And if you've ever been, or ever plan to go, to this place specifically, near Dixon, near Hayden, you understand it even if you hail from Sacramento or Newark or Dublin. Rock Eddy is such a heart-filled place.
More to come, along with a snake story.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Gasconade
I have just learned, through the wonders of the internet, that gasconade means braggery or puffed up words. But the Gasconade (GAS-kuh-NADE) River is the longest river completely contained within the state of Missouri. It runs through one of my native lands, Maries County--while I am Irish and German and English, I am American back 4 generations at the very nearest to Europe, and as many as, well, ridiculously long ago in many of my lines. Maries County, Perry County, North St. Louis City, Western Illinois: those are my native lands most recently, my grandparents and great-grandparents. Maries County is my Ozark roots, only one or two generations of that, quickly slipping back to Virginia or disappearing into the squalor of 1870s St. Louis. But my grandmother grew up there, 8th out of 8 children surviving birth, living in a cabin without heat that was added on to several times, up high on a hill above a creek where her brother drowned. After that, they moved north, after that, they left Maries County. But when I'm there, I can imagine it as something in my blood.
And if you've ever been, or ever plan to go, to this place specifically, near Dixon, near Hayden, you understand it even if you hail from Sacramento or Newark or Dublin. Rock Eddy is such a heart-filled place.
More to come, along with a snake story.
And if you've ever been, or ever plan to go, to this place specifically, near Dixon, near Hayden, you understand it even if you hail from Sacramento or Newark or Dublin. Rock Eddy is such a heart-filled place.
More to come, along with a snake story.
Sometimes, Me and Modern Life? We Don't Get Along
We have gotten into the habit of joining a municipal pool. It started with the desire to get my kids into swimming lessons again after I left the Y, shaking the dust from my feet. They do a swim camp every year but I wanted something more. The Maplewood pool was allowing some city residents to join at the Maplewood resident rate, and we all jumped on board.
The next year they decided against it. This was partly due to the new "city" pool down in Carondelet Park, which of course was not a city pool at all and in fact cost more to join than the Maplewood pool at the non-resident rate. So I joined Maplewood again and expressed my distate and displeasure with the YMCA (who runs the new rec plex with the pool, built on public land, gah, don't get me started) with anyone who would listen. My kids love Maplewood and all is well.
Well, it isn't cheap. And the closer we got to summer, the more I wondered if we just couldn't afford it. Yes, I could write the check, no problem, we could cover it, but could we justify the expense? Would we visit often enough to make it worth it? The answer of course is no.
So Lisa, over at Clearview, and I were going up to the girl scout HQ and she mentioned this pass one might purchase for $25, allowing two entries into 19 different pools in the area. I did the math and figured $75 or $100 and we'd have all the pool we could ever want. If Zelda and her family joined as well, then even better. Then of course life got busy again, dang it, with my insulting the board of directors at our school to their faces and running girl scout wrap up sessions and looking at too many pictures of Joplin.
Today Zelda and I talked. She had heard of it, too, and decided it was well worth the difference in price for as often as they would go to the pool in a given summer. And if we both did it, then hooray, our kids could go together and everyone would be happy. Solved. Except:
1. I told Sophia. And she burst into tears because it was an unknown. "What if I really like one of the pools and we can NEVER GO AGAIN?" And I argued the better to have gone to a pool and loved it and never go again than to never have gone to the pool at all side of the debate and finally pulled the cashflow card: look, kid, you lost a $175 pair of shoes last month (Irish dance hard shoes), you need to be quiet about how your family spends its money.
2. I called one of the places rumored to sell it after I could find no information online. THEY WERE OUT OF THE PASSES. WHAT? She transferred me to the man who coordinated it, who of course had gone home. I left a polite message and hoped we weren't too late.
3. Overhearing the conversation I then had with Zelda while driving to Irish dance, Sophia started crying again because now I had her convinced of the merits of the multi-pool pass and now she'd never get to experience it.
4. I dropped Sophia off at dance, where I found said $175 pair of shoes in the lost and found she swore she had already checked and I told her she was a lucky girl. And she was happy and relieved and went to class.
5. I stopped by the nearby pool, one of the ones on the pass, to see if they had them. They accept them, sure, the 16 year old kid told me. But he didn't think they had any. I could stop by the office, but it closes at 4.
6. Leo, who was in the stroller while I talked to the 16 year old, saw the pool behind the desk, the sprinklers, the brightly colored umbrellas. As we walked to the car, THAT WAS IT. He was so angry. I had taken him within yards of the most magical place he'd ever seen, and then turned back around to go to the car. He cried for 10 minutes, this high-pitched scream, and then got sullen and wouldn't look at me. The rest of the way home.
7. I called Mike because he was picking Sophia up and would have time to kill. Could he call around other pools on the list? Shoot me. He hates making phone calls as much as I do. The thing started to seem like some kind of phantom rumor. Like it wasn't real and I should cut my losses and just sign up for Maplewood. Or move to Alberta.
Once I was home, I started cleaning the kitchen, feeling like hitting someone. Both of the younger children slept, exhausted from the weekend and the heat and humidity that has arrived without permission. I cleaned out the fridge. I planned dinner. And then Mike called.
The first pool he called had the passes. I should call in the morning and they'd tell me how to get them.
Relief.
All is well.
Up later: photos and stories from our holiday weekend; more girl scout eye rolling. Fun!
The next year they decided against it. This was partly due to the new "city" pool down in Carondelet Park, which of course was not a city pool at all and in fact cost more to join than the Maplewood pool at the non-resident rate. So I joined Maplewood again and expressed my distate and displeasure with the YMCA (who runs the new rec plex with the pool, built on public land, gah, don't get me started) with anyone who would listen. My kids love Maplewood and all is well.
Well, it isn't cheap. And the closer we got to summer, the more I wondered if we just couldn't afford it. Yes, I could write the check, no problem, we could cover it, but could we justify the expense? Would we visit often enough to make it worth it? The answer of course is no.
So Lisa, over at Clearview, and I were going up to the girl scout HQ and she mentioned this pass one might purchase for $25, allowing two entries into 19 different pools in the area. I did the math and figured $75 or $100 and we'd have all the pool we could ever want. If Zelda and her family joined as well, then even better. Then of course life got busy again, dang it, with my insulting the board of directors at our school to their faces and running girl scout wrap up sessions and looking at too many pictures of Joplin.
Today Zelda and I talked. She had heard of it, too, and decided it was well worth the difference in price for as often as they would go to the pool in a given summer. And if we both did it, then hooray, our kids could go together and everyone would be happy. Solved. Except:
1. I told Sophia. And she burst into tears because it was an unknown. "What if I really like one of the pools and we can NEVER GO AGAIN?" And I argued the better to have gone to a pool and loved it and never go again than to never have gone to the pool at all side of the debate and finally pulled the cashflow card: look, kid, you lost a $175 pair of shoes last month (Irish dance hard shoes), you need to be quiet about how your family spends its money.
2. I called one of the places rumored to sell it after I could find no information online. THEY WERE OUT OF THE PASSES. WHAT? She transferred me to the man who coordinated it, who of course had gone home. I left a polite message and hoped we weren't too late.
3. Overhearing the conversation I then had with Zelda while driving to Irish dance, Sophia started crying again because now I had her convinced of the merits of the multi-pool pass and now she'd never get to experience it.
4. I dropped Sophia off at dance, where I found said $175 pair of shoes in the lost and found she swore she had already checked and I told her she was a lucky girl. And she was happy and relieved and went to class.
5. I stopped by the nearby pool, one of the ones on the pass, to see if they had them. They accept them, sure, the 16 year old kid told me. But he didn't think they had any. I could stop by the office, but it closes at 4.
6. Leo, who was in the stroller while I talked to the 16 year old, saw the pool behind the desk, the sprinklers, the brightly colored umbrellas. As we walked to the car, THAT WAS IT. He was so angry. I had taken him within yards of the most magical place he'd ever seen, and then turned back around to go to the car. He cried for 10 minutes, this high-pitched scream, and then got sullen and wouldn't look at me. The rest of the way home.
7. I called Mike because he was picking Sophia up and would have time to kill. Could he call around other pools on the list? Shoot me. He hates making phone calls as much as I do. The thing started to seem like some kind of phantom rumor. Like it wasn't real and I should cut my losses and just sign up for Maplewood. Or move to Alberta.
Once I was home, I started cleaning the kitchen, feeling like hitting someone. Both of the younger children slept, exhausted from the weekend and the heat and humidity that has arrived without permission. I cleaned out the fridge. I planned dinner. And then Mike called.
The first pool he called had the passes. I should call in the morning and they'd tell me how to get them.
Relief.
All is well.
Up later: photos and stories from our holiday weekend; more girl scout eye rolling. Fun!
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Jeffersonian Door
A friend tells me that Jefferson had them at Monticello. Other rumors I've heard include that in early St. Louis, taxes were based on how many doors your house had (I assume outside doors?), and so this was a window. That was also a door. I don't know exactly what the truth is on either story, either its name or the reason. But they are very cool. And I love mine.
Kids and cats have easy egress.
I can walk through, just ducking my head under. Sleeping porch lies beyond the window/door.
Counter-weighted on chain just like the other original windows.
This is a bit confusing. You are looking up between the upper window and the wall. The bottom window/door part will slide up and into this space.
Like so.
Here it is, closed.
Open just enough for air flow at the bottom.
Open just enough for air flow at the bottom.
Kids and cats have easy egress.
I can walk through, just ducking my head under. Sleeping porch lies beyond the window/door.
Counter-weighted on chain just like the other original windows.
This is a bit confusing. You are looking up between the upper window and the wall. The bottom window/door part will slide up and into this space.
Like so.Joplin
I've come to the media fast point AGAIN this spring. For the third time: tsunami, river flooding, and now tornado. Because Lali is right. Our human brains have not caught up evolution-wise with instant news at our fingertips. I think my brain is still in the "my neighbor met a man who traveled up to our village and told of a devastating tornado that hit his village 6 weeks ago and he needs help" stage.
Joplin is in my state, a city I drive through on the way to Texas. It is nowhere near me and I know no one from there. Most other Missouri cities of any substantial size I would know folks in--Rolla, Columbia, Kansas City, Cape Girardeau, etc.--but not Joplin. It's at the corner where Missouri meets Oklahoma and Kansas. A place to fill up the tank before you get on the Oklahoma turnpike. I just want to flag it that way. I'm not trying to take on any grief here that doesn't belong to me. It is more like the tsunami than the flood, for me. The flood was palpable. I know those places, those roads, those people. I don't know Joplin.
But still, those pictures. That meteorologist from the Weather Channel breaking down on camera. The terrifying video (well, audio) of the people riding out the storm in a walk-in cooler in a gas station convenience store. 122 dead thus far. The reports of the number of missing are staggering numbers. Even if the largest number reported--1500--turns out to be two or three times as big as the real number, they are still looking at an enormous number of folks from a town of 50,000.
And then the story of the 16 month old who was ripped out of his mother's arms. Front page of our paper today.
That reminded me of a story my grandmother Edith told about a tornado.
The story goes that she was a small girl, the youngest of 8, and she, her mother, and a few brothers were heading home to their farm out near Vichy, Missouri (in Maries County, not far from where we spend so much time out at Rock Eddy). The spring storms were coming up and they found themselves looking up at a funnel cloud moving their way, quickly. So Edith's mother Mazie jumped into one ditch, Edith into the next with brothers spread around in both. As the winds picked up, Edith was terrified and started climbing over the little hill to get into the ditch with her mother. She didn't make it over the hill, though, since the tornado went right over them. Her brothers held onto her ankle to keep her from being blown away.
It seems so impossible but hearing this family's terrible loss makes it seem less of a tall tale after all. Especially considering that Edith wasn't caught an EF-5 in the early '20s. Maybe John or Archie could have held onto her ankle while it passed over them.
We have a healthy respect for them here. Now more than ever.
Joplin is in my state, a city I drive through on the way to Texas. It is nowhere near me and I know no one from there. Most other Missouri cities of any substantial size I would know folks in--Rolla, Columbia, Kansas City, Cape Girardeau, etc.--but not Joplin. It's at the corner where Missouri meets Oklahoma and Kansas. A place to fill up the tank before you get on the Oklahoma turnpike. I just want to flag it that way. I'm not trying to take on any grief here that doesn't belong to me. It is more like the tsunami than the flood, for me. The flood was palpable. I know those places, those roads, those people. I don't know Joplin.
But still, those pictures. That meteorologist from the Weather Channel breaking down on camera. The terrifying video (well, audio) of the people riding out the storm in a walk-in cooler in a gas station convenience store. 122 dead thus far. The reports of the number of missing are staggering numbers. Even if the largest number reported--1500--turns out to be two or three times as big as the real number, they are still looking at an enormous number of folks from a town of 50,000.
And then the story of the 16 month old who was ripped out of his mother's arms. Front page of our paper today.
That reminded me of a story my grandmother Edith told about a tornado.
The story goes that she was a small girl, the youngest of 8, and she, her mother, and a few brothers were heading home to their farm out near Vichy, Missouri (in Maries County, not far from where we spend so much time out at Rock Eddy). The spring storms were coming up and they found themselves looking up at a funnel cloud moving their way, quickly. So Edith's mother Mazie jumped into one ditch, Edith into the next with brothers spread around in both. As the winds picked up, Edith was terrified and started climbing over the little hill to get into the ditch with her mother. She didn't make it over the hill, though, since the tornado went right over them. Her brothers held onto her ankle to keep her from being blown away.
It seems so impossible but hearing this family's terrible loss makes it seem less of a tall tale after all. Especially considering that Edith wasn't caught an EF-5 in the early '20s. Maybe John or Archie could have held onto her ankle while it passed over them.
We have a healthy respect for them here. Now more than ever.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
What I said at the board meeting
*AT the 2010 parent feedback meeting we let SLU know that the board wasn't meeting our needs or reflecting our community.
*We said it again in 2011. We had criticism of individual members as well as the entire gestalt, although instead of the whole being greater than the sum of its parts, I would suggest it is less than the sum of its parts in this case.
*Here, I would like to present, is an example.
*As a school community, we have been discussing expansion to a middle school for over a year. I know because I've been a part of those conversations, formal and informal.
*Jami, Christie and our teachers have presented a wonderful plan.
*For whatever reason, either personal power plays or, more likely, some group form of obtuseness, no decision has been made.
*No excuse you can hand me at this point will satisfy me.
*I am convinced you are not listening.
*I appeal to SLU--how do we remove board members who are not representing us as parents? How do we change this so that it works?
*We said it again in 2011. We had criticism of individual members as well as the entire gestalt, although instead of the whole being greater than the sum of its parts, I would suggest it is less than the sum of its parts in this case.
*Here, I would like to present, is an example.
*As a school community, we have been discussing expansion to a middle school for over a year. I know because I've been a part of those conversations, formal and informal.
*Jami, Christie and our teachers have presented a wonderful plan.
*For whatever reason, either personal power plays or, more likely, some group form of obtuseness, no decision has been made.
*No excuse you can hand me at this point will satisfy me.
*I am convinced you are not listening.
*I appeal to SLU--how do we remove board members who are not representing us as parents? How do we change this so that it works?
Some names have been changed...
Another Open Letter. But this one isn't funny like some have been.
May 23, 2011
City Garden Montessori Charter School Board Members,
Recently I received a letter in the mail from Christie Huck, representing City Garden Montessori Charter School. Quite eloquently, she explained our financial situation. She asked if my family would please consider making an end of year donation to the school and also consider donating a monthly amount over the next three years. Later in the week, Kandice Reynolds called to follow up. I let Kandice know that I certainly would be making some sort of pledge but that I had to speak to Mike and look at what we could do. I know that if my girls attended a private school, most likely my parish school, I would be spending $500 a month on their tuition over a 12 month cycle. I know that we are so lucky to have our school and I know we could afford to make some sort of pledge.
But I paused.
Kandice, Christie, Tina, and I were the first four parents in the first City Garden Kindergarten. I met Christie in Tower Grove Park and we talked about her hopes to start a charter school. I knew going in that it wasn't a guarantee. I paid tuition throughout that first year, and then more tuition the following year for Sophia's first grade year, with the hope that I was helping start something really unique. I knew there were no guarantees. I knew, especially since the boundaries were set with my address sitting two blocks outside the line, that Sophia might not make it in.
She did make it in, and we sacrificed her first grade year to a teacher who had no qualifications as a first grade teacher, in order to look towards the future with hope that things would get better. They immediately got better with Beth, and then with Jason, and now with Tanya and Jason together in a lovely class atmosphere where real learning is happening. Maeve has followed into a fabulous kindergarten situation, better than I ever could have hoped for based on our kindergarten track record, with Marita and Janice. As teacher, I watch this current group of teachers very closely and know that they are doing the best for my children. I wouldn't have it any other way—if they didn't have the best teachers at this point, we wouldn't be at this school.
And so I was hopeful once again, and willing to take risks once again, when we first started discussing the possibility of a middle school extension of our school. As a middle school teacher myself, I know how important those years are. As a St. Louis City resident, I know how our region works with middle schools. I know that the transition is in 6th grade if I want Sophia to go to McKinley or another public magnet school. I know from my experience in Catholic schools in the city that switching to a Catholic (or Lutheran) school in 6th grade would be far less traumatic than in 7th. Before we began talking about a middle school extension, I knew in my heart that I would most likely have to move Sophia before she finished 6th grade at City Garden to allow her the time to establish herself in a new community.
When we started the discussion about the 7th and 8th grade, it opened my eyes to new possibilities. Not only would I not have to transfer Sophia after 5th grade, but she would continue to receive a spectacular education at the school and in the class she loves. As part of the small start-up class, she would be part of the beta testing, as it were, to get the kinks out of the program before it would be at full capacity. As someone who has taken risks before, and has had good results and poor results, I knew this. I still know this. And I am on board. One hundred percent. Other upper elementary parents I speak with seem to feel this same way. We know it's a gamble. We know this. We started this school. Our kids, our tuition money, made
this school a possibility to begin with. And we know we are starting something else new. Something that will allow not only our own children to continue at a superior school, but will also allow many families who cannot afford private school tuition to receive the very best education this city has to offer. It is not just for myself. It is a social justice issue, not to throw these children to the wolves after 6th grade.
Therefore I find it dismaying to discover that the board is hesitating to vote on this expansion. I have heard it said that the idea of starting next year “for just one student” is inappropriate. Will it be more appropriate to start it the year after for just 6 students? How about the next year for only 11 students? At what point will it be appropriate? Doesn't it make more sense to start it now and work through potential problems and kinks before a middle school would be at full capacity? Wouldn't it make more sense to start with the teachers we have and ease into a full complement of staff one at a time instead of hiring so many new teachers at once?
I ask myself these questions and I wonder what the problem is.
And then I look at the pledge letter again.
Tuition costs money, and it is hard to make a pledge to City Garden without knowing what the very near future holds. If I need to find a middle school for Sophia after next school year, I cannot in good conscience give money away. I need to save it to pay tuition. It is as simple as that. And there is no way I would keep Sophia there through 6th grade—I would find her a good fit by the end of 5th grade and have her start there the following fall. I know I'm not the only parent facing this decision.
The time to act is now.
Thank you,
Bridgett Wissinger
May 23, 2011
City Garden Montessori Charter School Board Members,
Recently I received a letter in the mail from Christie Huck, representing City Garden Montessori Charter School. Quite eloquently, she explained our financial situation. She asked if my family would please consider making an end of year donation to the school and also consider donating a monthly amount over the next three years. Later in the week, Kandice Reynolds called to follow up. I let Kandice know that I certainly would be making some sort of pledge but that I had to speak to Mike and look at what we could do. I know that if my girls attended a private school, most likely my parish school, I would be spending $500 a month on their tuition over a 12 month cycle. I know that we are so lucky to have our school and I know we could afford to make some sort of pledge.
But I paused.
Kandice, Christie, Tina, and I were the first four parents in the first City Garden Kindergarten. I met Christie in Tower Grove Park and we talked about her hopes to start a charter school. I knew going in that it wasn't a guarantee. I paid tuition throughout that first year, and then more tuition the following year for Sophia's first grade year, with the hope that I was helping start something really unique. I knew there were no guarantees. I knew, especially since the boundaries were set with my address sitting two blocks outside the line, that Sophia might not make it in.
She did make it in, and we sacrificed her first grade year to a teacher who had no qualifications as a first grade teacher, in order to look towards the future with hope that things would get better. They immediately got better with Beth, and then with Jason, and now with Tanya and Jason together in a lovely class atmosphere where real learning is happening. Maeve has followed into a fabulous kindergarten situation, better than I ever could have hoped for based on our kindergarten track record, with Marita and Janice. As teacher, I watch this current group of teachers very closely and know that they are doing the best for my children. I wouldn't have it any other way—if they didn't have the best teachers at this point, we wouldn't be at this school.
And so I was hopeful once again, and willing to take risks once again, when we first started discussing the possibility of a middle school extension of our school. As a middle school teacher myself, I know how important those years are. As a St. Louis City resident, I know how our region works with middle schools. I know that the transition is in 6th grade if I want Sophia to go to McKinley or another public magnet school. I know from my experience in Catholic schools in the city that switching to a Catholic (or Lutheran) school in 6th grade would be far less traumatic than in 7th. Before we began talking about a middle school extension, I knew in my heart that I would most likely have to move Sophia before she finished 6th grade at City Garden to allow her the time to establish herself in a new community.
When we started the discussion about the 7th and 8th grade, it opened my eyes to new possibilities. Not only would I not have to transfer Sophia after 5th grade, but she would continue to receive a spectacular education at the school and in the class she loves. As part of the small start-up class, she would be part of the beta testing, as it were, to get the kinks out of the program before it would be at full capacity. As someone who has taken risks before, and has had good results and poor results, I knew this. I still know this. And I am on board. One hundred percent. Other upper elementary parents I speak with seem to feel this same way. We know it's a gamble. We know this. We started this school. Our kids, our tuition money, made
this school a possibility to begin with. And we know we are starting something else new. Something that will allow not only our own children to continue at a superior school, but will also allow many families who cannot afford private school tuition to receive the very best education this city has to offer. It is not just for myself. It is a social justice issue, not to throw these children to the wolves after 6th grade.
Therefore I find it dismaying to discover that the board is hesitating to vote on this expansion. I have heard it said that the idea of starting next year “for just one student” is inappropriate. Will it be more appropriate to start it the year after for just 6 students? How about the next year for only 11 students? At what point will it be appropriate? Doesn't it make more sense to start it now and work through potential problems and kinks before a middle school would be at full capacity? Wouldn't it make more sense to start with the teachers we have and ease into a full complement of staff one at a time instead of hiring so many new teachers at once?
I ask myself these questions and I wonder what the problem is.
And then I look at the pledge letter again.
Tuition costs money, and it is hard to make a pledge to City Garden without knowing what the very near future holds. If I need to find a middle school for Sophia after next school year, I cannot in good conscience give money away. I need to save it to pay tuition. It is as simple as that. And there is no way I would keep Sophia there through 6th grade—I would find her a good fit by the end of 5th grade and have her start there the following fall. I know I'm not the only parent facing this decision.
The time to act is now.
Thank you,
Bridgett Wissinger
Ten on Tuesday: 10 things I love about my house
It's not the one I got in the mail (the one I got in the mail was "ten favorite mail order catalogs" but frankly, I don't like ten of them enough to write that post).
And I've been complaining a lot, justifiably, I think, about my dining room and my house. So here are 10 things I really like about my house. And not things like my furniture or what pictures I've hung on the walls. Things that are part of my house, permanent features.
1. My Jeffersonian Door. It's a door that's actually a window, except that when you lift the lower part of the window (like a normal window, that is), the whole thing goes up from the floor, making a passage. It's not as tall as a whole door when it's open all the way--I have to duck a bit--but it's useful and ornamental.
2. The porch beyond my Jeffersonian door. It's a little sleeping porch off my bedroom that I screened in last autumn. I still need to paint the floor and the new wood--the floor was one of the lead paint culprits, and even though it's been encapsulated, it's outdoors. That only lasts so long. This may be one of those yearly paint projects, frankly. But anyway, I love having a porch off my bedroom. Second floor, screened in with cat-proof screen.
3. My kitchen floor. I LOVE my kitchen floor, which Mike installed after we walked around the marmoleum boxes for a month. It was a hard job--many layers of peel and stick vinyl, glued down (and nailed down, eep) vinyl, several layers of subfloor, and then the ancient green and yellow sheet linoleum. It's our new subfloor on top of heavily damaged pine, and now? Smooth cool orange and corn-yellow marmoleum:
4. The attic. We moved into this house instead of several other identical floor plans in the neighborhood because of the attic. Well, and it was super cheap and our real estate agent could see the future, but at least partially because of the attic. It was unfinished, one huge room, while many of our neighbors have two little bedrooms with high knee-walls eating up the floor space. Our attic is a work in progress and will have seen many changes from the time we moved in until we've exhausted the possibilities, but right now it's one large room with cut out spaces in the knee walls for beds, some knee walls are actually at Leo's knee level, far down almost to where the roof and attic floor meet. It's huge. Huge enough that we've paced out how we'll split it into not two bedrooms, but three bedrooms. And a half-bath. We've done the first work on that already and it's just time that's holding us up (as always)
5. The back staircase. Some people have delusions of grandeur with the term "servants' stairs" but let's be serious. The folks who owned my house did not have live-in servants. This was a streetcar suburb. The most you might have seen would have been a nanny. Maybe. I just can't see Mrs. Murphy or Mrs. Woltjen having the funds to hire a lot of household help. They aren't servants' stairs. They are, however, useful for traffic flow. We don't have an up and down staircase, but they get used like that. And I like them because they are part of an era. People don't build houses with back staircases anymore. What a silly square-footage wasting notion.
6. The mantel in my bedroom. I don't know how it survived the boarding house years but it did. It is a dark cherry finish with a mirror and columns and it surrounds glazed tiles in white with watermelon red and green streaks. It is, along with my so-so stained glass (as stained glass goes, I mean), one of the few beautiful things that were left in my house when we moved in.
7. My library (the room I'm sitting in now). One wall is a window, almost literally. A huge front window above the porch. The walls perpendicular to the front wall are covered, floor to ceiling, in built in shelves. And the wall opposite the front window isn't there any more. The whole room is open to the stairwell below with just a banister next to me. It is small, but before the wall was taken out, it was an impossibly small bedroom. This works better for us.
8. My clawfoot tub. The idiots who owned my house paneled around the danged thing to hide its outdatedness (at the time). We had the feet nickel-plated and painted the outside dark green. The inside is perfect porcelain. It is almost 6 feet in length. Deep.
9. Pocket doors. The house originally had 4. One works like a dream (we had it dipped and it was easy to re-hang)--between our bedroom and the guest room. The one between the dining room and the hall works, but painfully with squeaking and tugging. The one between the living room and hall is off its hinges, but in the wall space, waiting for infinite time and money. And the one or two between the living and dining rooms is/are gone completely. There's still a rail up in the space. We covered up the holes (we had, with great hope, taken the cruddy French doors off just to look). Also, infinite time and money project. But the one that works? I love that one.
10. Our air vent registers/covers. They have built in covers that pull down over them with a fleur de lis imprinted on the metal. And the grates themselves are curlicues and fanciness. Once again: they don't do this sort of thing anymore.
Honorable mentions: 4 fireplaces (three mantels, alas); marble walls in my bathroom; cool-to-the-touch plaster walls instead of sheetrock; huge windows; the weird curved wall in my bathroom (it doesn't have marble on it); the woodwork--even though it is 80% painted and the rest is almost 100% in need of restoration, I love that houses of this era are done and overdone with woodwork everywhere. Deep windowsills, tall baseboards, the staircases...tons of the stuff.
Which is why I can stand in my dining room, take a deep breath, and pray it can be saved.
And I've been complaining a lot, justifiably, I think, about my dining room and my house. So here are 10 things I really like about my house. And not things like my furniture or what pictures I've hung on the walls. Things that are part of my house, permanent features.
1. My Jeffersonian Door. It's a door that's actually a window, except that when you lift the lower part of the window (like a normal window, that is), the whole thing goes up from the floor, making a passage. It's not as tall as a whole door when it's open all the way--I have to duck a bit--but it's useful and ornamental.
2. The porch beyond my Jeffersonian door. It's a little sleeping porch off my bedroom that I screened in last autumn. I still need to paint the floor and the new wood--the floor was one of the lead paint culprits, and even though it's been encapsulated, it's outdoors. That only lasts so long. This may be one of those yearly paint projects, frankly. But anyway, I love having a porch off my bedroom. Second floor, screened in with cat-proof screen.
3. My kitchen floor. I LOVE my kitchen floor, which Mike installed after we walked around the marmoleum boxes for a month. It was a hard job--many layers of peel and stick vinyl, glued down (and nailed down, eep) vinyl, several layers of subfloor, and then the ancient green and yellow sheet linoleum. It's our new subfloor on top of heavily damaged pine, and now? Smooth cool orange and corn-yellow marmoleum:
4. The attic. We moved into this house instead of several other identical floor plans in the neighborhood because of the attic. Well, and it was super cheap and our real estate agent could see the future, but at least partially because of the attic. It was unfinished, one huge room, while many of our neighbors have two little bedrooms with high knee-walls eating up the floor space. Our attic is a work in progress and will have seen many changes from the time we moved in until we've exhausted the possibilities, but right now it's one large room with cut out spaces in the knee walls for beds, some knee walls are actually at Leo's knee level, far down almost to where the roof and attic floor meet. It's huge. Huge enough that we've paced out how we'll split it into not two bedrooms, but three bedrooms. And a half-bath. We've done the first work on that already and it's just time that's holding us up (as always)
5. The back staircase. Some people have delusions of grandeur with the term "servants' stairs" but let's be serious. The folks who owned my house did not have live-in servants. This was a streetcar suburb. The most you might have seen would have been a nanny. Maybe. I just can't see Mrs. Murphy or Mrs. Woltjen having the funds to hire a lot of household help. They aren't servants' stairs. They are, however, useful for traffic flow. We don't have an up and down staircase, but they get used like that. And I like them because they are part of an era. People don't build houses with back staircases anymore. What a silly square-footage wasting notion.
6. The mantel in my bedroom. I don't know how it survived the boarding house years but it did. It is a dark cherry finish with a mirror and columns and it surrounds glazed tiles in white with watermelon red and green streaks. It is, along with my so-so stained glass (as stained glass goes, I mean), one of the few beautiful things that were left in my house when we moved in.
7. My library (the room I'm sitting in now). One wall is a window, almost literally. A huge front window above the porch. The walls perpendicular to the front wall are covered, floor to ceiling, in built in shelves. And the wall opposite the front window isn't there any more. The whole room is open to the stairwell below with just a banister next to me. It is small, but before the wall was taken out, it was an impossibly small bedroom. This works better for us.
8. My clawfoot tub. The idiots who owned my house paneled around the danged thing to hide its outdatedness (at the time). We had the feet nickel-plated and painted the outside dark green. The inside is perfect porcelain. It is almost 6 feet in length. Deep.
9. Pocket doors. The house originally had 4. One works like a dream (we had it dipped and it was easy to re-hang)--between our bedroom and the guest room. The one between the dining room and the hall works, but painfully with squeaking and tugging. The one between the living room and hall is off its hinges, but in the wall space, waiting for infinite time and money. And the one or two between the living and dining rooms is/are gone completely. There's still a rail up in the space. We covered up the holes (we had, with great hope, taken the cruddy French doors off just to look). Also, infinite time and money project. But the one that works? I love that one.
10. Our air vent registers/covers. They have built in covers that pull down over them with a fleur de lis imprinted on the metal. And the grates themselves are curlicues and fanciness. Once again: they don't do this sort of thing anymore.
Honorable mentions: 4 fireplaces (three mantels, alas); marble walls in my bathroom; cool-to-the-touch plaster walls instead of sheetrock; huge windows; the weird curved wall in my bathroom (it doesn't have marble on it); the woodwork--even though it is 80% painted and the rest is almost 100% in need of restoration, I love that houses of this era are done and overdone with woodwork everywhere. Deep windowsills, tall baseboards, the staircases...tons of the stuff.
Which is why I can stand in my dining room, take a deep breath, and pray it can be saved.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Suddenly Blue Jay
I started thinking about birds in 2003. I was at Powder Valley (a nearby nature center) and realized I didn't really know any trees or birds beyond "sparrow" and "oak." I was determined to learn. I received a few field guides and got to work. Really. It was amazing when I realized those little sparrows in my magnolia tree were really juncos and they were only there for a limited time. I put out a feeder. I learned all sorts of different species and songs and markings. I also learned a ton about trees but that's not what I'm talking about today.
Today I saw my first blue jay since childhood.
Not joking. I knew blue jays, which, like cardinals, are easy to spot and not confusing like all those LBJs (little brown jobbies) like wrens and sparrows and finches and so on. They are big, pretty birds, and I know they are outspoken and aggressive towards larger and smaller birds. I've heard they dominate feeders and keep other smaller birds away. They are annoying. So I've heard. Because I've never seen one since I moved here.
West Nile hit St. Louis, what, about 10 years ago? And I wasn't paying attention back then to birds. West Nile hit crows, blackbirds, and jays pretty hard. Must have, because I'd never seen one until today.
It was sitting on my back fence. Surveyed the area. Then flew away.
This leads me to questions. I can understand how a species could recover from an epidemic like that. How a population could bounce back. But if they were gone--completely gone--from this area, how did it get here? Did it just get crowded out from some other less mosquito-infested area and decided to move? Does that happen? Jays live here all year according to the field guide. How do their territories work? Did they see my yard as a pioneer might have seen Nebraska in the 1800s? Wide open and free of others?
Well, whatever brought it here, it is here now. Ann says she had a yard full last week. No matter what their reputation, they are native (as opposed to house sparrows and starlings) and I'm glad to see one again. For the first time.
Today I saw my first blue jay since childhood.
Not joking. I knew blue jays, which, like cardinals, are easy to spot and not confusing like all those LBJs (little brown jobbies) like wrens and sparrows and finches and so on. They are big, pretty birds, and I know they are outspoken and aggressive towards larger and smaller birds. I've heard they dominate feeders and keep other smaller birds away. They are annoying. So I've heard. Because I've never seen one since I moved here.
West Nile hit St. Louis, what, about 10 years ago? And I wasn't paying attention back then to birds. West Nile hit crows, blackbirds, and jays pretty hard. Must have, because I'd never seen one until today.
It was sitting on my back fence. Surveyed the area. Then flew away.
This leads me to questions. I can understand how a species could recover from an epidemic like that. How a population could bounce back. But if they were gone--completely gone--from this area, how did it get here? Did it just get crowded out from some other less mosquito-infested area and decided to move? Does that happen? Jays live here all year according to the field guide. How do their territories work? Did they see my yard as a pioneer might have seen Nebraska in the 1800s? Wide open and free of others?
Well, whatever brought it here, it is here now. Ann says she had a yard full last week. No matter what their reputation, they are native (as opposed to house sparrows and starlings) and I'm glad to see one again. For the first time.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Things that make me happy these days
So it's raining, my dining room smells like pee, I found yet another cat deposit in there this morning, Leo spilled a whole cookie tin full of beads all over the kitchen, and the bathtub has a leaky faucet. But these things are making me happy these days:
*Leo said "quilt" two nights ago. He was in bed and I asked him if he wanted a quilt or not (it was chilly but he's fussy about bed and how it should be just right). He pointed at it and said "quilt." Of course he has never said it again.
*My garden seems to be going really well. I bought some seedlings at the farmer's market that I will plant when it stops raining. But all the spring planting is going like gangbusters.
*The girl scout district awarded me a Daisy Pin. It's a little thing, but it's the first award the Girl Scouts give to volunteers. It means I've served my neighborhood above and beyond expectations. I know I have, and I know I've done good here, but it made me realize two things: I've stuck with something long enough to be noticed like this, and that it is the first organization I've done work for on a volunteer basis that has bothered to say thank you publicly. I mean that in complete seriousness. Volunteering is its own reward (or else I walk away), but it's nice that they noticed. Really nice, actually. It softened my opinion of them (not of GSUSA or even of the local council, but of the neighborhood I'm a part of).
*This:
It needs ironing to set it, but this is the helioprint I did as practice yesterday. I learned a lot in this trial run, and therefore I'm kind of glad it's raining today so the class can set things up and get them ready before we head outside next week to do the printing on t-shirts. The rest of my morning is going to be spent gathering junk from the basement and sorting it by shape so they can have easy access to raw materials to help design their project.
*Art in general. I have really enjoyed this year and the upper elementary teachers have already ok'd the idea of my coming back next year. I've already talked to one of the 1st-3rd grade teachers, the one (ones, actually, since there are 2 teachers in each classroom) I'd really really really like to see Maeve join next year, about the possibility of teaching art once a week in their classroom too. I think that would be so much fun. Eventually I guess I'll have to get a real job for pay but until then this is good practice.
*The "farm to table" project I'm working on at school is coming along nicely. I'm excited. We visited Zelda's school this week and observed her monitoring small groups of kindergartners cooking lunch for the whole school. I've made connections with other groups and now the big sticking point is outfitting a kitchen. Anybody have a commercial hood just sitting around in the basement?
*My kids' school, again, just makes me happy. I've been thinking lately about school choice and the decisions we've made and the other folks on my block have made. Many are very similar choices, frankly, but there are a few that have made different decisions that have been bothering me--not the decisions but the reasoning behind them. Visiting Zelda's school this week sort of brought things into focus in a good way (I like Zelda's school). Schools, like churches and monasteries and offices and neighborhoods, are places. And we choose to be a part of a place when we choose this school over that one. One of the taglines on this blog could be "Geography is Destiny" and it is palpably clear when I focus on school choice. We become part of the place and influence the place and it influences us even more. To our benefit or detriment. In my case, and my kids' cases, it is to our benefit. Realizing this over the last 24 hours or so has made me quite satisfied and cozy. Yay for us.
*Leo said "quilt" two nights ago. He was in bed and I asked him if he wanted a quilt or not (it was chilly but he's fussy about bed and how it should be just right). He pointed at it and said "quilt." Of course he has never said it again.
*My garden seems to be going really well. I bought some seedlings at the farmer's market that I will plant when it stops raining. But all the spring planting is going like gangbusters.
*The girl scout district awarded me a Daisy Pin. It's a little thing, but it's the first award the Girl Scouts give to volunteers. It means I've served my neighborhood above and beyond expectations. I know I have, and I know I've done good here, but it made me realize two things: I've stuck with something long enough to be noticed like this, and that it is the first organization I've done work for on a volunteer basis that has bothered to say thank you publicly. I mean that in complete seriousness. Volunteering is its own reward (or else I walk away), but it's nice that they noticed. Really nice, actually. It softened my opinion of them (not of GSUSA or even of the local council, but of the neighborhood I'm a part of).
*This:
It needs ironing to set it, but this is the helioprint I did as practice yesterday. I learned a lot in this trial run, and therefore I'm kind of glad it's raining today so the class can set things up and get them ready before we head outside next week to do the printing on t-shirts. The rest of my morning is going to be spent gathering junk from the basement and sorting it by shape so they can have easy access to raw materials to help design their project.*Art in general. I have really enjoyed this year and the upper elementary teachers have already ok'd the idea of my coming back next year. I've already talked to one of the 1st-3rd grade teachers, the one (ones, actually, since there are 2 teachers in each classroom) I'd really really really like to see Maeve join next year, about the possibility of teaching art once a week in their classroom too. I think that would be so much fun. Eventually I guess I'll have to get a real job for pay but until then this is good practice.
*The "farm to table" project I'm working on at school is coming along nicely. I'm excited. We visited Zelda's school this week and observed her monitoring small groups of kindergartners cooking lunch for the whole school. I've made connections with other groups and now the big sticking point is outfitting a kitchen. Anybody have a commercial hood just sitting around in the basement?
*My kids' school, again, just makes me happy. I've been thinking lately about school choice and the decisions we've made and the other folks on my block have made. Many are very similar choices, frankly, but there are a few that have made different decisions that have been bothering me--not the decisions but the reasoning behind them. Visiting Zelda's school this week sort of brought things into focus in a good way (I like Zelda's school). Schools, like churches and monasteries and offices and neighborhoods, are places. And we choose to be a part of a place when we choose this school over that one. One of the taglines on this blog could be "Geography is Destiny" and it is palpably clear when I focus on school choice. We become part of the place and influence the place and it influences us even more. To our benefit or detriment. In my case, and my kids' cases, it is to our benefit. Realizing this over the last 24 hours or so has made me quite satisfied and cozy. Yay for us.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Floor. Wow.
It's a small thing. But it's a thing.
The first picture is the floor as it appears in its most damaged areas (thank you Mark Chapman). No flash on the camera, but that's how it looks anyway. Gray. Raised grain. Nasty. If I could only do a scratch n sniff for you.
It's damaged. Scratched, water and urine stained, ill-maintained over 100 years (well, that isn't fair--the Chapman family, later the Widow Chapman remarried a Mr. Murphy, anyway, they didn't move in until the early 40s--before then, it may have been magnificently well kept). Just really shameful. Which is why we cleaned it as best we could and put a huge berber rug down.
Next, a close up of a relatively undamaged area of the floor. Note the scratches, although not much else is really wrong here. Still, I couldn't just sand the really damaged part. When I looked closely like this I knew I had to do the whole floor. But also in this photo, note the color. Yes, it's taken with a flash, but that's the color in a bright light. It's red. It's red and honey yellow brown and so mellow and homey. My living room is, too, and it was never urinated on by drunks.
Lastly, a picture of the adjacent board to the photo just above. It has been sanded flat and smooth as glass. All the finish is off. You couldn't see the grain and burls with the old finish and dirt and wax and whatnot. Not at all. And the color--I can see how it will oil up red and honey yellow brown again. I'm hopeful. And really? Excited.
The first picture is the floor as it appears in its most damaged areas (thank you Mark Chapman). No flash on the camera, but that's how it looks anyway. Gray. Raised grain. Nasty. If I could only do a scratch n sniff for you.
It's damaged. Scratched, water and urine stained, ill-maintained over 100 years (well, that isn't fair--the Chapman family, later the Widow Chapman remarried a Mr. Murphy, anyway, they didn't move in until the early 40s--before then, it may have been magnificently well kept). Just really shameful. Which is why we cleaned it as best we could and put a huge berber rug down.Next, a close up of a relatively undamaged area of the floor. Note the scratches, although not much else is really wrong here. Still, I couldn't just sand the really damaged part. When I looked closely like this I knew I had to do the whole floor. But also in this photo, note the color. Yes, it's taken with a flash, but that's the color in a bright light. It's red. It's red and honey yellow brown and so mellow and homey. My living room is, too, and it was never urinated on by drunks.
Lastly, a picture of the adjacent board to the photo just above. It has been sanded flat and smooth as glass. All the finish is off. You couldn't see the grain and burls with the old finish and dirt and wax and whatnot. Not at all. And the color--I can see how it will oil up red and honey yellow brown again. I'm hopeful. And really? Excited.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Floor Whoas
Ok. Lisa suggested hand-sanding the damaged areas of my dining room floor.
I just spent about ten minutes doing just that. Hey, the walls are half-primed for painting, there's no mantel, the hearth is the cat's favorite new place to pee (and therefore has a layer of aluminum foil on it, making it look like we're worried about laser mind rays getting through the bricks) (oh--my cats don't like the feel/sound of foil, so they've been leaving it alone). The room is, in a word, a mess.
Might as well hand sand the floors.
And Lisa was right. They stink. I can get down right on top of them and tell where the urine is and where the urine never was. The urine-free smells like old sanded wood. The rest of it smells like a nursing home laundry room. On a rainy day. In a bayou.
But only when I'm right up close.
I started with the least damaged of the damaged areas. And even though my father warned me that heart pine could not be sanded, that it would flake and chip and splinter and a sanding would ruin it forever (but of course, the floor is already ruined forever because of the urine and the 100 years of general neglect). I slept on the decision (but not on the floor) for a few nights and decided, well, I couldn't make it worse.
At the worst, since I was doing it by hand with a little hand-sander and so I wasn't likely to go too deep, I would in fact ruin the floor forever and then have a nice subfloor. Which is what I already have. And then some felt paper or whatever that stuff is called, some kind of moisture barrier, and some brand new prefinished oak and voila, pretty dining room floor. Go ahead and just put it down throughout the first floor except the marmoleum kitchen. Go ahead.
At best, it would sand away the nastiness and reveal the lovely old growth pine. I would then finish it with something that wouldn't make Maeve have a seizure and start ruminating about what to do to my front hall (painted black over obvious lines where peel and stick vinyl had been over brown paint over heart pine--but we know 100% there's no lead paint there (city inspector with an ultrasound machine, I mean we KNOW 100%)...
Anyway, I walked away for now. Leo is watching his Tuesday movie and eating a cookie and I was probably disturbing him. Plus I try to maintain the Charlotte Mason idea of short lessons--maybe because I'm scattered--but I try not to get sucked into one thing all day long.
Like the computer.
I need to clean this room and research some farm to table stuff and do laundry and figure out what's for dinner and probably go smell the dining room floor some more.
I just spent about ten minutes doing just that. Hey, the walls are half-primed for painting, there's no mantel, the hearth is the cat's favorite new place to pee (and therefore has a layer of aluminum foil on it, making it look like we're worried about laser mind rays getting through the bricks) (oh--my cats don't like the feel/sound of foil, so they've been leaving it alone). The room is, in a word, a mess.
Might as well hand sand the floors.
And Lisa was right. They stink. I can get down right on top of them and tell where the urine is and where the urine never was. The urine-free smells like old sanded wood. The rest of it smells like a nursing home laundry room. On a rainy day. In a bayou.
But only when I'm right up close.
I started with the least damaged of the damaged areas. And even though my father warned me that heart pine could not be sanded, that it would flake and chip and splinter and a sanding would ruin it forever (but of course, the floor is already ruined forever because of the urine and the 100 years of general neglect). I slept on the decision (but not on the floor) for a few nights and decided, well, I couldn't make it worse.
At the worst, since I was doing it by hand with a little hand-sander and so I wasn't likely to go too deep, I would in fact ruin the floor forever and then have a nice subfloor. Which is what I already have. And then some felt paper or whatever that stuff is called, some kind of moisture barrier, and some brand new prefinished oak and voila, pretty dining room floor. Go ahead and just put it down throughout the first floor except the marmoleum kitchen. Go ahead.
At best, it would sand away the nastiness and reveal the lovely old growth pine. I would then finish it with something that wouldn't make Maeve have a seizure and start ruminating about what to do to my front hall (painted black over obvious lines where peel and stick vinyl had been over brown paint over heart pine--but we know 100% there's no lead paint there (city inspector with an ultrasound machine, I mean we KNOW 100%)...
Anyway, I walked away for now. Leo is watching his Tuesday movie and eating a cookie and I was probably disturbing him. Plus I try to maintain the Charlotte Mason idea of short lessons--maybe because I'm scattered--but I try not to get sucked into one thing all day long.
Like the computer.
I need to clean this room and research some farm to table stuff and do laundry and figure out what's for dinner and probably go smell the dining room floor some more.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Where did I go, part whatever, 6?
What have I done lately?
*I've battled elderly cats who think my living room hearth is a litter box for no good reason (it is spic and span clean, no dust or gravel or anything litter-ish, and I continually clean it up with anti-cat stuff).
*I ate a cupcake at Tower Grove Market. My sister-in-law has started a cupcake venue. Farm Fresh Cupcakes. Local ingredients where she can. My faves are her quick-bread renditions, like her sweet potato or her zucchini. Cupcake, not muffin. They are cake. But they are moist sweet-bread. Oh and can she make icing. Her strawberry icing this weekend was quite the thing.
*I started working on Sophia's school's farm to table project. It's one of our goals for the new building. Interviewed Zelda about her own program where she teaches. Going out to a nearby school district, probably next week, to see and talk some more. And SLU's nutrition program is on my list as well. Actually, my list is pretty long.
*I saw the Pruitt Igoe movie. It was very good. Cinematically good, great archival footage, wonderful interviews, and afterward, two of the interviewed former residents fielded questions from the crowd. Miss Bridget went with me. Because Mike was in Houston eating barbecue (though I would have taken Bridget even if I had also taken Mike).
*I held a girl scout award ceremony in my dining room. Planned a bridging ceremony. Reviewed the year. Had cadettes from a neighboring troop come to talk about their time as cadettes. Had my eyes opened.
*I bought a dishwasher. I had come to the point that I didn't think I would. But then my current (broken) dishwasher, I realized, had moldy water sitting in the bottom. And then I knew I had to replace that space with something--cabinets, a place for the trash can, or a new dishwasher were the three options that came to mind (although I would love having my washing machine and dryer in the kitchen, I don't have THAT much room). So I decided that trying to replace it with cabinets or, really, a cabinet to hide the trash can, would turn into one of those Old House Projects That Never End and decided to cut my losses. Mike and I did some shopping around and reading online and found something. I'll see later if I write an Ode to my Dishwasher or not (like my ode to my stove or washing machine, these songs of praise I have for appliances that make my life better instead of more complicated like my old dishwasher did).
*I went to Fr. Dominic's first mass at church. He was our deacon this past year. He's a Dominican. So the place was overrun with Dominicans. Charism is an interesting thing. Anyway. His sister sang the first verse of the communion meditation song in Irish. The mass was long. There were many words. And many of those words were sung. But besides Maeve rolling around on the pew with boredom, it was good to be there and be a part of something, I don't know, just a community, I guess.
*I ate a lot of salad. It's spring. Even though until today, it was something else. Like something from Scotland or San Francisco. Misty, gray, wet, cold.
*I learned one of Maeve's asthma early warning signs. Friday night, she cried three times in an hour about bewildering things. And then started to cough. I hit her with albuterol immediately. Her asthma coach says to look for those early warning signs. I think that over-tired kind of crying, but with a good night's sleep behind her, might be one. I'm still taking her off flovent this summer. I blame, mostly, this wet wet spring. I wonder what the future holds.
*I wondered if I should, on that same topic, cancel the appointment with the epileptologist this Friday. Is it tempting fate? Is it going to be a waste of time? Probably both, but can fate really be tempted? Magical thinking, anyone?
*I tutored Kadir again. He retained what I taught him two weeks ago. We worked on money some more, and time, and moved further along with addition. I made myself a montessori "stamp game" and worked with that. He got bored with that. Next meeting, we're doing addition with regrouping ("carrying the one"). Although his math facts past +5 are still a mystery, he has learned to evaluate a problem better and see if the top number is below 5, in which case he can start counting with the other addend. It makes me so angry when I tutor him because he soaks this stuff up. So many people have totally dropped the ball here. He says his teacher doesn't understand what I'm trying to do. I refrained from saying what I was thinking: clearly.
*What else? Just same old. Hope to get back into the swing of things.
*I've battled elderly cats who think my living room hearth is a litter box for no good reason (it is spic and span clean, no dust or gravel or anything litter-ish, and I continually clean it up with anti-cat stuff).
*I ate a cupcake at Tower Grove Market. My sister-in-law has started a cupcake venue. Farm Fresh Cupcakes. Local ingredients where she can. My faves are her quick-bread renditions, like her sweet potato or her zucchini. Cupcake, not muffin. They are cake. But they are moist sweet-bread. Oh and can she make icing. Her strawberry icing this weekend was quite the thing.
*I started working on Sophia's school's farm to table project. It's one of our goals for the new building. Interviewed Zelda about her own program where she teaches. Going out to a nearby school district, probably next week, to see and talk some more. And SLU's nutrition program is on my list as well. Actually, my list is pretty long.
*I saw the Pruitt Igoe movie. It was very good. Cinematically good, great archival footage, wonderful interviews, and afterward, two of the interviewed former residents fielded questions from the crowd. Miss Bridget went with me. Because Mike was in Houston eating barbecue (though I would have taken Bridget even if I had also taken Mike).
*I held a girl scout award ceremony in my dining room. Planned a bridging ceremony. Reviewed the year. Had cadettes from a neighboring troop come to talk about their time as cadettes. Had my eyes opened.
*I bought a dishwasher. I had come to the point that I didn't think I would. But then my current (broken) dishwasher, I realized, had moldy water sitting in the bottom. And then I knew I had to replace that space with something--cabinets, a place for the trash can, or a new dishwasher were the three options that came to mind (although I would love having my washing machine and dryer in the kitchen, I don't have THAT much room). So I decided that trying to replace it with cabinets or, really, a cabinet to hide the trash can, would turn into one of those Old House Projects That Never End and decided to cut my losses. Mike and I did some shopping around and reading online and found something. I'll see later if I write an Ode to my Dishwasher or not (like my ode to my stove or washing machine, these songs of praise I have for appliances that make my life better instead of more complicated like my old dishwasher did).
*I went to Fr. Dominic's first mass at church. He was our deacon this past year. He's a Dominican. So the place was overrun with Dominicans. Charism is an interesting thing. Anyway. His sister sang the first verse of the communion meditation song in Irish. The mass was long. There were many words. And many of those words were sung. But besides Maeve rolling around on the pew with boredom, it was good to be there and be a part of something, I don't know, just a community, I guess.
*I ate a lot of salad. It's spring. Even though until today, it was something else. Like something from Scotland or San Francisco. Misty, gray, wet, cold.
*I learned one of Maeve's asthma early warning signs. Friday night, she cried three times in an hour about bewildering things. And then started to cough. I hit her with albuterol immediately. Her asthma coach says to look for those early warning signs. I think that over-tired kind of crying, but with a good night's sleep behind her, might be one. I'm still taking her off flovent this summer. I blame, mostly, this wet wet spring. I wonder what the future holds.
*I wondered if I should, on that same topic, cancel the appointment with the epileptologist this Friday. Is it tempting fate? Is it going to be a waste of time? Probably both, but can fate really be tempted? Magical thinking, anyone?
*I tutored Kadir again. He retained what I taught him two weeks ago. We worked on money some more, and time, and moved further along with addition. I made myself a montessori "stamp game" and worked with that. He got bored with that. Next meeting, we're doing addition with regrouping ("carrying the one"). Although his math facts past +5 are still a mystery, he has learned to evaluate a problem better and see if the top number is below 5, in which case he can start counting with the other addend. It makes me so angry when I tutor him because he soaks this stuff up. So many people have totally dropped the ball here. He says his teacher doesn't understand what I'm trying to do. I refrained from saying what I was thinking: clearly.
*What else? Just same old. Hope to get back into the swing of things.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Floor Woes
My dining room floor has woes.
My kitchen floor used to--a few years back it was sticky-back vinyl tiles, cracked, nauseating dens of festering bacteria (I assume, it's not like I did experiments in there). We peeled it up and back and threw it all away and put down Marmoleum, whose praises I sing to the heavens every day I walk across it in bare feet.
My attic floor has woes--pine flooring that has never been finished, just infused with 50 years of coal dust and let to sit. We did a make-shift band-aid fix for now: large area rugs. And thorough vacuuming and mopping, of course, but those boards are dirty. I assume I will eventually have to paint them or sand them lightly and douse them with...something. Of course, that's where Maeve sleeps and VOCs are not her friend so I guess it won't be polyurethane. Like I said, area rugs for now (old ones, not off-gassing at all, and no carpet pad underneath).
My upstairs floors had woes, too. They were poor-man finished with paint around the edges and left bare in the middle for a rug. We repainted them completely in fun colors about 8 years ago. The hall needs to be redone but the two bedrooms and the room I'm sitting in are still in good shape.
My front hall has woes. It was painted brown. And then painted black on top. So as the black wears away, it looks like I have bits of dirt and leaves strewn throughout the hall. It is unlovely. But it actually doesn't really bother me because our front hall, as people who do not know me are ready to point out, is not a lawyer foyer. It is a depot for shoes and mail and bikes and scooters and strollers. And I do not give a whit what you think about that.
My living room does not have woes. It is heart pine, like the rest of the entire house, just the subfloor, no hardwood on top, but heart pine, I could write an ode to well-done heart pine. It is pretty. Honey colored with beautiful streaks of red. It looks old and I like it. I do not want to cover it up permanently, but since nothing turns me off more than a dusty wood floor under bare feet, we have area rugs in there. They bring the room together somewhat and I know underneath that the wood is waiting for me.
But the dining room. It has woes that cannot be brushed away with a dismissive flick of the wrist (front hall) or with low traffic and a coat of paint (upstairs). It has real woes. Blues songs aren't expressive enough to describe the woes in this room.
When we moved in, the weekend we closed on the house, the woman who had lived here her whole life had moved out weeks before. She left behind her brother, an alcoholic living in the basement. Who had trashed the house in the intervening time. Most of it was reclaimable. The dining room floor, however, was bad. He had obviously stood in the center and relieved himself in an arc. And then left it there for 2 weeks. Oh, it was bad. When I think back to how disgusting the house was...anyway. It was bad.
My father-in-law cleaned it with something scary (I assume--I think I was hiding upstairs trying to remain sane) and the odor dissipated. Some. On damp days we could smell it still. Within a year of moving in, we put a large area rug down in that room, one that covered almost the entire floor. And I forgot about it. You couldn't smell it anymore, except on the wettest nastiest day, and then it was only a musty damp smell. Whatever.
But then we decided to paint that room last month. And no good rehab job goes unpunished. I rearranged furniture, which annoyed my elderly cats. They decided to let me know by turning the hearth into a litter box. And a part of the rug. I worked on this diligently with enzyme spray, which worked fine, but we came to the point that we realized the rug had done its time. It was a berber carpet end that we'd had bound. It was stained, worn, and beat up. I rolled it up and Mike took it out to the alley.
And lo, the smell returned. And I was shocked not only by how strong it was, but by how damaged the floor was. Really damaged. Eleven years under a rug had not been good for it. The pee damaged areas were almost black, unfinished, with raised grain and a strong odor.
Woes.
The whole room was really sad.
We washed it every day. It would seem better for a few hours, and then it would return. I started to get sad, frankly. So much of my house was in such better shape (or, like the front hall floors, I just didn't care). This was so damaged. This whole room just sucked.
So I washed it really well on Monday morning. I let it dry. And then I paste-waxed it.
It soaked up the wax like water on dry sand. I polished the bojangles out of it and turned on a box fan. It was shiny for the first time since we moved in. The damaged worn spots were still obvious, but they had the first glimpse of hope in years.
This afternoon, I could catch the beginnings of the urine odor again. My dad said not to give up, to do 2 or 3 more coats of paste wax first. And I'm going to. Hey, I'll paste wax it every week if it will do something. It's the first thing (besides hiding it under a rug) that has eased the odor. I know I'm just sealing it in, really, but I'm ok with that for now.
Because another thing happened. The non-damaged parts of the floor came back to life, too. Honey colored. Streaks of red. Pretty 500 year old trees gave their lives for this floor 106 years ago. I'm walking on wood that started growing before Columbus set foot on this hemisphere. I don't want to hide it. I want to bring it back into the light. Not to (ahem) wax poetic about it.
So I ordered more of the orange-oil paste wax and I'll go at it again in a few days. And again, I predict. And I will probably fight it long after I should give up. Or maybe not. Maybe it will work. I just don't know. I have to keep trying. I feel like, for some reason I don't understand about me, I owe it to the floor to try.
My kitchen floor used to--a few years back it was sticky-back vinyl tiles, cracked, nauseating dens of festering bacteria (I assume, it's not like I did experiments in there). We peeled it up and back and threw it all away and put down Marmoleum, whose praises I sing to the heavens every day I walk across it in bare feet.
My attic floor has woes--pine flooring that has never been finished, just infused with 50 years of coal dust and let to sit. We did a make-shift band-aid fix for now: large area rugs. And thorough vacuuming and mopping, of course, but those boards are dirty. I assume I will eventually have to paint them or sand them lightly and douse them with...something. Of course, that's where Maeve sleeps and VOCs are not her friend so I guess it won't be polyurethane. Like I said, area rugs for now (old ones, not off-gassing at all, and no carpet pad underneath).
My upstairs floors had woes, too. They were poor-man finished with paint around the edges and left bare in the middle for a rug. We repainted them completely in fun colors about 8 years ago. The hall needs to be redone but the two bedrooms and the room I'm sitting in are still in good shape.
My front hall has woes. It was painted brown. And then painted black on top. So as the black wears away, it looks like I have bits of dirt and leaves strewn throughout the hall. It is unlovely. But it actually doesn't really bother me because our front hall, as people who do not know me are ready to point out, is not a lawyer foyer. It is a depot for shoes and mail and bikes and scooters and strollers. And I do not give a whit what you think about that.
My living room does not have woes. It is heart pine, like the rest of the entire house, just the subfloor, no hardwood on top, but heart pine, I could write an ode to well-done heart pine. It is pretty. Honey colored with beautiful streaks of red. It looks old and I like it. I do not want to cover it up permanently, but since nothing turns me off more than a dusty wood floor under bare feet, we have area rugs in there. They bring the room together somewhat and I know underneath that the wood is waiting for me.
But the dining room. It has woes that cannot be brushed away with a dismissive flick of the wrist (front hall) or with low traffic and a coat of paint (upstairs). It has real woes. Blues songs aren't expressive enough to describe the woes in this room.
When we moved in, the weekend we closed on the house, the woman who had lived here her whole life had moved out weeks before. She left behind her brother, an alcoholic living in the basement. Who had trashed the house in the intervening time. Most of it was reclaimable. The dining room floor, however, was bad. He had obviously stood in the center and relieved himself in an arc. And then left it there for 2 weeks. Oh, it was bad. When I think back to how disgusting the house was...anyway. It was bad.
My father-in-law cleaned it with something scary (I assume--I think I was hiding upstairs trying to remain sane) and the odor dissipated. Some. On damp days we could smell it still. Within a year of moving in, we put a large area rug down in that room, one that covered almost the entire floor. And I forgot about it. You couldn't smell it anymore, except on the wettest nastiest day, and then it was only a musty damp smell. Whatever.
But then we decided to paint that room last month. And no good rehab job goes unpunished. I rearranged furniture, which annoyed my elderly cats. They decided to let me know by turning the hearth into a litter box. And a part of the rug. I worked on this diligently with enzyme spray, which worked fine, but we came to the point that we realized the rug had done its time. It was a berber carpet end that we'd had bound. It was stained, worn, and beat up. I rolled it up and Mike took it out to the alley.
And lo, the smell returned. And I was shocked not only by how strong it was, but by how damaged the floor was. Really damaged. Eleven years under a rug had not been good for it. The pee damaged areas were almost black, unfinished, with raised grain and a strong odor.
Woes.
The whole room was really sad.
We washed it every day. It would seem better for a few hours, and then it would return. I started to get sad, frankly. So much of my house was in such better shape (or, like the front hall floors, I just didn't care). This was so damaged. This whole room just sucked.
So I washed it really well on Monday morning. I let it dry. And then I paste-waxed it.
It soaked up the wax like water on dry sand. I polished the bojangles out of it and turned on a box fan. It was shiny for the first time since we moved in. The damaged worn spots were still obvious, but they had the first glimpse of hope in years.
This afternoon, I could catch the beginnings of the urine odor again. My dad said not to give up, to do 2 or 3 more coats of paste wax first. And I'm going to. Hey, I'll paste wax it every week if it will do something. It's the first thing (besides hiding it under a rug) that has eased the odor. I know I'm just sealing it in, really, but I'm ok with that for now.
Because another thing happened. The non-damaged parts of the floor came back to life, too. Honey colored. Streaks of red. Pretty 500 year old trees gave their lives for this floor 106 years ago. I'm walking on wood that started growing before Columbus set foot on this hemisphere. I don't want to hide it. I want to bring it back into the light. Not to (ahem) wax poetic about it.
So I ordered more of the orange-oil paste wax and I'll go at it again in a few days. And again, I predict. And I will probably fight it long after I should give up. Or maybe not. Maybe it will work. I just don't know. I have to keep trying. I feel like, for some reason I don't understand about me, I owe it to the floor to try.
Monday, May 09, 2011
Facsimile of our most interesting moment in camp
We didn't see this spider. But we saw one remarkably like this one. A little darker in color. A mom identified it as a wolf spider. I tried not to freak out. The thing, with legs, was as big as the palm of my hand.
Sunday, May 08, 2011
Girl Scout Camp #6
We've been 6 times now. This was, by far, our best trip. Things I've learned:
*Our girls are, for the most part, lodge campers. They like the option of fire cooking and sleeping out of doors but like having a back up plan. It makes sense, really, since their parents are city dwellers. I don't mean this in a bad way. I think living in the inner city allows you to have several back up plans. Car breaks down, you can walk, or bike, or take the bus. Run out of gemelli before your big family dinner? The Hill is only 5 minutes away. Those sorts of things. Yes, it is less self-sufficient to live in the city than in the country, but it is co-sufficient. And I think that becomes somewhat ingrained. They want to camp, they want to do things outdoorsy and shoot at targets and hike up the hills but they want to know where their water is coming from. And that it's unlikely that a giant wolf spider will crawl across their face at night.
*We're pretty competent. Now that they're 4th and 5th graders, I gave them a little more free reins on Saturday. Things are sinking in and they know what to do and what not to do.
*We're good at being hosts to others: we had 6 daisies come for the day on Saturday (Maeve's troop) and 13 brownies come Saturday morning and stay the night. We did most of the heavy lifting, allowing the leaders to see what might be in their future. The girls were great at including younger kids; we weren't overplanned or, really, underplanned. We took a hike up a hill, we made lunch, and we played in the field. Then, on suggestion from on of my 5th graders, we went for a somewhat more dangerous creek walk. The rocks weren't slick but some of the water was ice cold and running fast. All but 3 girls went (those three stayed behind with some of the adults and did a craft, on their own choosing), so I had 27 girls and 4 adults in the creek. And nobody got hurt or, ok, they did get wet. But that was the only thing Maeve told Mike about her day. We chose that activity well. It made an impression.
*Fire-building is getting easier. It helps that everything was reasonably dry this time. One match. My 5th graders, again, with a few 4th, helped lay it for me and then I lit it up. One brownie leader said, "It's good to watch you do this, all the preparation first and how you tend it to keep it going." I laughed because my first girl scout fire in December 2009 was one of the epic "land war in Asia" disasters.
*We make good food. Decent enough that when we were eating dinner, brought to us by the brownie troop, it was obvious we hadn't made it. Not that it was that bad, but it was more of the canned soup with beans and such kind of camp food instead of what we're used to. You don't have to suffer when you troop camp--it's not survivalist kind of stuff.
*My girls do not get bored at camp. I was worried after the January 2011 experience with the snitchy-cat games and emerging "mean girls" that I needed to script it more. So I had activities planned for Friday. Then I went to the camp supervisor meeting (which took way too long, truly) and when I got back, they'd planned a bit, done a bit, gone off script, and were having a great time together.
*On the down side, though, I think sometimes a beginning community needs to lose members to really thrive. It hurts me to say this and I flinch thinking about people reading that, but part of what made this weekend work was the lack of a few girls (we were missing 4 of our regulars who would not have changed anything for the worse if they'd been there--they weren't there due to birthdays and other obligations--but there were 3 or 4 girls I've written about till my fingers are sore that were also not there, and it was better without them). I don't know what this says about me (probably nothing good) or about my girls (probably doesn't reflect on them as much because they are welcoming and open and were as shocked as I was by bad interpersonal behaviors). It probably says a lot about the girls who have fallen away, frankly. But I still feel a bit bad that we couldn't make it work. I keep thinking that I can't save everyone, certainly not girls I see once a month for 2 hours and then a weekend here and there--I'm not enough of an influence, me and my coleader and the regular moms can't fix it all. But you know, you still think you should be able to.
*We're not beginners anymore. We have troop legends and stories now. The camp supervisor who was so mean. The snow. The hot chocolate incident. The phrase "Bridgett and Clarity go camping" meaning, when my coleader and I camp, the weather sucks (this was disproven this trip). The group I taught archery to who were so rude and how I, in a shaky voice, told my girls never, never would they be that way.
*I really really like the adults who regularly volunteer to camp with us. Bridget from school, a couple of the moms from school, Zelda, Clarity. We have similar opinions about the things that are happening in the moment (low tolerance for girl-scouty stuff, cynicism towards forced cheer, interest in skills and self-sufficiency and nature) and that often leads to further conversations about anything and everything. This weekend ranged from the mundane (odes to coffee, mostly) to the personal (it was Mother's Day and these were women who chose to camp) to almost political (I ranted about the flood fiasco at Birds Point before moving on to less touchy subjects). Past weekends have involved ecumenical discussions of various sorts, school choice, personal histories of boyfriends and husbands, the basic "How One Came To Be Who She Is" stories, discussions of childbirth and breastfeeding and adoption and cars and how to identify poison ivy as well as poisonous playmates, both for you to help your child avoid them.
*We are Cedarledge people. Maybe Fiddlecreek (we've never been) but we just don't like Tuckaho. It isn't our thing. Yeah, Sacajawea Lodge had a great kitchen, but the feel of Tuckaho just doesn't match us as well. Cedarledge is a good place. I think we'll focus in that direction in the future.
*While we are good hosts, I don't think we'll do that again. Maybe coordinate with another troop to be at camp the same weekend and try to do one or two things together, but not sharing a site and teaching again. Maybe. It's a good thing to do, but I think the girls realized they were going on only half a camping trip, really, because the other half had brownies and daisies involved and that changes the gestalt.
All for now. Leo's awake. Sigh. Back to normal life I go.
*Our girls are, for the most part, lodge campers. They like the option of fire cooking and sleeping out of doors but like having a back up plan. It makes sense, really, since their parents are city dwellers. I don't mean this in a bad way. I think living in the inner city allows you to have several back up plans. Car breaks down, you can walk, or bike, or take the bus. Run out of gemelli before your big family dinner? The Hill is only 5 minutes away. Those sorts of things. Yes, it is less self-sufficient to live in the city than in the country, but it is co-sufficient. And I think that becomes somewhat ingrained. They want to camp, they want to do things outdoorsy and shoot at targets and hike up the hills but they want to know where their water is coming from. And that it's unlikely that a giant wolf spider will crawl across their face at night.
*We're pretty competent. Now that they're 4th and 5th graders, I gave them a little more free reins on Saturday. Things are sinking in and they know what to do and what not to do.
*We're good at being hosts to others: we had 6 daisies come for the day on Saturday (Maeve's troop) and 13 brownies come Saturday morning and stay the night. We did most of the heavy lifting, allowing the leaders to see what might be in their future. The girls were great at including younger kids; we weren't overplanned or, really, underplanned. We took a hike up a hill, we made lunch, and we played in the field. Then, on suggestion from on of my 5th graders, we went for a somewhat more dangerous creek walk. The rocks weren't slick but some of the water was ice cold and running fast. All but 3 girls went (those three stayed behind with some of the adults and did a craft, on their own choosing), so I had 27 girls and 4 adults in the creek. And nobody got hurt or, ok, they did get wet. But that was the only thing Maeve told Mike about her day. We chose that activity well. It made an impression.
*Fire-building is getting easier. It helps that everything was reasonably dry this time. One match. My 5th graders, again, with a few 4th, helped lay it for me and then I lit it up. One brownie leader said, "It's good to watch you do this, all the preparation first and how you tend it to keep it going." I laughed because my first girl scout fire in December 2009 was one of the epic "land war in Asia" disasters.
*We make good food. Decent enough that when we were eating dinner, brought to us by the brownie troop, it was obvious we hadn't made it. Not that it was that bad, but it was more of the canned soup with beans and such kind of camp food instead of what we're used to. You don't have to suffer when you troop camp--it's not survivalist kind of stuff.
*My girls do not get bored at camp. I was worried after the January 2011 experience with the snitchy-cat games and emerging "mean girls" that I needed to script it more. So I had activities planned for Friday. Then I went to the camp supervisor meeting (which took way too long, truly) and when I got back, they'd planned a bit, done a bit, gone off script, and were having a great time together.
*On the down side, though, I think sometimes a beginning community needs to lose members to really thrive. It hurts me to say this and I flinch thinking about people reading that, but part of what made this weekend work was the lack of a few girls (we were missing 4 of our regulars who would not have changed anything for the worse if they'd been there--they weren't there due to birthdays and other obligations--but there were 3 or 4 girls I've written about till my fingers are sore that were also not there, and it was better without them). I don't know what this says about me (probably nothing good) or about my girls (probably doesn't reflect on them as much because they are welcoming and open and were as shocked as I was by bad interpersonal behaviors). It probably says a lot about the girls who have fallen away, frankly. But I still feel a bit bad that we couldn't make it work. I keep thinking that I can't save everyone, certainly not girls I see once a month for 2 hours and then a weekend here and there--I'm not enough of an influence, me and my coleader and the regular moms can't fix it all. But you know, you still think you should be able to.
*We're not beginners anymore. We have troop legends and stories now. The camp supervisor who was so mean. The snow. The hot chocolate incident. The phrase "Bridgett and Clarity go camping" meaning, when my coleader and I camp, the weather sucks (this was disproven this trip). The group I taught archery to who were so rude and how I, in a shaky voice, told my girls never, never would they be that way.
*I really really like the adults who regularly volunteer to camp with us. Bridget from school, a couple of the moms from school, Zelda, Clarity. We have similar opinions about the things that are happening in the moment (low tolerance for girl-scouty stuff, cynicism towards forced cheer, interest in skills and self-sufficiency and nature) and that often leads to further conversations about anything and everything. This weekend ranged from the mundane (odes to coffee, mostly) to the personal (it was Mother's Day and these were women who chose to camp) to almost political (I ranted about the flood fiasco at Birds Point before moving on to less touchy subjects). Past weekends have involved ecumenical discussions of various sorts, school choice, personal histories of boyfriends and husbands, the basic "How One Came To Be Who She Is" stories, discussions of childbirth and breastfeeding and adoption and cars and how to identify poison ivy as well as poisonous playmates, both for you to help your child avoid them.
*We are Cedarledge people. Maybe Fiddlecreek (we've never been) but we just don't like Tuckaho. It isn't our thing. Yeah, Sacajawea Lodge had a great kitchen, but the feel of Tuckaho just doesn't match us as well. Cedarledge is a good place. I think we'll focus in that direction in the future.
*While we are good hosts, I don't think we'll do that again. Maybe coordinate with another troop to be at camp the same weekend and try to do one or two things together, but not sharing a site and teaching again. Maybe. It's a good thing to do, but I think the girls realized they were going on only half a camping trip, really, because the other half had brownies and daisies involved and that changes the gestalt.
All for now. Leo's awake. Sigh. Back to normal life I go.
This is a test message
It is Sunday. It is Mother's Day. I just got home from girl scout camp, which rocked, but which wore me out to the point that this was a conversation I had with myself at 3 this morning:
Hmm. I really have to use the bathroom.
Maybe I can just go back to sleep. It's so far away and the bed is so warm.
I don't think that will work.
Maybe just another hour and then.
No. I must go now.
I now understand the phrase "bone tired" in a palpable way. But I must say it was worth it on many fronts.
And girls are coming to play mah jongg tonight. So, more later when I am less exhausted and my house is cleaner.
Hmm. I really have to use the bathroom.
Maybe I can just go back to sleep. It's so far away and the bed is so warm.
I don't think that will work.
Maybe just another hour and then.
No. I must go now.
I now understand the phrase "bone tired" in a palpable way. But I must say it was worth it on many fronts.
And girls are coming to play mah jongg tonight. So, more later when I am less exhausted and my house is cleaner.
Wednesday, May 04, 2011
Sunday, May 01, 2011
Doubting Thomas
I led children's liturgy of the word today. For those not involved, it is a separate liturgy, the readings and gospel, a little bit of a teaching/homily/whatever you want to call it, the apostles' creed and prayers of the faithful. We hold it down in the church hall (basement) and it runs parallel to the same liturgy, for adults, going on in church upstairs.
I led today, the second Sunday of Easter, the story of Jesus' visit to the upper room and Thomas, not being there, not believing for a second that they're telling the truth. You know the story.
Thomas is often vilified as having weak faith, but children often ask questions (as do adults) and I didn't want to take that approach. I started with forgiveness, which is the first part of the reading: those you forgive are forgiven, those you do not forgive are not (that's the children's lectionary version). I had the children think about who was in that room--the apostles who ran away, Peter who denied Christ--and how they must have been feeling. We shared.
Then instead of Jesus coming in and immediately admonishing them all, he just says "Peace be with you." Yes, I reassured the kids, he deals with Peter later, in upcoming Gospel readings, but at the moment, in that group, he is saying, in a way, that they are forgiven. And therefore, we need to do the same. I brought the phrase from the Lord's Prayer: forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us. And we talked about forgiveness.
I always accept questions throughout, although if we start to get a little far afield, we stop and return to the topic. One question got me at this point: Do we have to really tell someone right away that we forgive them, or is it enough to forgive them in our hearts?
Well? Miss Bridgett, is it?
We then passed around two depictions of Thomas probing the wounds of Jesus. We explored what Thomas must have felt, and the other disciples, and Jesus himself. And then we talked about questions. How Thomas had questions, and when Christ came to the room, he didn't tell Thomas that he'd sinned for having doubt. He said, yes, that, basically, wouldn't it have been nice if he'd believed anyway...and yet, he answers Thomas' questions.
We all have questions for God. Some are easy. Some are hard, but as we get older, the answers become more clear, or we get used to not having them answered. And some we keep asking and keep asking and get frustrated but still ask. The asking is important, I told them. It is a sign of growing in faith to ask questions and ponder the reasons for things.
And that sort of opened the floodgates. It started easy--the two depictions I had of the incident were very different. One was your standard Italian Renaissance European Jesus and Apostles. And the other was painted in Cameroon 30 years ago. One of the girls asked why Jesus was black in this painting, and why he had short hair. I could field this question.
Then came the fascination with Thomas actually sticking his finger into Jesus' side in the Italian painting. Wouldn't it hurt? Was there blood? Why didn't he get it stitched up after the resurrection?
And then, I really think because while I sometimes answered "it's a mystery, isn't it" or "the Gospel writers don't give us that much detail, and I wonder why that is" but didn't cut them off or tell them they just had to have faith, then came harder questions.
Including one that began, "In school, we're reading Number the Stars, and we're supposed to keep a list of questions to discuss in class and my question was why didn't God stop the holocaust?"
I glanced at Jen. Then Christy, who was downstairs getting donuts and coffee together for after mass, caught my eye as well. She was interested in how I would answer. I thought, in this split second, about many things. About the semester long course on antisemitism I took in college. About my Jewish friends. About being angry at God for whatever reason but still remaining faithful, how hard it is to carrying those feelings and faith at the same time. And I knew I wasn't going to handle it well and I got a little shaky.
"You know," I started, "We have been asking that very question and ones like it for a very long time." I wanted to say there were entire libraries of Jewish theology dedicated to that question. I wanted to explore further the idea that we are God's hands in the world. But she nodded and I brushed the tears out of my eyes and we left it at that. For now. Other good questions followed.
I wrapped up the session by reiterating the importance of questions. That these questions and so many others have been shared not just by the people in the room, but by their parents and teachers and by saints, popes, priests, holy people all over the world. It is part of being human and part of being faithful.
There are no easy answers to hard questions, I thought as we went through the prayers of the faithful--the kids there are all well aware of world events and events in their own lives that are not fair and not right. We prayed for Japan. We prayed for Libya and Syria and other countries facing war. We prayed for tornado and flood victims. We prayed for new mothers and first communicants and sick people and things we always pray for (but our dogs didn't come up today, for a change). And then we headed upstairs.
We had overstayed our time. It was the end of the Eucharistic Prayer when we got upstairs. The longest children's liturgy ever. But I think it was worth it.
I led today, the second Sunday of Easter, the story of Jesus' visit to the upper room and Thomas, not being there, not believing for a second that they're telling the truth. You know the story.
Thomas is often vilified as having weak faith, but children often ask questions (as do adults) and I didn't want to take that approach. I started with forgiveness, which is the first part of the reading: those you forgive are forgiven, those you do not forgive are not (that's the children's lectionary version). I had the children think about who was in that room--the apostles who ran away, Peter who denied Christ--and how they must have been feeling. We shared.
Then instead of Jesus coming in and immediately admonishing them all, he just says "Peace be with you." Yes, I reassured the kids, he deals with Peter later, in upcoming Gospel readings, but at the moment, in that group, he is saying, in a way, that they are forgiven. And therefore, we need to do the same. I brought the phrase from the Lord's Prayer: forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us. And we talked about forgiveness.
I always accept questions throughout, although if we start to get a little far afield, we stop and return to the topic. One question got me at this point: Do we have to really tell someone right away that we forgive them, or is it enough to forgive them in our hearts?
Well? Miss Bridgett, is it?
We then passed around two depictions of Thomas probing the wounds of Jesus. We explored what Thomas must have felt, and the other disciples, and Jesus himself. And then we talked about questions. How Thomas had questions, and when Christ came to the room, he didn't tell Thomas that he'd sinned for having doubt. He said, yes, that, basically, wouldn't it have been nice if he'd believed anyway...and yet, he answers Thomas' questions.
We all have questions for God. Some are easy. Some are hard, but as we get older, the answers become more clear, or we get used to not having them answered. And some we keep asking and keep asking and get frustrated but still ask. The asking is important, I told them. It is a sign of growing in faith to ask questions and ponder the reasons for things.
And that sort of opened the floodgates. It started easy--the two depictions I had of the incident were very different. One was your standard Italian Renaissance European Jesus and Apostles. And the other was painted in Cameroon 30 years ago. One of the girls asked why Jesus was black in this painting, and why he had short hair. I could field this question.
Then came the fascination with Thomas actually sticking his finger into Jesus' side in the Italian painting. Wouldn't it hurt? Was there blood? Why didn't he get it stitched up after the resurrection?
And then, I really think because while I sometimes answered "it's a mystery, isn't it" or "the Gospel writers don't give us that much detail, and I wonder why that is" but didn't cut them off or tell them they just had to have faith, then came harder questions.
Including one that began, "In school, we're reading Number the Stars, and we're supposed to keep a list of questions to discuss in class and my question was why didn't God stop the holocaust?"
I glanced at Jen. Then Christy, who was downstairs getting donuts and coffee together for after mass, caught my eye as well. She was interested in how I would answer. I thought, in this split second, about many things. About the semester long course on antisemitism I took in college. About my Jewish friends. About being angry at God for whatever reason but still remaining faithful, how hard it is to carrying those feelings and faith at the same time. And I knew I wasn't going to handle it well and I got a little shaky.
"You know," I started, "We have been asking that very question and ones like it for a very long time." I wanted to say there were entire libraries of Jewish theology dedicated to that question. I wanted to explore further the idea that we are God's hands in the world. But she nodded and I brushed the tears out of my eyes and we left it at that. For now. Other good questions followed.
I wrapped up the session by reiterating the importance of questions. That these questions and so many others have been shared not just by the people in the room, but by their parents and teachers and by saints, popes, priests, holy people all over the world. It is part of being human and part of being faithful.
There are no easy answers to hard questions, I thought as we went through the prayers of the faithful--the kids there are all well aware of world events and events in their own lives that are not fair and not right. We prayed for Japan. We prayed for Libya and Syria and other countries facing war. We prayed for tornado and flood victims. We prayed for new mothers and first communicants and sick people and things we always pray for (but our dogs didn't come up today, for a change). And then we headed upstairs.
We had overstayed our time. It was the end of the Eucharistic Prayer when we got upstairs. The longest children's liturgy ever. But I think it was worth it.
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