Not as Long as a Night Post-Ham Balls

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. 

Have Yourself a Merry Little Thanksgiving

"That is certainly a gift," I said reverently when we passed this proud piece of taxidermy this evening. Being human, I have always envied those who have apartments in the beautiful buildings that line Central Park West, but now that I know they have stuffed turkeys waiting to be brought out and displayed for Thanksgiving I'll be more serious when I pick my lottery numbers. 

Gifts. 

We were gifted a beautiful day, and the time to play in the park.

We were gifted the golden ticket of balloon inflation. We have friends who live on 81st street between Columbus and Central Park West. What this means is that if they send you an invitation to a party at their place on Thanksgiving Eve you get to feel like a VIP by showing it to the police at the barricades who will then bestow admittance upon you to the apartment side (as opposed to the bone-crushing museum side) of the balloons. Of course I didn't strategize well and we ended up with our faces and bums simultaneously gridlocked with humanity -- while I pushed away an anxiety attack and about crushed the kids' hands -- but eventually we separated ourselves from the masses and proceeded with that VIP-thing I just mentioned. 

We were gifted hospitality and cheer. Whether alcohol, Rice Krispy treat, or kindness-induced, cheerful interactions are always appreciated. A gathering of happy people is a gift. This is the second year we have been invited to the balloon inflation soiree, and the second time I thought about the gift that the hosts are giving. The night before Thanksgiving cannot be a good time to prepare food and open up your home to a million hyper kids who, like Hansel and Gretel, scatter crumbs like their lives depend on it. But this family knows that their location is a gift -- and so year after year they share it. And as I type this they are surely schlepping bags of garbage to the chute, trying not to think of their grocery receipts as they scrape away left-overs, and wondering where to store the random dishes that got left behind. Hosting is a gift always, but it might be a slightly larger gift in a town where you develop a hump carrying your over-priced groceries, pay for your laundry, and don't have an already-trashed basement to dump extra kids. 

We have been gifted a cute sister/aunt. She was gifted a job to help wrangle the kids at the party... After seeing all the warts of human beings tonight (during that part when the masses didn't realize I was a VIP) -- feeling the pushes, hearing the rawther rude things, and watching various acts of crankinesses (and all that was just the kids and me), I can say that consistent sweetness is appreciated. As a witness to what she was up against, I was touched when she came home and didn't say anything snarky about the quantity or quality of the kids, but simply said, "I hope that they thought I did a good job. I tried." Apparently different adults had different opinions of how their offspring should be managed. And apparently some kids think it's okay to throw their no longer wanted cupcakes on the floor. Ah well... she was gifted a Thanksgiving Day Parade memory that she will surely remember.

We have been gifted memories. When we moved to the city it was November and my mother and father-in-law flew across the country to visit us in our still-boxed apartment to share our first Thanksgiving away from "home." I well-remember pushing the stroller in the crowds as we walked the twenty or so blocks (which feels like A LOT when you are used to planting it in a car) to the balloon inflation. I was freezing in some spots and sweltering in others, worried for the welfare of my babies, and I had sore feet from my new boots. I swore that we would never do it again. And yet we have... again and again... each time yielding a different type of irritating (and often cool) experience. Thus, the balloon inflation symbolizes our transition from overwhelmed visitor, to grumpy, persistent New Yorker. More importantly, it reminds us of long-suffering (grand)parents who supported our crazy move -- always remaining upbeat and optimistic as they limped against the crowd-surges, slept in the bathtub (not really, but close), and ate a purchased, reheated Thanksgiving dinner.

We are gifted the night... and lights to shimmer in the night. Last year after leaving the party we decided to cut home through the park. Usually we don't do a lot in the park after dark -- especially without a biggish group, or a dad -- but last year because there seemed to be more friendly-looking folks (i.e. tourists) wandering about the park, and because we couldn't face the crowds in the opposite direction, we dared. This year the kids insisted that we do it again. It is empowering to walk in the night. Like last year we saw the pretty lights from the New York Historical Society through the trees.

Like last year, once we exited the park we walked along the bleachers that are set up for the parade. On TV tomorrow the camera might pan on those sitting in the bleachers... Tonight, under the street lights, they belonged to us... We climbed and balanced on them and enthusiastically waved back to some kids passing by in a pedicab that was decorated with blue and red Christmas lights. 

Then we were gifted that turkey in the window.  Then we were gifted the clip of Obama pardoning, not one but TWO turkeys (Cobble and Gobble).  

Christmas does not have the monopoly on gifts.

We were gifted a beautiful day. And we are thankful. 

Too Long (Same Reason Why Folks Don't Go to Church)

Maybe 13 years ago, before kids, before living here, before cell phones with maps with a little blue-dot-me I was wandering the city with only myself, a crumpled map, and my own wits. You know where this is going to lead. I got horrifically lost and after trying to make heads or tails of my map (while trying not to make it too obvious that I was referencing a map -- I didn't want to be abducted/killed/whatever for goodness sake), I kind of thought I could figure it out if I could just find blasted Houston. That's HOW-ston -- even though it's spelled exactly like that city in Texas. 

Thanks to my husband who went to school out here, I honestly did know it was HOW-ston, but when the moment came to ask a passing stranger where in the flying-freak HOW-ston had snuck off to, what should pop out of my mouth but the word I'm more familiar with: Hooston. 

"Two more blocks that way. But remember it's HOW-ston, otherwise people will know you're not from here." Wink. I can absolutely see from this distance that he was just being pleasant. Actually, from the distance of about two minutes I could see that... I can own up to the fact that he did not deserve what he received... namely:

"I KNOW that. I KNOW that it's HOW-ston. SHEESH." Followed by muttering that surely sounded like: sprickets-brickets-wiggity-shmoo.

SoHo is the land where all the people in the world who want to do it different and let you know that they are cool enough and rich enough to do it different have converged. That street might be spelled the same as Hooston, but it's called HOW-ston. It's how they know. This is actually referencing the Bible, in the book of Judges (chapter 12) there is a story told of some conquerers who want to keep out those who escaped during the conquering and are trying to sneak back in. Everybody entering the city is asked to say a word, and if they don't say it correctly they are put to death. There you have it. 

Who knew SoHo had such a connection to the Bible? That's the awesome part of SoHo -- it has everything. 

Passing the funky store fronts, luring doorways, and illuminated giant eggs, we got buzzed down to a basement-level studio and entered the world of iconology in the Byzantine-Russian tradition. Thanks to a grant that NYCHEA received, and the coordinating efforts of a mom, today we had a field trip with other homeschoolers to  The Prosopon School of Iconology. 

It was a mind-expanding opportunity. I took mad notes, so let's see how this jumble comes out.

A. The gentle, sweet chutzpah of the instructors was like being spritzed with lemon water -- shocking and refreshing. Without blinking, and with zero squirming they presented their religious beliefs. I tried to analyze why this was so nice, and the word that kept coming to me was "pure." There was no effort to dilute their faith and the result of that is a purity that is hard to come by in a world of managing and maneuvering and being politically correct not for sensitivity's sake, but in order to not be criticized or seen as a rube. I'm not a total idiot -- I get that separation of church and state happened because of history and oppression, etc. -- we must be careful lest unholy groupthink become too powerful and cause war and torture and destruction... oh good golly, I'm not smart enough to go down this road (I am a partial idiot). I'm just recording what I felt: I wish that all beliefs could be presented with the same straight-forward, peaceful manner that I saw today. It would enable people to learn from each other and about each other and have rich stores of material to think about. I wish that teaching the ideas and stories I heard today could be seen in the same benign manner as math: it is what it is -- take it and use it if it benefits you, or learn of it, know that it exists, but ignore the bulk of it (and become an English major who has to wait tables to pay the rent)... 

B. Icons are a language. We could understood the female instructor because she communicated to us in English, but not the other instructor, her husband, because he only spoke in Russian. The creation of icons is a language that expresses faith to those who understand, or are willing to learn, the same language. Further, each human can be seen as an icon, as we were made in his likeness. 

C. Symbols help us understand in multiple layers.

D. Everything about the icon is symbolic. There are 22 steps. 

E. Wood is chosen as the "canvas" because it symbolizes the tree from the Garden of Eden as well as the cross. It is carved to almost look like it has a frame, to represent that we all have an inner part to us -- where our secret prayers should be happening -- as well as an outer part that ultimately will radiate if we have inner peace and goodness. The wood is then prepared in some manner that includes a very thin piece of linen. 

F. After the picture is outlined/drawn the first thing applied is red clay -- this represents three Hebrew words that have an almost identical sound, but three different meanings: "Adam" (representing humanity), "red," and "earth." The clay is put on -- not in brush strokes that might show the feelings/personality of person making the icon -- but kind of pushed onto the wood and let to settle and find it's natural equilibrium.  After the clay dries it is sanded to symbolize the need to refine one's self and then burnished with a piece of agate. 

G. The gold can only be applied to the areas where there is clay (usually this is the halo only). In order for the gold to adhere to the clay the icon maker puts his/her mouth right up close to the dried clay and  breathes. This not only makes the gold adhere, but also represents the breath of life that God gave, as well as the effort that we all need to make.

H. The only part of the icon that will have exposed clay is around the edges. This is to remind us that unlike what is being represented and gilded within the icon, we on the outside are human.

I. The gold represents all that is most precious, and it -- like all materials used -- is never synthetic. Everything is natural to represent that we use what God gives to us.

J. Designs can be carved into the gold ONLY with this type of gilding, because the clay underneath allows the proper yielding. Just as we should have soft hearts and be willing to accept impressions.

K. To make the pigments natural minerals and stones are ground and added to egg yolk and white wine. Very specific processes and layers follow to symbolize different things -- like a dark green always goes down first for the skin tones -- this represents the dark mysteries within each of us -- which is why we should not judge each other. At the end "light" is added to remind us that ultimately all can attain light. 

L. The pigments are allowed to develop naturally and then used with complimentary colors. Just as we all have different personalities, we should allow ourselves to exist in natural, complimentary, and if possible transparent ways. 

M. If the icon was left with just the pigments it would not be serviceable for very long before moisture and dust ruined it. In order to protect it it is covered with linseed oil. This is considered the anointing -- it strengthens the icon and makes it serviceable, so it can fulfill its purpose. 

Whew! That's the abbreviated version. My kiddos stood for an hour and a half listening (sometimes to Russian that was then translated), and watching this process. Their assessment: while there were a few boring parts, it was interesting. They both came home and wrote first drafts of interesting little reports. Here's the object lesson: the reason why icons exist is because they can transmit feelings and impressions that words (i.e. scriptures) cannot.  Compare all that explanation to this:

Surely a different experience to see images, rather than read. 

We then roamed SoHo. We went into a favorite shop called Loopy Mango. If somebody were to say to me: I can only stop at one place in SoHo -- what shop would best represent the neighborhood? Loopy Mango would certainly come to mind. 

We had lunch at an Argentinian restaurant where the food was tasty and we were the only people who were not impeccably dressed men sitting in groups of two. 

Eventually our weary selves ended up at the Scholastic store where we plunked down on the poufs inside the Magic School bus and watched an episode about the digestive system. A much better science lesson than I could have taught at that point in the day. 

SoHo takes it out of me -- has since the very first time I ventured there. But it also gives back. 

Smattering of Bologna and Sugar

Today some fun gals invited me to attend the taping of Live With Kelly and Michael. Interesting because a) I've never had the slightest interest to attend and b) if not doing the scheme attendance would not be possible because the folks line up for it at the exact time we walk to school.  In fact, for the last four years we passed by the line just about every morning, and while tourists looked through the glass at our family as though on display at the zoo (yes, there are schools here... and kids with backpacks who walk to them...), I thought: why would anybody want to go to that show?

And today, I was there. Just because. If you happen to think that it is slightly phony and plastic, I can tell you that you are wrong.  It is grossly phony and plastic. At one point I actually fantasized about telling all the people tittering at the banter to knock the heck off because they were encouraging the propagation of bologna/the dumbing down of America. But I slipped off my high horse and just enjoyed the fun company I was with.

One of the guests was a "hunky" (my friend's word) zoologist who brought some animals. I immediately felt sad that my kiddos weren't there to enjoy the critters. I came home and shared the facts as I remembered them, and then found the clip online for them to watch. Perhaps one of the most interesting concepts that I'll remember is the adaptation of ear size. Animals in hot climates often have large ears because as the blood flows through the thin skin it loses heat and helps cool the animal. Conversely, animals in cold regions often have small ears, so the heat isn't lost. That's interesting, right? Not as interesting as the story I told them that they cracked up over...

There was a man sitting in front of my group that had somewhat of a Newman-like vibe (I'm talking the Seinfeld-variety Newman, not the Paul...). During one of the commercial breaks when we were suffering through the banter Michael said something like: "Did you hear what he [hunky zoologist] just said about the mandrills? The redder the butts, the more attractive they are." To which Newman said, "That's motivation for me to take a hot shower." It's truly mind-blowing how quickly a visual of a person coming out of a shower with a bright red bum can pop into your head. 

While chatting with my friends, I mentioned that this weekend after seeing the Columbus Circle public art (finally -- the hurricane sabotaged our original ticket date), we were walking down Central Park West and saw a K-9 unit parked. Last year I think that we would have taken an inconspicuous peek and continued walking. This year I am so fine-tuned to find opportunities and experiences I struck up a conversation with the officer and before we could say Rin Tin Tin he had the dog out of his crate for a more intimate introduction. He chatted with us about the dog, but also about things like growing up in the city. Of course the kids liked the dog (he can go straight up ladders!), but later when we were still talking excitedly about the experience, they were equally happy about how funny and kind the officer was. I hope that the scheme has forever changed me into a person who consistently takes an extra step out of my comfort zone, for I'm starting to think that that is where a lot of great connections happen. 

This weekend we also took the kids to see Lincoln. I'm not sure I would have made that choice on my own, but after reading an article in the Times, The Dad felt that it would be good for the entire family. This has always been his parenting style -- the throw the spaghetti at the wall and see what sticks school of thought. I will say that when people ask us how we are able to take our kids places when we travel, I usually reply: "We have been building up their boredom-resistance since they were born." So, yes, they were bored. And yes, because of the K-9 thing we got to the theatre late, so ended up sitting in the front row, and yes there were a couple of gory parts... oh, and there was one potty joke (that I will posit was pretty awesome... I'll never look at a portrait of George Washington the same). That having been said, as we discussed the movie over lunch (we held their Levain cookie hostage until they offered up some critical analysis) I realized that the kids picked up on some great details and had some really insightful questions (like: "Why didn't Lincoln like his oldest son very much?"). Perhaps the lesson I was most grateful we discussed was: even great parents don't always act like great parents; even great men/women don't always know what is right; even cowards can have moments of greatness. If it's true that this is the age when my kids' characters and world views are being formed, I will -- without reservation -- assert that this movie is worth throwing into the mix. 

Other than the curriculum I brought home today from LIVE, we also had a regularly scheduled day. The Girl capped it off with a special activity -- "book club" at Sugar and Plumm with a favorite friend and her mom. The girls were a bit shy and looked to each other for answers some times, but overall what they retained was impressive, as were their attempts to stay in the game. They were cute... honest... tender-hearted. They both want to continue the club, and I anticipate that their capacities for critical thinking while with their giggle-companion will improve (being able to think clearly while with a giggle-buddy really is an incredibly useful skill).