Scouts and I have a complicated relationship. If asked straight up I would say that I hate scouting. I don't like the hypocrisy of a group that talks of citizenship, yet is not equitable for all citizens. I don't like a bunch of kids that act like terrors standing up and reciting stuff about decency and kindness with smug little looks on their faces. All of this chanting about exactness, and yet doing a million short-cuts. For example, if you're supposed to wear the uniform as outlined in the book that they profess to be following, what's with throwing a rumpled scout shirt on over some skater shorts and a hoody?
The fact that the boy scout guy was friends with Rudyard Kipling, and in 1916 created cub scouting by using framework from The Jungle Book is kind of cool. I'll give credit where credit is due. Though the whole Akela thing seems silly if the kid doesn't really know where it comes from.
Anyway. So, scouting. I have these hang-ups. Mormon boys are kind of naturally funneled into the scouting program. Something I was always like no way -- the kid chooses. And then I had this quirky kid spring from my womb who loved things like patches and badges and notebooks and checklists and keys and rules... He was so excited about scouting from the time he was like three that he asked his Nana to make him a fake scout shirt. We collected patches for a long time (my favorite being an oval name patch like the type on mechanic's shirts that said, "Romeo"), and she sewed them on a khaki button-down shirt. He loved that shirt. And the countdown to scouting began.
You can join cub scouts at eight. The deal was that he not be a hypocrite. If it says to wear the full uniform, you wear the full uniform. If you're committing to be a good citizen and you're to show respect, then you do your very best most of the time. Further, it was supposed to be something that he did on his own when possible, and when help was needed his dad was to be his go-to.
Because here's where the complicated part about the relationship comes in. The Dad loved scouting as a kid. Loved it. Earned a million merit badges and squarely, fairly earned his Eagle by his 13th birthday (something only possible if you a) work your guts out and b) your dad is a scout leader and so you're allowed to go on the over-nights). There was a picture in his parents house of him at his Eagle court of honor -- imagine the most awkward looking kid you've ever seen ABSOLUTELY beaming. (A friend of mine saw that picture once and years later told me that when she's having a bad day that picture is what she thinks of to prompt the giggles.) My husband's feelings towards scouts are pure and honest. His memories are of working hard and learning skills and feeling competent and accomplished. In short, scouts made that fuzzy-headed (oh, the misguided attempts to feather curly hair...), skinny, pimply kid with braces and enormous glasses feel like a man. A good man. A citizen who made the world better.
That lover of scouts has been working long hours. Further, he's been volunteering out at the Rockaways helping with Sandy relief on the weekends (this video is cool). So today, with an email sitting in my inbox stating that Judd the Red Chicken was to have his handbook up-to-date, I sat down with him and we talked about what he's been working on while The Girl drew.
The requirements are ridiculously easy. I felt like we could knock out the entire book in a weekend. As we talked about stuff I saw that he was pretty excited, for these are areas where a nerdling can really shine. Want to talk about historical characters? He's your kid. Want to retell a tall tale? How much time have you got?
Going to scouts on Fridays isn't always his favorite thing. Most of the boys are very athletic and play aggressively in the gym before starting the meeting. That bewilders him ("If you tag a kid he pretends like he wasn't tagged, or he throws his arms up in your face like he's mad at you and going to hit you."). A lot of the kids are just downright rude -- because of certain comments he feels insecure about wearing the full uniform, and so now I leave it up to him whether or not the shirt is tucked in, or the neckerchief is worn. Up until today, I kind of thought this scouting business might be dying without me ever having to sabotage it (point of fact: I've always tried to be nicely neutral). But then I watched his face as he talked about carving his soap, and I saw how excited he was to take the pledge about carrying a pocket knife (gasp! I was like: do some of those scouts I see running around actually have pocket knives on them???), and I had to concede that every Lord of the Flies island has redemptive elements.
The Girl continued along with her art. She took a candy-coated caramel that we bought today while out on a field trip that looked like this:
And sculpted it into a tiny, lovely little bird.
Perhaps our theme for the year is simply going to be: it's what you choose to make out of it.
Most irritating conversation I've had about homeschooling?
Person: I don't believe in homeschooling.
Me: Okay.
P: Though, I could see why you would be tempted. I'm finding that my child is so bright that he/she is bored all the time.
M: Ahhhh...
P: It's ridiculous how they put so much funding towards the other end of the spectrum, and don't do anything for the gifted kids.
M: Ahhhh...
P: I finally had to talk to her teacher and she is providing some extra enrichment opportunities.
Boy. I wish I was that teacher.
I also wish that I had said: You jackass, it's not a spectrum with special ed kids on one end and "gifted" on the other. Many of the most truly gifted (as opposed to those who have just been products of parental hot housing) would also qualify for special ed. Besides, if you want to talk about a program that is seriously lacking funds -- it would be special ed... anyway. I didn't. I might have actually said something kind of stupid like:
"Ha. What about those poor middle children? Don't they always get the shaft... yuckyuckyuck..."
Sadly, if you take out the first line about homeschooling, I've heard this same conversation a hundred times. And I'm over it. How can there possibly be this many gifted kids in the world? And the poor loves are all getting bored, bored, BORED! And how can it statistically be possible that they ALL have annoying parents?
Click here to see the kid that I want my kids to be friends with... he seems pretty bright... and yet seems to have handled the bored thing pretty well...
A couple of tidbits:
1. I see that the video is linked to raising a scholarship fund for the kid. I think that's cool, and it got me thinking... Why doesn't some brilliant video-maker go into some at-risk schools and make little videos like this highlighting each kid (I'm 100% sure that every human being has cool aspects that could be highlighted)? I'm not sure how Caine's fund has almost hit $25,000, but I would guess that a lot of that was nickel-and-diming... This cute family watched it and donated $20, this lady decided to donate $5 instead of stopping at Starbucks, this guy was reminded of his grandson and dropped in $10... I'm just saying. Makes a difference to this starfish -- splash.
2. The designmom blog has a link to this video. That's a blog worth looking at... a repository for a million lovely parenting tidbits.
Science. Today we used our worksheet that outlines the Scientific Method and made quick work of our pumpkins and gourds that have been adding a harvesty atmosphere to the place since October. One kid had a question about the seeds (all three of our specimens had husks around the seeds, and all three yielded different sized seeds), and the other kid questioned whether the flesh would be the same color as the outer shell (as it turns out, white pumpkins do actually have whitish flesh, though warted pumpkins do not have warty internal flesh... in case anybody was wondering).
A more interesting inquiry might have had to do with difficulty of opening. I cannot believe how hard it was to open the warty pumpkin. Finally, we resorted to chucking it into the bathtub (more than once). Looking back at it now, that was probably really, really stupid, as a) I'm sure that porcelain is expensive to repair and b) our neighbors below are probably frantically stitching voodoo dolls of us as I type this. The things people do in the name of science.
This afternoon we went to the playground with some friends. It was cold, but my goal is to get out every day (I know that it will be really tempting not to on yucky days). Even though it was after-school hours, we were the only ones there for quite a while. Which makes NYC kids giddy. Ours took the opportunity to "booby trap the bottom of the slide." We made sure that all booby traps were filled in, etc. before we left for hot cocoa.
It was the first time, in a long time, when I queued in a line that wasn't churning and bulging with squirming, small bodies.
A friend invited me to attend a concert with her, and her charming parents. It was at the Met (museum, not opera house) in the Medieval Sculpture Hall in front of the Christmas tree. Note: the Medieval Sculpture Hall in front of the Christmas tree just happens to be one of my favorite places in the world. My experience there tonight has added another layer of trembly joy and connectivity to that space.
If ever there is a chance to hear Chanticleer, snatch it. They are based out of San Francisco and apparently travel everywhere...
They produced sound that didn't seem possible for humans to make. The way it echoed and created this deep mellow goodness almost disoriented me.
It most definitely inspired me. That's the mark for me of honest art. Did it inspire me? To do better, to think harder, to feel more, to be more tender towards others...
The area where I most want to do better, think harder, feel more, and be more tender? The children, of course. Today didn't start off brilliantly, and then had its ups and downs.
Tonight, sitting (sans children!) next to my friend's mom -- this gracious, intelligent mother of six grown, impressive people -- I chatted about my kids. I suggested that perhaps something I'm struggling with is a stage, something age-related that will be grown out of. She sagely nodded and then said something like: Maybe. Or maybe it's just the child's personality. It's hard when we realize that we can't change things about their personalities. But, different personalities make life interesting, don't they?
Maybe it's just the kid's personality. Maybe, without realizing it, I'm trying to change aspects of somebody's personality? That's not what I really want. I love their personalities... It's just those annoying little habits that interfere with efficiently teaching that I can do without...
And then the singing started, and then I started feeling inspired, and then lilting along those happy endorphins the thought came to me: I get to love my children. And I looked around at all the Madonna statues holding their babies and I thought: You've been watching us. You've seen them grow up through the years as we've passed you. And I saw my children through their eyes, from being in strollers, to walking, to wandering. And I saw how much love they, as fragile humans, need. And I felt like all those collective mamas -- as the music swelled and swaddled us -- whispered encouragement to me. Yes, our job is to love.
Teaching is secondary. Teaching is secondary.
(Tonight my lesson, my reminder, was presented in the most beautiful way possible. I was not chastised or belittled -- even though it's obviously necessary that I be "taught"/reminded this same lesson over and over. I will try to keep that spirit of love with me when I'm called upon to remind, and remind, and remind... When I need that extra bit of patience I will try to remember the ever-constant medieval mothers in that hall. Ever patient, ever placid, ever peaceful.)
How thankful I am that my friend thought to gift me that ticket. How thankful I am for the well-spoken words of her mother. Thoughtful flesh-and-blood women have the capacity to provide daily miracles for each other.
There's an awesome giant clothespin sculpture located in Belgium. That's not the one we saw this weekend. After a Thanksgiving complete with charming parade-viewing from our friend's apartment, a delicious meal with some scrumptious turkeys, and a rousing game of bingo with a fun group of folks and prizes (The Boy won some Bobbi Brown perfume that he happily traded for a slinky; The Girl won two movie passes which she tried to trade for The Boy's slinky...), we woke up the next day and eventually took off for Pennsylvania.
Our first stop is a Christmas-time tradition: Hershey, PA.
By Hershey, PA I of course mean "Chocolate World." The free ride is our starting point. It is not a factory tour any more than It's a Small World is a world tour, but it's part of the tradition.
After our brains are full of "conching" and "roasting," and our nostrils are full of artificial chocolate scent Judd the Red Chicken stands in line for his annual frozen hot chocolate. (The Girl, after a very unfortunate mishap with not-frozen -- in fact very hot -- chocolate one year doesn't consistently choose to imbibe.)
Years ago I heard a comedian explore the many unfairnesses of life. One such unfairness, he lamented, is timing and how it connects to wants and the ability to fulfill those wants. He gave the example of candy bars. As a kid he would ache to be able to have a candy bar when standing in line at the grocery store with his mom. Now as an adult he could walk into a store, slap down his credit card and buy all the candy in the store. But he no longer wants to. That comedic dialogue comes to mind whenever I walk through the gift shop at Chocolate World. We rarely buy anything because our kids aren't that into candy, and that stuns me. As a kid I would have been panicky, obsessively desperate for everything there. Especially the giant Hershey kisses. I always aspired to own a giant Hershey kiss. Every blasted time we go to Hershey I pick up one of the giant kisses and think that I should buy it to retroactively satisfy my childhood longing. I never do.
However, this year, the Year of the Scheme, did prompt a purchase:
A book written by the curator of the Hershey Museum. The story of Hershey that you learn about while on the "tour" is fascinating... After failing, and failing, and failing again (times ten), this "uneducated" guy ends up building a massive empire. He creates not just a factory, but a complex and richly layered community, and, dying without any heirs passes on his fortune to his school for orphaned boys. Being as the purpose of the scheme is to take advantage of the time we have to dig a bit deeper, we purchased the book (and have made significant headway -- more later).
And then outside to Hershey Park...
Highlights:
A. Seeing Santa's reindeer.
B. Trying to win Abominable Snowman.
In fairness, The Girl did say that she didn't "like the Yeti." The rest of the family did -- desperately (that "desperately" part is mostly me). The Dad, not wanting the pressure to be on him, paid for each kid to have a shot. The Boy impressively knocked down one of the glasses. The Girl squarely shot the Yeti.
"That's the way we do it," I said without thinking, "If we can't win 'em, we kill 'em." The kids and The Sister started giggling. The woman standing next to us looked at me like I was the most abominable mom she ever laid eyes upon. It was inappropriate, so I repentantly told the kids that I shouldn't have said it, and so they should stop repeating it at a super high volume. The Girl was cute and came up with a more sensitive alternative: "Well, I got him alright, just not the way most people get him." Hmmm... This doesn't seem like a highlight... but that kind of giggling is good... even if inappropriately instigated.
C. Iguana watching.
The boys decided that they wanted to go on more rides than the girls did, so after a while we split and the female portion went in search of the (heated) gift shop that sells plastic animals and hosts a live, enormous iguana. It's a small gift shop, and the iguana has an odor, but it was really cold out. After circling the shop a few times we gave up trying to look like not-loiterers and sat on some random logs in front of the iguana enclosure. After realizing that we were in dozens of photographs (people outside the shop taking pictures of the lizard were getting an extra -- our slumped, slack-jawed personages), we again got the giggles. Also probably doesn't seem like a highlight... Ah well.
A not-highlight was the musical. Last year we missed the production that they had at the Music Box theatre, and we were disappointed because the year before had been very sweet. It's unfortunate we didn't miss it this year. Yowza. The skimpy costumes and trashy dancing made me question the "family" part of the advertisement, but I figured it was just one more notch in my I'm-a-grandma belt... Until The Sister sent me this text from two seats over:
"When he said the big guy was coming to town he was pointing somewhere with both his rocker signs. I thought this was a family show."
After the park we get into our car and fall (three years running now) into a tourist trap: Hershey's Sweet Lights. For $25/car you drive through first a meadow, and then a forest where cheesy light displays have been staked/propped. I'm not sure that we would have done it this year if not for wanting The Sister to get the full experience.
Day 2: Amish Country.
As we drew closer to the farms that surround Intercourse and Bird-In-Hand, we talked about what The Dad and I learned the last time we were in Lancaster County when we took a buggy ride with a lady who had been raised Amish. She told us that there are many small groups, and each have different ways of interpreting what constitutes a lifestyle that is congruent with their teachings. For some, roller skates are okay, for others they are not. For some, using a telephone is acceptable, but having one in the home is not.
There were some, "What the what?"s from the backseat. We tried to impress on them the respect that should be given to anybody who has the strength to follow his/her beliefs -- even if they seem silly... or perhaps, especially if they seem silly (for it's easier to stand up for your beliefs when you can have righteous indignation then when you're being seen as a fool). We chatted about how others react to the Amish. One of my favorite things that I read was how some local hospitals/doctors had set up clinics to assist the community. Going to hospital can cause "shunning," so some parents were having to make very difficult decisions if their children were sick (and there are apparently a lot of genetic diseases among the Amish). Further, many Amish don't have insurance. Seeing a need, some medical professionals created clinics to help bridge these gaps.
"They could have just said, 'Hey, it's your choice...,' but they didn't. They said, 'There's a need, how can we help.'"
And then I choked up. People can be beautiful.
People that are Amish do not think that their pictures should be taken if their faces are discernible (a Biblical connection to not having any graven images). Of course it makes sense that tourists shouldn't zip around in their vehicles snapping pictures as if these people and their lives are on display at the zoo... And yet, I understand the desire. When we passed two ladies on their scooters I had to restrain myself; I didn't want the picture to record spectacle, but because it was a beautiful and interesting subject.
I made sure that this man was turned, before I took this... I wanted to document a moment. Traffic stopped because a straw hat blew across the road. Imagine him: surprised as the wind ripped away his hat, and then frustrated to see it land in the road. Immediately cars going in both directions stopped. Humbly, shoulders stooped (against the cold? against the six cars worth of eyes?) he ran into the road and grabbed it, waving thanks to the drivers, pausing on the other side, then realizing that the cars were continuing to wait for him to cross back over to where his horse and buggy waited, a smile, more waves, and a crossing back. It was a fully realized moment. How much did him being Amish factor into the depth of the moment? I'm not sure. Aesthetically a straw hat is nicer than a baseball cap... But more than that, it was also something about the not-main-stream interacting with a stream of vehicles; something so organic and not-modern bringing to a halt so many machines. As I understand it, the motivation in the Amish lifestyle is to accept what happens as God's will. Perhaps something of that simplicity and depth radiated... or maybe it didn't. Maybe the moment felt so human because he didn't look like somebody accepting God's will... but he is dedicating his life to learning day by day, wind gust by wind gust, paused vehicle by paused vehicle, how to do so.
I know some parents want to teach their kids absolutes. Even though absolutes make me feel secure, I'm trying to pause. I hope to teach them: you never know where there's truth. Keep watching. Keep feeling.
The laundry hanging out to dry is pretty. I complain that our washing machine isn't actually in our apartment.
Having an authentic experience in Amish country is not possible. Perhaps the culinary options most blatantly display this. Most of the restaurants are Amish Cracker Barrel knock-offs. Authenticity is not the goal -- you can tell by the attached gift-shop (I bought an Amish romance novel that I'm very excited to read!). And yet, I actually said when trying to decide what to order, "No... I'll go with this because it's more specific..." What? Who said "ham balls" are authentic Amish cuisine? I guess I just assumed that since that was the first time I had ever heard of "ham balls" it must be local... Good gravy. Actually, bad gravy. For the record, I knew (and said out loud) when considering the ham balls that they would make me sick, after ordering the ham balls that they would make me sick, after seeing the ham balls that they would make me sick, and while eating the ham balls that they would make me sick. And yet I considered, then ordered, then saw, and still ate the ham balls.
Another touristy area is Kitchen Kettle Village. But it's important that we stop there because of our family history.
Once upon a time we lived on the other side of the country, and we were excitedly expecting our first baby. The Dad (almost!) was to be by Lancaster County for a work trip, and we decided that he would get the baby an Amish quilt. The morning he was due in Pennsylvania, while I was home alone, some complications set in, and I tried all day to get a hold of him. Finally, from a pay phone located in Kitchen Kettle Village, standing in the rain, he called home and found out the news. Maybe, I suggested, considering what was most likely happening, he shouldn't get the quilt after all.
"And do you know what Dad said?" I asked the kids.
"What?"
"He said, 'I'm going to get the quilt.'"
"And?"
"And what? It was you. Dad had hope... and we have you... and you have a quilt. And two years later he came back and got one for our girl."
And so we walked through the quilt shop. It's not very "authentic" at all -- modern... those that hand-sew the quilts aren't even all Amish. The pay phone across the way has been removed. I held my kids' hands and felt weepy.
We found something quite fun at Kitchen Kettle Village this time around -- a children's area. There's a playground, live animals, a pony ride, and a cute workshop where a kid can make an Amish friend, or build a barn.
They built a barn; I made a friend. Her daughter owns the workshop and she works there and sews the little aprons and bonnets for the dolls. She told me that it was okay to take that picture of her because she isn't Amish any more. She was raised "horse and buggy Amish," but at 53, when there was a split because a pastor was leaving, she and her husband made their decision. Their eight children had decided years before then. They were never excommunicated or shunned when they decided to follow the Mennonite ways, rather than the Amish. Her reasons for leaving? Sunday school, and having services in English is more fair for the grandchildren. Vehicles. Church is at church instead of rotating between folks' homes. Public schools. She said that she had gone to a public school, that this one room school house business didn't start until the late 40's, and her father had been staunchly opposed ("Children should go to school with their neighbors"). Was it hard? Yes. She said that when she was a youth she would have never believed it if somebody told her that one day she would leave.
That part kind of made me sad.
She was lovely to talk to. After chatting for a while she invited our family to attend church the next day, as her son was going to be preaching. She said that afterward we would be invited home with the "host family" for lunch. She explained that this was another difference from the Amish -- the Mennonites weren't suspicious of visitors. I honestly wish that we could have gone. I've decided to not consider it a regret, but rather a plan for the future.
So there's one question answered: if you see the folks with their heads covered with some sort of bonnets, but their clothes are more modern looking and they are in vehicles, or wandering Target, or whatever... they are Mennonites, not Amish.
Back in the car:
"She told me that one of her daughters, and son-in-law, and their seven children are going on a mission in Asia for two years."
"What? They get to go as a family?" The Boy
"I wish we did that, so it wouldn't be so lonely and scary." The Girl
"So let's become Mennonites!" I said
"Okay!" The Girl (she ALWAYS calls me on it when I'm being waggish)
"How about Mormon Mennonites?" The Boy
Mormons go on missions when they are around 19 (and can also go when they are senior/retired couples). It's kind of a rite of passage. Not required, but definitely encouraged. As a convert who was taught about the church by young 19/20-year old boys I always thought about how noble it would be to have a child choose to go on a mission. Then I had kids. Two years without seeing them or even speaking to them on the phone on a regular basis? Accepting whatever "call" comes -- even if it's to an unstable location? I, too, wish we could go as a family, or stay as a family. And yet, I know that as they get older, they will want their independence; they will feel the need to find out who they are, and what they believe in on their own. It will be a scaffolding for them if they decide to remain active in our faith. Building faith. Living a religion. Sacrifice is often necessary for authenticity.
We went to an antiques store, had some shoofly pie, and left Amish country for Philadelphia.
We actually just popped into Philadelphia for some cheesesteak (I refrained... the ham balls... remember...), and a tour of the Eastern State Penitentiary. The Sister, The Boy, and I toured while The Dad and The Girl checked out a cat adoption center. By all accounts the cats were cute, but the tour was amazing.
This particular tour was the flashlight tour (it was dark and cold) and the focus was on the stain-glass installation by the artist, Judith Schaechter. The stain-glass was fascinating and it's connection to the structure was holistic.
The structure was created on a monastic model. It was the first penitentiary in the world -- built in 1829. This is the first time I had ever really considered the word penitentiary. The concept was to help those there become penitent, to find true sorrow that would motivate them to reform. The ideal was to rehabilitate rather than punish -- there was no hard labor that up to this point had been the definition of prison. With this in mind, the model, based on religion and anonymity, endorsed solitary confinement -- so one could meditate and find that motivating sorrow without distractions. The prisoners would be hooded any time they were seen -- the reasoning was so that the guards and other prisoners would never recognize them if seen outside -- so true reformation could be gained.
So many good intentions, but so misguided. Charles Dickens visited and about popped a gasket. Hooded? Constant solitary confinement? No letters. No visitors. Eventually, by 1913 this system completely broke down and was abandoned. There were major crowding issues. By 1970 there were so many physiological and safety concerns it was shut down.
Judd the Red Chicken was so excited about this tour. He had helped plan the trip and Eastern was clearly the highlight. A week before the trip he asked us to buy him index cards, and he wrote out information cards for the more celebrated public enemies that lived there. For example, Al Capone was there, and was allowed to decorate his cell lavishly. There was also a dog.
Needless to say, The Boy was not so interested in the art installment. To be honest, I wasn't at first either -- it was just our ticket into the prison. But once I experienced it, I found it fascinating. Considering the cathedral-like architecture, it felt like the stain-glass belonged, and that when you happened to stumble upon one it was like a prize -- a window that hadn't been destroyed as the rest of the building crumbled. Schaechter's themes were from mythology and the Bible -- focusing on the ideas of isolation, despair, and the struggle between the ennobling and the debasing. She said that her audience was, to some extent, those that had been imprisoned there.
After the tour we drove to our hotel in a suburb, and now you're about to lose me. Thanks to the ham balls I kneeled all night before a foreign throne.
Day 3:
John Audubon. He's kind of a hero around here. The Dad found out that the first home he bought in the states wasn't far from our hotel. That begged the question -- where had he been born? Haiti. What? As it turns out, his father a sea captain, had been a rogue, and impregnated a young girl who was a servant at a sugar planation in Haiti. She died when John was very young, and the dad kind of took care of him for a while, but ultimately shipped him home to HIS WIFE. Fascinating. Even more fascinating than his audacity was that she didn't begrudgingly take care of the child -- she loved him, and educated him. Audubon would remain tender towards his step-mother for his entire life. "Timshel!" I started screeching at the kids. That's our family motto (from East of Eden -- possibly best book ever written) -- it means that you may always choose. She couldn't choose what her husband did, but she could choose how she would act. And because of her choice the world was gifted a remarkable man.
This was the lovely home that he bought:
Back into Philadelphia we took a tour of Edgar Allan Poe's house and saw the basement that surely inspired "The Black Cat." We also played a code game that referenced "The Gold-Bug," so we read that story in the car on the way home (while reading I did censor some of the more racially-charged parts... jeez...). The Boy keeps asking if we can read more Poe; The Girl thinks it's too scary. I side with both of them.
And then we did all the regular tourist stuff... Fortunately, I had done it all before because I was a ham-ball-induced zombie.
Reading Terminal
Independence Hall
The Liberty Bell
(One thought that I had this time as we were reading about the various times in history when the bell has been used as symbol for liberty (even though it didn't actually ring on July 4, 1776 -- but whatever) was that the crack is pretty cool. There have been so many false-steps, and screw ups, and good intentions that ended up being terrible... And the symbol that we use for liberty has a big fat flaw. I like that. It's not perfect, but it's what we've got. We keep learning. Again, good things come from inspiration AND patience, and I'll add sacrifice. I don't suppose that this insight is new, or original, but it was something that I tried to share with the kids as I stumbled about in my green fog of stomach rebellion.)
A drive-by only of the Betsy Ross house
A peep down Elfreth's Alley
And finally towards home. My own toilet. My own bed. No ham balls.
While we drove home I read from our Hershey book, I read the short story from Edgar Allan Poe, and we listened to the Christmas CD that I had to buy at Target. On the way out on Friday The Boy had requested that we all sing "like the Brady bunch." I thought he meant that he wanted us to sing the theme song from the Brady Bunch, but after pulling up the lyrics on my phone and launching in, he clarified that he wanted us, as a family, to sing in our wagon as we traveled, just like the Bradys did when they traveled in their wagon. We tried. The thing wasn't that we can't sing (we can't), nobody much cared about that. It was that none of us could remember the words to a single song. It was truly the most pathetic mumble-along ever attempted. But we did attempt. And then I bought a CD. The Boy sang happily along to the CD. Bless his Brady-loving heart.
As we came through the Lincoln Tunnel we looked for Buddy the Elf. Because Christmas is, officially now, on it's way.
Once home we hung up the purchase that we made at the antiques store in Lancaster.
It's in our bathroom.
(If you don't get that reference that means you haven't yet seen Lincoln. Do. Perhaps this David Brooks article will help motivate you.)
So. We didn't go to Belgium to see a giant clothespin -- we only went three hours away -- we aren't touring the world. I still think that our "sabbatical year" is proving fruitful.
