Homeschool Geekness, er, uh, I mean, fun.

Before Joe and I had kids, we were known to sigh contentedly and say, "There is no hope for our kids.  They have little or no chance of avoiding geekdom."  Because, you see, we are both in our own ways, such geeky, nerdy, dorky people. 

Once the kids started coming, and we started to see their various personalities, our conviction was only reinforced. 

One of the ways this geekness exhibited itself throughout the years,  was that in the middle of some meal, Joe or I  would suddenly have an irresistible compulsion to look something up in the dictionary.  Some tidbit of conversation or some memory of something from earlier in the day would effect the sudden rush to the dictionary to look something up. 

Which new information would then likely effect more looking up of more things.  Kind of a stream of consciousness pursuit of knowledge.  Please note I say knowledge, not wisdom.  I make no claim to have gained anything in wisdom. 

But it's fun.  It suits us. 

These days we tend instead to run to the kitchen computer to google things.  But since we try to discourage computer use during meals, it kind of puts a damper on that sort of mealtime research. 

Not totally, however.  

When we homeschooled all of our kids, our noon meals often consisted of such learning opportunities.  We have a large world map and a large US map mounted on the wall behind our dining room table.  Sometimes our learning came out with some geographical study.  Other times we'd pull out the dictionary or a volume of the encyclopedia or whatever reference work suited our needs. 

Today at lunch/dinner/noon meal, we lapsed briefly into our former fun with Sophie and Clara.  It must have just been one of those days, where the planets all lined up just right or something (I'm joking, please, nobody take that last phrase seriously). 

Anyway, at least three things came up that tickled that little geek spot in my brain. 

First, Clara was once again giving me the Zoolander looks.  She easily remembers the names of two of the looks, Blue Steele and Magnum.  I thought one of the others was Tahiti, so I threw that in. 

"Tahiti?  I thought that was some sort of food Dad uses to make hummus."

"That would be tahini.  Sesame paste.  I said Tahiti.  It's a Pacific Island."

I saw Clara look toward the map and contemplate getting up to find it, but she somehow managed to curb her impulse.

I did check the Derek Zoolander faces and there is no Tahiti.  I think I must have stored Ferrari under the Tahiti bit in my brain.  Strange.
 

Anyway, it was fun to see Clara look at the map.  And although we've really been working on restricting the wandering around during meals that has become epidemic, I almost wanted her to get up and find Tahiti.

A little later, we got talking about the word decimate. 

As I learned recently, in the strictest sense, decimate means to reduce by 10%.  It comes from Roman times.  A punishment used by military leaders to deter insubordination was to divide the troops into groups of ten.  Each group drew lots and whoever drew the certain lot was executed by the other nine.  I had never known that meaning.  I was only familiar with its sense of meaning to wipe out or do severe damage to something.  Since then,  I've been wondering if the "wipe out" meaning of the word is wrong.  I mean, whether I was wrong in thinking that was the meaning.  But until today, I kept forgetting to check.

We were recently given a box of paper backs.  We're trying hard not to accumulate stuff, and books are seriously our weakness.  So before simply taking this box of hand-me-downs to the thrift store, I grabbed one to try out.  White Indian, by Donald Clay Porter.  Apparently it's the first of a series of 28 books depicting the settlement era of America from the point of view of Native American peoples. 

Anyway, near the beginning of this book, the author describes one of the tribes wiping out Fort Springfield, along the Connecticut River.  And in context, they destroyed the fort, burning it to the ground and killing all but one infant child.  Mr. Porter used the phrase, "literally decimated."  I found that an interesting use of the word literally.  Since with my newfound literacy with regard to the word decimate, a literal meaning would imply the Roman punishment.  I pictured the Native braves making the settlers draw lots and execute 1/10 of themselves. 

So I mentioned this conundrum to Joe at dinner today.  Sophie immediately ran to get a dictionary.  I was so happy!  A girl after my own heart.

As she was looking up the word decimate, Joe asked me if I'd ever heard the word ineluctable.  I had not.  But I couldn't resist a little bit of smart alek answer, "Well, the in- would mean not, and the -able would refer to one's ability to do something.  So, ... not being able to eluct, I guess."

Clara, though, Clara was thinking.  "What does the -luct- in reluctant meant?"


"Good girl, Clara!"  cheered I.

She looked a little perplexed. 

"You discovered a cognate.  A word that shares a similar root.  That's a great way to figure these things out.  Now it happens that neither Dad or I know -luct-, but it's still a great observation."


By this time Sophie had found decimate,

dec·i·mate

ˈdesəˌmāt/

verb

verb: decimate; 3rd person present: decimates; past tense: decimated; past participle: decimated; gerund or present participle: decimating

1. 1.

   kill, destroy, or remove a large percentage or part of.

   "the project would decimate the fragile wetland wilderness"

   • drastically reduce the strength or effectiveness of (something).

     "plant viruses that can decimate yields"
2. 2.

   historical

   kill one in every ten of (a group of soldiers or others) as a punishment for the whole group.

I had her look up ineluctable, too.

in·e·luc·ta·ble

ˌiniˈləktəbəl/

adjective

adjective: ineluctable

1. unable to be resisted or avoided; inescapable.

   "the ineluctable facts of history"

And so we learned two new words.  Or at least one new word and a bigger usage of a second word.  We learned more about the roots of the word reluctant.  And so will be able to notice the root in other words in which it might occur. 


Oh, and we learned that Tahiti is neither a food, nor one of the faces of Zoolander.

Interesting Reads While Waiting

Lilly Pullitzer velvet men's trousers, circa 1970

Yesterday I had one of our several rumble down autos worked on.  Kelly L. helped me get the car started and followed me into town to make sure I made it safely.  He was also going to give me a lift home, if I needed to leave the car for any length of time.  Since Kelly had some business to transact at the Freedom Living Center, I waited in the very well-appointed main sitting room there until he was done with his business. 

While waiting, I picked up a Martha Stewart Living.  I have kind of a love-hate relationship with the whole Martha Steward thing.  The love comes, of course, from all the decorating ideas she promotes.  Her taste appeals to me.  The thought of having leisure to care how, for instance, the tops of my pie crusts are decorated, or whether the latest fresh flower arrangement is seasonally correct has some draw.  But there's the rub.  It's all so silly.  So vain.  So polar opposite of the reality in which I live. 

But every once in awhile, I like to peruse the pages in some waiting room or another.  Truth be told, once, ... I even bought one.  What a silly use of that $7.50 or whatever it was.  I can't imagine now what possessed me.  I must been gratifying some indulgent need for the fantasy of living a pampered existence.

Two of the many things I passed over yesterday stuck in my memory.  The first is an indicator of how Northern Minnesotan I've become.  The title of the article was something like, "What's your favorite big game recipe?"  Really?  Big game recipes in Martha Stewart Living?  I had to look twice.  And then thrice.  Then I scanned the recipes and was momentarily confused.  Chip and vegetable dips.  Appetizers and finger foods.  Crock pot fare.  But nothing that looked like it contained venison, elk, or moose.

"Aha!"  thought I.  "Big game.... I bet they're talking about a sporting event.  Perhaps the super bowl."

I checked the cover, and sure enough, it was the February 2013.  Big game recipes.  I get it now. 

I giggled at the thought of finding wild game recipes in Martha Stewart Living.  The whole East Coast chic thing doesn't really seem to fit with taking a rifle and firing it at a wild animal.  Those cute and fuzzy, noble beasts, falling to the ground and bleeding out.  The eyes that a moment before gleamed with life, fading to dull.  The skinning and gutting.  Just the notion cracks me up.  ""What's your favorite big game recipe?" 

The second article that caught my interest was on collecting.  The magazine featured a handful of collectors, photos of their collections, and a brief interview of how they got started and where they find their pieces.  

A colorful patchwork blazer for the man in your life

or perhaps trousers with an aquatic life theme?

Grassland birds?

And for the very fanciful man, fuchsia unicorns

One of the collections was Lilly Pulitzer Men's Stuff.  Wild floral prints.  Animal designs.  Bright citrusy colors.  For men. 

According to the article, they were quite the thing among the upper crust Palm Beach golf set.  It totally cracks me up. 


Lilly, whose mother was heiress to the Standard Oil fortune, was educated in all the best schools for a young socialite of the time.  She married a Palm Beach area citrus grower, who also had famous connections, being the grandson of the Pulitzer after whom the prize is named.  Lilly opened a citrus drink stand for the upper crust, in one of Palm Beach's premier shopping areas, just off Worth Avenue.  She discovered she needed clothing that would camouflage the juices that got splattered while working.  She designed a handful of sleeveless dresses to wear while working.  Her brightly colored dresses were so well-liked that she started making them to sell to others, and so began the line. 

Imagining the 1970s upper crust men wearing these prints on the golf course and while socializing tickles my imagination.  What a colorful time!  Do a google image search on Lilly Pulitzer Men's Stuff to see a far wider variety of colors and designs than I have shown here.

Is this really art?

This is from the Nick Jr. show, Yo Gabba Gabba.  I know nothing of the show.  I stumbled upon this video because of a list of recommended children's youtube channels.  Yo Gabba Gabba was the favorite of the person putting together the list. 

I watched a few episodes with Inge.   Yes, she was interested.  Yes, she was involved.  Yes, she was stimulated. 

Strange.  At first glance, the whole show seemed to me little more than a retro hippy drug induced creation.  And at second glance.  Third....

As I watched the above clip, I was reminded of a discussion going on in worldview and education/homeschool philosophy circles many years ago.  Perhaps it still is.  I mostly no longer have the energy to pursue such intelligent philosophical banterings, so I can't say for sure.

The idea was that 20th century art is widely a reflection of the wider 20th century tendency to forgo rules and order.  What appears in this video to be a bunch of adults clowning around and making a huge mess, is called art.

I don't deny that art is everywhere.  Creativity abounds in humanity.  Beauty abounds in the earth.  Interesting and challenging ideas can be portrayed visually.  Touching moments, hardship, violence, accomplishment, virtue, etc.  These can all be portrayed through visual media.  That to me is art.  At least visual art.

But the above definition of art?  Really?  I think we as a society can and should do better than this.  We ought to hold higher standards before our children. 

Four Oldies on the Way to Town

It's kind of a quiet week around here.  Louisa and Elsie are in Florida for our church body's National Youth Convention.  Matt's at Boot camp, of course.  And Joe was gone overnight with the three littles to look at a van in southern Minnesota. 

But we had Jeremy here to visit for a couple of days, so that was fun.  He brought all his new games and movies to share with the other kids.  It's his sweet big brother thing.

Today the three middles and I took Jeremy back to Thief River.  He had to work at 4:00.  Jeremy, although having attained the ripe old age of 20,  doesn't drive.  He's got his permit.  But he hasn't really lived at home or had a "normal" enough schedule to get much practice time. 

(I might add here that although Jeremy is a pretty good driver, the last time I drove with him, over a year ago, he was in kind of a Dukes of Hazzard stage.  After sliding around a few corners, I told him I was done.  If he wanted to learn to drive, he had to get his dad to go with him.)

He drove to town today.  The other kids asked why I was letting him drive.  I asked him if he felt mature and in control enough to drive safely.  He assured me this was the case. 

I immediately felt sleepy when we got in the car.  I was hesitant to give into it, with Jeremy's record and all.  But man!  it just hit me like a wall.  I couldn't stay awake for anything.

Jeremy had the Classic Rock station going strong.  After one more exhortation for self-control and not clowning around, and a warning that he was on zero tolerance, I dozed off a little bit, listening to the Rolling Stones, AC/DC, and all the rest.

At one point, Shake it up, Baby came on.  Jeremy clowned just a bit, by wiggling the wheel for the chorus.

I opened my eyes enough to cut him a dirty look out the side of my slitted eyes, and he settled down. 

Then John piped up from the back seat with an altered version of the Beach Boys, "And he'll have fun, fun, fun, til our daddy takes the T-bird away."

Totally cracked me up.

But didn't wake me up. 

I managed to wake up enough when we neared town to navigate Jeremy around the construction south of Hugos.  And it was just in time for one of our all time favorite family songs, Bohemian Rhapsody.  We were all singing it out loudly, Jeremy at 20, Clara at 13, Sophie at 11, and John at 9.  And me.  And we were doing all kinds of harmony.  It was really, really fun. 

"Galileo, Galileo, Galileo Figaro.  Magnifico-o-o-o!"

"He's just a poor boy from a poor family,  Spare him his life from this monstrosity."

"Bismillah!  No! we will not let you go!"

"So you think you can stone me and spit in my e-e-eye?   So you think you can love me and leave me to di-i-ie?"

I love that my kids and I have this shared cultural literacy.  That something as simple as a song on the radio can elicit this joint vocal response from my kids of such a wide range of ages. 

On the way home, I took my new favorite back-road cut-off.  Nothing but fields and gravel.  Just the right spot to turn up the music loudly and belt out another Queen favorite when it came on.

"Weeeeeeee are the champions, my frie-ends, aaa-aaah.  And we'll keep on fighting, till the end."

A Mile is a Mile is a Mile. Or Not.

When I first moved to this very remote area of Minnesota I had a hard time acclimating to the distances here.  The nearest neighbors are a mile away.  The nearest very small towns are thirteen miles away.  Cities are further yet and they are still small cities. 

I had reason to chuckle at this relativity of distance last night.  A friend who lives in the Chicago area was searching his on-line resources to see what national banks were near us.  He said, "Oh,  nope, nothing within 30 miles." 

I quickly said something like, "Oh, no, no, NO!  The closest we'd find one of those might possibly be Fargo, and that's 150 miles.  And really, the chance is slim there.  Otherwise the Twin Cities is almost 300 miles."  We get used to such distances.  But I remember when we first found out we were moving here.  We did a search, just out of curiosity, to see how far to the nearest Starbucks.  The nearest one at that time was Winnipeg, MB, Canada. 

Just out of curiosity, and to illustrate just how remote we are, I made up this little chart to give a little picture of where we live.

City (metro areas)	Miles from us	Population in 2010
Firstly, the two closest towns to us. They each have a gas station. Oklee has a local bank and a grocery store. The each have a liquor store and an eatery or two.
Oklee	13	435
Goodridge	14	132
This next round of distance. Thief River has most small city services such as a hospital and clinic, several locally owned businesses and industries, multiple gas stations, two hardware stores, a Wal-Mart and a K-Mart, and a few national chain stores. This is where we do most of our regular shopping.  There are a handful of fast food joints and another handful of full service restaurants. Fosston and Red Lake Falls each have a few gas stations, a grocery store, bank, hardware and drug stores, branch library, an industry or two, and some locally owned businesses.
Thief River Falls	26	8,573
Red Lake Falls	30	1,427
Fosston	30	1527
Following, you see, we're getting into the next level of distance, and the next level of urban convenience. Bemidji is still quite a small town, but caters to tourists, has several big box retailers, and even has its own mall. Albeit a quite small one with, I believe two or three department stores, and Minnesota State University, Bemidji. Grand Forks has a pretty nice small town mall, many big box retailers, and many of the things people consider part of city life. As you can see by the population, it's still quite a small city, but it's the big place to go for all the area towns that are much smaller. Grand Forks is home to University of North Dakota. But these towns area about 70 miles away each.  We only get to either Grand Forks or Bemidji a handful of times a year.
Bemidji	71	13,431
Grand Forks/East Grand Forks	68	98,461
Oooh, now we're really getting places. We're up into the hundreds of thousands in population. Fargo/Moorhead has a very nice mall, but still probably quite small compared to a big city shopping experience. This area has multiple hospitals and colleges and much business and manufacturing. We might or might not get to the Fargo area a time or two each year.
Fargo/Moorhead	122	216,312
The closest really big urban area is the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul, Minnesota. This area is still comparatively not as urban as many areas, ranking only the 16th in the US. We've only been to the Twin Cities perhaps 4 times in the last 12 years.
Twin cities	285	3317308
The following cities I've included only to give a reference for the next biggest metro areas near us. We do not use them for shopping unless driving through on the way elsewhere.
Winnipeg, MB, Canada	165	730,018
Bismarck,ND	315	61,272
Souix Falls, SD	378	228,261

And so you see, Sudesh, why I chuckled when you said you didn't see any within 30 miles of us.  Basically, within 30 miles, ... There is, well, nothing.  And of course I don't mean to say this nothingness ss a bad thing.  I very much love where we live.  But to those unaccustomed to such an extreme rural existence, this is rather empty.

To the Daffodil

I made this photo for my facebook, and I like it so well, I wanted to put it here, too.  I love the greens and yellows together.  I love the poem.  I love daffodils.  We're still waiting to see them here this year, but a woman can dream.  The original photo was from my friend Karin, and of her spring gardens in northern Indiana.

Another text I had considered including was the Daffodowndilly traditional English rhyme,

Daffodowndilly 

Is new come to town

In a yellow petticoat 

And a green gown.

And as long as we're on the subject, here are a few other choice daffodil tidbits.

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
~William Wordsworth, "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud," 1804

When I bought my farm, I did not know what a bargain I had in the bluebirds, daffodils and thrushes; as little did I know what sublime mornings and sunsets I was buying.
~Ralph Waldo Emerson

The daffodil is our doorside queen; 

She pushes upward the sword already, 

To spot with sunshine the early green.

~William Cullen Bryant

Dueling Songs? Or Melding?

I've got competing songs going through my brain. It's kind of like dueling banjos. But not really.

Joe was listening to a guitar learning video, teaching about delta blues guitar riffs. John is building the birdhouse from the kit he got for Christmas.

Each of those activities have put a song in my head.  I really like both songs.  But they're spinning around in my poor noggin and combining in a strange sort of musical meld.





Maybe some musically inclined person can explore this idea and make his or her fortune.  Go for it!  I surrender all rights.

Strange thoughts about Life and Grey's Anatomy

I started watching Grey's Anatomy on hulu awhile back, but hulu only offered the first season.  Now I have netflix, so I can watch the rest of it.  And I have been.  Not tons.  But a few episodes every now and then. 

It's OK.  Not great, but OK. 

So why do I waste my time on something that's merely OK?  Three things:  Scenery.  Art.  Psychology of Human Nature.

Having grown up in the Puget Sound area, I like seeing the Space Needle and other Seattle scenes.  It makes me all mushy inside when those panoramas flow past the screen.

I also like the artistic angle of how the show is put together.  There are facets of the production that appeal to my emotions like good art does.  It hits me deep down inside.  Like the music.  I'm not a music person.  I mean, I can't name all different kinds of musical genres and bands and instruments.  But I almost always notice the music in this show.  I like how the producers combine the music and the weather and the moods of the characters. 

And I like the glimpse into hidden parts of human nature.  The portrayal of humanity.  How do the patients deal with their crises?  How do they deal with their families during crises?  How do the doctors deal with the patients?  How do they deal with each other?  And in what ways do the issues the patients deal with help the doctors, at a basic human level, to be better people? 

And yes, I know it's not a Christian show.  I realize that the solutions and answers to which all these issues lead are not foundationally the same as the solutions and answers to which I'd come myself, or toward which I'd advise a friend. 

The writers do, however, seem to capture little nuggets of interpersonal truth at some level.  They get it.  They see how we broken human beings interact.  How we feel and cope.  How we use and manipulate.  How we analyze and muddle. 

It's kind of strange to me that through this artistic medium we call television, the writers and producers of this show capture life truths and reflect them back to viewers.  They give us an opportunity, impetus, to think about our own lives and interactions.  To examine our own interpersonal mechanisms to see how we measure up.

Last night's episode was called Enough is Enough.  It's in Season Two somewhere toward the beginning.  There was a character, a patient, who had ingested doll heads.  Ten Judy Doll heads.  Judy Dolls are apparently similar to Barbie dolls.  Ten.  He swallowed the heads whole.  Very strange. 

I did a little search to see what Judy Dolls were.  But in the process of trying to find that out, I noticed that most of the google search hits about Judy Dolls have to do with this particular episode of Grey's Anatomy. 

So see, I'm not the only one to whom this show does something.  A cursory glance through the search hits showed me that others viewers write about the characters and their various psychoses.  People think about the episodes and turn them over in their brains.  If a person is so inclined, he or she might put to paper the thoughts and feelings elicited through such analysis.  Viewers emotionally ingest the episodes, the various issues and hurdles the characters face.  They apply such to their own lives and come to some sort of resolution.  And then they spit these thoughts and lessons back out in written analysis.  It's in interesting cultural phenomenon, is it not?

I happened upon the following blog post last night.  I like it.  I like the Christian solution to which this writer alludes.  She doesn't phrase things exactly as I would.  But I understand her use of some cultural thing, a television character with emotional trauma, as a metaphor for life. 

I get it.

And so I'm passing it on.  Nothing big or earth shattering.  I just like it.

Why do we eat Judy Dolls? on If Words Were Medicine blog.

A Small Town Christmas: Many Wonderful Happenings

The Plummer Tree Lighting

I had a wonderful little hometown Christmas season afternoon and evening on Friday.   It was a soothing and joyful balm in the wake of the tragic and frightening news out of Connecticut earlier that day.

School Program

The K-3 school program in the afternoon was fun and cute. Mrs. Bernstein does such a nice job.  The kids all love her.  Her energy, charisma, zeal, and kindness come through from the stage!

Third Grade

John and a small group of other kids did a good job with their harmony part.  John did his speaking part loudly and clearly.

Even Stella had an unexpected speaking part; she was asked to step in for another child who was absent.  But, alas!  Stella had the second line of the program.  I was fashionably late, as usual, and so I came in the door just as she was finishing up.  I think I will have to ask Mrs. Bernstein never to give any of my kids parts near the beginning of the programs.  "Just a general notice for all future programs...no Abrahamsons near the beginning."

Giving Back

After the program, I got to play Santa!

I am so grateful for our little schools here, and for all the wonderful people who work to make them what they are.  Everyone gives 200%, and I know it's not always easy.  I try to do a little something for my kids' teachers each year, as a token of how very much I appreciate them. 

I spent my fall crocheting scarves.  It all started when I got a few things ready for the Nazareth Fancywork sale in mid September.  I had used some nicer yarns that Louisa had given me before she left for Italy, from her left-overs yarn stash.  Since I generally use only the cheapo basic yarns, crocheting with these other, fancier fibers was a new thing.  I discovered a sensory experience I had not imagined.  I found a sort of serenity in seeing all the colors and patterns run through my fingers.  I was soothed by the feel of all the different textures.  The soft yarns and the bumpy, stretchy knots in the crochet; the combination of smooth and rugged.  Plush and firm.  There's also the soothing, repetitive rhythms of the handiwork itself.  And the sense of accomplishment at finishing something.  The pride in creating something lovely.  It was all very healing for me.

Soon I found I was creating scarf after scarf with no particular end in mind.  It wasn't long before I came up with the idea of taking a box of scarves into the school from which the the teachers could each choose.  Well, really it started with a more vague idea of giving scarves as Christmas gifts.  But since I don't know the teachers well enough to have a sense of their style, and don't see how they dress except a couple times a year, I didn't want to choose the scarves for them.  I have four kids in school, so I figured I'd need a dozen or so scarves.  Enough for each homeroom teacher, plus a handful of extras in order to provide selection, so that each could find something he or she likes.

I easily reached a dozen.  But then I kept going.  And going.  I couldn't seem to stop.  I was having too much fun.  Soon I had enough scarves for the homeroom teachers and all the various teachers who have worked with my kids this year.  But that didn't suit the kids.  They kept wanting to add more and more people to the list.  I think that says something powerful about our school.  My children have so many people there that they love, and think of as their "special people."  They listed playground helpers, the "Grandmas" who come in to help, the library and special ed teachers, kitchen workers.  I don't think there was any school worker demographic that was not represented.  (Oh, that reminds me,...I still need to get one to our bus driver...).

I felt happy, but I sure look somber showing off my accomplishments

I would have loved to take a big, big box, filled with a hundred or more scarves, and put up a sign that said,

Everyone, Please choose a scarf!
Choose for yourself, or to use as a gift
Thank-you for all you do for our children.  
You are all a wonderful part of this place!  
Have a Merry Christmas!

But alas, time ran out and I had a mere 30-40 scarves.

I contacted all of my kids teachers, plus any school workers I've gotten to know when I need their help with school related things.  I felt a little bit sad, though, the whole time I was there, as the other teachers and workers came and went to see what all the excitement was.  I really, really would have loved to have enough for everyone!  I can't say enough how much I appreciate the fact that it takes every one of those people to keep a small school running.  And I'm thankful for how personal and caring everyone is.  They are like family, especially for my kids who have no extended family nearby.

But I'm getting ahead of myself a little bit.

After the school program, Sophie and I scuttled out to the van to grab the booty.  I had prepared a box, wrapped in Christmas wrapping, from which the scarves could tumble forth.   I had some homemade hot fudge ice cream topping for each of the homeroom teachers.  I arranged for the teachers to mosey into the teachers' lounge when they had the extra minutes in between their after-school responsibilities. 

It was great fun!  Sophie stayed for part of the time, until she had to go to her Honors Choir obligations.  I got to meet many of the teachers and workers who I previously knew only by name, those teachers who have not worked with my children, but who my children love and talk about.  Yes, those that my children consider special people, but for whom I did not have scarves enough.  (Sad sigh.)

As I was hoping, the female teachers had fun wrapping around themselves many scarves at once to compare, or holding them up for each other, or setting them out to get a better look.  The male teachers were a little more mixed, choosing for their wives or themselves.  Some had definite ideas, and some looked at the box in confusion, wondering what would be a good choice.  Or in one case (I'm not telling who) even trying to remember what color coat his wife wears.  The difference between the men and women tickled me, because it so aptly fit the stereotypes.

At one point, when nobody was in the lounge "shopping" I stepped out into the hallway and, peaking around the corner, I saw a handful of teachers visiting outside their classroom doors, waiting for the buses in front of the school to pull away.  Waiting for that Friday afternoon moment to arrive, when they too could head for home.  They joked that they were worse than the kids.  And I smiled because they all had their scarves wrapped or flung around their necks. 

That's exactly what I wanted!  Not just a Christmas gift, but a bit of fun along with it.

I had the camera along, and had wanted to take pictures, but not once did I think to get it out.  Sadly, I am not much of a photographer.  My plan had been that Joe would be taking photos of all the fun, but Inge ended up spiking a fever just before it was time to leave home.   He stayed home with her and they both had to miss all the fun.  And I missed the opportunities to take photos.

It was great fun.  But the fun didn't stop when scarf giving was finished.

Clara and Sophie, along with the rest of the school Honors Choir, had been asked to sing at the Plummer Tree Lighting celebration, which was scheduled for the evening.  Fun activities had been scheduled throughout the evening, including the arrival of the Canadian Pacific holiday train.  Joe and I went out on a limb, and planned to partake of a rare family activity.   Inge's illness put a damper on the family aspect of it, but the rest of us could still enjoy the fun.  

Visiting Friends

During the school program, Donna and Sohpie and I had sat with our friends, the Roues.  Rachel Roue is Louisa's good friend, and between those two girls the families have become friends.  My John and Rachel's brother, Jonathan, are also classmates and great friends.  I think they perhaps make things a little challenging for their teachers.  They both have very active and curious minds, and a tendency to get distracted by their ideas and dreams of various creations, many of which are of Legos and Star Wars and Superheros.

After the program, Rachel offered to take my little ones to their home, since I was planning to be busy with the scarf thing.  I had not planned to go home in between the program and the evening activities, since Plummer is almost 20 miles away from our home.  But Rachel's family lives nearer Plummer, so it was a handy place for us to spend extra time.  I had no set plans for my family, but I had brought along a bag of snacks to use in lieu of supper.  Of course, in all the excitement, I didn't think to send that bag along with Rachel.

This all worked out very well for me.  I could relax and enjoy the scarf giving, and visiting with the teachers, without any distraction or commotion from my littles.  And Rachel and her mom were kind enough to find some food for my kids while they were there.  I joined them, too, for about an hour.  We got to visit in the comfort of their home.  It's always a treat to visit Rachel's family.  They are wonderful people and we are very blessed to have them in our lives!

Oh, and I got to meet Louisa's and Rachel's friend, Josh B.  Louisa went to prom with Josh, but I had not met him.  He was to spend the evening with Rachel at the Plummer festivities.

And speaking of festivities, ...

Learning to Dress for Winter Weather:  Duh!

I have lived in Minnesota for most of my adult life.  Those years not in Minnesota were spent in Wisconsin and the Chicago area.  Although not all of these years did I spend in as cold an area as that in which I live now, I did experience winter in each locality.  BUT, I still mess up on this winter thing.  And Friday night could have been a really big mess up, if not for the help of Rachel and her mom in winterizing us.

Because of a combination of having homeschooled for many years; trying to keep our family home-centered and not externally focused; and having spent much of the last 20 years either pregnant or with an infant; all these things have combined to equal a mom who is not in the habit of orchestrating outings.  It seems crazy, but I did not even consider that we'd be outside in the cold for much of the evening.  We were all in dress clothes.  John and Stella because they had to dress up for their program; and Donna and I, too, since... well..., that's how I was raised.  You dress up for programs and concerts as a way of showing honor and appreciation for the work the performers and directors put into the occasion. I chuckle when I compare the two ideas.  I may know how to dress for a concert or performance, but don't ask me to dress my kids for weather.  Can you tell I did not grow up in an area where we had winter?

John and Stella were not so badly off, since they had snow pants in their school bags.  They had their winter boots.  John had left his gloves in the classroom, but otherwise they had the capability of being dressed for the weather.   But Donna and I had nothing!  Dresses and tights and church shoes.

As I was hustling the kids together, to get ready to return to Plummer from the Roues, it dawned on me how utterly unprepared we were!

Rachel's mom, Renee, offered some of Jonathan's extras for Donna, and a pair of gloves for John, which Rachel quickly gathered for us.  They offered to find extras for me, too, but I figured I could tough it out.  Mark, Rachel's dad encouraged Rachel to pull on some Carhartts.  She instead opted for several layers of coats and jackets.  Josh also didn't have much for winter wear, but he also opted to tough it out.  Let me just say that there were several times during the course of the evening, when I wished for some Carhartts to pull over my skirt and boots for my frozen toes.  And I'm sure Josh thought some of those same thoughts. The many people walking around town with their Arctic Cat bibs, gloves, boots, and neck gators looked toasty warm. 

I am very thankful, however, for the warm things my kids were able to use.

Next time, I hope I am neither ditzy enough to forget to prepare for winter weather; nor stubborn enough to refuse the kind offerings of friends.

Santa

When we got to Plummer, we found the line for Santa in Centennial Park in front of the gazebo.  My kids don't have much experience with the whole Santa thing.  We try to keep the focus on Jesus at Christmas.  I was never raised to believe in Santa, which at the time I felt was a great injustice.  I felt a little bit robbed at not being able to enjoy the magic of it all.  And although my husband was raised to believe in Santa, he made the decision that we would enjoy that man in a fictional kind of way in our home.  We honor St. Nicholas, by periodially reminding the kids of who he was and the things he did to care for others.  And Santa is not "off limits" in our home.  We simply don't put much focus on or energy into him.

A few of our kids have been to see Santa with other families.  But this was the first time either Joe or I had taken any of our kids to such an event.  John, Stella, and Donna got sit on Santa's lap and tell a little about what they want for Christmas.  John of course wants a DS (whatever that is, some game thing, right?).  I was quick to assure him teasingly that he had not been that good.  He smiled, because he knew that what I meant was, "We don't have that kind of money, my son.  I'm sorry.  But don't ever forget that I love you."

I was glad that Rachel took pictures of my kids.  Again, that dumb camera phobia came to plague me.  I'll try to remember to add them after she posts them.

Throughout this part of the evening, I couldn't help but think of my friend, Deb H. from highschool.  She often amused us classmates with her vocal imitations.  She frequently did her mother, who happened to be adamantly anti-Santa.  Perhaps Deb's best loved and remembered imitation was given one day when we were all joking about going to get our pictures taken with Santa.  Knowing how Deb's mom felt about the whole Santa thing, one of us asked what she would say.  I can still hear Deb's response to this day, and it ran through my head during the time my kids were in line to sit with Santa, "Deb, Deb!" spoken in Deb's funny Mom voice, "Who's that little red man your sitting on, Deb?"

The RLCC Plummer Honors Choir regaling the crowd

Museum

Our little local towns never cease to amaze me!  The city of Plummer has a very cool museum that I never even knew existed.  The Tri-River Pioneer museum was open Firday night from 6:00-9:00.  What a little gem of a place.  It features a hardware store, blacksmith shop, school room, kitchen, harness shop, gas station.  They have a fire truck and a pump wagon, over which Charlie Bishop was presiding, and about which he was teaching the kids.  He let the kids line up on each side to try out the pump mechanism. Up, down, up, down went those little bodies lined up on each side.

The Pump Wagon

It was fun to visit with many friends and neighbors.  It was so interesting to hear the older, long time residents talk about who had donated this piece or that piece, and how they used the various things in the old days.  In the harness shop, along the wall, hung two large leather nettings.  I was curious about these, so Rachel asked one of the older men who she knew.  They are fly nets.  They were laid across the backs of the horses to keep the flies from bothering. 

I didn't make it into the hardware store, but I could see through the window that one of the area ladies was dressed in period costume visiting with and gently teaching all who came in.  We'll definitely have to get over there sometime when Joe's parents are around.  I don't know what the regular hours are, though.  Or if they have regular hours.  But I'm sure I can find out.

The museum was a nice place to come in out of the cold.  They served coffee and hot chocolate, and cookies and goodies.   Just as with Santa, this was free to visitors, with the request for a free will donation of non-perishable food items.

Christmas Train

Until last year, I'd never heard of the Canadian Pacific holiday train, but what a fun concept.  Starting in 1999, in Canada, and being added in the US in 2001, CP has sponsored holiday trains to raise awareness of and food for local community food shelves.  For three weeks each December, the trains run throughout the CP routes, with scheduled stops in the communities along the line.  The communities are encouraged to use the occasion as an opportunity to collect money and food items for their local food shelves.  Plummer did this with the Santa visit and the "little lunch" in the museum.  The local businesses also pitched in with a $1000 donation.

For those of you not along a CP line, what exactly happens when the train comes?  Read along to experience it second hand.

Seemingly the entire community is assembled in Pummer's Tri-River Pioneer Museum.  Some sitting at the tables enjoying their snacks.  Others trying to maintain a tight hold on excited and rambunctious children.  Others are wandering the museum displays.  Many are milling about visiting friends and neighbors.  The honors choir has assembled outside, and is leading visitors in singing Christmas and holiday carols.  A joyful and friendly cacophony.

Then the call goes out!  The train is within two miles of town!

The timbre of the gathering changes markedly.  There is an audible shift in the level of excitement.  Parents gather their children.  There is a rush to get coats and hats and gloves back on.  The crowd starts to flow toward the doors of the museum.  This becomes a bit chaotic, as everyone jostles for position and kids slither through the crowd in ways parents cannot.

But eventually everyone gets outside and parents are reunited with those children who have slithered ahead.  The train crossing is just a block or so from the museum, so the excited mass moves that way.  Nobody will get into town from this direction tonight.  The street is filled with people.  As we near the crossing, the adults make room for the kids near the front.  Everyone is friendly and happy, encouraging parents with small children to make their way forward.  The train, ablaze with lights and color is rumbling nearer.  The crowd squeezes closer.

(This was all quite a bit to take in on a first visit, so readers who shared the occasion will have to forgive any misrepresentation in my description, and please, add your own version in the comments.)

I see the train a-comin'

The train chuffs into town.  There is a feeling of excitement and anticipation.  The lights.  The sounds.  The holiday cheer and excitement.  The train comes to a stop before the surging crowd.  Christmas music pours from the train.  In a moment, Santa issues forth and the little ones press toward him.  He hands out candy canes to each of them.

I notice, as the train pulled to a stop, what appears to be a large silver screen on the boxcar that is situated directly across the roadway, immediately in front of the crowd.  Earlier in the evening, I had learned that this is to be the first time the train has a scheduled stop in Plummer.  A question that I heard repeated often was, "Are they going to perform?"  I did not know what to expect.  Do they project some sort of show onto the silver surface mounted on this strategically placed boxcar?

My kids and I were with Rachel and Josh most of the evening, since Jonathan and John wanted to enjoy the festivities together.  I have to insert here that much of the time Josh and I, being both of more reserved natures, were left together.  The younger ones ran around enjoying the fun and playing with all their school friends.  Rachel did her Rachel thing, which means visiting with and hugging everyone.  Rachel worked for several summers with the Oklee Community Rec, so children of all ages know and love her.  She is also a favorite of the parents too.  Having just graduated last spring, Rachel has friends among the high school kids and other young adults.  Even the older people seem to want to hug her and ask how things are.  I was continually impressed with how many people's lives Rachel has touched.  And I myself felt a special fondness for this dear young woman many times throughout the evening, as I realized that these two young people, Josh and Rachel, had no embarrassment or awkwardness at all, spending their evening hanging out with me, a comparably old lady, and her crazy kids. 

Rachel and Josh

As the train pulls into town, Rachel explains that until it's fully stopped, the people must stay back a ways, but later everyone can come right up to the stage.  Hmmm.  Stage?  Curioser and curioser.

Then suddenly, the large silver surface about which I had wondered, seems to drop from the side of the boxcar.  Several other things occur simultaneously.  Pink and purple fog issues from the boxcar, and the music grows in intensity.

What had previously appeared to be a silver wall falls opened to become a stage.  The ClayTones appear, rocking to a familiar holiday tune.  They will entertain us for about half an hour, jamming away to their own rock and country renditions of various Christmas and holiday songs, and some original numbers, as well.

The ClayTones

In between musical sets, different speakers come forth for a brief statement encouraging support for the local food shelf.

The crowd is huddled cozily together and we keep each other warm, both with the close proximity of the many bodies, and the dancing and swaying in which we all participate as the band gets us going.  

At one point during the performance, the announcer mentions that those with tickets into Thief River Falls can board the passenger car.  Apparently, those who desire it can purchase a ride between legs of the route.  How fun!

When the performance is done the train pulls out again, slowly gathering speed.  The crowd turns away and drifts into the night.  Rachel and I have a hard time pulling John and Jonathan away until the train is completely passed.  They don't want the night to end.

It was an afternoon and evening full of of fun and excitement, neighbors and friends, holiday cheer and good will.  It was filled to overflowing with the goodness of small town life.

An Emotional Rescue

Imagine with me please...I'm jamming to 80s music on the radio.  Madonna, Hall and Oates, J. Geils Band.  All the good stuff.   When suddenly...SUDDENLY...they play a song that's so very familiar.  I know that I know it.  I know instantly that it had been a favorite.  But I can't quite place it...Is it Electric Avenue?  Funky Town?  No, neither of those sounds quite right.  It feels like a song from my grade school years, which would put it into the 70s rather than the 80s.  Hmmm.  I listen a little bit further.  Rolling Stones.  It's got to be Rolling Stones.

I cave, "Joe, what song is this?"

Joe checks the window on the media player he is using,  "Rolling Stones, 'Emotional Rescue.' " 

Oh, my goodness!  This is the signature song from my one of my berry field summers. I was instantly right back working for Matlock Farms in the Puyallup River valley.  I didn't know it was the Rolling Stones at that time, but I did think it was a cool song. 

I go over to the computer and stand beside where Joe is working.  I'm grooving along with the beat.  Waiting, just waiting for my favorite parts.

The,  "Uh-hoo, uh-hoo-hoo, uh-hoo-hoo-hoo, Uh-hoo, uh-hoo-hoo, uh-hoo-hoo-hoo," was something I thought was really cool.  I also liked the part about the "crying like a child."

But still, I had to wait for my very favorite lines

I will be your knight in shining armor
Coming to your emotional rescue
You will be mine, you will be mine, all mine
You will be mine, you will be mine, all mine
I will be your knight in shining armor
Riding across the desert on a fine Arab charger.

It appealed to the imaginary, knights and ladies, part of my young personality, but it also had a fun electronic sound and a cool beat.

Oh, here it comes!  We're almost there!

But suddenly!  Suddenly the sound is gone.  GONE.  And I see Joe pick up his phone.  He had muted the computer to talk on the phone.  Well, maybe it will be fast and he'll get the volume back up in time.  Maybe I'll still get to hear, in that funny, whispery, spooky voice I remember, the part about the guy riding across the desert on a fine Arab charger .

But no such luck.  Nope.   It was Issues, Etc., radio show calling to line up Joe's next interview.  Can you imagine something so trivial as that!  I bet they would have called back had they known it was the Rolling Stones.  Right?

Oyweh!

This song stuck with me throughout the years.  Now remember, most of these years were before google.  Before the internet.  I remember at one point, having heard that it was the Rolling Stones.  But when I asked Joe about it, (yes, that same Joe who seems to know everything about every eclectic kind of music around), he could not tell me anything about the song.  He did not recognize it at all.  I think he must not have been a Stones fan. 

Now this "sticking with me thing" that a few tidbits of these lyrics did, it was not any big deal.  Just a curiosity.  A memory I'd occasionally pull out and dust off.  And wonder about.  I didn't know the name of the song.  And I only suspected that I knew it was the Rolling Stones. 

Now pan forward a few more years until shortly after we moved up north.  Once when we were in East Grand Forks visiting Rolf and Dort Preus, with whom we were still getting acquainted at the time, it came out that Rolf had been a big Rolling Stones fan in his day.  So I sang that lyric.  The one I included up above.  The lyric for the mystery song.  Rolf started laughing at the idea of this mother of six, this younger pastor's wife, knew that song from what must have been his college or seminary years. 

But Rolf was also good enough to solve the mystery for me.  "Yes, of course!  That would be "Emotional Rescue," from the 1980 album of the same name."

This is the Stones' Solid Gold performance of this song.  Aaaaahhhhh.  Solid Gold.  Now there's another story for another day.  Definitely a period show.

Of Moms and Men: the Bear Facts

We had Winkel here today.  Here, as in at Oak Park.  Winkel, as in the monthly meeting of the circuit pastors and guests, for further education, and mutual support and encouragement.  Many times the wives and kids come, too.  But today was just me and my girls.  There was a time when most of the pastors' kids were homeschooled, so we used to have a pretty big gathering each month.  These days the circuit has evolved as some pastors have moved on, and others have moved in.  The kids who are still here are older.  Some, like mine, are in public school full time, others are in a handful of activities through the public school system in their community.  It's a bit unpredictable each month, which wives will make it, and whether or not they will have kids along. 

The Winkel day opens with a worship service, and then a quick Minnesota Lunch.  I have to call it that, because people in most of the US mean something quite different with the word, lunch.  In Minnesota, lunch is a snack.  A between meals snack.  But it's never just a quick snack.  It always involves coffee and if kids are present, milk.  Usually bars or sweet rolls, banana bread or pumpkin muffins; sandwiches or pickles, or a little of this and a little of that.  Salad, pie, bread and butter, pickled fish, nuts and candy.  Could be anything.  It's most always called a little lunch, as in "Let me get you a little lunch," as your hostess opens the fridge and starts to pull things out. 

For more Minnesota-isms you could read, How to Talk Minnesotan, by Howard Mohr.  But probably you wouldn't get it, unless you live here or have listened to years of Garrison Keillor.  Many years ago, at a Mother/Daughter luncheon at Joe's parent's church, Howard Mohr was the guest speaker.  Most people enjoyed it immensely.  I was a bit lost, since I had not lived in Minnesota long enough, nor even been affiliated for enough years with Minnesotans to appreciate the cultural humor.  I'd probably enjoy it now.  It's hard to believeI've lived in Minnesota for almost 20 years.  And sometimes I still feel like a foreigner! 

But on to Winkel.  The day starts with a worship service and the forenoon lunch.  Then the men meet and the ladies meander up to the parsonage to have their own little visit.  Then we have dinner (the noon meal) sometimes at the hosting church or parsonage, other times at a nearby restaurant.  The men then continue their meetings into the afternoon, and the women return to the parsonage.

Here at Oak Park, since we are quite a distance from any eateries, and the men don't want to spend most of their lunch hour driving, we generally eat at church.  Sometimes the Ladies Aid provides the food, other times I do it myself.  Really, for me, it's not too big a job, simply because of the volume at which I generally cook for my family.  Today, Muriel M. provided the treats for lunch and a dessert for dinner.  I made a Tex-Mex hotdish for dinner, and served it with lettuce, Mexican flavored rice, and taco toppings.  I thought that made an adequate lunch.  Oops.  I mean dinner.

But nope.  I found out that it was, in fact, not enough.  It was missing the most important menu item. Joe had to show off his manly prowess and serve some bear chops along with the Tex-Mex meal.  "Fine, Joe," theMom replied with the barest hint of an eyeroll.  "It's a novelty thing.  I'm sure the guys will get a kick out of it.  As long as your prepare them, though, please.  I'm going to be plenty busy with the other items."

Everything went fine.  Really.  The dinner was wonderful.  The bear was well received and made for good conversation.  I think even Pastor Longshore may have had a nibble.  (I told him afterwards that the meat in the Tex-Mex hot dish was venison, too, so he really had some culinary adventures today.)  Pastor Longshore is the newest pastor in our circuit.  He's from the South, and bigger towns.  Cities, really.  So he's still experiencing a bit of that culture shock that can awe someone new to the area.)

After we finished eating, I closed the window curtain divider thing for the kitchen, and pulled shut the doors, to enable the men to have their privacy while they continued their meeting.  And I washed the dishes.  Am I a good pastor's wife, or what? 

As I was cleaning up, I noticed that there was a big black smear on the white and shiny, usually pristine, surface of one of the flat topped stoves.  "Shoot, did I do that?  I didn't even use the stove.  What might I have set there?  I'm very sure The Ladies would not have left it like that, so it must have been us somehow."  These and other panic stricken thoughts ran through my head as I washed the rest of the dishes.  I was a bit fearful, wondering what it might have been and how easily (or not) it would come off.  I know the standards The Ladies expect to be followed in the hallowed domain of the Church Kitchen.

As I got to the last few items of dirty dishes, it dawned on me.  The bear.  Joe used one of our cast iron pans on the stove.  Yes.  One of the well-seasoned cast iron pans that sometimes leave black greasy smear marks on surfaces.  And there is was.  The blaring black grease smear.  Baked onto the Ladies' Aid's stove.  Yes, it is the church's stove.  But only in name.  We all know it really belongs to The Ladies. 

(When you read this, you have to think in a somewhat somber and frightening kind of voice every time you read the words The Ladies.  It's not meant in any unkind way.  And it's not any one or couple of individual ladies.  It's simply the collective power of The Ladies to strike fear into the hearts of those unsuspecting individuals who tread wrongly.)

Terror was striking my heart during those minutes.  I know how hard those smears can be to remove from a solid surface stove.  Much to the chagrin of The Church Ladies, I don't really scrub off the parsonage one all the time anymore.  Dare I say it?  Stains don't bother me.  As long as the crumbs and chunks are scrubbed off.  as long as the surface grease is wiped up.  But I know it bothers The Ladies.

I knew that smear on the church stove simply had to come off.

I must admit that about this time, I did lose my battle against a few more eyerolls, directed at the whole bear thing.  Such a Man thing, right?  I mean, it's OK for us women to show off our quilts or crochet, or to even to leave our filled canning jars sitting on the counter for others to notice.  But it is pretty ridiculous for a man to want to show off his accomplishments, right? 

"Such a guy thing!" Eyeroll.  Right?  Isn't that how we are?  Well, maybe not you, but I am. 

Oh, and the stain...it did come off with a little elbow grease and a dab of CeramaBryte.

The Simple Pleasure of Sharing in Cultural Silliness

Inge and Donna sang all through lunch today.  The Itsy-bitsy Spider, Sing a Song of Six Pence, London Bridge is Falling Down, etc.

Regarding the Itsy-bitsy Spider, however, I've never gotten them converted to the word, "itsy-bitsy," their preferred pronunciation being, "insy-binsy."  If I sing it the "right" way, they correct me.  So I've just kind of given up.  It's not really important anyway, right?  I think they can still grow up to be reasonably stable adults.

Today at lunch I asked Inge what insy-binsy meant?  She said it meant spider.  Donna laughed at that, so I asked Donna what it meant.  She giggled and shrugged her shoulders.

I explained, "The way I learned it, the words are itsy-bitsy, and that means little tiny.  But, "I continued, in kind of a puzzled sort of tone, "I'm not sure what insy-binsy means."

Hmm, that got them thinking a minute, but then they started in singing once more. 

Joe was getting his tomato sauce out of the canner in the kitchen, and he piped up from the other room, "Down came Duane and washed the spider out.  Hey, who's Duane?"

Then he continued, with his particular brand of silliness, "Knock knock."

Without missing a beat, the girls responded, "Who's there?"

I was getting ready to give what I thought was a very silly and unrelated pun. 

But Joe beat me to it, "Duane in Spain stays mainly in the plain."

I love that we have all this shared cultural literacy upon which to draw.  That little pun, which totally cracked me up, is only funny because of the movie, My Fair Lady.  It wouldn't make a whit of sense otherwise.  But becasue Joe and I share a background of that song, and that musical, he could grab onto that little pun and run with it.  And I got to enjoy it, even if I didn't get to say if first.  I probably enjoyed it more, knowing that we were thinking alike, even though it was obscure.

Shared culture, it's a beautiful thing.

I'd be curious to know whether any other readers saw it coming, too?  I have an inking that anyone who reads a blog this well,... confused, strange, unusual, obscure, random,... on a regular basis, just might share the same cultural silliness, too.

Learn Something New Every Day

Today I am on top of things.  I woke up bright and early.  Matt had gotten the coffee ready last night, so I only had to press a button.  I set a 30 minute timer on my stove and stumbled back to bed.

When I next got up, I was ready to roll.  When I heard the oven timer beep, I quickly grabbed my glasses and my (newly found, second hand, paper) copy of Jane Eyre, and dashed out to turn off the timer before it could wake anyone else.  I filled my coffee cup and continued around the corner toward the living room.  When I got to the top of the stairs, I put down my book and coffee, and scooted down to the laundry room to put a quick load in.  While there, I sorted any of the stuff from the chute that had built up yesterday.

So here I sit, two jobs done and it's not even 6:00.  I read a paragraph from my book.

A little solace came at teatime, in the shape of a double ration of bread--a whole, instead of a half, slice--with the delicious addition of a thin scrape of butter.  It was the hebdomadal treat to which we all looked forward from Sabbath to Sabbath.  I generally contrived to reserve a moiety of the bounteous repast for myself; but the remainder I was invariably obliged to part with.  from Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte, Jane describing her meager existence at Lowood School for Orphans.

In that one brief paragraph I found two words with which I was unfamiliar, and whose meanings I was to work out from roots and similar words.  Good thing for google, and online dictionaries.  I quickly did a search on each unfamiliar word, hebdomadal and moiety, and opened up a couple of pages for each one. 

But before I could even read the definitions, Matt stumbled up the stairs and said, "Sorry, Mom, I overslept.  Can you help me throw my lunch together, please?"  And so my definitions sat.  All those tabs open with those various meanings.  And they had to wait.  Tickling the back of my brain.  That curious corner of my consciousness that is sometimes so active I feel like a child.  Why?  What?  How?

I made Matt six sandwiches for his lunch, and I added a little something for supper, since he'll be going straight to football practice after work.  My fingers were going through the motions of spreading peanut butter and dispersing sandwich meat.  My mouth was conversing with Matt about his day and coming week. 

But all the while, in that little curious corner of my brain, I had two unfamiliar words bouncing around.  "Hebdomadal.  Moiety.  Moiety.  Hebdomadal.  What could they mean?" 

"I must know some other words that could give me a clue.  Especially," thought I, "Hebdomadal.  It sounds so Greek.  I think.  Is that Greek or Latin?" 

Having never studied either, I couldn't say for sure.  But it just had that sound as though I ought to be able to figure it out.  But all I could grasp was the dom part.  "Could that have something to do with dwelling or home, as in domicile?  Hmmm.  Contextually, it doesn't work.  Plus it feels Latin, and the word as a whole feels Greek." 

But now, after that brief pause, Matt is off to work.  I am again in my living room, sitting with my cup of coffee.  My wash machine is in its final spin, so soon I'll have to scurry back down there to start the next load.  Soon, too, I have to meet my neighbor ladies for our walk. 

But first,...FIRST..., I indulged in scanning the waiting definitions. 

I discovered that indeed I ought to have recognized part of hebdomadal.  And it was Greek not Latin.  The first syllable, heb, as in hepta-, as in heptadecagon, a seventeen sided polygon.  I still can't figure the dom or om part, but really, it feels as thought there must be something.  Maybe hebdom is the Greek for week, and we add the other letters as our adjectival ending?  Maybe?

hebdomadal:  weekly

Simple.  Fun.  A new word.  Heb: seven.  Awesome. 

I love words.

But moiety...moiety?...moiety.  There seems to be no pattern there.  No clue with this word.  No familiar roots from which to draw. 

Moiety:  Half or portion.

One drawback of the online dictionaries is that they seem to change their formats quite often.  That's why I always open several different ones.  Mirriam-Webster, Free Online Dictionary by Farlex, Dictionary.com.  Whichever.  I like to read several definitions, in the hopes of getting the most well-rounded idea of a given word.  But today none of them have included any roots.  Seems strange.  It's been awhile since I've engaged in this somewhat geeky activity.  But I think these online sources used to include roots.

The roots of moiety must remain a mystery.  I must be content with that.  I'll probably eventually check a paper dictionary if I happen to find one lying around in my heaps and piles of books that never seem to get put back where they belong. 

Until then, I must be content with having learned two new words first thing this morning.  It's a good start to a new week. 

Silly as it may be, it makes me happy.

There's Hoarders, and there's Hoarders

I hear people talk about hoarding.  The reality show, Hoarders, along with others of similar vein, seem to have put the more extreme mentality of hoarding into the mainstream consciousness.  And perhaps I even engage in a certain amount of hoarding.  I hate the idea of throwing things into the landfill that still have materials left on them that can be reused or remade into something useful. 

After going through nearly all of the totes of children's clothes I have collected throughout my nineteen years of parenting, I'm beginning to wonder if I quality as a full fledged hoarder.  In my defense, I think I simply had many children to clothe and was determined to spend little or no money on the process.  Because we live in a  very opulent era, everyone else has much more than they need and people like to pass things on.  To whom do they pass things?  They look for the people who would need them most, and well, large families tend to look "needy".  It's a very kind-hearted gesture.  And thankfully, you wouldn't believe it if I told you how little I've spent on clothes for my kids throughout the years.  But gradually, it appears, I have saved more of these gifts of clothing than I realized.  Certainly more than we would ever need. 

I currently have twelve very large boxes sitting in my front entry way waiting their trip to Goodwill in Grand Forks.  I also have several smaller boxes of things for consignment, and various other bags and boxes to go here and there.  Everyone still has a full dresser, and there are clothes packed away for most of the upcoming sizes.

So, the good news is, that I am making progress on what seemed for so long an impossibly daunting undertaking.  I am very excited about all the order, and new-found space we will have once I get everything hauled out.

In between my various jobs, I take a few minutes here and there to read.  I'm currenly re-reading the Ranger's Apprentice series.  It's a middle school level series of adventure stories with a fictional medieval setting that is roughly based upon Europe and the surrounding areas.  The main characters accupy a country called Araluen, which is somewhat comparable to England.  There is also Celtica, Teutlandt, Gallica, Skandia, etc.

The Ranger Corps is a sort of intelligence group that specializes in steath, gathering information, and a mysterious set of skills that give others the impression that they are almost magical.

Right now, I'm reading book four of the series, The Battle for Skandia.  In this installment, the famous ranger, Halt, and his apprentice, Will, team up with the Skandian jarl, Erak, to help the Skandians fight off an invasion by the Tumajai, who are roughly comparable to the Mongols.

Since the Skandians prefer a straightforward, bashing kind of conflict with their fearsome battle axes, they are dependent upon Halt and Will to lead them in forming some strategies to fend off the Tumajai hoards.  One of the ideas, the merits of which Halt and Will are discussing, is whether they could train some of the Skandian slaves to serve as archers.  These archers would be trained to release arrows at a command, which would include instructions indicating at what angle to hold the bows, in order to hit the invading armies at just the right spot.

The idea is Will's and he is waiting for Halt's reply.  He is pleasantly surprised when Halt, likes the idea.

Will had been waiting for his mentor to point out the fundamental flaw in his logic.  Now he saw that Halt was considering his proposal seriously.  Then he noticed the look of exasperation that grew on Halt's face as he found the flaw.

"Bows," the Ranger said, disappointment in his voice.  "Where would we find a hundred bows in time to let people train with them.  There probably aren't twenty in all Skandia."

At this point in the narrative, both Will and Halt are feeling a bit dejected.  It was a great idea, but it simply will not work.  But then Jarl Erak pipes up.

"I could let you have a hundred,"  Erak said in the depressed silence that followed Halt's statement.  Both the others turned to look at him.

"Where would you find a hundred longbows?"  Halt asked him.  Erak shrugged.

"I captured a two-masted cob off the Araluen coast three seasons ago," he told them.  He didn't have to explain that when a Skandian said season, he meant the raiding season.  "She had a hold full of bows.  I kept them in my storeroom until I could find a use for them.  I was going to use them as fence palings," he continued.  "But they seemed a little too flexible for the job."

"Bows tend to be that way," Halt said slowly, and when Erak looked at him, uncomprehending, he added: "More flexible than fence palings.  It's one of the qualities we look for in a bow."

Well, I suppose you'd know,"  Erak said casually.  "Anyway, I've still got them.  There must be thousands of arrow shafts as well.  I thought they'd come in handy one day."

Halt reached up and laid a hand on the massive shoulder.   "And how right you were," he said.  "Thank the gods for the Skandian habit of hoarding everything."

Well, of course we hoard," Erak explained.  "We risk our lives to take the stuff in the first place.  There's no sense in throwing it away.  Anyway, do you want to see if you could use them?"

A few minutes later, we see the big Skandian jarl in a very satisfied state of mind.

"Excellent,"  he said happily, rubbing his hands together.  "If you decide to use them, I'll be able to charge Ragnak."

"But this is war,"  Will protested.  "Surely you can't charge Ragnak for doing something that will help defend Hallasholm?"

Erak turned his delighted smile on the young Ranger.  "To a Skandian, my boy, all war is business."

I don't know whether anyone without the context of the various personalities can appreciate this interchange as much as those of us familiar with the story line can.  I love the quirky twist it adds to the character development. 

But it does interest me a bit, too, from an anthropological point of view.  Are Scandinavians thought of as hoarders?  Is that a personality trait stereoptype that is widespread today?  It certainly fits, to a degree, with most of those among whom I live who claim Norwegian and Swedish, or even Finnish descent.

And that is not meant at all as an insult.  We save and reuse and refit and refurbish until there is comparably little wasted.  It's a beautiful thing!