Alina's Adventures

Bill Withers and the Blue River Trail in Silverthorne, Colorado.

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Gnome pouts with tree.

My sister passed over a few magazines last month and one had a neat interview with Bill Withers that set me to thinking. 

When asked about regrets, Bill said everybody has regrets but the key to life is not thinking too much about them. Common sense. Obvious. But isn't that what we do? Spend time wondering how much easier or better or happier life would be if only we had done that other thing? Mated with that other person? Purchased that other car or house or condo or apartment or life?

The kids watch the water wander past on the
Blue River Trail in Silverthorne, Colorado.

The Eldest and Gnome launch rocks and pebbles.

When asked how he dealt with the insecurity of beginning a music career- the fear of not being talented enough, or original enough, or strong enough- Bill said he decided to test his gut intuition. The only way to know if he could make music was to begin making music and wait for a judgement. In his words:

"I had ninety days to reenlist or not. And I thought about it. Do I want to try to take on this world? I hadn’t been a civilian since I was a kid. Am I ready to take this chance? And I said yes to overcome the fear of finding out. There was something dormant in me. I knew it was there whether anybody else did or not."

My notes on Bill Withers along the Blue River trail.

The interviewer congratulates Bill for his upcoming induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. It's a tremendous honor, especially for a man who removed himself from the music scene for many years in order to be with his family. Bill acknowledges this honor, which he takes as a "compliment", an event he anticipates, but his caveat is thoughtful and inspiring: 

"But I’m not a jump-up-and-down kind of guy. If I go to a football game, I sit there and watch it. I’m not waving my arms and carrying on. It doesn’t mean I don’t feel something, you know. I feel it’s healthier to look out at the world through a window rather than through a mirror. With a mirror, all you see is yourself and whatever is behind you."

And then my favorite quote- the litmus test for artists, writers, philosophers, and musicians. The sheer guts of it. The part we prove to ourselves, though the act of proving is entwined with the act of promising in such moments.

"...everything in life boils down to this riddle: Are you what you think you are?"

All I need is a good gauntlet and I am ready to try again. And again.

Innovation Fair at the Alabama Museum of Natural History.

Last weekend, we motored over to the Alabama Museum of Natural History to sample the sweet conceptual bones of the Innovation Fair. This hovercraft, built by UA students, was among them.

We started at the catapult-making table. The girls were eager to make their own catapults, though Gnome struggled a little to get her launchpad oriented just right.

Prophet crafted a fantastic monster bookmark torn straight from fabulist fiction.

The Eldest and Erin send their rockets for a first flight.

Meanwhile, pet snails Cheddar and Velvet look on from the sidelines. This glass jar is their traveling vehicle. If you have experienced spring rains with homeschooled kids, then you know it is impossible to keep them from collecting snails. In our house, jubilation follows rain- "flowers and snail hunts" the battle cry.

Upstairs, the exhibits included explosions and buzzes and beeps and all sorts of effects but none was quite so intriguing to the kids as the river table.

Gnome and I sat on the stairs and talked about the mososaurus who roamed this land-sea prior to us. What does it say about me if an extinct species is my totem animal?

Small people watch the hovercraft demo rev up its fans and engines outside.

Small people get distracted by presence of an ROTC rope climbing which crazy mom swings upon in her rope-unfriendly skirt and thus inadvertently legitimizes miscreant activity.

Dinosaur teeth are not really primed for popsicles.

Small (brilliant) people suggest that, in fact, ice cream is an innovation on ice crystals and therefore shouldn't we find some to admire with our mouths.

Two days and nights in Covington, Georgia.

Leather chaps for sale.

My in-laws kept the kids while the King and I escaped to a bed and breakfast in Covington, Georgia. Upon our arrival in this charming small town, we were greeted by loud, incessant revving-up of a biker rally in the square. I considered a pair of leather chaps but decided in favor of a blueberry muffin instead. 

Alas, the King could not find a ring in my size.

Wandering back towards the spaceship we witnessed what could only be described as flash mob happening, possibly organized by a coalition of missionaries and Bikers For Jesus. They did a really good job of looking angry and confrontational. Such a good job that I wanted to get away quick before scene went Hamlet.

We checked in to Twelve Oaks, the home that inspired "Twelve Oaks" in the Gone With The Wind film. To show how clueless I can be about all things Scarlett O'Hara, it was the Eldest who made the connection and informed me there was a "Twelve Oaks" in the book by Margaret Mitchell. I looked it up and sure enough-- he was correct. He's never seen the film and I wondering if he's ready to watch it and apply his critical thinking skills against the romantic portrayal of southern antebellum life.

A sitting area in the common area on the third floor.

The common area.

The King found a fridge in the common area where he could leave a bottle of pinot for proper cooling.

Our luxurious Suite Home Alabama bed.

On the first night, we stayed in the Suite Home Alabama on the uppermost floor. 

Surveying the writing desk in suite.

It was indescribably relaxing to sit down and write without looking over my shoulder to make sure little ones were doing their assignments or playing safely. To do nothing but let the pen run across the page. There are times when the tension rises between who can run free- words or children- for both require my eyes, my watch, my time. Usually, I choose free children. But it was wonderful to free the words without having to make a choice.

I love the light in the bathroom.

And of course there is nothing like lounging around in a bathrobe that feels like a down comforter. I brushed my teeth at all the recommended hours- a rarity for me.

Breakfast table waits.

Breakfast was delicious: fresh eggs and bacon with home-made strawberry pancakes and whipped cream infused with bourbon and vanilla. The food was wonderful but sitting at a table with friendly strangers was even better. Guests from Portland, California, DC, Germany, and more shared our backgrounds- and our reasons for being here- and wound up leaving the table at 11, two hours after breakfast began.

The sitting area where wine and cheese were served at 5 pm.

Lichen patterns on gravestones..

I was reminded again of how enchanting people can be if you have the time to hear their stories. And I had all the time in the world.

Bankers wear very shiny shoes.

The King had to attend a work-related conference in downtown Atlanta so I had the day to myself. As he shined his shoes, I was reminded how fortunate I am to no longer worry about "work clothes" and business attire and hairstyles- he does the part neither of us particularly admires. It is a birthday gift he gives me every day of our lives in common.

A beautiful and rather serious iris.

I borrowed an umbrella and spent hours walking in the rain without worrying about oncoming traffic and frothy children always tippling, close to spilling into busy streets.

I came across a back alley that led into a large and very old cemetery, so I found a few bricks and sat down to scribble for a spell.

The King is all business in the morning.

Around lunch, I returned to move our luggage into The Salvatore Brothers' Study. Then stole the handful of sunshine hours to sit on a blanket in the backyard and read Robert Musil's journals.

A little chandelier hanging from a trellis in the Twelve Oaks backyard.

Little purple flowers opened their faces towards the sun.

When I brought the King back for a sunset cemetery stroll, the little purple flowers had closed their faces. We are vulnerable to light and dark, wind and rain. Our plant friends have needs as well.

Lo and behold, we stumbled across a house with a Hollywood style marker out front. I felt insufficient for having no idea about "The Vampire Diaries"- what are they and what is the show about?

More beautiful flowers along the way.

Cadillac Ranch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ohio", a poem by Charles Rafferty.

Gnome walks the line at a park in
Dublin, Ohio earlier this year.

The state quarter celebrates our love
of sky, minting the Kitty Hawk and the man
on the moon together: the first step
and the first flight growing improbably
from that same Ohioan soil. If I had
my own quarter, I’d stamp it with a girl
who sung me to glass that glittered to bits
and the wife who glued me back.
Or with the skyline of Derby
and a wasp-filled cupola at Fairfield Hills.
Or with the Beatles and the darkened dial
of my car radio. Or with a Gemini capsule
and a jetliner slamming itself to marigolds.
It’s possible to love the ground too much.
Before I’d ever flown I had a fear of flying,
which is really a fear of falling, which is also
a fear of pain—and how can a life be lived
except by accepting pain? So once
when I was twenty, I stepped off a Cessna
at three thousand feet above a field
of daisies and goldenrod. I remember letting go,
then nothing. Then a stillness, a floating,
the motor of the plane receding like a bug.
I hung there clutching a dandelion plume—
my legs in a dangle above the field
that kept on rising to where I was.

This poem was published in the Summer 2013 issue of Raffle. 

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.

Ode to a lovely grave.

A grave at the Dublin Cemetery in Ohio.

She died four years after they married jack-squat in the midst of her childhood.

She took two of their children with her, their lives left as mere tribute to the way in which a virus ravishes the proud, American landscape. 

He honored her with a statue in a graveyard that can only be discovered by driving down a dirt road and looking for a private place to pee after hours in the car.

I don't like crying when crouching to pee, but it seems he wanted it that way.

And he seems like the kind of man who got what he wanted.

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. 

Road-tripping across gray Oklahoma.

Somewhere along the way in Oklahoma....

Oklahoma's endless horizons of gray fields and dull colors left me hungry for Alabama green. It seemed as if the vastness sucked the color from everything. 

Stopping for a restroom break near local reservations.

We talked about tornado shelters and sod houses- how many sod houses were built into hillsides and banks, improvised pioneer tornado shelters.

In Aline, OK, the Sod House Museum stands as a tribute to the sod houses built by early Western pioneers. I doodled a worksheet/handout on sod houses for the little people to use as a reference. Having ink pens and paper is always handy on long road trips.

Building a little house on the prairie (Missouri Botanical Gardens)
Houses made of dirt and mud (Gregory LeFever)
Homesteaders (National Parks Service)

Without any trees or valleys to shield us from the wind, we learned to hold tight to papers and bags as we walked around the way stations of Oklahoma. Honestly, we tend to be limited in our thinking about resources. For instance, playing a few rounds of Settlers of Cataan would not have provided us with any insight into living in a state like Oklahoma.

Fortunately, our imaginations stepped in where the books and games left off. Without trees or timber as a natural resource, the wind itself was harnessed and put to use. The landscape was dotted with wind farms. Micah and Milla shrieked to see such large pieces of metal barely moving in the prairie winds. The King and I turned up the music and sang along. Oklahoma burned on forever- the surprising dry, warm air sustained small drifts of what may once have been called "snow". 

We talked about the difference between "snow" and "slush". Then we talked about desolation- and what makes a place feel like home to us. We talked- and we didn't talk. Sometimes the little ones simply sang. Mostly, we waited for the long stretch of land known as "Oklahoma" to end. It seems I couldn't even muster a poem without invoking the word "empty".

Honing our map skills on the road: Making a map of gnome-land.

 

Making our own maps begins with envisioning the terrain of a land we know very, very well- a land that does not limit us with its physical characteristics but, rather, allows us to freely imagine its topography and markings. Or, at least, so went my thinking when I made the Gnomeland Map activity for the kids.

I found they did a better job of designing their own worlds using other maps and travel brochures as a reference (rather than looking to mine as a model). We talked about the role of a key in providing a meaning for the symbols- and we learned to narrow down the materials we included based on their frequency. For example, if Gnomeland has one swimming pool, that might not warrant adding a swimming pool symbol to the key. 

The ladies enjoyed coloring my Gnomeland and then creating their own versions, for which I wrote in the words on the key. Micah's land included swarms of fairies and their fairy paraphenalia, while Milla's offered a "workshop" for Handy Manny. Go figure.

Or, do something better and go make your own version of Gnomeland. Alternately, you can print a few copies and pack it with colored pencils for your next road trip.

MAKE A MAP OF GNOMELAND (PDF)
Includes two sheets, my version of Gnomeland and a blank template.

Max's somewhat blurry version of Gnomeland.

Road-tripping across Arkansas.

On the drive to Colorado, we crossed Arkansas and stuck to I-40 all the way. First came the spectacular border crossing of the Mississippi River in West Memphis. Then came Forrest City and Little Rock, followed by Conway (where we stopped to spend the night), Russellville, Clarksville, Ozark, and Fort Smith. The little people colored their maps as I chanted out local wildlife to keep on their radar. 

GEOGRAPHY: Using maps as guides for questions

Using highway map to answer questions about Arkansas (PDF)
Key to highway map and lesson plan (PDF)
Make mystery picture postcards lesson plan (PDF)
Rivers and water resources lesson plan (PDF)
Rivers and counties map activity (PDF)
River boundaries key (PDF)

NATURE STUDY: The ivory-billed woodpecker

As we drove through Arkansas, I remembered having read about a Arkansas scientist's controversial ivory-billed woodpecker sighting back in 2005. A documentary film about "the God bird" sighting offered us a chance to hone our critical thinking skills- not to mention learning a little more about the fabulous ivory-billed and its close cousin, the pileated woodpecker, who lives in the woods near our Alabama yard.

Max colored the pileated woodpecker as I recapped the controversy over the sighting. Critical thinking skills were duly exercised. We explored the woodpecker's natural habitat, and debated whether climate change or human development had more to do with the woodpecker's demise. The never-fail Cornell ornithology hub offered a map listing possible encounters with ivory-billed woodpeckers since the 1940's and NOVA boasted a focused and thoughtful video on the sighting controversy. 

The sad part of our ivory-billed woodpecker exploration came later- a few days later as we sat by the fireplace, watching the embers, burning scissor-scraps of remaining vacation brochures. Laying on his stomach, pencil working its way through the college-ruled lines of his journal, Max turned to me and said, "Mom, all the stuff about the woodpecker makes me sad."

"Why?" I wondered.

"Because I don't know if I want to be a scientist anymore."

Not seeing the connection, I asked him to explain.

"Well," Max began, hesitating for just a second, "That one scientist in the video could not believe in the ivory-billed sighting- and he said it was because he was a scientist. And I felt sorry for him when he said that..."

"Hmmm.... but we can't always believe things just because we prefer to believe them, Max."

"Yeah, but if being a scientist means you can't believe in fantastic things anymore, I don't want to be a scientist. I want to believe in things that make me happy- things that might even be impossible." His voice trailed off as he leaned over his paper to write again. 

I tried to tell him that many scientists believe in fantastic, impossible things- that science is the poetry of the universe and life at the cellular level, that beauty need not be sacrificed to the dull standards of evidence-gathering. But I knew he wasn't really listening- his pencil never paused long enough on the page. And I knew, somehow, that his concern deserved more than a standard reply.

In retrospect, maybe I should have told him that the tension between hopeful imagination and rationalistic materialism exists in every field and career path- that this tension is a facet of every modern life more than a fact of the scientist's life. And that it is only while teaching my children that I find myself free from it....

Road-tripping through the great state of Texas.

 

TEXAS TRAVEL COLORING AND HANDOUTS (PDF)

A few printables brought along to enhance our long drive through Texas.

Max kept up with the towns and parks on his highway map.

I did my best to co-navigate with the King.

Stopping along the road to stretch and poke ourselves with tumbleweed.

“I have said that Texas is a state of mind, but I think it is more than that. It is a mystique closely approximating a religion. And this is true to the extent that people either passionately love Texas or passionately hate it and, as in other religions, few people dare to inspect it for fear of losing their bearings in mystery or paradox. But I think there will be little quarrel with my feeling that Texas is one thing. For all its enormous range of space, climate, and physical appearance, and for all the internal squabbles, contentions, and strivings, Texas has a tight cohesiveness perhaps stronger than any other section of America. Rich, poor, Panhandle, Gulf, city, country, Texas is the obsession, the proper study, and the passionate possession of all Texans.”

John Steinbeck, Travels With Charley

The kids chased tumbleweed across the hard, dry dirt of Texas.

The sunsets turned the arid landscape into a rum butter pie.

I imagined the sharp sting of scrub-brush scratching summer-bared legs.

The lonesome echo of acoustic guitars left us shivering in the palpable sunset.

Dancing with the kids at the Flora Bama Yacht Club.

One night at the beach last week, we decided to try out the Flora Bama Yacht Club. It was the outdoor eating, beach access, and sand play areas that twisted our arm in this direction. While we waited for our food, I invited Max to dance with me. He courteously agreed.

Max and I do-si-do.

I had set my heart on the rudiments of a tango, but Max had other beats in mind.

He preferred the old cheek-to-cheek, goofy, fun-loving frolick- one the best dance forms ever invented by humankind.

Micah wanted to dance with me as well, but she takes after her mommy and tends to go her own way. And then, our graceful little dancer sees the camera and decides to hide behind my skirt.

The food was good, the sand was even better, and being able to sit in louge chairs on on couches in the open air while eating is what the beach is all about. A great choice for family outdoor dining on the Gulf Of Mexico.

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 weekend at Ono with extended family.

Carla and Isla get their kicks on the dock.

A few weekends ago, we drove down to the Gulf and spent a weekend with my sister, her man, and their baby as well as my father and stepmother.

Isla can't help herself from giggling all the time.

Watching Isla grow and giggle her way through the day was a delight, and being close to so many people that I love ALL AT ONE TIME blew my mind.

Isla's super-strong little grip and tiny fingers that hold on to mommy.

Carla's devotion to Isla's needs- both physical and emotional- warms my heart. It's a pleasure to watch and experience. I've had such a hard time in the past spending weekends with family and friends who were sleep-training. Wine glasses in hand, everybody smiling and "letting the baby learn to self-soothe" meant that we had to pretend a baby wasn't screaming it's little head off for forty minutes at a time. No amount of wine in the world can drown out that sound for me. 

Being a mom means ignoring the fact that you have a silly facial expression in a photo where your baby looks plain adorable.

While I respect parents' perogatives to parent as they see fit, I confess that it's hard on my soul to be a captive audience to the tears of sleep training. Carla did nothing of the sort- she nursed when Isla was hungry or needed a little soothing and she napped with Isla when the opportunities arose. Rather than tote around a Pak-and-Play, the Newsomes traveled light and managed to share a full-sized bed between the three of them.

Pamela rocked Isla for a little while so Carla and I could venture out on the
most lazy, dysfunctional kayak ride ever confessed.

The King and the Germ got along great, and my dad kept rolling out the comments on how "nice it is to have my two son-in-laws together at the beach" (which is another way of saying he enjoyed having dudes with which to share beer).

Milla scribbles on the cement under the Baba Yaga house after a good swim.

Amid the chaos of life vests, plastic beach toys, wet swimsuits, "that's MY shell" or "she took my shovel", we enjoyed delicious food, good music, splendid sunsets, and a whole lot of love. Even Germ and the King did some cuddling. What can be more entertaining than that?

Exploring world culture for kids.

Yesterday, our family story, "The day the sheep came home in Transylvania", was posted as part of MamaSmiles' awesome World Culture for Kids series. There are some great photos of this unique cultural event, as well as follow-up links to learn more about life and culture in Transylvania.

If you haven't read it or seen it, please go take a peek. It was written in a way that makes a great family read-aloud, and our photos are sure to make you smile (especially the one of Max hitching a ride in a wagon). Quick, go see! And thanks to MaryAnne for putting together such a great educational resource!

Leftovers from our trip to Colorado.

Fact: Max couldn't get over how fantastic the falling snow could be. Dogland quickly became part of the scene.

Fiction: Dogland itself. Like all imaginary worlds, it is endearing and purely fiction.

Fact: Our last day in Colorado was the closest I've seen to a blizzard.

Fiction: Blizzards are bad things. Granted, skiing during a white-out is no fun (unless you are fully masochistic), but blizzards are the mountain's version of a stunning thunderstorm. 

Fact: We missed Isla incredibly. Auntie Carla kept us updated on her recent grins and antics with daily photos. If she isn't delicious, my tastebuds have been lying to me for years. I mean, she sports the pretense of curly hair on one side of her head, while keeping us guessing about the long term with her Japan-straight other side. I just want to kiss the tiny trickster.

"House hunting", a poem by John N. Morris.

A house in Bucuresti from our trip to Romania last year.

It is not just
A matter of an airy
Kitchen, good schools, and
Two fireplaces ten
Minutes from the station.

Nor is it just
That what you are
Looking for is an acre
Of suburban work
You are not suited to:
The lawn that expresses
Like cancer; the furnace
That stops like a heart
At the center of winter;
Or any other simplicity
You will be helpless
In the face of.

Nor is it just
That you are buying
A place to hear
Your children tell you
Lies in, the pleasant
Rooms where they will hide
Their habits and to which
They will not wish to return;
Or that you arc buying
A beautiful box to be
Sick in and the hall
From which to call the doctor.

It is just that
You must hurry,
The color of life
Fat in your wallet.

John N. Morris (1931-1997) was an American poet and professor who paid a strange tribute to the rise of suburbia in his writings. Known as a the poet of "quiet desperation and the long perspectives of middle-American comfort", Morris also contributed a fair amount to literary criticism in journals like The Hudson Review. Unlike many of his contemporaries, Morris never became well-known enough to develop a character for the American literary scene. But his poems whisper to us about the change in how far we came and how very fast we forget. More on Morris:

"For Julia, In the Deep Water", a poem by Morris (Poetry Foundation)
"Over Grave Waters", a poem by Morris (Poetry)
Morris on Morris (National Humanities Center) 
How Morris helps left-brainers write poetry (National Writing Project) 

The best sledding hill near Keystone.

The best sledding hill in the Keystone area can be found right off Highway 6 across from Cemetery Road (or County Road 98). Just pull into the parking area for the jogging trails that go around Lake Dillon and the beautiful hill will be right in front of you. Here's a link to the Google map location if you're hankering to sled.

Ski hard, love better.

Putting the kids in ski school so we could ravage the mountains alone was the best choice we made on this vacation. I'm not going to lie about this one- skiing with the King was more fun than I made room for in my list of plans.

Generally, we started the day dropping off the kids at the base of River Run and then taking the gondola up to the summit of Keystone Mountain. As you can see, they were thrilled as we waited for the bus.

He must have been right about something.....

She loves it when he makes sense....

Something beautiful about all of it and just being present in the moments...

Taking a break midslope while waiting for Ratpaw and Bunica to catch up with us.

Taking a break to drink water and eat granola bars at The Summit.

In retrospect, we took as many "breaks" as we could because normal life doesn't make space for those soul-savers. I told the royal family early on in our trip that I planned to take every break that came my way this week.

More Keystone fun for royal families and happy serfs:

Keystone Trail Map (PDF)
Keystone Resort Official Website, for the landed aristocracy 
Keystone childcare and nursery
Arapahoe Basin Official Website, for the powder-eaters
Breckenridge Ski Resort, for the Dayplanners
Copper Mountain, for beginners and aging hipsters
Loveland Ski Area, for the natives and nativists 
Summit County, Colorado Official Website, for the dreamers 

Sledding secrets at Keystone.

We got our sled- the fully baked version- and then we needed to find a perfect sledding location. En route, we witnessed two men drilling holes in the lake and ice fishing. Super incredible fun to see. After much wandering, we settled on the trail head near Lake Dillon. It snowed on and off the entire day.

Ratpaw, Patrick, and the kids were so enthused that half of them set out minus gloves or mittens. Patrick and Max soon returned from their revelry to get some good old-fashioned gloves.

Rawpaw was the first brave one to sled down the hill. But it took only one run for everyone to imitate him. Then, the next challenge called us to scramble up even higher hills.

I'm not sure there is such a thing as too much sledding. Ultimately, it's the frozen fingers or toes that does them in.

Guess who could not stop giggling as she flew down the sled runs? That's right, Milla the Mountaineer.

Patrick is ready to roll again.

Mississippi cotton fields.

Eager to catch a bit of the backroads, we left our cabin at Roosevelt State Park in Morton, Mississippi and headed northwest on Highway 481 towards Canton. There, we would be meet the Natchez Trace Parkway and take it down through Ridgeland and to Jackson. It turned out to be an awesome choice because we got to see the cotton fields, some harvested, others not quite ready, and to talk about the economy of this "former" Cotton Belt state.

Cotton as far as the eye can see.

The cotton flower- I picked a few for the kids and they noted how "hard" it was to remove the seeds.

A clue as to why this field had not been harvested- note the half-ripened cotton bolls.

This diagram of a cotton plant helped us visualize the plant standing alone.

We saw a white ibis at the Pearl River Wildlife Management Area near Canton.

As we pulled up to the Barnett Reservoir and hopped onto the Natchez Trace Parkway, we thought things couldn't get much prettier. But boy were we wrong....

Roosevelt State Park in Morton, Mississippi.

On our way to Jackson, Patrick decided to rent a cabin at Roosevelt State Park so we could catch some fall colors and scents. The girls quickly adopted their new home and created beds for the babies on the back porch while Max caught up on his Native American legends and myths.

Our cabin edged up to the lake/reservoir, so we had the pleasure of feeding various winged creatures in the area.

Max led the munchkins in taking this pleasure very seriously as he rushed back and forth to the cabin in search of pita bread for the ducks and our strange friend. The woods added an extra layer of cold to the fall weather- a reminder of the cooling power of trees.

Micah kept her eye on a duck that resembled a turkey and keeps circling us. She fed him long enough to earn a special piece of karma in the kingdom of duck-like folk.

Before you could say "turkey duck", he had crawled up onto the bank to discuss local bird migration patterns and the Canada geese that kept inching in on his terrain on the other bank. (I wouldn't know this if Max had not offered to translate for me.)

After wandering around the park, we came back to the cabin for dinner and then went outside for a night-time stroll. 

Geese at a different part of the park.

Everyone was super restless from the car trip, so we extended our current study of Native Americans into the night. First we learned how to sit in the dark and let our eyes get used to the darkness. Then we learned how to walk without making a sound- a skill necessary for Native hunters in search of game in the woods.

Patrick thought stepping on his heels produced the least amount of noise, while Max insisted that treading tiptoe was faster and more effective. Technically, Max was correct, but practically, Patrick was more successful. The award for "Most Native Woods Walk", however, went to Miss Micah, who managed to walk across acorns without making a sound.

Early next morning, the kids were out by the lake again to feed their breakfast to various winged creatures. I sat with them and watched them marvel over a group of ducks that dropped by to eat bread; they invented their own songs to communicate with the ducks- songs involving quacks and "heeere ducky ducky".

Patrick pointed out to us that there must be a paper mill in the area because there was a strong smell permeating the air. I joked, "No honey, someone is frying up all their chickens- that's what it smells like to me." Little did I know....

From Tuscaloosa to Jackson, Mississippi: The road trip plan.

Rumor has it that fall foliage along the Natchez Trace Parkway is a stunning, and we have the possibility of picking it up around Jackson. Our tentative plan includes stopping, eating, sleeping, and cabin renting as follows:

monday

Explore Tallahalla WMA or Caney Creek WMA
Check-in to cabin (COO2, COO10)  at Roosevelt State Park
Lazy Acres Plantation has a pumpkin patch and a super map

tuesday

Sunny day options in Jackson
LeFleur's Bluff State Park with camping, fishing, and playscapes
Maye's Lake Campground has trail to Natural Science Museum
Mississippi Museum of Natural Science, the must-see
The Oaks House Museum  

Grub
Rainbow Natural Grocery Cooperative
Cool Al's 
Keifer's Downtown
 Sal and Mookie's for lunch

Rainy day options in Jackson
Russell C. Davis Planetarium 
Children's Museum (open 9 am to 5 pm)

 

View Roundtripping: Tuscaloosa, AL and Jackson, MS in a larger map

Pilgrimage to the Sipsey Nature Preserve in Buhl, Alabama.

And along the banks...

Micah was the first to shout, "It's a gnome home!"

Milla and Grandma Vicki get a feel for the soil.

The water was fairly still, though far from stagnant.

Max was the first to declare, "A-ha! Cypress trees! It's almost a bog!"

Thriving cypress trees greeted us as we continued down the trail.

Max picked a lovely hibiscus which bloomed in abundance before
I had the chance to warn him not to pick native plants.

Milla and Grandma Vicki discuss mushrooms.

So long Sipsey, land of cool forests with lovely canopies.

You can dally among the cypress trees on your own using the following GPS coordinates:

33.232167° N
87.777000° W

Lovebug massacre.

Driving down to the Gulf Coast was rather bloody this past weekend. A plethora of lovebugs lost their lives to our windshield and bumper- it's enough to make you want to stop driving. 

In case you've never met a lovebug, they are flying insects fairly common to the southeast during certain seasons. Also known as the Plecia nearctica, the lovebug is a member of the family of march flies. It is also known as the honeymoon fly, kissingbug, or double-headed bug. During and after mating, adult pairs remain coupled, even in flight, for up to several days. Unless they run into the Coryell spaceship.

Perhaps we'll write lovebug sonnets tonight. Or an "Ode to the Fallen Lovebugs". Something that accounts for the sad history of these lovers on the car.

Rural Studio Pilgrimage #4: The Safe House Museum in Greensboro.

The Safe House Museum is at 2401 Davis St. in Greensboro, Alabama. its operating hours are 10 a.m. until 4 p.m. on Wednesdays and Saturdays and 9 a.m. until 3 p.m. on Fridays.The hours of operation are very specific, so you need to plan carefully if you'd like to go inside (an example when spontaneity got the better of the Coryells).

The story goes something like this, according to the Rural Studio blog:

On the night of March 21, 1968, Martin Luther King Jr. sought refuge from the Ku Klux Klan inside a small shot gun style home in the depot neighborhood of Greensboro, Alabama. Today that house is known as The Safe House Black History Museum. It is a site of great significance to American Black History as well as the Civil Rights Movement of the 1950’s and 1960’s. The museum documents the struggle for equality at the local level, along with other highlights of the civil rights movement in hale county. The Safe House Museum is unique as it contains many artifacts of the struggle from slavery to equality, as well as unpublished local and state photos of the civil rights movement.

There is living history at the museum as it is directed by Ms. Theresa Burroughs, a Greensboro native who participated actively as a foot soldier during the movement. Theresa and her family kept Martin Luther King Jr. safe in their home on the night of March 21, 1968.

The little green thread spool, the beginning of a story.

The idea of "safety" takes on a non-pedestrian meaning in the context of the Civil Rights movement.

The Rural Studio design for the courtyard.

Looking in the main entrance.

The civil rights movement brought together extraordinary ordinary people who couldn't accept the injustice of everyday racism in Alabama. Learn more about the Safe House Museum Team and their design.

Open Woods Week at Sipsey River Swamp- something gooood to do.

The Alabama Department of Conservation and Natural Resources’ (ADCNR) State Lands Division has scheduled four Open Woods Weeks at the Forever Wild Land Trust’s Sipsey River Swamp Recreation Area and Nature Preserve. This beautiful tract is located in Tuscaloosa County near Buhl, Ala., off State Highway 82. It consists of more than 3,000 acres of beautiful bottomland forest along the Sipsey River. The Sipsey River watershed is one of Alabama’s 10 Natural Wonders.

Open Woods Weeks are currently scheduled for: July 20-29 , August 10-19, September 7-16, and October 5-14. During Open Woods Weeks, the main gate will open on Friday at 4 p.m., stay open through the following week, and close on Sunday at 4 p.m. During each Open Woods Week, the public may drive into the tract along the designated main gravel road leading from the Jack’s Drive Parking Area, to the south gate.

Canoeing, birding, fishing, picnicking and wildlife photography are welcome on these dates. Hiking, bicycle riding and horseback riding are discouraged on these dates, because of the increased vehicular traffic along the main road.

The Forever Wild Land Trust has purchased more than 227,000 acres for public protection and recreation since the program began in 1992. Developed in response to the loss of land available to the public for hunting and outdoor recreation, Forever Wild has protected over 197,000 acres in 14 Wildlife Management Areas. This November, Forever Wild needs your vote to continue its work for our state and its residents. 

Funding for the Forever Wild Land Trust is generated by the interest earned from natural gas royalties, which means that tax dollars are not used to fund this public service.  Most of the people who will vote against Forever Wild will do so out of ignorance as opposed to malice. Why has Forever Wild garnered consistent bipartisan support among knowing voters? The following printable briefs can be read and shared with fellow Alabamians.

The Forever Wild Land Trust: How Much Is Enough? 
Wild Recreation

To see and visit what Forever Wild has saved for you and your family, check out this map. I've heard there are a number of great geocaches at the Sipsey Swamp.

More Rural Studio in Alabama to chase: The hit list.

Since I've been spilling the beans about Rural Studio lately, I prefer to open the doors of your imagination to more than just our little wanderings. To learn about Rural Studio, Fred Bernstein's article is a great place to start and the back roads of west Alabama are a great place to continute.

Mockbee liked to work in Hale County because there was no building code enforcement which allowed his students to experiment with "unconventional materials and forms" ranging from surplus Chevy Caprice windshields to bales of hay. I think about this when my hopes for Rural Studio designs in Alberta City come to mind, and I hope that Tuscaloosa's new building code does not limit new construction to the tacky chain-mall style (and parking lot hell) of Midtown Village. I've noticed that much of the rebuilding in the tornado-damaged areas includes the same dull facades which promise to turn us into a generic version of the suburbia everyone is trying to escape these days.

The public restrooms at Perry Lakes Park in Marion, Alabama.

But back to the good stuff- here's my Rural Studio hit list for our roamschooling adventures this summer and fall:

1. The Glass Chapel at Mason's Bend, the hamlet near Sawyerville which includes the church built with Caprice windshields.
2. The Butterfly House in Mason's Bend. (Around 32.728822,-87.797794)
3. The Green Dirt House in Mason's Bend. (32.728822,-87.797794)
4. Harris Hay Bale House and Smokehouse in Mason's Bend. (32.727743,-87.800685)
5. The Towering Sky public restrooms at Perry Lakes in Marion. (32.694866,-87.243649)
6. The underground public restrooms at Perry Lakes in Marion. (32.694961,-87.243762)
7. The Uncle Henry House on County Road 23. (32.564669,-87.442766)
8. Butch Anthony's cool-sided Organic Farmer's Stand house of Doo Nanny repute dangling near Newbern. (32.631243,-87.499747)
9. Music Man's house outside Greensboro on County Road 19. Check out the StoryCorps.
10. The Bodark Amphitheater and Chantilly House in Newbern. (32.597870,-87.534036)
11. The Bridge House in Greensboro.
12. Rural Heritage Center in (32.271531,-87.626481)
13. The Safe House Museum in Greensboro. A must on all levels of spirit.
14. The Carpet House in Newbern. 
15. The Newbern Baseball Club field in Newbern. (32.605046,-87.529900)
16. The Patrick House in Newbern.
17. The Fire Station in Newbern.
18. The Newbern Playground in Newbern. (32.599763,-87.533956)
19. The Subrosa Chapel/Pantheon built by Carol Mockbee, Sambo's daughter, as a tribute in Newbern. (32.597915,-87.534401)
20. The Shiles House in Hale County.
21. St. Luke's Episcopal Church in Selma a stone's throw away from Old Cahawba. (32.319434, -87.105263)
22. Amos Kennedy's residence/studio in or near Akron.
23. The Dorothy Wilson House near Greensboro. (32.717882,-87.578003)
24. Hale County Animal Shelter in Greensboro.
25. The road sign fence in Greensboro.
26. The Connor House near Greensboro. (32.705366,-87.581168)
27. The Antioch Baptist Church somewhere in between places. (32.824360,-87.450448)
28. Lion's Park in Greensboro.

For more histories, details, and personal blurbs on Rural Studio, pick an asterisk and click.

*       *      *       *          *             *         *

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.

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.

A pit stop at Pie Lab.

En route to the beach, we stopped by Pie Lab in Greensboro for some grub and a pie to go. We ordered lunch and ate it as a spread.

Milla and I met Keisha out on the back patio; she decided to join us indoors because she "thought my hair was pretty". I don't hear that very often these days. Keisha hung around and chatted with us for a bit. She thought it was funny that "all your kids have the same name" and that Patrick "was in Spongebob". 

Milla and Keisha played chase, and then Milla pretended to pout as Keisha picked her up and carted her around. 

 That was the beginning a new game which involved picking up and carting around. 

Never one to leave a place unexplored, I wandered around taking in the details.

I love the look of Pie Lab, from the awesome scrap-wood sliding doors to the brick walls and glossy wood floors.

And the inspiration which comes from this upcycled-sign-shelf.

A family fest at Stone Mountain with a historic detour.

    On our weekend trip to visit family in Atlanta, we got the chance to see Stone Mountain Park, a stunning and action-packed natural wonder filled with outdoor activities and learning opportunites. Patrick kept telling me that I absolutely must see the laser-show. Meanwhile, the kids ate up the delicious food prepared by Suebee and Pops while playing with their cousins in the sand pit at the playground. Aunt Ashley's brilliance came up again when I noticed she had wet the twins' heads in the water fountain to help them beat the heat. I don't think Ashley Coryell ever met a mountain she could not climb.
    According to Willard Neal, Stone Mountain's Confederate Memorial is "the world's largest piece of sculpture, cut into the side of the world's biggest exposed mass of granite". The carving itself is 90 feet tall and 190 feet wide, and its completion is fraught with mystery and history. I'll share a few versions of the narrative, especially since the official guide, Neal's Georgia's Stone Mountain, purchased at the park museum, leaves out significant facts about Stone Mountain's role in Georgia's history.
    In 1909, Mrs. Helen Plane, a charter member of the United Daughters of the Confederacy (UDC), expressed the thought that it would be a "fine place for a monument".  In 1915, Mrs. Plane had ascended to the position of president in the Atlanta Chapter of the UDC, and she began exploring the prospect of having a 70-foot statue of General Robert E. Lee carved on the steep side of the mountain. Sculptor Gutzon Borglum stayed for a few weeks at the nearby home of Samuel H. Venable, the patriarch of the family that owned the mountain, where he sketched images of Confederate soldiers riding around the mountain. 
    Borglum presented his drawings to a UDC meeting only to be met with a discomfitting buzz. The ladies could not commit to a sculpture that would require ten years to complete and 10 million dollars to finish. Nevertheless, in 1916, Sam Venable, Mrs. Coribel Venable Kellogg, and Mrs. Robert Venable Roper deeded the face of Stone Mountain and ten adjoining acres to the UDC with the caveat that the property would be returned to its original owners if a suitable monument was not finished in twelve years. 
   By this point, Stone Mountain was already playing a monumental role in the visions of another nearby group.  On November 15, 1925, a group of men wear white robes and hoods met at Stone Mountain to form a new version of the Ku Klux Klan. Leader William J. Simmons was assisted by members of the Knights of Mary Phagan in lighting a cross on fire. Nathan Bedford Forrest II, the grandson of the original Imperial Grand Wizard (or the Incredible Grand Pig-ear, as I like to call him), administered the KKK oath to all those present. Samuel Venable, the owner of Stone Mountain, witnessed the event.

    At the risk of seeming nitpicky or unfairly focused on unseamly details, I have to point out that Willard must have gone OUT OF HIS WAY to ensure that the KKK's early association with the Stone Mountain monument stayed out of his book. A newspaper no less prominent than the Atlanta Journal-Constitution proudly proclaimed the association in the clipping above from the November 1915 newspaper.
    The monument was put on the backburner as the US began to fight World War I. In 1923, however, fundraising began again. Mr. Venable gave the KKK an easement with perpetual right to hold "celebrations" at Stone Mountain whenever they desired. In this way, Mr. Venable made Stone Mountain one of the few sacred locations of the Klan in our country. Thanks to Venable's perpetual love for the Klan, many Klan members still consider Stone Mountain to be a monument to the KKK as well as the Confederacy. 
    Ultimately, the monument took the form chosen by the UDC and the Klan- a monument to three men whom they hoped would be adored as heroes of the Confederacy. A monument which depicted a battle scene or a set of soldiers would have been more ambiguous and less obviously glorifying than the quasi-Mount Rushmore which was ultimately created. Of the $250,000 raised, part came directly from the Ku Klux Klan but part came from the federal government, which in 1924 issued special coinage with Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson on them.

The Stone Mountain Confederate Memorial, the world's largest bas-relief

A few chalk drawings on a lower portion of the stone.

A well-drawn bird doodle.

Patrick and Micah sasheyed into the museum as Max and I lagged behind.

    The only bad history is the one which avoids a clear picture for fear of a forthright reckoning with the past. In his incomparable "I Have A Dream" speech, Martin Luther King said:

I say to you today, my friends, that in spite of the difficulties and frustrations of the moment, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream. I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal." I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slaveowners will be able to sit down together at a table of brotherhood.

    In this famous speech, Martin Luther King did not hesitate to declare- "But not only that; let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia!" Honestly, I think he would be thrilled to see how the playgrounds, jogging trails, and park spaces of Stone Mountain were covered with people of every possible skin color today.
    There's no need to "whitewash" history anymore. It's embarassing. Young children learn the names of the men on the monument and see them as heroes, so the context in which this carving was created as well as the audience it was intended to satisfy cannot be left out of the story. 
    As always, I encourage you to chase your own butterflies where they lead you and explore a little more of Stone Mountain. A few resources to help you on your way:

•  Historical photos of Stone Mountain, including postcards
• Awesome rock formations on the mountain, including lighting strikes on rock
• The Stone Mountain Covered Bridge, just beautiful
• The Grist Mill, moved from Ellijay to its current location in the park
• Weldon Wright's Trail, which Pat and I climbed in our courting days
• The carving up close
• The Songbird Habitat and Woodland Trail

Moments from our boat trip on the inter-coastal waterway.

The hollow tin sound of cars as they pass over our heads.

Fishing boats parked for the weekend.

Or perhaps the season, thanks to the oil spill which continues to leave ripple effects on life in the Gulf of Mexico.

Life jackets for all.

Stopping by a small uninhabited island for a swim.

Milla tests the water.

Micah and Milla have no questions about being children- they just revel in it.

Oak Hill Cemetery in Eutaw, Alabama.

The stories written on the stones invite us.

My husband and I bonded over a secret fascination with cemeteries. Some of our early "courtship" included strange dances and discussions around fallen tombstones in graveyards across the country. What stayed hidden by convention during the day somehow slipped from our lips in the silver colors and shadows of the graves at night.

We stop for cemeteries- for the questions, the stories, the names carved in stones that ring like talismans on a chain when we read them aloud. So we stopped at the Oak Hill Cemetery in Eutaw last week on our drive down to the beach. I left the sleeping-reading kids in the van and made a brief pilgramage, a short poetry reading of names (Bunion was prominent among them) across the crooked rows of gravestones.

Driving down to the beach alone with the kids only left me with a few moments of insipid longing for my husband. This stroll was one of them. Because cemetery-love and lore rests so snugly between us that neither needs to comment on what is so "cool"- it just is. I prefer the graves between us to the graves I discover alone.

Oak Hill Cemetery, now known as Mesopotamia Cemetery,  was once home to the Mesopotamia Presbyterian Church. But the church moved, and the sacred dust remained. You can see more images and get driving directions from the Magnolias and Peaches website.

Our almost-week on Ono Island with dad.

Bunicu and his grandkids heading in to stock up on groceries.

You know you're at the beach when the grocery stores have palm trees out front.

The kids and I drove down to Ono Island last week to spend some time with my dad and grandfather on Orange Beach. Patrick met us for the weekend.

Kayaks and crab traps, oh my.

Mills is ready for the sun, and her mom is learning how life goes for the pale-faces of the world.

The sea grass doesn't bother the kids one bit.

Max tries to net some minnows.

After Max gives up and goes for a swim, one set of eyes follows him.

Then one set of hands tries her own luck with the elusive fish.

Milla watches from the safety of Bunicu's arms.

Little hands and old feet.

Reading Whit Gibbons at Orange Beach.

Racing towards the boat ramp.

Turtles, like many other groups of animals, have found their way into the legally threatened or endangered species ranks. Many of the threats could be serious indeed. The loggerhead sea turtle is a recent arrival to the list prepared by the Endangered Species Section of the US Fish and Wildlife Service. In the United States, loggerheads nest on southern beaches. A female can nest more than five times in a summer, laying over a hundred ping-pong ball looking eggs each time. How can there be any danger of extinction for such a prolific creature? Take a look at what's happening to the beaches of the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean and you will understand. Coastal development, too often with an eye for profit, is diminishing the effective nesting area of these and other sea turtles. We must be careful lest we develop the passenger pigeon syndrome that befell our great-grandparents- that is, the error of believing that an abundant species is not one we have to worry about protecting.

Whit Gibbons, Their Blood Runs Cold: Adventures with Reptiles and Amphibians

Gibbons is one of the most accessible herpetologists I've had the pleasure of reading. His interest in ecology is conveyed through rich, captivating tales of adventures in the field- the sort of the stories that make kids and adults crave more. Though this book was published in 1983, there is much to learn from it.

Currently, the loggerhead turtle is only listed as "threatened" in Alabama- and our ecologists and fish and wildlife specialists deserve credit for helping to push the policy changes which have offered our turtle friend a new lease on life. It stands to reason that every time we build, we ask ourselves who else might be using this land and how. Just imagine how differently the story of Native Americans might have turned had be exercised a bit more wisdom and little less greed in our actions.

Somewhere in between.

It's anything but Stoic to confess that my own mortality weighs heavy these days. And it would be anything but honest to suggest that Stoic fronts are somehow excused from association with other "frontish" behavior, including the garrulous fake smile or the "Bless her little heart".

A false front is a false front, no matter how tidy or trendy or ancient. 

So the girls and I stopped along the Florida-Alabama state line to eat ice cream cones and listen to the pleasure boats cruise in from the bay. I watched the water slowly, carefully, wistlessly move the sand over our toes and wondered, "What would the girls do if I died tomorrow?" 

Milla's raspberry-chocolate ice cream cone dripped a creamy rainbow over the sunset-golden sand. We shared the own world of water and sand, which leaves only small spaces for intersections.

Of course, one day, I will die. And the kids will be something akin to sad, though confused and speechless comes closer to the colors death paints over our lives.

I want that day to be so far in the future that a homegoing celebration would be appropriate. But I can't control that. I can't control anything. I can't even keep the sunset clean. Perhaps pretense is another way to pretend we can control this world that is not ours for the ruling.

Tino may be coming soon to a town near you.

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On his website, Tino explains the purpose of his journey:

I came to this country in 2001, hoping to someday call myself an American. Now, ten years later, I am finally eligible to apply for citizenship. I am commemorating this event by taking a little walk—from my home in New York City, through North Carolina and Alabama, across the Mississippi and the Arizona desert. I'll finish out in Los Angeles.

The day of my naturalization I will become a fellow citizen of over 285 million people who call themselves American. Most have been able to use that label their whole lives, but I have not, so I am trying to better understand what it really means to them.

I will meet hundreds of people along the way, across a great spectrum of ages, races, ethnic backgrounds, and lifestyles that exist in this vast country. I will try to catalog as much as I can, but no matter who I meet, above all, I want to know what being American means to them, and find out what binds us together as a nation. 

What does a 10th-generation New Englander have in common with a first-generation Hispanic in California? What does a descendant of antebellum slave owners share with the granddaughter of Vietnamese refugees? How is the life of a Native American today similar to that of someone whose ancestors were kidnapped in Africa and brought here as slaves?

I will chronicle my journey by writing regular dispatches for Arizona State University's Center for Social Cohesion. I will introduce you to the people I meet, and share with you their stories. And even if I don't make it to your town, I encourage you to reach out and tell me your own thoughts on what being American is all about.

See you on the road, and don't forget to follow me on Twitter, Facebook, and Pinterest. 

A photo from Tino's recent travels across the South. You can get a copy here.

If you'd like to be a part of his exciting journey, read about where he is and what he needs right now. Or contribute to his travel costs by purchasing a photo from his gallery of travels across America.

Love letter #52: Speculative poetry.

We discovered a new world this week- a novel galaxy whose radioactive proximity excites the senses and imagination. In the past month, as I've tried to organize the Circles of Peace workshops for the coming year, various friends and acquaintances mention that I should meet David and Sonia Kopaska-Merkel. Never one to wait for stylized introductions, I packed the kids into the spaceship and cruised on over to make their acquaintance.

A drawing from Dreams and Nightmares.

No one was home. Or, perhaps, someone was home but preferred to be "un-home". When Max asked why we had come to meet this family, I explained that I thought they were pretty neat and that they wrote speculative poetry, words combined into stalagmites and supernovas both fantastic and no larger than the gnome residing under the tree stump in our front yard.

Max said:

"Cool. I could do that. Maybe they'll teach me."

Alina said:

"Maybe. Either way, I think we have lots to learn from them."

When we got back to the Coryell Castle, Max continued to inquire about speculative poetry. I answered his queries with a few poems by Mr. Kopaska-Merkel, available for free in audio format at his magazine, Dreams and Nightmares. 

Max said:

"I like how he brings the stars to earth."

Alina agreed.

Max said:

"Tell me more about the guy who wrote it."

Alina read aloud:

David C. Kopaska-Merkel is the editor and publisher of Dreams and Nightmares magazine, and was for six years the editor of Star*Line, the journal of the Science Fiction Poetry Association. Fourteen previous chapbooks and hundreds of poems and short stories have been published in dozens of venues since the early 1980s. David lives in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, with 2 artists, 3 cats, 1 dog, 2 bunnies, and thousands of books.

Max said:

"I wonder if he'd like to teach some kids about stars and universes and poems?"

Alina said:

"I wonder as well."

Max said:

"How do we find out?"

Alina said:

"Every point has the potential to create a line or a circle."

An art student at the Columbus zoo.

A photo flashback from earlier this year during our visit to Columbus, Ohio. This art student was mesmerizing to watch, and she didn't seem to mind that we kept hovering over her light and casting shadows on her scene. I am so grateful for all the talented, patient, and giving people in this world.

A letter from the Transylvania crew.

My dad on his 69th birthday somewhere out at sea.

My dad and his crew are safely docked in the Bahamas after their recent sailing race from Baltimore to the Bahamas. The captain himself sent the following message summing his trip:

Friday morning at 0700 hours Transylvania crossed the finish line just west on the Powell Channel entrance to the Bahamas. It was grueling, as the winds were mostly 20-25 knots at the beginning and end of the race. This kind of winds are typically not a problem, unless you get them from the back. Under this scenario, the following seas impose three different types of movement on the boat and life aboard becomes a trifle harder. All six of us collected some bruises. Our autopilot failed during the second night and we had to continue hand stirring for the other five days. This added considerably to the fatigue of the crew, and the three sailors (Jerry, Kevin and I) had to train the ladies (Pamela, Mary-Etta and Martha). The hardest part of the trip were the last 12 hours. As we were approaching the finish line and th entrance channel, I had to forego sleep because my navigation skills were needed. That was also the most dangerous part. The entrance to Bahamas can be dangerous. A phenomenon known as RAGE can occur under the wrong combination of winds and currents. Last year, in the same rally, a boat ended on the reef while attempting entrance at night. The boat and one crew member were lost. We got through without trouble. We finished on 4th place. I am happy with this result, as my experience in ocean racing is minimal, and Transylvania is a heavy displacement boat, not a racing one. My birthday on Nov 15 was at sea, and was spent stirring and working the sails with only one glass of wine. However, the evening of the arrival the organizers had a big party for us, which became my party. The feeling of camaraderie from the other sailors was overwhelming. Two of the boats arriving after us had rigging failures because of the rough weather. I am still in the Bahamas and plan to return to the US Tuesday.

With all my love,  

Capt. Doru Stefanescu Aboard the Sailing/Vessel Transylvania, Green Turtle Cay, Bahamas

A sign from the Sundowner Bar, where my dad and his crew stopped for a drink. Or two.

Max's magic show (and Bunicu's concurrent magic show somewhere in the Atlantic).

Tino took the photos, and Max conducted the magic show (with a little help from the magician's kit given to him by Bunicu and Pam for his birthday).

Bunicu's birthday was yesterday, and we can only hope he celebrated it with perfect winds and a fairly calm sea as he makes his way from Baltimore to Abacos-Bahamas in his sailboat, Transylvania. He and his crew will cover approximately 680 nautical miles, at an average speed of 100 nautical miles/24 hours. We can follow his progress (or lack thereof) online. Just click on FLEET VIEWER on the right Click on C1500 2011 BC. This last click will take you to the Bahamas Class fleet, and you will be able to see the Transylvania crew, currently moving at almost 3 knots per hour and keeping out of last place.

Between all these pirates, magicians, and cowboy pilots (my stepfather), a girl can't help thinking life is a little fantastic.

Constantin Dipse's formidable lines.

Madonna and child. Dipse's version sits comfortably within the colors and textures of Romanian village life.

Dipse's colors and lines danced through my head long after they left the immediate vicinity of my eyes. Though he studied under the famed Camil Ressu, his style brings together a love for life, a respect for local folkways, and the vivid colorings of an imagination raised on basme that is entirely his own. He mainly works in oil and acrylic, Dipse also has a few mosaics and frescoes in his closet.

The Thracian cavalier.

Currently, his work is available at the National Village Museum, where I picked up the inspiring postcards pictured below.

Language games: Learning about the roots of the Romanian language.

The Romanian language comes mainly from the street Latin spoken at the time when Hadrian's legions ruled the fertile provinces north of the Danube during the 2nd century A.D. By the 10th century, the modern Romanian language developed into its current form, absorbing some words from languages of nearby Slavic tribes and peoples. Dacian words, which lie close to Albanian words in language families, also pepper the Romanian language.

Romanian is a Romance language. This means that it is a part of the Italic languages family, rooted in Latin. The lexical similarity of Romanian with Italian has been estimated at 77%, followed by French at 75%, Sardinian 74%, Catalan 73%, Spanish 71%, Portuguese, and Rhaeto-Romance at 72%. 

There are 47 Romance languages and dialects spoken in Europe, including three Romanian dialects:

1. Istro-Romanian with 170 speakers of this language still living in Croatia
2. Aromanian with small pockets of speakers in Macedonia, Bulgaria, Greece, and Albania
3. Megleno-Romanian with about 5,000 speakers left living in Greece and Macedonia

Slavic languages tend to dominate the southeastern neighborhood of Europe. Some commonly-known Slavic languages include:

1. Russian
2. Czech
3. Slovak
4. Polish
5. Bulgarian
6. Croatian
7. Macedonia
8. Church Slavonic
9. Montenegrin
10. Slovenian
11. Ukranian
12. Belarusian

Slavic words have migrated into the Romanian language through time, trade, and association. Old Church Slavonic also made its way into the Romanian liturgy and then into the village language. Some of these words include:

• bolnav- sick
• bogat - wealthy, rich, blessed
• iubit - loved, adored
• dragoste - love
• harnic- hardworking, dedicated, industrious

Globalization has greatly increased the American and English content in the Romanian language. Just walking down the street in Bucharest, billboards advertise various consumer products and services using American words, like joburi (the Romanian plural for "jobs"), mouse (for compter mouse), internet, hamburger, blog, techno (with reference to music), cool, faine (pronouned "fine" and meaning "cool"), and so on...

When I asked Alice if she was offended by the Americanization of her language, she laughed and told me about a politician who tried to "cleanse" the language of American words. He insisted that a computer mouse be called by the Romanian word for "mouse", which sounded absurd and didn't make sense because this meaning was not conventional. I love how Romanians embrace all the change brought to their dynamic, richly-textured langauge. 

The architectural allure of Bucharest.

Patrick and I fondly describe it as "dirty pretty" or "pretty broken"- it suits our taste for the slightly dishevelled and worn. Most of these buildings and places have names or residents, but our brisk stroll did not present opportunities for inquiry. All the better- let the mystery be.

A visit to my grandmother's grave in Bellu.

My grandmother died when I was pregnant with Max; I flew to Romania for the funeral of a woman who loved me so much she would just watch me read and smile. One life gone while another prepared to bloom. The grotesque twists still leave me speechless.

Patrick, Milla, Bunicu, and I went to pay our respects late yesterday afternoon. Bunica is buried in the most famous cemetery in Romania- a place where every grave and mausoleum evokes little fragments of the history hastily assembled into the Romanian national idea.

America has no couterpart for Bellu. Our famous cemetery, Arlington National Cemetery, revolves around thousands of identical graves for the soldiers of our many wars, our blood-laced benevolence. We don't have a cemetery for the great thinkers, writers, and artists of our country because our culture doesn't value ideas and art in any way that suggests permanence. Or maybe we haven't had enough time to acknowledge the intellectual contributions of individual Americans (though this seems strange given the number of fascinating artists and public intellectuals in the US). Anyhow, it's unfortunate in some sense. 

Leaving flowers from my father for his mother.

Seeing my grandfather's photo and all but two numbers waiting to be filled on his gravestone was jarring.

We prepared the flowers and changed the water as he has done every Sunday since she died (unless he was in the US with us).

I told my grandmother that my father loved her and missed her. We Romanians speak to the dead- we don't believe they are really dead. In some sense, they are more alive. 

We also speak to saints and people whom we admire as amazing human beings- those who humbled themselves and carried the burdens of the world with grace and love. 

Milla watched with curiosity as I spent a little time with my grandmother.

Bunicu pays his respects to "Turica", his nickname for her.

Cumidava and Kevin Costner.

Apparently, Kevin Costner is on location a few miles from us filming an American Western. I'm sure the snow reminds him of his cozy home in Aspen.

Patrick, Max, and Milla at Cumidava-Rasnov. Patrick is growing a beard, and we have worn the same outfit for the past five days. My packing was not perfect.

The view from Rasnov Citadel and its crazy ruins.

The ancient town of Rasnov below.

On a different note, I learned more about the ancient history of the Rasnov Citadel from a well-written wiki entry:

Cumidava (also Comidava, Komidava, Ancient Greek: Κομίδαυα) was originally a Dacian settlement, and later a Roman military camp on the site of the modern city of Râşnov (15 km from Braşov) in Romania. Early references to Cumidava are made by the geographer Ptolemy in his Geographia, in the form Komidava (Ancient Greek: Κομίδαυα).An inscription on stone dedicated to Julia Avita Mamaea, the mother of the Roman Emperor Alexander Severus (dated 222-235 AD), allows the localization of the Dacian settlement Cumidava in the area of present-day Râşnov. The archaeological research at Râșnov was initiated in 1856 by Johann Michael Ackner and continued in 1939 by Macrea Mihail who also recorded the presence of Dacian pottery during the digs at the Rasnov Roman camp. The inscription found in 1939.

Sweet dreams at Popasul Cavalerului.

Next door to the little green cabana sits the hotel with the best view in Bran. Popasul Cavalerului, our sleeping quarters for the past two nights, is just plain beautiful.

A little picnic table just outside.

Owned and run by the Tatulea family, those stewards of my enchanted chilhood memories clambering through the mountains in search of edelweiss and sheep folds, every detail reveals good taste. Puiu designed most of the furniture and interior woodworking himself, and he also served as architect for the building. Because he and his wife know how to do a little bit of everything.

Thanks to dear Mom and Sanda, Patrick and I spent the last few mornings sleeping in with only the chunky Milla sharing our bed. And then there is the genius of our stone porch, which makes an excellent fridge for water, wine, Bergenbier, and peach juice. Sweet dreams indeed.

The view from our balcony at dawn today.

The view from near Fundata.

The clouds continue, and we are navigating a little fever with Milla, holding out for an easy night. Yesterday, we took a car ride around the mountains to see specks of Transylvania between the clouds which an angry Zamloxis has sent to thwart our plans. Don't mess with male pagan gods that live in caves. 

A stretch legs stop. Sanda surveys the hills. It's so wonderful to have her with us- she knows so so very much about this Romania that I love.