Showing posts from September, 2012

Making Color

George Wilder is a bit confused. We celebrated the first day of fall. We danced and sang and talked about a change in the seasons. The science behind it. They cool air. The colorful leaves. "Why are the leaves still green? Why can't we see any colorful leaves?"
George hopped up to North Carolina to help a friend and returned with apples and apple cider, but that still didn't make the leaves turn or the temperature drop. We've made hot tea in the afternoon and homemade bread and pear sauce. We have pumpkins. We have a lovely fall tree that helps us learn the months and days. No colorful leaves. Ninety degrees.
The rains have stopped and the air is dry and a breeze doth blow. We stay outside and climb and talk and build and jump and work in the garden. It is still very warm however.
Instead of heading towards the mountains, we hit the coast. I loaded the children in the car and headed for the beach. We visited a local aquarium. So very local. Sandy floors, volunte…

Sweet William

Sweet William wakes up looking for the children. He spots them and grins and dives for the floor. Off like a shot he races to grab and pull up on a chair or a laundry basket, or drawer. Anything that gives him height --takes him closer to brother and sister. They laugh and sing and throw the ball or make music or race across the floor. He loves them.
He is so proud. He has mastered the stairs. Up and down.
He eats his breakfast -- grapes, yogurt, pear sauce, blueberries. More grapes. His entire body wiggles done and down he goes again.
A banging at the backdoor with Lucy by his side.
They race to the back deck stairs.
Lucy finds her ball and brings it right away.
William nests in the dirt and begins his daily grass pull. Lucy faithfully returns her ball over and over as, in between grass pulls, William tosses it away ever so slightly.

William finds dirt everywhere. He loves it. He doesn't eat it -- He bathes in it. So, we play outside in the dirt. The yard looks great. I've p…

Coffee Shop

A little water. A little dirt. Buckets of imagination. They opened at 9:00 a.m. and didn't close the doors until the mud covered dishes were recollected and soaking at 5 p.m.

The Best Food Whale Coffee.

 Amelia made special food for the whales to eat.
Their play was seasoned with the things we've read this week like the rules (The Code of Hammurabi) for the shop.

School met them during their serving breaks.

William loved playing along side them. He pulled weeds from the monkey grass for an hour straight and then played at their feet. He had a lot to say as well.

The rain started in the late afternoon and George let them make us "real" coffee in the kitchen.

A bike ride through puddles.

Friday night pizza turned into Friday night spaghetti (I was out of flour due to "Waffle Friday" breakfast).

 Whale Food

Friday night movie -- "In Cold Blood" -- BBC's reptile documentary. Brilliant.

Music turns on the record player.
It is turning cool -- slight…

Frog Boats


Rainy Day Crazies

Rain falls steady. It hits the ground in pools. The water's soothing sound hums a smile across my face. The house is still, accepting it's job as a shelter; and, now with children in beds the only noise is the cadence of pitter pat pitter pat.

This is such a welcome way to end the day. Oh and was it a day!

Early this morning there was time for a quick run and a cup of coffee before my dear friend Reagan and I took off for Sweet Grass Dairy to take a cheese making class. I haven't been in a class that I haven't taught in nearly a decade. We absorbed the world of a small working dairy making their own cheese. We walked through the coolers filled with molding cheese. What beautiful mold! We emptied the renant into a vat of 350 gallons of milk and broke up the curd with our fingers and dumped it into molds to sit for three months. We listened to facts and numbers and we saw a spectacular system at work. Then we returned to our classroom for a wine and cheese tasting. Late …


Practice. The days of the week move with the squeaking hinges of practice. Practice -- the rusty gears that turn the dial of each day just need a little oil -- or maybe a half a can of WD40. We ask the children to practice kindness, reading, math, violin, laughter, clearing the table, good manners, cleaning up after themselves, asking with please and thank you, gymnastics, verses, eating the food that has been served to them, science terms, writing, art projects, speaking with a soft voice, not whining. . . . It is all a practice.

Then I hear my own voice rising above the noise. Molten lava expelling with great hot spurts of ingratitude, frustration, anger. Practiced kindness?

I feel my tired elbows grind into the table and I don't want to move them. I eat another handful of chocolate chips (before dinner). Voice isn't soft, whine about the dirt, forget to say please, forget to laugh, give up on projects I try.

I worked hard for six days to keep the trash to a minimum and somet…