to the report forms.

Next, download and print the appropriate plant report form. Report forms exist for wildflowers, evergreens, deciduous trees and shrubs, grasses, and conifers.

Finally, submit your observations to share with other participants and plant lovers across the world.

Grass stains and spring brains.

Spring fills every moment with buds and blossoms and scents of moist soil. One of the horrors of school for me was the glossy linoleum corridors that sparkled and smelled like ammonia- how dare a cleaning product compete with the grass-heavy odor of spring?

And what were those awful rubber-scented shoes on my feet- that border between my body and the feel of grass and tiny things growing? We were ALL once tiny things, growing....

So the kids can wear shoes during the day if they so choose. Or they can enjoy the feel of verdance between their toes.

Milla is torn between the soft slithery grass and those new shoes Suebee bought for her. After much huffing and puffing, she finally discovers which shoe is "left" and which is "right".

But nothing is as easy as our well-laid plans lead us to believe.

Toes can be tricky. They creep through slots and spaces that are not intended for toes or creeping. Milla's toes even venture to get tangled in things.

So Milla removes her foot, untangles her toes, and prepares to try again. 

Effortless satisfaction. Hindsight is 20/20. And Milla's momentary frustration has morphed into that smug smile.

With "success" behind her, Milla is ready to face the challenge of the velcro heel-strap- a challenge she will be first in the family to take on.

The tiny problem-solver has solved the problem of the back and now carefully works on the problem of the top strap.  

My brain is made mush by all the beauty sometimes. And it feels like an accomplishment to just sit and watch little people grow their way into the world growing around them. Life is my favorite mystery...

A spring picnic at Tannehill with an unexpected visit from Mr. Triangle Head.

Today took us to Tannehill. The weather veered unexpectedly towards summer, and I reminded myself that once a chigger graveyard does not mean always a chigger graveyard. Fortunately, Amy, her girls, and the young castle crew distracted me from chigger PTSD. 

The girls were hungry, but Max and his ponies were itching to hit the trail. So we spread out a blanket and ate as Max wandered up and down the creek reporting back on various twists and turns in the trail. It felt like the beginning of summer- the sweat-sticky hair glued to my nape, the crimson roses on the kids' cheeks.

I only noticed a sprinkle of violets on the trail, but there were many other spring wildflowers eager to lap up the sun.

We aren't sure about this plant yet, though I've sent it along to a someone who knows all the secrets languages of plants. When we get an ID on it, I'll probably re-post along with information and a nature notebooking page. Cause I can't help myself when it comes to mysterious flowers friends.

Amy and I agreed that this was the native azalea, and I made a note to myself to see if Eugene Allen Smith was the person who had originally identified it. Anna and Milla delighted in the lemony, sweet scent of the funnel flowers (which many confuse for honeysuckle unless they've been lucky enough to learn the truth from Carol Brooks or Richard and Nancy Cobb).

The Alabama azalea, or Rhododendron alabamense, usually begins blooming towards the end of April and continues its show until the end of May, which worries me because I would hate to miss the beauty of the blooms along Hurricane Creek. Why so early this year?

The thriving shrubs of poison ivy lured us on a trail that turned away from the creek's edge- a trail that Max believed would "not be as good". We never really got to test his assertion because, after walking for ten minutes, Amy and I lagging at the rear and Max playing trail leader, we noticed Max and Anna smiling and walking back towards us.

"Hey, there's a snake in the middle of the trail- come see!"

I decided to hang out with the kids while Amy investigated. All was silent from her end of the trail, though she spent a few minutes snapping photographs. When she strolled back up with a smile, I asked her what kind of snake was sunning. She never stopped smiling as she said, "Oh, I think it's a copperhead..." 

It was time for Mr. Triangle Head and myself to exchange large vocabulary words involving whether or not we two-legged creatures should continue down what apparently was HIS trail. Being a snake works well when it comes to social skills because you don't have to bother with all that silly human stuff. He stared at me and I stared back at him. He didn't move one bit. I think I got his message, though.

Max, of course, thought we were being "silly" to listen to a snake. He insisted that it was a nonpoisonous species, but I erred on the side of Amy's intuition. I explained to Max that the snake probably wouldn't hurt us, but he definitely wanted that trail and we were just visitors to his home. Bad visitors insist on turning every place they visit into their house. Better to read the writing in leaves and accept it like our Native American friends. Sometimes, after all, being pushy and overly-analytic is equivalent to missing the point.

(Addendum: Mr. Triangle Head was determined to be a cottonmouth by someone who knows such things.)

Fortunately, Max concurred, his attention quickly taken by the sight of a fisherman up the other trail. By the time Amy and I caught up him, he had sweet-talked his way into casting the kind fisherman's line. The fisherman told us he wasn't catching anything- "just some time off"- and Amy mused about the rangers possibly stocking the stream with trout. Clearly, there is something fishy in the Tannehill waters that allows them to host an educational program called "The Fishes of Tannehill".

As Max fished, the girls wandered over to the old grist mill and started playing around the flume, which is the long wooden trough that carries the stream water from the spillway to the water wheel. 

After giggles and grunts, Micah hopped over to us to explain all the excitement over at the flume. For Micah, an explanation usually amounts to a "showing". She said, "Look!", and quickly dropped a smattering of snail shells into our hands.

Amy recognized one of the shells as the one her husband had used in his graduate research. She also explained how the shells were different species; her eyes picked up those delicate details I am prone to overlooking (not that shells are within my repertoire).

The vast chunk of our remaining time at Tannehill was spent sitting and chatting as the kids took their ponies and fairies for dips in the creek. Of course, Max had to remove shoes and socks and ford the stream at his leisure. And then, of course, others wanted to try as well. And then, of course, I was happy that spring meant wet toes and pant cuffs, pebbles in shoes, and all that other good stuff.

Each spring brings its own particular treasures. This one brings Amy and her family for a lazy day at Tannehill. I am grateful for all of the above and how it fits together in its own special way.

What we found by getting lost.

We spent at least two hours driving through back roads in Alabama, getting lost or, as Micah put it, "even loster".

But we also found a place to which we will return once the King the free time to burn with us. Driving through Helena, lured by the running water, we stopped at Buck Creek Park.

Google map it: 776 2nd St, Helena, AL 35080

Micah picked a fresh clover bouquet that made it back to Tuscaloosa and to the castle table-top.

Always the most generous human being in the twenty-foot garden, Micah carefully distributed a dandelion to each of us, reminding us to wait and "all blow together for the fairies".

Max and Micah took off their shoes and socks for the first toe-dip of spring. Max reported that the water was "freezing ice-cold yipppeee."

Then everyone sat on the grass and thought about Frances, my canoe, and how she must be eager to kiss the creeks right about now.

Finally, we headed back to the spaceship to begin the long journey through the ozone-eaten stratosphere supposedly protecting our home.

But not without giving in to the giggling call of the creek just one more time....

Goodbye gorgeous green treasure. We'll be back before summer fades your colors.

The perfect day that made no promise.

It didn't have to be a perfect day.

One might even say that I began the day by jinxing it. We drove to Alabaster for an herb co-op only to discover that I had mixed up the times. Suddenly, we had three hours to kill in a town sixty miles from home. 

Though I always forget to bring along food, drinks, diapers, and all the necessaries, I never forget to bring a book just in case the right meadow should present itself.

Today, I found Ruth Sawyer's The Way of the Storyteller tucked in my backpack, using the space normally taken by the baby wipes.

Perhaps I needed Ruth more than baby wipes today. Her words reminded me of my own blind spots- the way in which I use stories to "teach" rather than tell, to train rather than liberate, to "educate" rather than elucidate the intangible shaded areas of human existence. Though her book is intended to reframe storytelling as a folk art, Ruth clears many cobwebs along the way. So I sat in the grass, reading Ruth, peeling clementines, and watching the little people turn rusted old pipes into balance beams.

"Storytelling is not for remedial purpose or for training. It is not a mechanical process to be made easy and pleasant. It is not a means of presenting limited material to the minds of children. It is an art demanding the utmost of your capacity and mine for living and understanding ; it us dependent upon our power of creation; it asks for integrity, trust, and vision."

We see different things. They see a perfect line to follow like a thread. Maybe they see something small enough to master.

I see a tunnel running underneath their little feet- a subterranean world with its own songs and arguments, a passage beneath our habitual empiricism, a possibility whose darkness symbolizes comfort rather than cruelty. 

"I think stories must be acquired by long contemplation, by bringing the imagination to work, constantly, intelligently, upon them. And finally by that power to blow the breath of life into them. And the method? That of learning incident by incident, or picture by picture. Never word by word."

"Here is a sad paradox: those musical instruments invented on the pattern of the human body, and stringed to produce the most sublime qualities of the human voice, have so far outdistanced us in resonance and beauty of tone that now we turn to them to get the quality we would like to hear in our own voices." 

The story changes every time I try to touch it with a word- maybe the light didn't hover so much as it haunted, or the shadows moving quickly across the grass left us dizzy rather than lulled. Or my viewpoint went from vertical to horizontal. Where does the story stop changing? 

Ruth might say this is a problem not for the storyteller but for the writer, who must choose one fixed version to pass along. The storyteller never stops spinning or weaving, adding new colors, removing salted ones.

The storyteller is free from the bindings of one weather- free to inhabit the "whether".

What can I say? The story continues. My words don't equal the watching. The perfect day that made no promise also left me with no settled story to tell Patrick.

Maybe when the images finish pickling and I hanker for the salt, my hunger will get the best of me and today's story will hatch, shiver, shake its feather, and wander out in the world unsettled, changing each season, that chick-turned-hen I'd rather follow than catch.

Family Farm and Fleece Day in Huntsville.

If you're looking to escape the egg hunts this weekend, drive on over to Huntsville for the Family Farm and Fleece Day, presented by the Tennessee Valley Women in Agriculture. There will be lots to do, and more to learn about local agriculture and animal husbandry. Make sure to visit their website and print a copy of the coloring page for the kids coloring contest- it might make a great project for the road.

Museum Monday at the Museum of Natural History.

This past Monday, Max learned about local dinosaurs with a little hands-on paleontology at the University of Alabama's Museum of Natural History's Museum Monday.

The girls and I wandered around the museum lobby for a little while to make sure Max wouldn't miss us too much. Which turned out to be nothing approximating a problem of any sort....

Max hardly noticed when we left....

A friend and a friend of a friend and I dropped our olders ones off and then wandered over the quad for some spring fever frolicking with the little people.

The clovers and wildflowers advertised the glories of chlorophyll all around us. It was hard to look past such a vibrant shade of green. 

Of course, the little people immediately begin collecting clover flowers. We were amazed at how much they smelled exactly like, well, clover honey!

Milla got a little excited when she learned that the bees have a special relationship to the clover flowers that accounts for the way in which their scent is like "a honey and butter sandwich". 

Just as we moms plopped down in the grass, the girls returned with a large log. We spotted them about 100 feet away walking side by side with the sun behind them when lo and behold, the lasses brought some decomposed wood. Wonders never cease.

A headless pile of bricks in the grass became a "castle" to which they urgently needed to return after we went inside for a bathroom break and just long enough for me to purchase a coffee and spill it all over the floor while apologizing profusely to the staff and trying to clean it with paper napkins as the girls climbed a potato chip shelf. Sometimes the only way to describe the momentum involves a run-on sentence.

The "castle" from our vantage point kerplunck in the grass.

To join the fun, add one of these upcoming dates to your family calendar. Or check the Alabama Museum of Natural History Facebook page for more details. (Hint: it helps if you "like" it.)

April 1 – Museum Monday 3:45 – 5 (Grades K – 5 – $8)

April 5 – Growing Up Wild 10 – noon (Pre-school – $2)

April 6 – Sander’s Lecture 10 – 2 (General Public – Free)

May 6 – Museum Monday 3:30 – 5 (Grades 1-5 – $8)

10 things I learned this week.

1. All the heating and cooling equipment and piping beneath our house makes a modish carcass in the sun and shade.

2. Insulation deserves a slew of medals for what it can do in a home where the heater is broken, the firewood diminished, and the nights dip into the 20's. Castles, as you know, often lack insulation. Ours is no exception.

3. Rose thorns leave inspiring shadows on late afternoon brick.

4. A roadside drainage ditch may actually be the moat for a gnome castle.

5. It is possible to fall inlove with the novels of Anthony Trollope while trying to fall asleep on the cold floor of an unheated home alongside a duchesss, a prince, a princess, and a grumbling king.

6. Dust lines pipes like schlerosis.

7. Science experiments with jelly-like substances evoke the mucuosity of life with little people.

8. It is very cold in a house without a heater. And it takes at least six days (and counting) for the hope of heat to warm our toes.

9. Milla is a fantastic direction in which to take the pig-tail. 

10. Test tubes filled with colored water makes for good distraction from cold feet.

A Veteran's Christmas Carol.

The room where we caroled at the V. A. Hospital in Tuscaloosa.

One of my favorite parts of the season is going to carol for our local veterans at the Veteran's Hospital. This year, the number of singers was much smaller because we did it on Christmas Eve- a difficult date for many to free on their schedule. However, the VA administrators made a compelling case for caroling on Christmas Eve- those veterans who are there will be all alone and no one really comes to visit on that day, so it would mean the world to them.

The Tuscaloosa12 Days of Christmas (PDF)

The kids colored  the page below and adding their name (or portrait signatures) with small notes in the margins and the folded it as a card. We know that the staff will hang these in the rooms of the vets for a little of that human touch.

Veterans Thank You Coloring Page (PDF)

Our program included several carols, piano solo performances, a Christmas poem reading, and a little bell-shaking by Milla. One of the best parts, however, was going around and thanking each veteran afterwards.

I learned about what it was like to serve in World War II in the Air Force from this kind couple (not romantically involved). At a time when women were not officially acknowledged as veterans, she was piloting planes. I learned about God's continuing blessings from a mute young man who suffered a traumatic brain injury due to an IED in Afghanistan. He is confined to a wheelchair but even without a voice, I read his lips as he told me and Max about the way in which God blesses his life every day.

Max tried to convince this gentleman that he was not a girl without resorting to showing him any private areas. Proof is complicated.

The girls found a way to cause a ruckus in the lounge- but I think the vets enjoy all the childish hubbub and commotion since it is a relief from their usual routine.

Holiday light awards: A family tradition.

For as long as I can remember, we've taken an evening to drive around town through neighborhoods and along back roads selecting the homes with our top three outdoor Christmas light decorations. As more of the munchkins have learned to communicate verbally, the awarding process has become a more boisterous and democratic affair. 

Some evening this week, we'll go for our drive and add Tino to the family mix. In the meantime, Meghan helped the kids make award ribbons to place on the front doorsteps of the top three winners. The back of each ribbon reads, "Thank you for making our town a more beautiful place and for sharing your love for the holidays with everyone."

If you'd like to try this on as a family tradition, here's the how-to on making the award ribbons. 

YOU WILL NEED

cardboard box flap
glitter glue 
scissors
crayons
little hands
marker or thick black pen

Begin by cutting one cardboard box flap from the cardboard box. Then divide and cut the flap into three long pieces. Select the 1st, 2nd, and 3rd place winning ribbons and use crayons to label them (Max did the labelling for us). Now turn over each ribbon and write a thank message on the reverse- something akin to "Thank you for making our town a more beautiful place and for sharing your love for the holidays with everyone."

After you've finished decorating the ribbons with crayons, use glitter glue (we like Crayola) to add a border and to accent the numbers. Now set them out to dry overnight- glitter glue takes a long time to really set if it is used as puffy paint.

Pick an unrainy night to drive around and award the ribbons. Make sure you have a nice Christmas music CD packed to bring along and play for the journey. For extra fun, print a map of your city afterwards and have map-knowing kids label the year's winners on the map. Add it to your Christmas or family scrapbook.

A visit to the Christmas tree farm.

Mrs. Gandy told Patrick this would be the last year of the Gandy Tree Farm. Five years ago, she and the mister decided that they would retire from the holiday tree growing business.

So we picked a tree from the last fir crop to ever grow on our favorite tree farm with extra care and a little reservation. Many trees were already tagged with a yellow ribbon, waiting to be picked up by their new owners.

 The kids wandered and scampered through the rows of perfectly-shaped trees- "This one is perfect!" was the refrain. Meanwhile, Mr. Gandy watched and waited for us to settle on a friend to take home. 

I think we disappointed him because we lingered so long that he drove away on his tractor. Max and Micah felt it was critical to see "all" the trees before we made a final choice.

And so we marveled over the Carolina firs- the loops and ribbons of green, the whorls and circles, the secret hiding places for little birds and creatures.

After the tree had been cut, Max tailed the Gandy-men to a section of the farm where the tree would be "prepped" for our 30-minute drive home. I felt sure nothing could go askance with our avid Max hot on the tree trail.

Our tree was placed in a small shaking machine which shook all the loose branches and firs from it. It looked like a loofah sponge for trees- or rather, it had the same rejuvenating effect. Then we moved on to the next station where the tree was placed in a bag.

Milla watched as if hypnotized, turning only once to whisper "tree....". As usual, I found myself trying to imagine her thoughts as she beheld more human practices and conventions. 

Finally, our handsome tree was lined up along a painted ruler plank and measured. It stands at 7.5 feet- for forty-one dollars, the price seems too small or perhaps we feel too fortunate.

As the gentleman loaded the tree atop our space ship, the kids and I played in the grass. Micah tried a few cartwheels, and I took the opportunity to impress the munchkins with a few cartwheels of my own. Is it bad that it still makes me happy to hear, "Wow Mom, you really CAN do cartwheels...."?

Milla "flew" on my feet against the backdrop of a beautiful blue wind-tossed sky. She didn't feel the Micahish need to "go higher, faster". Instead, she played eagle and just savored the soaring.

Life doesn't offer us moments like this whenever we press "play". Instead, we must learn to collect them with a sense of awe and appreciation when we happen upon them. Moments like wildflowers grown haphazard and between the cracks- never in the spaces we have planned for our "garden". 

If a big blue sky is your background, what will you do with it? Assume that it doesn't stop for your schedule. Assume that the elephant circus in the clouds passes by in the moment you stop to play on your iPhone. Assume that reverence is the proper position for life and love- and every single animal in the clouds is worth seeing, every tiny star is worth counting, every wildflower is an opportunity to learn something new from a creature abiding by different rules than you.

An autumn stroll through the arboretum.

Last month, we took a trip to the arboretum with old friends and their handsome little son, Henry. Milla was quite interested in Henry and watched his every move.

Micah and Milla get ready to cross the bridge.

Lichen, fungi, perfect curves and proxy shoulder pads.

Max observed that a raccoon might "borrow" that big nest in the tree.

So tiny and yet so magnificent, this toadstool.

Ripples of lichen with green.

There is no black more pronounced than that of the beetle.

A habitat is a home.

A home is a place where hearts meet and mingle.

Sometimes the Sharpie speaks the truth in a rainworn, highlighter-heavy sort of way.

And sometimes the treehouses are so big that it hurts the neck to keep looking up up up....

Milla watches the ants as they scurry to and fro bearing meals.

Little shelves and ladders line the trees just in case a critter or fairy needs assistance.

The Alabama croton, a marker of botanical inquiry and history in Tuscaloosa.

An ode to streetlights and Alabama nights.

Before the weekend's endless rain began, we took a half-pajamed streetlight stroll in our neighborhood. The tawny owls kept us company which their hoo-hoo-hooohooo-hoo.

I lagged behind to keep my vertigo company as Patrick led the crew along the perfect line of lights.

We had a good laugh when someone noticed that a lush handlebar moustache sprouted atop the speed limit sign. 

"Hey Max, my shadow is bigger than you!"

The gauntlet fell and the shadows lined up.

Dusky, golden streetlight yellow.

Artistic neighbors and Kentuck a la Carte.

One of Tuscaloosa's best-kept secrets is a free Saturday event called Kentuck a la Carte. I suggest you promptly add this freebie of arts and crafts fun to your monthly calendar.

Ten really good reasons to visit Kentuck a la Carte with friends and family:

1. You might discover that your neighbor, Allison, has a secret watercolor talent.

2. You can learn about how to use plastic wrap with watercolors for cool resist effects.

3. Or print on watercolors with fruits.

4. You can learn how a clay artist creates a bas-relief lizard crawling out of a plate.

5. You might catch Hayes Dobbins demonstrating how to dig, refine, and prepare your own clay.

6. You might become fascinated enough to linger and learn.

7. You might find a sleeping statue begging for her own story.

8. Often, you can eat free pizza from the cob pizza oven.

9. Kids will always find a craft station to d.i.y. their hearts out.

10. You can try to spot all the hidden pieces in the massive Kentuck mosaic.

Walking across the US of A all in a day's play.

Patrick has to work on some Saturday mornings, and this Saturday morning was too beautiful to lollygag around the house waiting for the king to return. So we hopped into the spaceship and bobbled over to the Bobby Miller Center in Taylorville. The bright, unexplored playground (and the lack of students) across the street diverted us from our original goal.

Max walked back and forth across the balance beam at least five times, with Micah swiftly catching on and following him. 

Because there is nothing that he can do which she will not try. And there is no limit to the number or shape of things Micah will try- the spirit of a mountain climber in the body of a ballerina. Grace and strength in a combination that is entirely her own.

After trying to emulate M and M, Milla finds her own way to move across the balance beam- one more in sync with her personal style. When she made a hissing sound at me, I understood she was slithering.

Ferocious creatures at the playground dwell.

The kids kept getting pebbles in their shoes on the see-saw.

I walked over to the asphalt ball court with Milla, who seemed slightly bothered by all the see-sawing taking place without her. Fortunately, the asphalt was painted with a lively map of the United States.

I think we need one of these on our driveway....

Milla loved throwing pebbles onto various states, so we made a game of it.

Alabama Alina.

West Virginia Max.

Quasi-Alabama Micah with Georgia on her mind.

Kansas Milla.

Lonely little Hawaii.

Pilgrimage to a quasi-secret sulphur spring.

James F. Sulzby, Jr., the Birmingham realtor who founded the Alabama Historical Association in 1947, shared his personal passion for local history in Historic Alabama Hotels and Resorts. The bland title obfuscates the diligence to detail within. Sulzby's chronicle reveals the early development of Alabama by land speculators and land grant companies, many of which purchased land, discovered a mineral spring, and created a resort around these "therapeutic waters", in that order.

The cloudy Saturday started slowly at the Coryell Castle- piles of laundry to fold, sort, and put away almost distracted us from the call to adventure. Then I stumbled across a chapter called "Windham Springs" and the sirens started. Love for laundry aside, Patrick and the kids didn't take much convincing. Off we went in search of Windham Springs which we knew from Sulzby's book was "located on Crabbe Road, twenty-five miles north of Tuscaloosa, in the extreme uppermost part of Tuscaloosa County".

Sulzby's description of Windham Springs, which was called the "Fountain of Youth" while the resort was in full operation, bore reading aloud in the car. The name comes from Levi Windham, formerly of Pickens County, who first established this formerly-famous watering hole:

After obtaining title to the land, Mr. Windham returned to settle there. He brought along fifty slaves to clear the land, and upon completion of that work he possessed a beautiful farm. The immediate area surrounding the springs was left in its natural state because of its picturesque beauty, and became known as Windham Springs.

In 1850, Mr. Windham built a hotel and six cabins... After Mr. Windham discovered the curative qualities of the mineral waters on his place, the news spread throughout Tuscaloosa and the adjacent counties like news of a new patent medicine. The water was "reputed to cure rheumatism, toe itch, colic, stomach acidity and most any other sort of ailments."

Max jumped in to exclaim that his toe itched due to fire ant bites, and he looked forward to being cured of this annoyance. I told him that there might be reason to expect such a cure since George Christian, father of Northport businessman T.W. Christian, had supposedly been "cured" of a "severe case of eczema on his legs which the doctos were unable to cure" by soaking his legs in water from Windham Springs.

Though Mr. Windham apparently enjoyed a drink- the hotel's saloon really took off- local churchgoers did not approve. The legislature passed a bill prohibiting the selling of alcohol within five miles of nearby churches, which meant Windham's saloon had to be shut down. After the Civil War (consistently described as "The War Between the States by Sulzby), Mr. Windham lost his slaves and couldn't operate the farm or hotel anymore. The acrerage and resort were sold to Sam Friedman and Company of Tuscaloosa.

Sam Friedman added several new cabins, bringing the total to twenty cabins, at Windham Springs. He also leased the hotel and cabins to local operators. The "curative effects of sulphur water continued to attract people to the resort and often there were three to four hundred people there at one time". Sulzby notes that "traveling drummers who made trips out from Tuscaloosa, Jasper, Fayette, and Carrollton stopped at Windham Springs regularly because of the good hospitality, cool nights, and good meals."

On the fourth Sunday in May of 1917, tragedy struck the resort when a tornado rolled through and "blew practically everything away." The cabins, stores, houses, and the Baptist Church in the area were levelled. Houston Clements, who had been managing the hotel, barely escaped with his life when the entire hotel save for two rooms, one of which he used as storm shelter with his family, was destroyed. 

In 1933, Joe Christian purchased the Windham Springs property from Friedman and Company. Professor T.E. Christian who taught school in various parts of Tuscaloosa was still living on the property when Sulzby's book was published in 1960. 

As we drove along Crabbe Road, it soon became clear that there was not going to be a Windham Springs sign or any easy access route from the road. We stopped at Field's Grocery and Patrick went in to inquire about the healing sulphur waters. Mr. Fields told Patrick that he used to "drink that water all the time and it tasted gooo-o-o-d". As for directions, we needed to turn left at the curve in the road with mailboxes and trailers onto a dirt-road winding around the back. 

Milla makes her way down to the mysterious spring.

The ladies stare with slight horror at the tap water running into the creek.

The sulphur water tap is still running- and look at the white residue!

Micah finds the spring and the tap where Max waits.

Patrick was the only one brave enough to taste the spring water, which smelled distinctly of old eggs.

More butterflies to chase if you decide to cavort around the Windham Springs area

The WTTO Tower, supposedly "one of the tallest constructions on earth"
Alabama Pioneers' geneological history of Windham Springs
The Windham Springs Baptist Church nearby on Crabbe Road
Goodwater Cemetery, home to several Christian and Dunn headstones 
Field's Grocery on Crabbe Road- to get the scoop from Mr. Fields 

Tessellations, tangrams, and mosaics: A learning extravaganza.

After picking up Grandma Vicki from the airport yesterday, we dropped by Birmingham-Southern College to stretch our legs, change a diaper, and nibble on clementines.

Upon roaming the campus, we found a star on the map labelled "Ecoscape"- a destination. 

Max counts as the girls and Grandma Vicki scamper to hide.

The metal sculptures and winding trails delighted the kids, who quickly realized that the Ecoscape was an ideal place for a good game of hide-and-go-seek. 

 

As we savored the scattered mosaics, Grandma Vicki and I felt a plan begin to hatch- a plan that involves old thrift store plates, a hammer, and a bag of cement on the Coryell Castle grounds.

Returning to Tuscaloosa led to extended play with tangrams and tessellations. I took photos of the kids' designs and we decided to try and use a few for our mosaic-in-the-making. Tangram pieces are excellent tools for experimenting with mosaic patterns.

Mosaic tutorials for the making

House-number mosaic sign 
 Mosaic planter
 Simple, green mosaics 
Pebble mosaic (This Old House) 
Pebble mosaic (Fine Gardening) 
Pebble mosaic stepping stones (Garden Molds)
Mosaic tile birthbath (Making Mosaics) 

Rural Studio Pilgrimage #2: Lion's Park in Greensboro.

Highway 61 should played a big part in our pilgrimage. On our way from Newbern to Greensboro, we passed through the possibility of a town named "Whitsitt". I say possibility because there was no town in evidence and the name itself suggests a spin off "What's it?".

Driving the 8ish miles to Lion's Park in Greensboro was easy sailing. The GPS coordinates for your visiting pleasure: 

Latitude: 32.690500° N
Longitude: 87.588833° W

The super metal gate to Lion's Park are part of the Rural Studio's Surfaces, which turned the park from a car-friendly park to a pedestrian-focused park.

The intriguing Mobile Concession Stand that looks like a cross between the Jetson's and Soviet realism.

Patrick strolls up to the Baseball Fields at Lion's Park. The anti-90-degree angle look of the fencing is 100% Rural Studio.

Micah finds her own way to enter the super Playscape.

The play maze in which the kids got lost and found and lost and found again.

It might be one of the best places for hide-and-seek tag ever devised.

Stepping from one tin can to another is part of the fun.

Milla claps for herself as she manages the big leap across cans.

Sky and tin cans- vistas for kids.

Endless possibilities.

 Left out of our photos are the skate-friendly Toilet Rooms, the Skatepark, and other projects currently underway- which you can watch on Lion's Park Project blog. Coincidentally, the Rural Studio students were visiting the Tuscaloosa Arboretum recently.

Playing around at Perdido Key.

One of our favorite swimming spots is under the Perdido bridge between the condo and Ono Island. Yesterday, we ventured out for a little dip and drip at Perdido in the company of my dad (aka Bunicu) and the Grand Bon-Bon (my 95-year-old grandfather who is the world's most detail-oriented and continuously-occupied social critic).

The bridge. You can climb up on the concrete feet of the bridge and jump into the deep waters surrounding it.

Patrick and Milla set forth into the sea.

Milla is finally challenging her own recent "fear" of water.

Nothing like a dad's hand to make the water feel safe.

Happy Milla, our testament to the effectiveness of sunscreen.

Max and Micah wave to the catamaran, the sylph of man-made vessels.

Dad and I pose for a photo session.

I've had the friendship bracelet since Milla was born and it's just now starting to show signs of falling away.

Gee whiz.

This is the point at which Milla inserted herself into the scene to demand breast milk. She also made it clear to Bunicu that he needed to keep his hands off her property, namely, me.

The Grand Bon Bon casts a critical eye on all that fun being had by various folks at the beach.

The boaters and those who stayed with Grand Bon-Bon.

It came to a division yesterday between those who went on a boating expedition and those who stayed behind with Grand Bon-Bon. Not many photos were taken by those who stayed behind with the Bon, but we regaled the boaters and experienced vicarious sport through their photos.

Patrick and Max aboard the boat I've come to decide should be named "Tiny Tantra".

Matt shows off his awesome profile.

The unfortunate moment at which Micah probably caught her current cold.

The handsome dude who shares my bed and all the blame.

Bunicu and Max share the helm.

Meanwhile, back with the Bon, it was corncobs and drama all the way.

Wandering through Alabama: The map.

View Ad-free Ventures in Alabama in a larger map

My work-in-progress... A google map of sights, sounds, and places to wander in Alabama. Coming soon- the free soundtrack for said adventures. I'll keep adding, since the map is nowhere near complete. Please share any places I am missing.