Never Bored ($2.99)
If you’ve ever heard, “I’m bored!” you need this app. There are 100s of creative activities to keep your children mentally or physically active on their own or with a friend. The car games are especially fun and can be used not only in a car, but waiting in a restaurant or while hiking. Many of the games can be adapted for 2 or more players, making them great for a family road trip. All of the activities get your child thinking or moving—the app is used to generate age appropriate ideas—flick through a list until you find one that looks interesting, easily get details and then set the iPhone aside and get your brain or body in motion.
In addition, there are numerous suggestions for places to visit and a quick tap on location brings up a map showing the locations nearest you. We use Never Bored when we need an activity for 10 minutes while we wait for a doctor appointment or when we need a family game to play while driving. Never Bored can generate lots of ideas with just a quick tap—check it out at http://www.mainelysoftware.com/ .
Hangman. By JamSoft (free)
This version of hangman (note the ‘.’ at the end of the name) is great for your child to play alone or to play with you or a friend. When playing alone, there is a choice of word lists, so your child can work on learning countries or chemical elements or just pass time guessing nouns.
My daughter and I enjoy playing in two player mode. In this mode, one player enters a word or phrase that the other player tries to guess. When we play, our phrases can take on the humorous or quizzical as well as the educational—can she spell the words she thinks up? We have even had conversations back and forth in the form of hangman phrases while waiting for a restaurant table.
Shazam Encore ($4.99)
Try out the free version of Shazam and see what the buzz is about. Not only can you find out the song titles and artists of songs you like (called tagging a song), but you can also tag songs your children like and learn the names of the artists they are listening to as well as check out the lyrics if you can’t quite understand the words as they are sung or rapped.
After you have tagged a song, you can preview and purchase the song, read a biography of the artist, and for some tunes, read the lyrics. So the next time you’re wondering what your children are listening to just use Shazam. Learn more at http://www.shazam.com/ .
Geocaching ($9.99)
If you are a parent who would like to get your family outside together, then geocaching is a great activity for your family. Geocaching is a high tech treasure hunting game played the world over. Geocachers search for hidden containers (called caches) which often contain small trinkets to trade, and record their finds online—a game, a goal and a prize all in one. And I have found adults equally motivated by having a prize while hiking.
If you are a geocacher then this is a must have iPhone app. The user interface for this application combined with the quality of the gps in an iPhone, have made my iPhone my default gps device for geocaching. Using this app, you can find nearby caches, look for caches in a particular area, save information for offline use if you’re headed to an area without good data coverage (a common issue when hiking) and upload your finds directly to the geocaching web site. The interface is simple and intuitive yet comprehensive. Purchase this app and get your family hiking together. Check out the sport of geocaching at http://www.geocaching.com/ .
Now Playing (free)
So it’s a rainy day and you’re unlikely to head out geocaching. Now Playing is an outstanding app to see what movies are playing at the local theaters.
We use this app when we’re out and want to quickly find a good movie for our family. You can quickly get a list of the movies playing at local theaters with the rating, length and show times all listed in one easy to read interface. Dig a little deeper and you can read detailed reviews from individual users as well as go to your favorite movie review website for their opinions.
Raising a Teenage Daughter Starts When She's a Toddler
Teenage daughters are awesome! However, beware, raising a teenage daughter starts when they are toddlers. I don’t mean that little girls act like teenagers. What I mean is that good parenting starts when a child is born, and the key to raising well-adjusted, strong, compassionate teenage daughters is to put good habits in place when your daughters are small.
Take clothing as an example. A parent should have a lot of control over what clothes are purchased for his or her small children. While it may look cute to dress a child ‘up’ by purchasing that cami for her when she’s four and letting her wear it out, is that the habit you want her to carry into her teenage years? Sure words across her pants on her behind may be cute when she’s 6, but do you want people staring at her bottom when she’s a 14 year old? And high heels at 5? Yes, I’ve seen it. How practical is it for a child to be walking down the street in high heels—do you want her wearing high heels to middle school? Sure, it’s great for little girls to play dress up. It’s wonderful to have a big box full of old high heels, feathery boas, shiny dresses and oversized hats. But a child should know that this is dress up clothing, not what is worn to preschool or out to a restaurant.
Good habits extend far beyond clothing. If you want your 15 year old daughter to only attend parties where a responsible parent is home, then check on who is going to be in the house when she is going to a friend’s home when she is 8 and 10 and 12. Make calling the friend’s parents a habit and she won’t be thrown off when you check before she goes on a ski weekend as a 16 year old and you call the friend’s parents to ensure they will be going along as well.
Similarly teach fiscal responsibility from a young age with appropriate use of allowance. Some money can be saved. Take your young daughter to the bank to open her own account. Some can be donated to charity—let her choose where to make her donation. Some can be spent—help her decide what is worth saving for and what isn’t a good value when she is young and she will be more financially aware when she becomes a teen.
While starting good habits at a young age takes time—it takes a lot more time to explain banking to your daughter, take her to a bank and open an account, then it does to simply deposit the money yourself when she is at preschool—the time and aggravation you save as she grows into a teen will be immense. Raise your teenage daughters from the time they are toddlers!
Take clothing as an example. A parent should have a lot of control over what clothes are purchased for his or her small children. While it may look cute to dress a child ‘up’ by purchasing that cami for her when she’s four and letting her wear it out, is that the habit you want her to carry into her teenage years? Sure words across her pants on her behind may be cute when she’s 6, but do you want people staring at her bottom when she’s a 14 year old? And high heels at 5? Yes, I’ve seen it. How practical is it for a child to be walking down the street in high heels—do you want her wearing high heels to middle school? Sure, it’s great for little girls to play dress up. It’s wonderful to have a big box full of old high heels, feathery boas, shiny dresses and oversized hats. But a child should know that this is dress up clothing, not what is worn to preschool or out to a restaurant.
Good habits extend far beyond clothing. If you want your 15 year old daughter to only attend parties where a responsible parent is home, then check on who is going to be in the house when she is going to a friend’s home when she is 8 and 10 and 12. Make calling the friend’s parents a habit and she won’t be thrown off when you check before she goes on a ski weekend as a 16 year old and you call the friend’s parents to ensure they will be going along as well.
Similarly teach fiscal responsibility from a young age with appropriate use of allowance. Some money can be saved. Take your young daughter to the bank to open her own account. Some can be donated to charity—let her choose where to make her donation. Some can be spent—help her decide what is worth saving for and what isn’t a good value when she is young and she will be more financially aware when she becomes a teen.
While starting good habits at a young age takes time—it takes a lot more time to explain banking to your daughter, take her to a bank and open an account, then it does to simply deposit the money yourself when she is at preschool—the time and aggravation you save as she grows into a teen will be immense. Raise your teenage daughters from the time they are toddlers!
-free zone
My life has become a series of –free zones. My driver’s seat is a cell-free zone. The dinner table is a telephone-free zone (cell or land). I attempt to keep a computer-free zone in my family room and kitchen immediately after school to ensure I can focus on my children as they return home. Each of these zones is intended to reduce my multi-tasking.
I recently read, not to my surprise, that multi-tasking is an oxymoron. We cannot focus on two disparate tasks simultaneously. A condition that is abundantly clear as I attempt to write amid the chatter in the orthopedists’ waiting room. There’s the toddler dancing around the mom and continually chattering until the mom says, “behave or I’ll call daddy and then you’ll be in trouble.” (I didn’t think parent’s used this threat anymore). Then a quiet pause for 30 seconds or so followed by, “okay, call daddy.” Several other people waiting chuckle along with me. See, even in writing I have been completely unfocused by trying to blog while listening to idle chatter.
Sure, there are plenty of –free zone established for the comfort and safety of the public—smoke-free zones, cell phone-free zones, even backpack-free zones to improve security or minimize shoplifting. But my –free zones are more personal—an attempt to reduce the clutter in my mind and allow me to live in the present. Just this morning I found myself creating a daily to do list while I was in the shower, then I paused and thought to myself, the shower should be a list-free zone. Perhaps I have created a whole new compulsion— -free zones. Maybe I’ll create a –free zone-free zone…
I recently read, not to my surprise, that multi-tasking is an oxymoron. We cannot focus on two disparate tasks simultaneously. A condition that is abundantly clear as I attempt to write amid the chatter in the orthopedists’ waiting room. There’s the toddler dancing around the mom and continually chattering until the mom says, “behave or I’ll call daddy and then you’ll be in trouble.” (I didn’t think parent’s used this threat anymore). Then a quiet pause for 30 seconds or so followed by, “okay, call daddy.” Several other people waiting chuckle along with me. See, even in writing I have been completely unfocused by trying to blog while listening to idle chatter.
Sure, there are plenty of –free zone established for the comfort and safety of the public—smoke-free zones, cell phone-free zones, even backpack-free zones to improve security or minimize shoplifting. But my –free zones are more personal—an attempt to reduce the clutter in my mind and allow me to live in the present. Just this morning I found myself creating a daily to do list while I was in the shower, then I paused and thought to myself, the shower should be a list-free zone. Perhaps I have created a whole new compulsion— -free zones. Maybe I’ll create a –free zone-free zone…
Packing in Blue States vs. Red States
Herein lies the basic difference between the red plain states and the blue coastal states—each decorates their business doors with friendly reminders to their clientele. Guess this gets to the difference in ‘packing’ between the two regions as well. In the plains, they put up a friendly reminder to leave what you’re packing in the car, while in the coastal region, a reminder to bring what you need for packing with you. Maybe if we could resolve these two differing perspectives on packing, we could reduce partisan politics.
Social Media: Conveyor Belt versus Assembly Station
Sometimes I’m in the mood for the conveyor belt approach of Twitter. I like to see comments on the day’s news, feelings and non-news passing by in a continuous stream. Unlike a factory conveyor belt, I am hardly seeing the same information in a repetitive fashion. This is more like a pizza oven conveyor—sometimes pepperoni going past, sometimes plain cheese, sometimes the works. Like a pizza conveyor just before the Super Bowl, there’s a constant, dense stream of comments which I find endlessly entertaining.
Then at other times, I need something along the lines of a factory assembly station where everyone comes together in the same place to add a piece of the final product. That’s more or less how I view Facebook. Sure there’s a conveyor belt of statuses flowing by, but when I make a status comment I can watch the assembly of an entire conversation in one place—the replies to comments, the extension of comments, the disagreements, all come together in one location.
It’s just social media mimicking real life.
Then at other times, I need something along the lines of a factory assembly station where everyone comes together in the same place to add a piece of the final product. That’s more or less how I view Facebook. Sure there’s a conveyor belt of statuses flowing by, but when I make a status comment I can watch the assembly of an entire conversation in one place—the replies to comments, the extension of comments, the disagreements, all come together in one location.
It’s just social media mimicking real life.
Managing Sibling Rivalry with Business Principals
Production: Clearly that is what created the sibling rivalry in the first place.
Human Resources: “If you have time to distract your brother while he’s doing homework then you have time to take the trash out.”
Engineering: Engineering can be helpful when the kinder, gentler precepts of human resources fail. Think building a wall between the children in the back seat of the car.
Business Development: “Jennifer is having a friend over after school. Would you like to invite Maddie over?”
Marketing: Instead of, “The brownies will be out of the oven when your sister gets home” try “I just put brownies in the oven. They should be ready for you to eat one in about 20 minutes.”
Sales: “You’ll be glad you have a sibling to share the burden of your parents when we age.”
Human Resources: “If you have time to distract your brother while he’s doing homework then you have time to take the trash out.”
Engineering: Engineering can be helpful when the kinder, gentler precepts of human resources fail. Think building a wall between the children in the back seat of the car.
Business Development: “Jennifer is having a friend over after school. Would you like to invite Maddie over?”
Marketing: Instead of, “The brownies will be out of the oven when your sister gets home” try “I just put brownies in the oven. They should be ready for you to eat one in about 20 minutes.”
Sales: “You’ll be glad you have a sibling to share the burden of your parents when we age.”
Transfer Station
Transfer Station. What an apt name. We load our broken ceiling tiles, plastic recyclables, flattened cardboard boxes, bound newspapers and junk mail, bags of tissue and floss, empty ice cream containers, coffee grounds and all manner of garbage tied up in plastic bags, into our car, slam the trunk and drive to the Transfer Station.
Many folks still call it the dump out of habit. Dumps and landfills have slowly given way to transfer stations from Maine to California. A friend of mine was helping her mom clean out her home before moving into a condo. She took endless trips to the town transfer station, each time driving from bin #17 back to bin #4 to bin #12 to find the appropriate drop off point for an old mattress, stacks of magazines, NiCad batteries and all manner of refuse that collects, untended, in a home over the decades.
My town's transfer station is less fussy-- one huge metal hole for recyclables-- ALL recyclables, one huge metal hole for garbage, a medium sized shed for 'second time around donations.' and some large mysterious piles for demolition material and tires. The cavernous metal holes drop into gigantic metal containers. Every month or so the containers are hauled away, to transfer their contents to someone else's town.
But where is all of this refuse transferring to? Who is on the receiving end? The term itself, 'transfer station' seems to echo the transitory nature of the material goods that we collect, hang on to and then chose to discard. So we 'transfer' them. To where? To whom? Is one large dump environmentally superior to a multitude of smaller landfills or is it simply more palatable to transfer our refuse somewhere else, somewhere farther out of site and out of mind.
Many folks still call it the dump out of habit. Dumps and landfills have slowly given way to transfer stations from Maine to California. A friend of mine was helping her mom clean out her home before moving into a condo. She took endless trips to the town transfer station, each time driving from bin #17 back to bin #4 to bin #12 to find the appropriate drop off point for an old mattress, stacks of magazines, NiCad batteries and all manner of refuse that collects, untended, in a home over the decades.
My town's transfer station is less fussy-- one huge metal hole for recyclables-- ALL recyclables, one huge metal hole for garbage, a medium sized shed for 'second time around donations.' and some large mysterious piles for demolition material and tires. The cavernous metal holes drop into gigantic metal containers. Every month or so the containers are hauled away, to transfer their contents to someone else's town.
But where is all of this refuse transferring to? Who is on the receiving end? The term itself, 'transfer station' seems to echo the transitory nature of the material goods that we collect, hang on to and then chose to discard. So we 'transfer' them. To where? To whom? Is one large dump environmentally superior to a multitude of smaller landfills or is it simply more palatable to transfer our refuse somewhere else, somewhere farther out of site and out of mind.
I am the Anti-Snow White
I am the anti-Snow White. Just like Snow White, woodland creatures come streaming from their forest homes to greet me. But instead of cheerfully offering their assistance in my daily chores, they come at me with a vengeance.
Maybe Snow White wasn’t waited on by pairs of nesting loons, but had she been lakeside I am certain the loons would have dove into the cool depths of the crystal clear waters to bring her lake reeds to dry and bundle into brooms. No such luck with my loon friends. While I admit I do love the loons, I wonder if they ever sleep. Instead of plying me with lake reeds to dry and fresh fish for dinner, my local loons start off my day with an alarm-clock awakening. Yes, even the ‘hauntingly beautiful’ call of the loon sounds more like a fire alarm when it’s piercing cry hits a high note at 4:30 am waking me from well, at least not Snow White-like sleep. And so my day of reckoning with the innocent-looking woodland creatures begins.
My first morning stop is my garden to see which dainty buds have been torn off my plants by the night’s marauding bunnies and deer. How do they know exactly which day the buds will bloom and rip them (only Snow White would refer to deer and rabbit’s incessant foraging as nibbling) from their stalks just before they open their colorful display? And it’s not just night visits any longer—my two little Bambis wait surreptitiously under cover of brush until I depart before raiding my garden in the middle of the day. Just yesterday I returned to spot the two fleet of foot thieves fleeing down my driveway and scattering into the woods across the street.
All of my woodland sparring partners are bold. I used to keep a tomato plant on my deck. But even with constant vigilance, my adversarial neighborhood chipmunk would scurry right up to the plant and pluck off a cherry tomato just before it was ready to ripen, or simply chomp into the sweet flesh and dart away.
Instead of sweetly singing with me and offering a helping paw or wing as I sweep up, I swear the chipmunks and birds are intentionally dropping their refuse just after my broom has passed. I keep my garbage can lid tightly affixed to repel the raccoons intent on flinging my garbage rather than offering their paws to shine apples, poisonous or not, for my fruit bowl.
No birds flit through my windows to turn back my sheets before I climb into bed. No bunnies snuggle on my covers to warm my feet. And the squirrels, rather than keep a lookout for a wicked witch, have chosen to take up residence in my crawl space and chew through all manner of important conduits in my walls. And so I settle down to sleep, one pillow over my head to keep out the sound of creatures chomping through my garden, and wait for the cry of the loon to startle me awake to another day.
Maybe Snow White wasn’t waited on by pairs of nesting loons, but had she been lakeside I am certain the loons would have dove into the cool depths of the crystal clear waters to bring her lake reeds to dry and bundle into brooms. No such luck with my loon friends. While I admit I do love the loons, I wonder if they ever sleep. Instead of plying me with lake reeds to dry and fresh fish for dinner, my local loons start off my day with an alarm-clock awakening. Yes, even the ‘hauntingly beautiful’ call of the loon sounds more like a fire alarm when it’s piercing cry hits a high note at 4:30 am waking me from well, at least not Snow White-like sleep. And so my day of reckoning with the innocent-looking woodland creatures begins.
My first morning stop is my garden to see which dainty buds have been torn off my plants by the night’s marauding bunnies and deer. How do they know exactly which day the buds will bloom and rip them (only Snow White would refer to deer and rabbit’s incessant foraging as nibbling) from their stalks just before they open their colorful display? And it’s not just night visits any longer—my two little Bambis wait surreptitiously under cover of brush until I depart before raiding my garden in the middle of the day. Just yesterday I returned to spot the two fleet of foot thieves fleeing down my driveway and scattering into the woods across the street.
All of my woodland sparring partners are bold. I used to keep a tomato plant on my deck. But even with constant vigilance, my adversarial neighborhood chipmunk would scurry right up to the plant and pluck off a cherry tomato just before it was ready to ripen, or simply chomp into the sweet flesh and dart away.
Instead of sweetly singing with me and offering a helping paw or wing as I sweep up, I swear the chipmunks and birds are intentionally dropping their refuse just after my broom has passed. I keep my garbage can lid tightly affixed to repel the raccoons intent on flinging my garbage rather than offering their paws to shine apples, poisonous or not, for my fruit bowl.
No birds flit through my windows to turn back my sheets before I climb into bed. No bunnies snuggle on my covers to warm my feet. And the squirrels, rather than keep a lookout for a wicked witch, have chosen to take up residence in my crawl space and chew through all manner of important conduits in my walls. And so I settle down to sleep, one pillow over my head to keep out the sound of creatures chomping through my garden, and wait for the cry of the loon to startle me awake to another day.
IPhones Used For Everything But a Phone
Music, check. GPS navigation, check. Restaurant finder, check. GPS for geocaching, check. Postcards, check. Baseball game audio, check. All that just by plugging my iPhone into the car power adapter. How did we travel around the country three years ago without our iPhones? 
Seriously though, on our drive through the plains states this July, we found our iPhones indispensable, and we rarely used them to make phone calls. We used them continuously while driving for a multitude of other needs, well ‘nice-to-haves’, but they certainly made traveling more efficient.
We got into the car in Topeka and first things first, plugged in both iPhones to the power adapter (real-time GPS drains the battery quickly). Then we entered our destination— in this case a coffee house in Nebraska City. I think I even heard my iPhone mutter, ‘Really, I can find you coffee closer than a 2 ½ hours drive’ Next, audio of choice—in the morning, the iPod, so also plug in the line-in cable. And we set out on our drive north.
Of course, although I use the camera on the iPhone, I still kept my camera close at hand and as I love maps, I kept the AAA state map open on my lap. AAA maps are far superior to any state maps. Honestly I don’t know why all states don’t start with the AAA map for readability and then add their state ads to the reverse side of the map.
As we started thinking about lunch, we’d use google maps on the iPhone to search for a good sandwich spot. Turns out that ‘sandwich’ isn’t a very good search term to find the type of places we were looking for—a place with homemade bread, or hummus and cucumber or a specialty pita pocket with goat cheese. To find those types of places the keywords ‘café’ and ‘bakery’ proved optimal for us. Even though we were in the heart of cattle country we found fabulous vegetarian sandwiches every day for lunch—like the great veggie sandwich at Amanda’s Bakery and Café in Emporia, Kansas—all by using the iPhone.
Mid-day we might take a break for some geocaching. Again, we’d turn to our iPhone and the geocaching app to locate a nearby cache and set us on our way. Then late in the day, being Red Sox fans, it was time for the ballgame. This was the only disappointment in using the iPhone, primarily because AT&T’s data service is outstandingly poor through the northern plain states. We used the audio on MLB when AT&T was able to keep it streaming to our iPhones (rarely). When AT&T failed (most of the time), I provided my own audio version following the play-by-play. I will certainly never be considered for a spot in the WRKO booth for Red Sox games.
Of course somewhere along the way we’d snap a few ridiculous photos with our iPhones and turn them into postcards to send to our kids at camp using Hazel Mail—an easy and fun way to keep them updated on our whereabouts. We felt a special connection to our iPhone as we were uploading one postcard and were directed to ‘wait patiently.’ Sometimes, we had to be really patient. We uploaded a post card in Hot Springs where AT&T’s data service was very slow. We waited while we sat enjoying sandwiches at the Poet’s Loft. We waited while we strolled down the street. And then we continued to wait for the postcard to upload while we put our wallets and phones in lock boxes before our thermal bath. The last words on the iPhone screen as my husband placed it in the lock box were, “continue waiting patiently.” Then the metal lock box was shut, the box was slid into a metal slot in the middle of a bank of lock boxes, inside an office, inside a stone bathhouse in the middle of Hot Springs, Arkansas which rests in a valley surrounded by hills. I wonder how long the phone tried in vain to reach a signal before muttering to itself, ‘where in the world am I?’
Seriously though, on our drive through the plains states this July, we found our iPhones indispensable, and we rarely used them to make phone calls. We used them continuously while driving for a multitude of other needs, well ‘nice-to-haves’, but they certainly made traveling more efficient.
We got into the car in Topeka and first things first, plugged in both iPhones to the power adapter (real-time GPS drains the battery quickly). Then we entered our destination— in this case a coffee house in Nebraska City. I think I even heard my iPhone mutter, ‘Really, I can find you coffee closer than a 2 ½ hours drive’ Next, audio of choice—in the morning, the iPod, so also plug in the line-in cable. And we set out on our drive north.
Of course, although I use the camera on the iPhone, I still kept my camera close at hand and as I love maps, I kept the AAA state map open on my lap. AAA maps are far superior to any state maps. Honestly I don’t know why all states don’t start with the AAA map for readability and then add their state ads to the reverse side of the map.
As we started thinking about lunch, we’d use google maps on the iPhone to search for a good sandwich spot. Turns out that ‘sandwich’ isn’t a very good search term to find the type of places we were looking for—a place with homemade bread, or hummus and cucumber or a specialty pita pocket with goat cheese. To find those types of places the keywords ‘café’ and ‘bakery’ proved optimal for us. Even though we were in the heart of cattle country we found fabulous vegetarian sandwiches every day for lunch—like the great veggie sandwich at Amanda’s Bakery and Café in Emporia, Kansas—all by using the iPhone.
Mid-day we might take a break for some geocaching. Again, we’d turn to our iPhone and the geocaching app to locate a nearby cache and set us on our way. Then late in the day, being Red Sox fans, it was time for the ballgame. This was the only disappointment in using the iPhone, primarily because AT&T’s data service is outstandingly poor through the northern plain states. We used the audio on MLB when AT&T was able to keep it streaming to our iPhones (rarely). When AT&T failed (most of the time), I provided my own audio version following the play-by-play. I will certainly never be considered for a spot in the WRKO booth for Red Sox games.
Of course somewhere along the way we’d snap a few ridiculous photos with our iPhones and turn them into postcards to send to our kids at camp using Hazel Mail—an easy and fun way to keep them updated on our whereabouts. We felt a special connection to our iPhone as we were uploading one postcard and were directed to ‘wait patiently.’ Sometimes, we had to be really patient. We uploaded a post card in Hot Springs where AT&T’s data service was very slow. We waited while we sat enjoying sandwiches at the Poet’s Loft. We waited while we strolled down the street. And then we continued to wait for the postcard to upload while we put our wallets and phones in lock boxes before our thermal bath. The last words on the iPhone screen as my husband placed it in the lock box were, “continue waiting patiently.” Then the metal lock box was shut, the box was slid into a metal slot in the middle of a bank of lock boxes, inside an office, inside a stone bathhouse in the middle of Hot Springs, Arkansas which rests in a valley surrounded by hills. I wonder how long the phone tried in vain to reach a signal before muttering to itself, ‘where in the world am I?’
Photos of Prairie Grass
“Take pictures of the grass, mom.” That was my daughter’s suggestion upon hearing I was heading to the plains states. So when I arrived at the Tallgrass Prairie National Reserve, I was thrilled with the expanse of grasses and flowers in all directions to photograph.
The Tallgrass Prairie is a great stop if you are within 100 miles of southeastern Kansas. Call ahead and reserve a tour on the blue bus- a 1 ½ hour interpretative drive with plenty of stops for walking and viewing the prairie up close.
Just a taste of the prairie life we saw:
Prairie Coneflower
The Tallgrass Prairie is a great stop if you are within 100 miles of southeastern Kansas. Call ahead and reserve a tour on the blue bus- a 1 ½ hour interpretative drive with plenty of stops for walking and viewing the prairie up close.
Just a taste of the prairie life we saw:
Prairie Coneflower
Banded Lizard
Dickcissel on False Indigo
Yarrow 
The soil here has limestone just below the surface, so with the shallow topsoil this area wasn’t suited to farming. Consequently, grazing continued here and the Nature Conservancy has been able to purchase this land. Through careful management the Nature Conservancy is restoring the land to how it may have appeared before ranchers settled the area. That includes the introduction of Buffalo, which is planned in the coming year.
And if you’re looking for a fabulous homemade sandwich on your way to or from the Prairie, stop in Amanda’s Bakery and Café in Emporia Kansas.
Tollbooth dollar bill changer
Having underestimated our driving time from Hot Springs, Arkansas to Catoosa, Oklahoma to see the big blue whale on Route 66, we were racing the sun to get to the whale before dusk. Actually, there is no true dusk here on the plains, just sunset. In any case, a quick dinner was in order so we decided to try a Sonic drive-in as we’d being seeing Sonics in every town we drove through. With temperatures near 100-degrees, we were feeling like we knew what a Sonic was all about as we drove to the far side to park in the shade. But then we looked like neophytes when the condiment attendant came up to the car and we went to take her entire tray from her thinking it was our dinner. Some dinner that would have been—a 100 mini packets of ketchup, mustard and mayo! So from bath attendants in Hot Springs to condiment attendants at a Sonic somewhere near Oklahoma, we were feeling very well attended on our trip along the girth of the country. That is, until we got to the tollbooths in Oklahoma. We are no strangers to toll booths, being from back east, but one particular tollbooth was like none we had ever encountered. Sure we understand that PikePass holders should receive preferential treatment, get the fast lanes without any encumbrance even if that means that toll payers are sent to a single lane off to the right of the highway. And certainly many toll plazas have an exact change lane, coin only. But this was the first plaza we’d ever seen that not only required exact change, but also had no attendant to make change. Instead there was a dollar bill changer at the toll booth!
With the sun sinking close to the horizon, we attempted to quickly feed a worn bill into the changer machine. No luck; not accepted. I doubled checked for quarters in my purse. Having just put in $3 worth of quarters into parking meters in Hot Springs, I was down to only 3 quarters. One option: drop in the 3 we had and drive on through. Like good citizens wanting to avoid a huge rental car fine, we continued scouring for quarters, the sun sinking lower like a second hand ticking onward. Being in a rush never helps a search. Fortunately no one came up behind us as we frenetically continued searching for one more quarter. Finally a fourth quarter materialized at the bottom of our day bag and we were on our way.
We pulled up the big blue whale just as the soon tipped the horizon—enough light to appreciate what water playground this must have been in its heyday. The whale sports a gaping walk-in mouth, two slides out either side, lots of room for running through and even an upper observatory. To be a kid here when the water was clear would have been a treat on a hot summer day like today. Admiring the ingenuity of the whale playground creator at sunset was a great treat today.
Laughing in a Thermal Water Bathhouse
I started laughing uncontrollably while bathing in a porcelain tub filled with thermal mineral waters of the hot springs; the whirlpool bubbles, meant to be relaxing, only increased my laughter. Enjoyable? Quite. What was particularly humorous was that while I bathed in the ladies bath, my husband, who dislikes whirlpools and doesn’t really have a hankering for spas, had taken his loofa mitt and headed off to the men’s traditional bath. Plus here we were on a 100-degree day in Hot Springs Arkansas, sitting in HOT water! My laughter bubbled forth with even more gusto, as I sat in the vapor cabinet.
Literally a metal cabinet with just my neck sticking out, hot steam encasing my entire body. Rivulets of sweat poured down my back and arms. I was even hotter now than I had been walking along the promenade above bathhouse row in the noonday sun.Between each bathing element (tub bath, sitz bath, vapor cabinet, hot packs and needle shower), my bathing attendant BJ would tell me to “stand with your back to me, arms up,” and I was swathed in a full-length sheet wrapped around me like a toga. At $30 including the loofa mitt for an hour traditional thermal bathing experience, the Buckstaff Experience is a good value. Hey, and if you can’t picture your husband at a spa, bring him along too and you’ll get in a healthy dose of laughter.
All laughter and thoughts left my mind as I lay with thermal water hot packs on my back and limbs, a cool clothe on my forehead. Here I could fall asleep. And my last thought before I drifted into a semi-doze was that perhaps my husband too would get in a short nap before we headed out of Arkansas and on to points west.
Little Rock, Arkansas-- full of nice surprises
We started our totally excellent adventure to see a few more states we haven’t visited by flying to Arkansas via Memphis, home of Elvis, the recently deposed king of dead pop stars. There we noted that the restrooms in the airport were marked as Severe Weather Shelters—our first reminder that we were in tornado alley. A second short flight and we arrived in Little Rock—our first visit to Arkansas.
Little Rock surprised us—we didn’t expect to find so much to do or find the city so appealing. However, the highlight was the Robinwood Bed and Breakfast. We have stayed at many bed and breakfasts and this one was outstanding in every measure! The hosts, Karen and Miriam, are fabulously welcoming while still providing us with ample privacy.
Another surprise—the accents we heard were quite mild and in some cases non-existent —no strong southern drawls here. In addition Little Rock hasn’t been hit hard by the recession. Their housing market was never driven up to unsupportable rates, so there hasn’t been a huge downturn. With beautiful, architecturally mixed neighborhoods minutes from downtown, Little Rock is a very pleasant place to live. Our hosts told us about their neighborhood progressive dinners. It turns out that the governor’s mansion is right in the neighborhood, so the current governor is invited and attends the dinners! Apparently he is well-liked, as was Clinton. Huckabee turns out wasn’t much of a neighbor and few, if any, compliments were made of his administration by our hosts.
From the free parking lots to the proximity of the residential area to the small main street, Little Rock is more like a small town than a capital city.
After getting nourishment (we are three meal a day travelers regardless of where we are visiting), we toured the Clinton Presidential Library. Okay, not everyone’s cup of tea, but it’s a really cool building architecturally and perhaps my photo of the replica of the Oval Office can pass as the real thing. The letters to and from the Clinton’s were particularly cool—inspired me to start writing to the White House occupants and who knows, maybe my letters will show up in a future presidential library.
One great way to get to know a city is through geocaches. So we set off in search of our first (and as it turned out, only) geocache in Arkansas. Having arrived from the rain-drenched northeast we were eager to dry out walking in 100 degree sunshine. Apparently, the locals didn’t see the appeal in walking in the heat and we had the route to ourselves.
Once we had replaced rain moisture with sweat moisture, we made our first daily stop for a milkshake and headed to visit the Little Rock Nine National Historic Site. This NHS is across from Central High School where the nine black students attended in 1957 in an effort to initiate desegregation in Little Rock.
I was particularly moved by the comments of one of the parents of the black students, sending their children into a hateful environment on a daily basis. One student recalled how her parents had told her to keep her emotions in check and not to take the taunts personally; it wasn’t about her, it was about race. How hard for the parents to take such stand in order to better the education of all of the children who would follow in the footsteps of these brave first few.
Tomorrow on to Hot Springs to continue our tour of this very appealing state.
Little Rock surprised us—we didn’t expect to find so much to do or find the city so appealing. However, the highlight was the Robinwood Bed and Breakfast. We have stayed at many bed and breakfasts and this one was outstanding in every measure! The hosts, Karen and Miriam, are fabulously welcoming while still providing us with ample privacy.
Another surprise—the accents we heard were quite mild and in some cases non-existent —no strong southern drawls here. In addition Little Rock hasn’t been hit hard by the recession. Their housing market was never driven up to unsupportable rates, so there hasn’t been a huge downturn. With beautiful, architecturally mixed neighborhoods minutes from downtown, Little Rock is a very pleasant place to live. Our hosts told us about their neighborhood progressive dinners. It turns out that the governor’s mansion is right in the neighborhood, so the current governor is invited and attends the dinners! Apparently he is well-liked, as was Clinton. Huckabee turns out wasn’t much of a neighbor and few, if any, compliments were made of his administration by our hosts.
From the free parking lots to the proximity of the residential area to the small main street, Little Rock is more like a small town than a capital city.
After getting nourishment (we are three meal a day travelers regardless of where we are visiting), we toured the Clinton Presidential Library. Okay, not everyone’s cup of tea, but it’s a really cool building architecturally and perhaps my photo of the replica of the Oval Office can pass as the real thing. The letters to and from the Clinton’s were particularly cool—inspired me to start writing to the White House occupants and who knows, maybe my letters will show up in a future presidential library.One great way to get to know a city is through geocaches. So we set off in search of our first (and as it turned out, only) geocache in Arkansas. Having arrived from the rain-drenched northeast we were eager to dry out walking in 100 degree sunshine. Apparently, the locals didn’t see the appeal in walking in the heat and we had the route to ourselves.
Once we had replaced rain moisture with sweat moisture, we made our first daily stop for a milkshake and headed to visit the Little Rock Nine National Historic Site. This NHS is across from Central High School where the nine black students attended in 1957 in an effort to initiate desegregation in Little Rock.
I was particularly moved by the comments of one of the parents of the black students, sending their children into a hateful environment on a daily basis. One student recalled how her parents had told her to keep her emotions in check and not to take the taunts personally; it wasn’t about her, it was about race. How hard for the parents to take such stand in order to better the education of all of the children who would follow in the footsteps of these brave first few.Tomorrow on to Hot Springs to continue our tour of this very appealing state.
Ancestry Map
Need to capture your ancestry visually in a small space? Here is an ancestry map that I created as a 5”x7” rectangle which shows the names, dates of immigration and countries of origin for 4 family lines each going back 4 generations. Five, six or more generations can be accommodated depending on the length of surnames.
Key:
Green: Mother’s maternal ancestors
Red: Mother’s paternal ancestors
Black: Father’s maternal ancestors
Blue: Father’s paternal ancestors
Script Font: Country of birth
Regular Font: Family name of ancestor and date of immigration
Font Size: Largest fonts represent parents, fonts decrease in size for prior generations
I then arranged the names and places artistically rather than chronologically. If a last name is taken by a spouse at marriage (common in many English –speaking countries historically) then I didn’t repeat the name. Similarly, for Spanish surnames, to allow for space, I didn’t repeat the paternal surnames. This greatly reduces the number of names that need to be included and allows more names to be readable.
Similarly I didn’t repeat countries of birth. I included the name of any country in which at least one of my ancestors was born, but I only included each country once, even if 4 great great grandparents and 2 grandparents were born there. To visually identify that multiple families originated in a particular country, I used more than one color in the country’s name. For instance, to show that my mother’s dad and my father’s dad came from Italy, I would write Italy with both blue and red font. I adjusted this technique to show balance in the numbers of ancestors coming from multiple family branches. For instance, if many of my father’s maternal ancestors came from Russia and one of my mother’s paternal ancestors came from Russia, then I might write Russia all in black with just one letter red.
I also included the dates of immigration to our current country of residence. The dates next to the names in the generic ancestry map shown here, correspond to the year that name or branch of the family immigrated; they are not meant to represent the date for that particular individual. In the case of many ancestors having come to your country a long time ago, many of the names would include dates. On the other extreme, if your parents were born abroad and you immigrated to your country then none of the names shown would have dates included. In such a case, I would include the date of immigration in a large font prominently in the center of the map.
Modify and adjust to suit your family’s structure. Country names, immigration dates, surnames can all be adjusted in color, type and size to reflect a multitude of ancestry information. Perhaps you want to include common first names or employment industry or number of siblings. Select the attributes that are most important for your family and then modify the fonts to reflect those attributes.
My daughters suggested increasing the transparency as you travel back in time through the names, so that the great great great grandparents names would be quite faded. Just beware of attempting to capture too much information as having more than 4 or 5 attributes may only serve to overwhelm and confuse whoever is reading your ancestry map.
Key:
Green: Mother’s maternal ancestors
Red: Mother’s paternal ancestors
Black: Father’s maternal ancestors
Blue: Father’s paternal ancestors
Script Font: Country of birth
Regular Font: Family name of ancestor and date of immigration
Font Size: Largest fonts represent parents, fonts decrease in size for prior generations
I then arranged the names and places artistically rather than chronologically. If a last name is taken by a spouse at marriage (common in many English –speaking countries historically) then I didn’t repeat the name. Similarly, for Spanish surnames, to allow for space, I didn’t repeat the paternal surnames. This greatly reduces the number of names that need to be included and allows more names to be readable.
Similarly I didn’t repeat countries of birth. I included the name of any country in which at least one of my ancestors was born, but I only included each country once, even if 4 great great grandparents and 2 grandparents were born there. To visually identify that multiple families originated in a particular country, I used more than one color in the country’s name. For instance, to show that my mother’s dad and my father’s dad came from Italy, I would write Italy with both blue and red font. I adjusted this technique to show balance in the numbers of ancestors coming from multiple family branches. For instance, if many of my father’s maternal ancestors came from Russia and one of my mother’s paternal ancestors came from Russia, then I might write Russia all in black with just one letter red.
I also included the dates of immigration to our current country of residence. The dates next to the names in the generic ancestry map shown here, correspond to the year that name or branch of the family immigrated; they are not meant to represent the date for that particular individual. In the case of many ancestors having come to your country a long time ago, many of the names would include dates. On the other extreme, if your parents were born abroad and you immigrated to your country then none of the names shown would have dates included. In such a case, I would include the date of immigration in a large font prominently in the center of the map.
Modify and adjust to suit your family’s structure. Country names, immigration dates, surnames can all be adjusted in color, type and size to reflect a multitude of ancestry information. Perhaps you want to include common first names or employment industry or number of siblings. Select the attributes that are most important for your family and then modify the fonts to reflect those attributes.
My daughters suggested increasing the transparency as you travel back in time through the names, so that the great great great grandparents names would be quite faded. Just beware of attempting to capture too much information as having more than 4 or 5 attributes may only serve to overwhelm and confuse whoever is reading your ancestry map.
Weaving Blind
A myriad of blues cascades along the warp on one loom like a mountain stream. Reds and golds glow like a summer sunset on an adjacent loom. Each loom tells a different story, just as each weaver has his or her own story to share. The weavers at these looms aren’t drawn to the vibrant colors and may not even be able to imagine the colors they create as they move their shuttles back and forth through the shed. Each of the weavers in this small room is blind or significantly visually impaired.Louise sits in front of the cascade of blues, looking at her weaving and seeming to ponder her work.
Yet Louise isn’t seeing the loom as most people would. After being oxygen deprived at birth, Louise’s eyesight slowly dimmed until she became totally blind. She still has memory of color, so as her warp is described to her she has some inkling of what the colors convey. But it is her tactile view of the warp that is most expressive. Changing the shed and passing her shuttle across the warp, she senses that she’s caught a thread. She carefully feels the edge with her agile fingers. Watching, I cannot see a mistake. When I tell her so, she asks for my hand and then moves my hand to the offending thread. By touch the minute error is quite evident. Louise carefully undoes the caught thread and continues weaving.At the loom in front of Louise sits Janette who has been blind since birth. She too carefully passes her shuttle back and forth, creating beautiful straight edges and beating a very consistent fabric. In front of Janette, sits Carmen who has been blind for 5 years and is working at such a frenetic pace she cannot stop for any interruption. Her shuttle flies back and forth, back and forth, pausing only long enough for the briefest of beatings.
Then someone calls out, “I need a leg.” I need a leg?
Doesn’t sound like a typical request from a blind weaver. This request has come from Pauline. Pauline is 97 years old—nearly 98 she’ll happily announce, and is legally blind from macular degeneration. Her 97 plus years don’t give her quite the strength and agility to release the warp and bring it forward. The rapidity with which her ‘need a leg’ requests are made, indicate just how quickly she is weaving.So how do all of these talented blind weavers get the warps on their looms? Frances Curran is the creative director of the New Hartford Artisans Weaving Center. She designs the palettes for the warps for each loom and with the support of many local weaving volunteers the looms are carefully prepared. After the fabric is woven, volunteers finish the pieces, creating beautiful scarves, ponchos and bags, which are sold to help support the center.
As I depart the weaving center, the non-stop, interspersed clink of the heddles fill the room. Knobby hands reach out to feel the texture of the threads in the warp and weft. Even the scent of the fibers is alive in this small room as the weavers beat their threads, each to his or her own drummer.
Theater with the Lights On
Town meetings in my town are an event not to be missed. Unfortunately 95% of the voters don’t realize this. If only my friends and neighbors were aware of what they are passing up—this is theater with the lights on. And it’s good theater—especially later in the evening due to the inverse relationship between tiredness and civility. This year a citizen suggested, no, actually directly said, that laws are made to be broken and made this utterance with a full complement of our officers in attendance. Then the presenter went on to suggest that the Supreme Court of the United States exists just so we could pass the current article and challenge current laws.
Granted theater with the lights on is not so good for necking, but it’s great for multi-tasking. A brief glance around the room and I spotted 3 knitters (who put down their knitting needles when the Supreme Court issue was raised), a baby being rocked to sleep, one crossword puzzle devotee in action, and multiple doodlers. This is an ideal environment for type A personalities—you can not only cross many items off your list, you can make your opinion known to a room full of fellow citizens, respectfully listening while knitting, stretching and doodling.
Both the script and the actors are high quality. The actors upon the stage had researched their areas of focus and brought forward well thought out and articulated arguments and, at least earlier in the evening, were very complimentary to their opponents’ presentations. Ad lib performances at the open microphones were coherent and persuasive, challenging the audience to consider both sides of the debate.
But what would a critique be without suggestions for an area of improvement? Given the intelligence and the knowledge of the presenters, I was surprised at the poor quality of the slides shown. Certainly the color choice was fine and by and large the font size was readable, but honestly, these are educators—why are they displaying a long list of bullet points and then reading the bullet points to the audience. That is precisely what we teach our students NOT to do. A budget is full of numbers, numbers can be easily graphed. Graphs can show comparisons far more effectively than a column of numbers—create some graphs people. In addition, we can be more externally focused—let’s look to other towns for best practices. Only one article, which was prepared by a concerned citizen, focused on the best practices of other communities as a model for change we could use. Thankfully several presenters showed photographs which clearly were worth a thousand words. Perhaps some of the board members took note and will improve their slides in the future.
Oh, and if any techies are reading this, can someone please create a mechanism that allows projectors to go to a blue screen (or any other entertaining interlude) rather than displaying the laptop’s desktop between slide shows. Some desktops are not meant to be publicly displayed.
So check out the local theater at your town meeting—you may be pleasantly surprised at the quality of the performance and make a difference in your town planning and governance at the same time.
Granted theater with the lights on is not so good for necking, but it’s great for multi-tasking. A brief glance around the room and I spotted 3 knitters (who put down their knitting needles when the Supreme Court issue was raised), a baby being rocked to sleep, one crossword puzzle devotee in action, and multiple doodlers. This is an ideal environment for type A personalities—you can not only cross many items off your list, you can make your opinion known to a room full of fellow citizens, respectfully listening while knitting, stretching and doodling.
Both the script and the actors are high quality. The actors upon the stage had researched their areas of focus and brought forward well thought out and articulated arguments and, at least earlier in the evening, were very complimentary to their opponents’ presentations. Ad lib performances at the open microphones were coherent and persuasive, challenging the audience to consider both sides of the debate.
But what would a critique be without suggestions for an area of improvement? Given the intelligence and the knowledge of the presenters, I was surprised at the poor quality of the slides shown. Certainly the color choice was fine and by and large the font size was readable, but honestly, these are educators—why are they displaying a long list of bullet points and then reading the bullet points to the audience. That is precisely what we teach our students NOT to do. A budget is full of numbers, numbers can be easily graphed. Graphs can show comparisons far more effectively than a column of numbers—create some graphs people. In addition, we can be more externally focused—let’s look to other towns for best practices. Only one article, which was prepared by a concerned citizen, focused on the best practices of other communities as a model for change we could use. Thankfully several presenters showed photographs which clearly were worth a thousand words. Perhaps some of the board members took note and will improve their slides in the future.
Oh, and if any techies are reading this, can someone please create a mechanism that allows projectors to go to a blue screen (or any other entertaining interlude) rather than displaying the laptop’s desktop between slide shows. Some desktops are not meant to be publicly displayed.
So check out the local theater at your town meeting—you may be pleasantly surprised at the quality of the performance and make a difference in your town planning and governance at the same time.
The Volunteers of the Iowa Flood Recovery Effort
The skill range of volunteers assisting with flood recovery is quite broad, ranging from skilled contractors to, well, to people like me who put up a piece of sheet rock for the first time while rebuilding a once flooded basement.
Our team of volunteers from Vermont was matched with a full time volunteer through Americorps Vista Corridor Flood Recovery (www.vistacorridorrecovery.org) . This Americorps group has been transformed from community corrections outreach, so the Americorps volunteers drive around in corrections vehicles to the work sites and are outfitted with standard issue corrections jump suits. The jump suits all have names sewn on the pocket—the name of the wearer might only coincidentally match the name sewn on the jump suit. Consequently we were calling Jimmy by his nametag—Danny— the day he came by our work site. After 10 months few volunteers were still choosing to wear standard issue jumpsuits in favor of their own jeans and Ts.
Our team leader, Phil, was a recent college graduate from Philadelphia who had started volunteering last July to assist with the recovery efforts. He stopped wearing jumpsuits last summer. As an Americorps volunteer he is given a below poverty level stipend and minimal housing which typically results in living in conditions similar to those in poverty. Phil takes his dinner meal at a local church feeding the homeless along with other Americorps volunteers, has no housing expenses and very low entertainment expenses as he has little time and the evening softball league requires few expenses beyond refreshments. Consequently, Phil commented that as he is no longer managing the expenses of a college student, he is actually saving more money now than he had previously.
Phil was an outstanding team leader—an adjective he likely would not have applied to his inexperienced crew the day he met us.
When we asked him how he was assigned to be our team leader he responded, “I was late for the meeting.”
Ouch. He later denied that he followed that statement with “I won’t do that again.”
However, in our zeal to finish our project on Friday afternoon, he again missed the weekly team assignment meeting, so likely ended up with an equally inexperience group of volunteers the following week.
Like all contractors I met, Phil did not shrink from finding fault with the previous workers for any problems we encountered. The previous group had erroneously put the sheet rock on the walls before the ceiling, left gaps that were hard to fill with mud, put up a few pieces of sheetrock wampyjod ( a new term for me, which I question is widely used by experienced contractors) and left countless screws sticking out too far. I am certain the group following us would find plenty of complaints in our ceiling tiles and mudding efforts. Although, the final two sheetrock pieces we affixed to the bathroom ceiling did fit beautifully around the lighting fixture and wall jags.
We met other Americorps volunteers—those coordinating training in the warehouse, communicating with the short term volunteers, and other team leaders. Steve was one of those team leaders. Steve had been a physical therapist until he was diagnosed with ALS shortly before the flood. He was let go from his job and rather then retreating into darkness, Steve began working every day on the flood recovery efforts. He has worked every day since the flood gutting destroyed homes by hauling load after load of rotting, saturated, putrid possessions, furniture, and building materials out of buildings that need to be reduced to the bare studs. All of this I learned from him in one short conversation after he asked if I knew the score of the previous night’s Celtic’s game. The untold stories are countless, waiting like bud ready to blossom with a little rain and sunlight.
Likewise the women I worked with are dedicated volunteers, women in their 40s, 50s and 60s, giving their own time to rebuild a stranger’s home. In the camaraderie of using a sheetrock lift to puzzle in a piece of sheetrock, or figuring out the most effective (and ineffective in the process) way of cutting out a hole for a can light in the ceiling, we quickly moved from conversations of daily fluff to the meaning of life. Once we were in the seductive rhythm of screwing in an 8 foot ceiling sheet or mudding corner beading, we could contemplate the lives and loss of lives that have touched us. The time we spent working together was a gift to each of us equally as meaningful as the physical results of our efforts.
The Parishioners
“After I looked 165 people in the eye and had to tell them we couldn’t do anything for them, that their insurance didn’t cover floods… well, it gets to you.”
“I washed my niece’s clothes 5 and 6 times and couldn’t get the smell of the flood out of them. No water damage, just the smell.”
“I knew the UCC disaster relief needed help, so we opened our doors.”
“The downtown jewelry store lost everything. A friend who had her ring there—it’s gone. Someone’s going to find a really nice ring someday. The local library lost its great collection. A nearby church was completely flooded out.”
These are snippets of the stories that the parishioners of Hope UCC shared as they welcomed flood recovery teams to lodge in their church. A somewhat small church in membership, Hope UCC is HUGE in compassion and mission and activity. Greeting us in our makeshift bedroom were inflated air mattresses, one large enough to sleep a family of four, and a huge basket filled to the brim with microwaveable popcorn, Girl Scout cookies, snack packs, nuts, maps and paperbacks. They had arranged that we could shower across the street at the fire station—the absolutely hottest showers imaginable—and shared their kitchen where we cobbled together a few basic meals (5 mothers away from home for a week are disinclined to prepare big meals after putting up sheetrock all day). Truly an extravagant welcome.
We happened to visit the week prior to the big spring church fair, so parishioners were coming and going all week setting up crafts and baking for Saturday. Tuesday, table center pieces and homemade crafts began filling Fellowship Hall. Wednesday, a beef and vegetable soup simmered all day in the kitchen as more crafts appeared. Thursday, an indoor garden of flowering plants appeared. Friday morning at 6 am Lois and Faye arrived to start baking cinnamon rolls and 275 “Pies for Two” (which we soon renamed, pies for one) for their Saturday church fair. Upon returning from work we found every surface covered with cinnamon rolls and pies—peach, raspberry, cherry, banana cream, strawberry rhubarb, pecan, apple, blueberry, mince meat, raisin, raisin?, yes, a pie full of raisins—and I thought I knew the full range of fruit pies being a pie maker’s wife, but raisin was new to me. “P” had been pricked into the peach crust, “R” into the raspberry, “Y” into the strawberry (never did figure out how that came about). The delicious aroma permeated every room in the church and had we been in any other structure, we may have been less likely to show such self-control as we restrained from tasting every pie available.
And this was only one of many annual events Hope UCC congregants prepared—in a few weeks they would be baking and cooking for the local spring town-wide event Hog Wild Days where they manage the food tent and feed hundreds of hunger fair-goers for four consecutive days.
Many new members are joining Hope UCC
from a nearby church that was devastated by the flood. While the flood may have provided an impetus for the individuals and families to find a new church, clearly the vibrancy of the Hope UCC community and its welcoming attitude are the compelling reason for these new congregants to choose Hope.
Cedar River Flood Fallout: The Homeowner
Eleven months after the devastating floods in Iowa, homeowners, volunteers, and community members welcomed a team of New England volunteers to assist with rebuilding in the Cedar Rapids area. These are the stories those volunteers encountered.
The Homeowner
“The water will only reach the curb,” officials told homeowners in Palo, Iowa in early June 2008 as the Cedar river headed for flood level and rain continued to fall. Curt and his neighbors pledged to stay and save their homes from the rising water. So they armed themselves with generators and pumps, put basement furniture up on blocks and stayed vigilant. The water continued to rise. Forecasts were revised, the Cedar River would crest at 31.1 feet on June 13, 288, over 10 feet above the previous record of 20 feet in 1851 and 1929. At 18.5 feet water affects the lowest residences in Palo.
Vehicles were prohibited from the neighborhood after 8 pm Wednesday. The water kept rising. Early Thursday morning Curt looked out at his dark neighborhood, realized his neighbors had fled and decided it was time for his wife and him to seek safety. The water rushed around his calves as he carried a few belonging to his truck at the end of the street. He quickly returned home, called for his wife to grab the dog and headed out into the now waist deep current swirling through his once tranquil neighborhood. Lightening flashed and the rain pelted down as they anxiously made their way back to their truck and left for higher ground.
In this town of 950 residents northwest of Cedar Rapids all but 1 household evacuated. Residents waited impatiently for the water to recede and to be allowed to return to their neighborhood. Finally, 3 days later on Father’s Day, they were allowed back to see their homes, although it would be months before homes passed occupancy inspections.
Curt and his wife found several inches of muck in their garage, coating everything, and their freezer knocked over and blocking their entry. Between the black water, rotting food, hot June days and a sealed house the stench was overwhelming. The water had reached 22 inches up the first floor cabinets and by Sunday had receded to expose the top step of the basement stairs. Curt looked down into his basement filled to the brim with filthy black water.
With friends, family and co-workers pitching in, they took two days to shovel out the garage and then the real work began. Fans, power washing, shoveling out muck, removing debris continued for days on end. “A king size mattress, waterlogged, weighs more than a car, I tell you,” Curt commented as he retold the story of lugging the mattresses up out of the basement. The power of the water was evident everywhere. His slate topped pool table, which a week prior he had lifted up onto cinder blocks in the basement, was completely flipped over. Clothing, mementos, furniture, appliances, all unsalvageable. A ruined household and no flood insurance.
Even with generous time off granted by his employer, Curt and his wife with help from friends and family could only chip away at rebuilding their home. The pace slowed, but work continued until finally, 109 days after evacuating, they returned to live in their home again. The basement remained unfinished, stripped and cleaned down to the studs. Their family had traditionally hosted extended family for Thanksgiving and Christmas and everyone would retreat to the finished basement for pool, TV and games after their holiday dinner. Holidays in 2008 wouldn’t be the same without the basement space. The rebuilding would stretch far into 2009.
Aging: The more things change the more they stay the same
I feel a twinge in my shoulder as I slide out of bed. I chalk it up to an old mattress. And then I reconsider. Did I slide out of bed as a kid or jump up?
Each year in my 40s seems to offer up a physical mark of aging, final sale, no returns allowed. Knee pain kicked off the start of this illustrious decade, followed by physical therapy, and consequently my very short-lived running career was curtailed. The following year I recall looking at the thermostat while wearing my contacts and wondering who had shrunk the numerals. That decline seemed to have occurred between getting out of bed in the morning and turning in that night. And then about a year later my core body temperature seemed to drop. I wear scarves for warmth, not style.
Several weeks ago I overhead three women conversing over coffee at church.
Two clutched their canes, as one fumbled in her handbag for a tissue, saying “Oh I know, I have my operation scheduled for next week.”
“The doctor recommended I see a different specialist for my colon.”
“My husband sees Dr. Cohen too.”
“No she said, colon.”
“What did you say Betty? I think my hearing aid isn’t working again.”
The first woman turned to include me in her final remark, “You know the 70s are the best decade and we took them for granted—still healthy enough to travel, plenty of time, few responsibilities. Remember that.”
Focusing on the present is easier said than done.
Each year in my 40s seems to offer up a physical mark of aging, final sale, no returns allowed. Knee pain kicked off the start of this illustrious decade, followed by physical therapy, and consequently my very short-lived running career was curtailed. The following year I recall looking at the thermostat while wearing my contacts and wondering who had shrunk the numerals. That decline seemed to have occurred between getting out of bed in the morning and turning in that night. And then about a year later my core body temperature seemed to drop. I wear scarves for warmth, not style.
Several weeks ago I overhead three women conversing over coffee at church.
Two clutched their canes, as one fumbled in her handbag for a tissue, saying “Oh I know, I have my operation scheduled for next week.”
“The doctor recommended I see a different specialist for my colon.”
“My husband sees Dr. Cohen too.”
“No she said, colon.”
“What did you say Betty? I think my hearing aid isn’t working again.”
The first woman turned to include me in her final remark, “You know the 70s are the best decade and we took them for granted—still healthy enough to travel, plenty of time, few responsibilities. Remember that.”
Focusing on the present is easier said than done.
Subway Turnstiles
“Please be aware of the gap”, was repeated at every subway station. If only there had been a ‘please be aware of the turnstiles.’ Thankfully New Yorkers can be friendly in a pinch—or at least when the only way they can move forward is to help you, or your luggage, out of a tight spot. I thought I was blending into city life—wearing mostly black, pulling my nondescript, black roller board quickly and efficiently through the subway station, appearing to know where I was headed. Okay, except for when I asked directions to the express subway track and the kind New Yorker pointed to the track beside me with hardly a condescending look. In retrospect that was a bit of a ridiculous question. As my daughter pointed out, “it wouldn’t be much of an express if the train were on the track behind the local, now would it?”But all in all I was looking capable as I scanned my metro card, moved quickly forward through the turnstile and then stumbled as my roller board failed to roll on behind me. I gave the handle a tug. No go. What was up? I turned around to see the handle caught cleanly over one of the turnstile arms. Unfortunately I had just used my last swipe of the metro card. Fortunately, New Yorkers can be more friendly than they are typically given credit for. As the subway arrived in the station below, commuters started pouring up the escalators heading for the exit turnstiles—also known as the entrance turnstiles—where I stood with my luggage trapped. Bracing for exhortations aimed at my incompetence, I was pleasantly surprised to have not one but two independent travelers stop and help jiggle, push and wrench the handle of my roller board until it snapped free of the turnstile. And I was on my way, once again, appearing competent, although feeling a bit less so.
Virtual Conversation in Silicon Valley
Walking by myself, but hardly alone, through the California foothills last week, I felt as if I were walking with an eccentric conversationalist. As I merged into the flow of walkers, joggers, runners and strollers on the paths of the park, I caught snippets of dialogue. The conversation skipped along like a pebble over a glassy lake, only sinking in the short pauses between groups of walkers.“So he barley makes it to the dome and he sees the cable and says, ‘I’m done’.”
“Oh my God, it must have been huge!”
“Unbelievable!”
Something in Indian
“My wife has actually broken her heel bone, so in the midst of everything else,”
”I can see what you mean.”
“Yeah”
Something in Chinese
Something in Indian
“The same thing happened to her.”
and then a bit of a non sequitur,
“really thinly sliced.”
Hmm, was the heel bone was ‘really thinly sliced’?”
Perhaps if I were bi-lingual I would have been able to make the leap between the heel bone and thinly sliced. As it was, I let the dialogue continue without comment.
During the short pauses in my virtual buddy’s banter, my ears tuned in first to the more distant human sounds like the hum of the highway, and then were drawn to the natural crunches and swishes close at hand. “swshhh,” as a small mammal skittered away through the underbrush. “Whhheet, whhee-eet”, from above.
As I looked around I realized that nearly all of the walkers must be enjoying the integrated natural and human dialogues. Here I was in the middle of Apple territory, and I spotted only 2 dazzling white iPod earbuds. A third walker wore her black earphones discretely obscured by her long dark hair as if she were reticent to admit she preferred her man-made music over the natural symphony now in full swing.
“ch-ch-ch-ch-chee”
“threeet!”
“because it’s upstairs”
“yeah”
“thrump.”
“I like it and even though I’m not, it’s great, I’m not practicing, but umm”
”I may be doing the same thing, you know.”
Something in Indian.
“I was just doing that.”
“driving me crazy and I don’t go up there”
Something in Indian
swish
“You know, so, um”
My dialogue partner was wonderfully tireless; my legs however were not, so I said so long to my virtual conversationalist and exited the flow of walkers.
Humble Pie Recipe Requested from Maureen Dowd
Dear Maureen,
Help! Your expertise could prove invaluable in maintaining civility at our Easter dinner table. My brother is taking his two high school age children to hear Ann Coulter in New York in March. I know I have no chance of reforming my brother’s decidedly insular perspective as a New Hampshire Libertarian, but I hold out some hope that I can offer his progeny a glimpse of an alternative perspective.
I am consistently unable to calmly counter my brother’s high volume, articulate, right wing debating points. I have learned to steer the conversation to safer territory like kids playing sports, oh oops, just ran into the special needs funding debate, in an attempt to avoid all-out conflict with the salad tongs. Along with salad tongs, I come equipped with logic, an understanding of how I need to debate with him and a supportive sister who can keep the emotional distress at bay. But I am decidedly lacking in facts to counter the points he will come with having just heard a stream of vitriol from Ann Coulter.
No doubt the Easter conversation will quickly skip from the benefits of being a locavore to the financial crisis, circling closer and closer to the drain of disastrous dinner table debate. I do not intend to be religiously exclusive in neglecting to mention how you could calm the hunt for the Afikomen, but in my experience with my in-laws we haven’t had divisive debates over the tax system after closing our Haggadahs.
Now I don’t want to paint my brother as an ogre. He is intelligent, can be counted on in a crisis and is an outstanding parent other than providing a limited political perspective to his offspring. So I want to work through this obstacle in our relationship, not to change his mind, but to give him pause and let in a chink of light that one of his children may see as they head out to change the world.
If you could write an opinion piece in the New York Times that counters each of the points Ann Coulter makes in her current East coast city tour, you would provide those of us with strong convictions and a ready sparring partner the facts we require to watch our brothers or mothers or uncles conclude their Easter dinner with a slice of humble pie.
Sincerely,
Help! Your expertise could prove invaluable in maintaining civility at our Easter dinner table. My brother is taking his two high school age children to hear Ann Coulter in New York in March. I know I have no chance of reforming my brother’s decidedly insular perspective as a New Hampshire Libertarian, but I hold out some hope that I can offer his progeny a glimpse of an alternative perspective.
I am consistently unable to calmly counter my brother’s high volume, articulate, right wing debating points. I have learned to steer the conversation to safer territory like kids playing sports, oh oops, just ran into the special needs funding debate, in an attempt to avoid all-out conflict with the salad tongs. Along with salad tongs, I come equipped with logic, an understanding of how I need to debate with him and a supportive sister who can keep the emotional distress at bay. But I am decidedly lacking in facts to counter the points he will come with having just heard a stream of vitriol from Ann Coulter.
No doubt the Easter conversation will quickly skip from the benefits of being a locavore to the financial crisis, circling closer and closer to the drain of disastrous dinner table debate. I do not intend to be religiously exclusive in neglecting to mention how you could calm the hunt for the Afikomen, but in my experience with my in-laws we haven’t had divisive debates over the tax system after closing our Haggadahs.
Now I don’t want to paint my brother as an ogre. He is intelligent, can be counted on in a crisis and is an outstanding parent other than providing a limited political perspective to his offspring. So I want to work through this obstacle in our relationship, not to change his mind, but to give him pause and let in a chink of light that one of his children may see as they head out to change the world.
If you could write an opinion piece in the New York Times that counters each of the points Ann Coulter makes in her current East coast city tour, you would provide those of us with strong convictions and a ready sparring partner the facts we require to watch our brothers or mothers or uncles conclude their Easter dinner with a slice of humble pie.
Sincerely,
Mid-Winter Car Wash Thaw
This has been one of those winters when I didn’t expect a mid-winter thaw to ever appear. And now that it’s here I keep thinking maybe this is an early spring despite the fact that the snow banks remain 2 feet high and encrusted with dirt intent on insulating them from ever melting.
Apparently I had ample company with this breath of spring as I waited behind a dozen cars at the car wash. Mid-way through the car wash with soap pouring down my windshield and my mind on spring, the car wash actually stopped—I don’t mean slowed down or even paused. I had time enough to say out loud (all be it to myself) “Oh my God, I’m stopped” and then to consider and act upon the most prudent course of action. Fortunately I determined that doing nothing would be ideal and at the moment of decision the conveyor restarted and transported me back to the smell of spring.
Coming out on the other side, the sun continued to shine. I even rolled down my window to let in the balmy 60 degree air. This was a moment to hold onto—especially as it was only early February and in the northeast that is a long ways before the equinox tips the balance in favor of sun light and heat over the darkness of night. I still have weeks to wait until the snowdrops poke through my garden soil.
So today I am content to smell spring, go out without a winter jacket and maybe chip away at the ice pack on my front steps without wearing gloves!
Apparently I had ample company with this breath of spring as I waited behind a dozen cars at the car wash. Mid-way through the car wash with soap pouring down my windshield and my mind on spring, the car wash actually stopped—I don’t mean slowed down or even paused. I had time enough to say out loud (all be it to myself) “Oh my God, I’m stopped” and then to consider and act upon the most prudent course of action. Fortunately I determined that doing nothing would be ideal and at the moment of decision the conveyor restarted and transported me back to the smell of spring.
Coming out on the other side, the sun continued to shine. I even rolled down my window to let in the balmy 60 degree air. This was a moment to hold onto—especially as it was only early February and in the northeast that is a long ways before the equinox tips the balance in favor of sun light and heat over the darkness of night. I still have weeks to wait until the snowdrops poke through my garden soil.
So today I am content to smell spring, go out without a winter jacket and maybe chip away at the ice pack on my front steps without wearing gloves!
Snowy Innoncence
Being early in the month and a snowy night, the soup kitchen where I was serving anticipated a low turnout. The kitchen managers are clearly experienced, as their predictions were indeed correct, we served only 100 dinners or so Tuesday night.
Cutting lasagna, dishing up salad, serving plates, refilling butter, ladling soup, wrapping silverware, drying dishes unfortunately left little time for interacting with the variety of folks who came in for a meal.
A small, brown, pigtailed face peaked over the counter as she stirred sugar into her coffee cup. I was caught between reaching out to the child and allowing her the dignity of personal space. Then she asked if there was more milk.
“Certainly,” I responded as I refilled the milk pitcher, “do you enjoy coffee?”
“No, it’s for my mom”, then “Thank you,” she offered politely as I gave her the milk.
“Would you like some hot chocolate?”
“Yes please!” and a smile brightened her beautiful face.
She took the hot chocolate and coffee back to her table and looking over I noticed that there was a second child at the table.
I requested two child-size dinner portions and one regular and took the plates over to the family. When I place the full plates in front of the family the girls offered their thank yous even as their mom was reminding them to be polite. I tarried just long enough for a brief exchange, learning that the girls were 9 year old twins and both loved hot chocolate.
The roomed teemed with adults— only 2 other children came in on that snowy evening. Most of the adults were fairly reserved and kept to themselves. One had clearly been drinking and as he loudly used inappropriate language both girls turned to stare at him. He was quickly admonished not only by the manager, but also by several of the other guests. One reminded him that there were ‘children and ladies’ present.
So it was not only those of us serving who were cognizant of protecting the young girls from, from what? From profane language when they needed to come to a soup kitchen to receive a free meal on a very cold and snowy night? Somehow by upholding the quality of the haven for children, did the guests in fact uphold their own dignity? Did each of us want to hold onto our own childlike innocence even in the midst of the harsh reality of poverty and hunger and cold?
Despite the moderate pace of the evening, I wasn’t aware of one of the girl’s departure until I took the dessert to their table—cookie packages—and asked where the child had gone.
“She went home,” her sister responded.
I looked outside. How close could home have been? As a suburban mom I wouldn’t have let even my 9 year old cross the slippery, dimly lit street with her sister let alone by herself. Was the child’s silent departure a sign of hoped-for innocence or recognition of hardened street smarts?
It was very cold. It was very dark. Yet the gently falling snow had for now softened the edges of dirt encrusted snow bank.
Crying Over Fresh Milk
Why can I no longer get milk to sour? I am not speaking figuratively here; I literally mean that the skim milk I buy at my local grocery store, the same brand I have bought for years, no longer turns sour. I have left milk in my refrigerator untouched for a week and returned to find the milk completely non-sour—not to say it doesn’t taste off, it generally takes on a bit of an unpleasant plastic taste, but it is definitely not sour. Ten years back my milk would sour to perfection within a week of the expiration date and even two years ago I could eventually get it to sour with a combination of a few hours on the counter followed by a week in the refrigerator.
You may think this is all sour grapes over sour milk, but in fact I need sour milk. I make outstanding oatmeal muffins. Outstanding that is if I start with naturally soured milk. I know that I can add a little vinegar to fresh milk, stir and let sit in a warm place for a bit and it will sour, but the final effect cannot be compared to using naturally soured milk. My oatmeal muffins have been slowly decreasing in quality over several years and I put the cause squarely on the unsourable milk.
Perhaps people who don’t bake with sour milk would think this inability to sour fresh milk is a benefit. However, even if my oatmeal muffins weren’t up to par, I would still find the fact that the milk doesn’t sour a bit of a concern. What could possibly be in the milk that it could stay fresh, only gaining an unpleasant plastic taste, a full month after the expiration date?
As I look over the label, the manufacturers of my milk claim the contents are Fat Free Milk with no artificial rBST growth hormone, Vitamins A, D and , what? Vitamin C? When did Vitamin C get into my milk? That definitely doesn’t sound familiar. Could Vitamin C be preserving the milk? I suppose I am unlikely to receive NIH funding or even FDA funding for a comprehensive study on the lack of souring ability in my milk. This is unfortunate as I doubt that I am the only cook lamenting the lack of suitably soured milk available. Unfortunately I won’t be crying over sour milk anytime soon, just fresh milk.
You may think this is all sour grapes over sour milk, but in fact I need sour milk. I make outstanding oatmeal muffins. Outstanding that is if I start with naturally soured milk. I know that I can add a little vinegar to fresh milk, stir and let sit in a warm place for a bit and it will sour, but the final effect cannot be compared to using naturally soured milk. My oatmeal muffins have been slowly decreasing in quality over several years and I put the cause squarely on the unsourable milk.
Perhaps people who don’t bake with sour milk would think this inability to sour fresh milk is a benefit. However, even if my oatmeal muffins weren’t up to par, I would still find the fact that the milk doesn’t sour a bit of a concern. What could possibly be in the milk that it could stay fresh, only gaining an unpleasant plastic taste, a full month after the expiration date?
As I look over the label, the manufacturers of my milk claim the contents are Fat Free Milk with no artificial rBST growth hormone, Vitamins A, D and , what? Vitamin C? When did Vitamin C get into my milk? That definitely doesn’t sound familiar. Could Vitamin C be preserving the milk? I suppose I am unlikely to receive NIH funding or even FDA funding for a comprehensive study on the lack of souring ability in my milk. This is unfortunate as I doubt that I am the only cook lamenting the lack of suitably soured milk available. Unfortunately I won’t be crying over sour milk anytime soon, just fresh milk.
Two Great Books to Read Aloud to Daughters
Dear Michelle,
Well I’m not a lawyer, I’m Caucasian and clearly I am not married to the president-elect. However, I empathize with your challenge on the next phase of your motherhood journey as your usher your daughters into the White House and help them adjust to public scrutiny.
Personally I have always found reading a book to be a great escape—especially for a child. Reading out loud to one or both of my daughters while cuddling under a fuzzy blanket transports us all to another time and place—a respite that you may turn to with your children in the stressful weeks, months and years ahead. So while I cannot offer you guidance on setting up your own foundation or preparing inspiring speeches for crowds of thousands and certainly not greeting foreign dignitaries with graciousness, I can offer book suggestions.
Here are two to get suggestions that I found both enjoyable and full of discussion points as a parent of daughters. I hope that you can find time to read one or both.
Wee Free Men by Terry Pratchett
We started this book with my 14 year old niece reading out loud to my then 11 and 8 year old daughters while sitting on a dock. Pratchett’s ability to write accents phonetically allow anyone to read the book and portray a Wee Free Man with a broad Scottish brogue—pretty entertaining to hear a 40 year old New England woman sounding like a Scottsman—you too could provide peals of laughter! The trilogy begins with a 9 year old girl quickly learning witchcraft to save her younger brother. And as a mother, it teaches how witchcraft is really about listening to people, hearing their needs, helping them with their problems—certainly a gift to bestow upon a child, a gift which it sounds like you have already given your daughters.
Al Capone Does My Shirts by Gennifer Choldenko
While many reviewers categorize this book as for Grades 5 to 8, I found reading it aloud to my daughter when she was in grade 4, opened up all sorts of teachable moments (okay, you likely have a plentiful supply of such moments) as well as being enjoyable and educational for both of us. I imagine that your daughters may catch snippets or more of discussions around some of the world’s atrocities as they go about their daily lives. This author while not condoning horrendous behavior in adults or children does create characters that move to the more sympathetic in a truly believable manner.
I am grateful for the time you, your husband and your children are giving to the United States. I hope that I can live up to my end of the bargain and make the country better each and every day.
Sincerely,
Well I’m not a lawyer, I’m Caucasian and clearly I am not married to the president-elect. However, I empathize with your challenge on the next phase of your motherhood journey as your usher your daughters into the White House and help them adjust to public scrutiny.
Personally I have always found reading a book to be a great escape—especially for a child. Reading out loud to one or both of my daughters while cuddling under a fuzzy blanket transports us all to another time and place—a respite that you may turn to with your children in the stressful weeks, months and years ahead. So while I cannot offer you guidance on setting up your own foundation or preparing inspiring speeches for crowds of thousands and certainly not greeting foreign dignitaries with graciousness, I can offer book suggestions.
Here are two to get suggestions that I found both enjoyable and full of discussion points as a parent of daughters. I hope that you can find time to read one or both.
Wee Free Men by Terry Pratchett
We started this book with my 14 year old niece reading out loud to my then 11 and 8 year old daughters while sitting on a dock. Pratchett’s ability to write accents phonetically allow anyone to read the book and portray a Wee Free Man with a broad Scottish brogue—pretty entertaining to hear a 40 year old New England woman sounding like a Scottsman—you too could provide peals of laughter! The trilogy begins with a 9 year old girl quickly learning witchcraft to save her younger brother. And as a mother, it teaches how witchcraft is really about listening to people, hearing their needs, helping them with their problems—certainly a gift to bestow upon a child, a gift which it sounds like you have already given your daughters.
Al Capone Does My Shirts by Gennifer Choldenko
While many reviewers categorize this book as for Grades 5 to 8, I found reading it aloud to my daughter when she was in grade 4, opened up all sorts of teachable moments (okay, you likely have a plentiful supply of such moments) as well as being enjoyable and educational for both of us. I imagine that your daughters may catch snippets or more of discussions around some of the world’s atrocities as they go about their daily lives. This author while not condoning horrendous behavior in adults or children does create characters that move to the more sympathetic in a truly believable manner.
I am grateful for the time you, your husband and your children are giving to the United States. I hope that I can live up to my end of the bargain and make the country better each and every day.
Sincerely,
Subscribe to:
Posts
(
Atom
)