Monday, July 18, 2011
Looking Up: The fox went out on a misty morn
Looking Up: The fox went out on a misty morn: "We lost a chicken yesterday. These five Rhode Island Reds came here with the mission of eating the snails that have invaded our garden the ..."
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Sports: a conundrum
Today was one of those incomparably lovely days, when the temperature soars, skies are sunny, and to top it all off there is absolutely nothing on the calendar for those golden hours after dinner.
Which is a really good thing, as it gave me the chance to make complicated arrangements for dealing with tomorrow, when:
I need to drive to the airport. (approximately 60 miles from home base)
Imelda has her first softball game. (seven miles)
Joan has her first soccer game. (fifteen miles, completely different direction)
Veronica has Little League practice. (three miles, but yet another direction)
All between the hours of 4: 15 and 6:00.
There is no public transportation in our town.
None of the girls is old enough to drive.
Jane-Clare is no help, as her after-school job kicks in around 4:30.
This, clearly, has all the makings of one of those word problems (fox-goose-sack of corn-small boat-river) the habitual solving of which supposedly will head off dementia, though possibly at the expense of bringing on an alternate mental disorder.
Our original plan, which I suppose I ought to describe more accurately as a forlorn hope, was that Joan could catch a ride with her BFF, whose mother and I have formed a friendship, over the past 15 years, originating in the coincidence that we have three pairs of same-age daughters.
No dice.
"I was going to ask you the same thing," BFF's mom explained.
See, the fact that our daughters are the same age has its downside, too. Turns out Imelda's opposite number also has a softball game; not the same game, of course; that would be too easy.
So now we had the added wrinkle of providing transportation not only for Joan, but also for her BFF.
That was solved, is that is the right word, by bringing Duthac into the picture. He agreed to drop both girls off, immediately prior to his heading off for work; someone else would have to pick them up after the game, but that seemed quite do-able.
OK. So. Imelda's game is at home; she will be there, needing only to be retrieved later. My husband is willing and able to take care of that aspect.
It was only over dinner that we learned about the third sports-related event. Veronica's coach called and recited, "We have a practice tom--" at which point I burst into laughter.
Poor man. No doubt his statement seemed entirely reasonable from his perspective.
"Yes, I hope we don't have much trouble with the weather," he said, putting the best possible spin on my reaction.
OMG, the weather! Now, if Joan and BFF are dropped off, well and good, but what if there is a thunderstorm and the game is called and there is no shelter available?
Here's what we have:
Dad is going to Imelda's game, and quite possibly driving hell-for-leather to pick up Joan after hers;
Duthac is dropping off Joan and BFF;
unrelated nice family, enlisted via frantic telephone communication, is driving Veronica;
Mom is picking up her sister at the airport and heading to the mall and a nice quiet dinner at P. F. Chang's (please don't give me away).
And yet another mom (bless her heart) will transport Joan and BFF to the home of one of them in the event of an electrical storm.
Do we have all bases covered (to borrow a metaphor)?
You know, I wonder about that fox-goose-corn thing. I mean... aren't foxes omnivores? And they're reputed to be quite smart. So... look, if he figures out that the goose just isn't coming his way, wouldn't that sack of corn start looking pretty darn good as an alternative?
I'd also like to know whether Shirley Jackson and her family ever located that missing blanket.*
But I think we are all pretty clear on that whole it-takes-village thing, n'est-ce-pas?
*see Life Among the Savages
Which is a really good thing, as it gave me the chance to make complicated arrangements for dealing with tomorrow, when:
I need to drive to the airport. (approximately 60 miles from home base)
Imelda has her first softball game. (seven miles)
Joan has her first soccer game. (fifteen miles, completely different direction)
Veronica has Little League practice. (three miles, but yet another direction)
All between the hours of 4: 15 and 6:00.
There is no public transportation in our town.
None of the girls is old enough to drive.
Jane-Clare is no help, as her after-school job kicks in around 4:30.
This, clearly, has all the makings of one of those word problems (fox-goose-sack of corn-small boat-river) the habitual solving of which supposedly will head off dementia, though possibly at the expense of bringing on an alternate mental disorder.
Our original plan, which I suppose I ought to describe more accurately as a forlorn hope, was that Joan could catch a ride with her BFF, whose mother and I have formed a friendship, over the past 15 years, originating in the coincidence that we have three pairs of same-age daughters.
No dice.
"I was going to ask you the same thing," BFF's mom explained.
See, the fact that our daughters are the same age has its downside, too. Turns out Imelda's opposite number also has a softball game; not the same game, of course; that would be too easy.
So now we had the added wrinkle of providing transportation not only for Joan, but also for her BFF.
That was solved, is that is the right word, by bringing Duthac into the picture. He agreed to drop both girls off, immediately prior to his heading off for work; someone else would have to pick them up after the game, but that seemed quite do-able.
OK. So. Imelda's game is at home; she will be there, needing only to be retrieved later. My husband is willing and able to take care of that aspect.
It was only over dinner that we learned about the third sports-related event. Veronica's coach called and recited, "We have a practice tom--" at which point I burst into laughter.
Poor man. No doubt his statement seemed entirely reasonable from his perspective.
"Yes, I hope we don't have much trouble with the weather," he said, putting the best possible spin on my reaction.
OMG, the weather! Now, if Joan and BFF are dropped off, well and good, but what if there is a thunderstorm and the game is called and there is no shelter available?
Here's what we have:
Dad is going to Imelda's game, and quite possibly driving hell-for-leather to pick up Joan after hers;
Duthac is dropping off Joan and BFF;
unrelated nice family, enlisted via frantic telephone communication, is driving Veronica;
Mom is picking up her sister at the airport and heading to the mall and a nice quiet dinner at P. F. Chang's (please don't give me away).
And yet another mom (bless her heart) will transport Joan and BFF to the home of one of them in the event of an electrical storm.
Do we have all bases covered (to borrow a metaphor)?
You know, I wonder about that fox-goose-corn thing. I mean... aren't foxes omnivores? And they're reputed to be quite smart. So... look, if he figures out that the goose just isn't coming his way, wouldn't that sack of corn start looking pretty darn good as an alternative?
I'd also like to know whether Shirley Jackson and her family ever located that missing blanket.*
But I think we are all pretty clear on that whole it-takes-village thing, n'est-ce-pas?
*see Life Among the Savages
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Am I a WHAT?
Jean Kerr once related how a polite young man at a cocktail party ruined her day, or at least what remained of it, by asking how she had voted in an election far predating her arrival at the age of 21. The voting age has, of course, changed since then, and to date nobody has yet wanted to know whether I voted for Johnson, or even Nixon.
The other evening, though, a very nice young lady had me similarly choking on my tonsils with the simple question, "Are you a nun?"
Please understand that I have the greatest admiration for nuns. According to something I read just recently, the term is properly applied only to those who are cloistered, so I have to assume that this delightful girl hadn't read the same publication. She appeared to be quite sane, so I am sure both of us realized we were standing in a regular parish church, with nary a grille in sight. I have the greatest admiration for sisters, too. I would never suggest that it's an insult, of any kind, to be mistaken for one.
But I have to wonder.
I know many consecrated religious wear wedding bands, being Brides of Christ and all (although I would wonder whether those bands are ever Claddagh rings: just asking), but do they wear diamond solitaires, too? I mean, wouldn't that be a strain on the collective finances, after a while?
Something tells me I shouldn't be bothered by this. Undoubtedly it is a compliment, and one I don't deserve....
Foil highlights! C'mon! I ask you... foil highlights! Would a nun have foil highlights, with or without a wimple?
In fact, imagine what a huge compliment it is to be mistaken for someone so holy that she has consecrated her entire life to God and spends most of the day in prayer, rather than just ducking in late to prayer group after running errands and meeting with an editor and....
Running clothes! I assure you, I was wearing a running suit. And cross-trainers. OK, there's nothing to say a nun, or at least a sister, couldn't wear that; but would she wear it to church? Nah, that's left for slackers like me.
Isn't it astonishing that anybody could look at somebody as worldly and distracted as I am and come up with anything approaching the image of a dedicated religious? Wow, how off-base can you get? I am humbled beyond belief.
But that's the last time I leave the house without lipstick.
The other evening, though, a very nice young lady had me similarly choking on my tonsils with the simple question, "Are you a nun?"
Please understand that I have the greatest admiration for nuns. According to something I read just recently, the term is properly applied only to those who are cloistered, so I have to assume that this delightful girl hadn't read the same publication. She appeared to be quite sane, so I am sure both of us realized we were standing in a regular parish church, with nary a grille in sight. I have the greatest admiration for sisters, too. I would never suggest that it's an insult, of any kind, to be mistaken for one.
But I have to wonder.
I know many consecrated religious wear wedding bands, being Brides of Christ and all (although I would wonder whether those bands are ever Claddagh rings: just asking), but do they wear diamond solitaires, too? I mean, wouldn't that be a strain on the collective finances, after a while?
Something tells me I shouldn't be bothered by this. Undoubtedly it is a compliment, and one I don't deserve....
Foil highlights! C'mon! I ask you... foil highlights! Would a nun have foil highlights, with or without a wimple?
In fact, imagine what a huge compliment it is to be mistaken for someone so holy that she has consecrated her entire life to God and spends most of the day in prayer, rather than just ducking in late to prayer group after running errands and meeting with an editor and....
Running clothes! I assure you, I was wearing a running suit. And cross-trainers. OK, there's nothing to say a nun, or at least a sister, couldn't wear that; but would she wear it to church? Nah, that's left for slackers like me.
Isn't it astonishing that anybody could look at somebody as worldly and distracted as I am and come up with anything approaching the image of a dedicated religious? Wow, how off-base can you get? I am humbled beyond belief.
But that's the last time I leave the house without lipstick.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Poetry Out Loud, part III: quiet on the set
OK. Poetry Out Loud: The State Competition.
I need a different font for that; more options, please? Gothic?
Because this was big.
Out of more than 1700 New York State students who signed on for Poetry Out Loud in the first place, our own Imelda was one of just 15 competing for the state title and the chance to go on to Nationals.
There were two students from the Professional Performing Arts School in New York City.
One of whom was introduced thus: "Marquis has appeared as Young Simba in 'The Lion King', on Broadway, and will shortly be appearing as Young Siward and young MacDuff in Macbeth..."
Fortunately there was not a mic close enough to catch Mom's automatic "Oh, my God."
Dad's comment: "Ringers. They've brought in ringers."
Did I mention that there were just fifteen of them?
Each and every recitation was stellar.
This in spite of the fact that the studio door (the competition was staged at a radio station studio) wasn't locked, and we could all too clearly hear people coming and going, not to mention the loud camera shutter much in evidence during the first round.
We were fortunate to be there at all, I having turned left when I should have turned right en route to picking up my husband from a meeting, after dropping Imelda, Jane-Clare, Joan, and two of their friends off at the wrong building half an hour after I had intended to drop them off at the right building. The right building, you understand, was across the street from the wrong one.... Listen, the wrong building had the radio station's name prominently displayed on it. Only later did it become obvious that the studio was across the street.
The whole thing started half an hour late, luckily for us. We slipped into seats toward the back bare minutes after having fed the parking meter, and moved to join the rest of our party only during the break between the first two rounds.
Having to narrow those initial fifteen down to five (as a result of the first two rounds) and then to a runner-up and a winner (third round) was a job I wouldn't wish on anyone.
Some displayed an impressive range, shifting from the humorous to the serious. Young Simba was even bilingual (Benjamin Alire Saenz's "To the Desert"). One young man who forgot to remove his jacket for his first trip to the stage and had a comb prominently poking out of his back pocket on his second smiled absently at the audience and then launched into such a display of romanticism (Etheridge Knight's "No Moon Floods the Memory of That Night," Byron's "She Walks in Beauty"), that if he is not surrounded on a regular basis by wistful females I am very surprised. There was a young lady, another freshman, who shifted admirably from Marvell ("The Fair Singer") to Donne ("The Sun Rising"), to Frost ("Mending Wall"), and who, Imelda commented, had been "so nice" while Melly fretted over whether her parents would show up at all.
"They'll make it. There are still ten minutes," the other girl said, comfortingly.
The winner was a young man who provided a bio worthy in itself of recitation, and went on to distinguish himself, round by round, with interpretations of Eliot ("La Figlia che Piano"), Donne ("A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning"), and Longfellow ("A Psalm of Life").
Melly still has not had her chance to recite "Death, Be Not Proud", which we tell her means she has to participate again next year. Of course, next year her orthopedist may give her the all-clear for playing basketball, and then who knows? Anyway, she went to States, her first time out, and she'll be on the DVD distributed to all of the high schools which sent students to Albany for this. Even, come to think of it, the Professional Performing Arts School.
I need a different font for that; more options, please? Gothic?
Because this was big.
Out of more than 1700 New York State students who signed on for Poetry Out Loud in the first place, our own Imelda was one of just 15 competing for the state title and the chance to go on to Nationals.
There were two students from the Professional Performing Arts School in New York City.
One of whom was introduced thus: "Marquis has appeared as Young Simba in 'The Lion King', on Broadway, and will shortly be appearing as Young Siward and young MacDuff in Macbeth..."
Fortunately there was not a mic close enough to catch Mom's automatic "Oh, my God."
Dad's comment: "Ringers. They've brought in ringers."
Did I mention that there were just fifteen of them?
Each and every recitation was stellar.
This in spite of the fact that the studio door (the competition was staged at a radio station studio) wasn't locked, and we could all too clearly hear people coming and going, not to mention the loud camera shutter much in evidence during the first round.
We were fortunate to be there at all, I having turned left when I should have turned right en route to picking up my husband from a meeting, after dropping Imelda, Jane-Clare, Joan, and two of their friends off at the wrong building half an hour after I had intended to drop them off at the right building. The right building, you understand, was across the street from the wrong one.... Listen, the wrong building had the radio station's name prominently displayed on it. Only later did it become obvious that the studio was across the street.
The whole thing started half an hour late, luckily for us. We slipped into seats toward the back bare minutes after having fed the parking meter, and moved to join the rest of our party only during the break between the first two rounds.
Having to narrow those initial fifteen down to five (as a result of the first two rounds) and then to a runner-up and a winner (third round) was a job I wouldn't wish on anyone.
Some displayed an impressive range, shifting from the humorous to the serious. Young Simba was even bilingual (Benjamin Alire Saenz's "To the Desert"). One young man who forgot to remove his jacket for his first trip to the stage and had a comb prominently poking out of his back pocket on his second smiled absently at the audience and then launched into such a display of romanticism (Etheridge Knight's "No Moon Floods the Memory of That Night," Byron's "She Walks in Beauty"), that if he is not surrounded on a regular basis by wistful females I am very surprised. There was a young lady, another freshman, who shifted admirably from Marvell ("The Fair Singer") to Donne ("The Sun Rising"), to Frost ("Mending Wall"), and who, Imelda commented, had been "so nice" while Melly fretted over whether her parents would show up at all.
"They'll make it. There are still ten minutes," the other girl said, comfortingly.
The winner was a young man who provided a bio worthy in itself of recitation, and went on to distinguish himself, round by round, with interpretations of Eliot ("La Figlia che Piano"), Donne ("A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning"), and Longfellow ("A Psalm of Life").
Melly still has not had her chance to recite "Death, Be Not Proud", which we tell her means she has to participate again next year. Of course, next year her orthopedist may give her the all-clear for playing basketball, and then who knows? Anyway, she went to States, her first time out, and she'll be on the DVD distributed to all of the high schools which sent students to Albany for this. Even, come to think of it, the Professional Performing Arts School.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Mark Twain and I are just like THAT
Five days a week, in the late morning, I have a class of eighth-graders. That's right: just before lunch.
Those of you who also have such classes, or are parents of eighth-graders, have already reacted to that.
The rest of you will just have to try to follow along, drawing on your own memories of being 13.
Yes, at 11:45 they are hungry, and restless, and full of ideas.
Last week, they were all involved in a Social Studies project of the kind I particularly like, which involved each of them researching a particular person prominent in late 19th or early 20th century American history and then impersonating the research subject, wearing a costume and answering questions and so on.
Oh, I do love this stuff!
Even though some of them drag their feet just a bit.
Responding to a general appeal from their history teacher I brought in outfits and props for a number of students.
Possibly the most reluctant was Joseph Pulitzer, who told me repeatedly how much he hated the suit I'd provided for him.
"I hate that tux!"
"Um, it's a suit, not a tux. I could bring in a tux if you want."*
"I don't think so. I hate that suit."
Well, okay then.
Far more agreeable were the girls (Jane Addams, Lucretia Mott), who apparently found it far less onerous to be obliged to dress in antiquated styles. And they also tended to be far readier to explain their characters.
But I must admit a fondness for Mark Twain... well, yes, the writer, but also his impersonator, who said he'd read "Tom Sawyer" some time ago, and asked to take out library copies of "Tom Sawyer" and "Huckleberry Finn" because "they're more colorful" than the copies I'd brought from home for him to use.
Literally, more colorful. As in, having brighter covers, with pictures. (The editions I have are bound in dark green.)
"I think they'll attract more attention," he said savvily.
Once he had the books signed out in his name, though, he had second thoughts.
"Wait a minute... maybe I don't want to attract attention. If people come over to my table, they'll ask me questions."
Isn't that the general idea?
"Well, yeah, but I don't want to answer questions."
Why not?
"What if they ask questions I can't answer?"
OK, let's practice. What is your real name?
"Samuel Langhorne Clemens."
When were you born?
"1835. In Missouri."
And you are famous for....
"Writing books."
How many books have you written?
"A lot."
Which one is your favorite of all those books you've written?...
"__________________________???"
'Joan of Arc'. Remember that. Twain always said 'Joan of Arc' was his favorite. See? You'll do fine.
Naturally I had to quiz Mr. Twain when I encountered him later in the auditorium.
What's your favorite book again?
" 'Tom Sawyer'."
'Joan of Arc'! Remember?
"Ohhh.... I thought you meant me, which of the books here is my favorite. And I really liked 'Tom Sawyer.' I read it when I was little. In fact, it's probably the last book I read."
So you liked it so much you figured, 'This is the best book I will ever encounter; I'd better stop now while I'm ahead'?
"Pretty much."
How can you NOT love this stuff?
*Yeah, I know it is actually a dinner jacket. TMI. Forcryinoutloud.
Those of you who also have such classes, or are parents of eighth-graders, have already reacted to that.
The rest of you will just have to try to follow along, drawing on your own memories of being 13.
Yes, at 11:45 they are hungry, and restless, and full of ideas.
Last week, they were all involved in a Social Studies project of the kind I particularly like, which involved each of them researching a particular person prominent in late 19th or early 20th century American history and then impersonating the research subject, wearing a costume and answering questions and so on.
Oh, I do love this stuff!
Even though some of them drag their feet just a bit.
Responding to a general appeal from their history teacher I brought in outfits and props for a number of students.
Possibly the most reluctant was Joseph Pulitzer, who told me repeatedly how much he hated the suit I'd provided for him.
"I hate that tux!"
"Um, it's a suit, not a tux. I could bring in a tux if you want."*
"I don't think so. I hate that suit."
Well, okay then.
Far more agreeable were the girls (Jane Addams, Lucretia Mott), who apparently found it far less onerous to be obliged to dress in antiquated styles. And they also tended to be far readier to explain their characters.
But I must admit a fondness for Mark Twain... well, yes, the writer, but also his impersonator, who said he'd read "Tom Sawyer" some time ago, and asked to take out library copies of "Tom Sawyer" and "Huckleberry Finn" because "they're more colorful" than the copies I'd brought from home for him to use.
Literally, more colorful. As in, having brighter covers, with pictures. (The editions I have are bound in dark green.)
"I think they'll attract more attention," he said savvily.
Once he had the books signed out in his name, though, he had second thoughts.
"Wait a minute... maybe I don't want to attract attention. If people come over to my table, they'll ask me questions."
Isn't that the general idea?
"Well, yeah, but I don't want to answer questions."
Why not?
"What if they ask questions I can't answer?"
OK, let's practice. What is your real name?
"Samuel Langhorne Clemens."
When were you born?
"1835. In Missouri."
And you are famous for....
"Writing books."
How many books have you written?
"A lot."
Which one is your favorite of all those books you've written?...
"__________________________???"
'Joan of Arc'. Remember that. Twain always said 'Joan of Arc' was his favorite. See? You'll do fine.
Naturally I had to quiz Mr. Twain when I encountered him later in the auditorium.
What's your favorite book again?
" 'Tom Sawyer'."
'Joan of Arc'! Remember?
"Ohhh.... I thought you meant me, which of the books here is my favorite. And I really liked 'Tom Sawyer.' I read it when I was little. In fact, it's probably the last book I read."
So you liked it so much you figured, 'This is the best book I will ever encounter; I'd better stop now while I'm ahead'?
"Pretty much."
How can you NOT love this stuff?
*Yeah, I know it is actually a dinner jacket. TMI. Forcryinoutloud.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Poetry Out Loud, part II: Melly goes to Albany (twice)
When last we saw Imelda, she was reciting "The Harp Song of the Dane Women" in the living room.* ("That's the poem she does that reminds me most of Anne Shirley," younger sister Joan commented thoughtfully.)
She went on to the state competition, though, with the two poems she'd recited in her school competition: "Richard Cory" and "Golden Retrievals," a poem which I must confess I had never heard of before but which seems to be turning into Melly's signature piece, she being an optimistic and energetic dog-lover.
She had three others in her repertoire; uncertain of which she should pick as a tie-breaker, "should one be needed", she enlisted the help of her English teacher, who had gotten her into th--provided her with this wonderful opportunity in the first place. Another English teacher graciously agreed to help out, and based on their advice and the majority opinion of a class of older students, Melly settled on "Death Be Not Proud."
She didn't get to recite that one.
As far as we knew, Poetry Out Loud was over for us for the year when we left the New York State Museum on the evening of February 3. Two winners had been announced, and neither of them was Imelda. (The regional competition was originally set for February 1 but had to be rescheduled due to inclement weather, which will come as a surprise only to anyone who has never lived in Upstate New York.)
Now, it turns out, she is going on to the state competition, also in Albany, on March 5.
If we were surprised, she was bewildered.
"Why?"
Nobody seems to know for sure. Her teacher phoned me, having received an email (and this to a school email account, while school was in recess for winter break):
"In reviewing the results... your student qualified to compete in the NYS finals...."
So we've been speculating. Somebody added points up incorrectly? (I certainly can sympathize with this; it's a pretty complicated scoring system, and involves, well, math.) They were supposed to pick three finalists, not two, and she came in third? So far, we don't know, and therefore can't tell her.*** But it's back to Albany on March 5.
And Jane-Clare, who had promised Imelda a fruit bouquet if she won, showed, or placed in the regional competition, now has to make good on that. Personally I'd be holding out for one with hand-dipped strawberries, but Imelda isn't all that fond of chocolate. Go figure.
And Imelda, who hates to shop, has to decide yet again what to wear. (Last time it was a shirt-dress Jane-Clare and I picked out for her while she was doing something else, boots identical but for the color to the ones Jane-Clare purchased for herself and asked Imelda's opinion about, and a little silk scarf I haggled over in Chinatown last August. Unless Jane-Clare objects, it'll probably be the same outfit again. Just a guess.)
She doesn't have to give any thought to which poems she'll recite, as the rules require she do the same three in the same order.
This is good, especially as she wound up with just a week and a half in which to prepare.
I got to thinking. Had Imelda not transferred from one small local school to another ** this past August, she wouldn't have gone to Albany for Poetry Out Loud even once, let alone twice. Her former school didn't participate. This means that she has the opportunity, rare for a younger member of a large family, to be a trailblazer. Her older siblings Bertille, Duthac, Matthias and Jane-Clare have received awards for creative writing; Peter and Duthac, for drama.
But not for reciting poetry.
It's certainly been a year for reflecting on how things develop, or don't.
Hmmm.
A person could probably get a poem out of that... let alone a blog.
*Well, okay, if you have been following the blog then technically you saw her last locating my buzzing cell phone for me, but this is all about Poetry Out Loud.
**names of both available upon request
***It's now official: they added up wrong, and she actually came in second. Apparently they should have a CPA looking over the score sheets.
She went on to the state competition, though, with the two poems she'd recited in her school competition: "Richard Cory" and "Golden Retrievals," a poem which I must confess I had never heard of before but which seems to be turning into Melly's signature piece, she being an optimistic and energetic dog-lover.
She had three others in her repertoire; uncertain of which she should pick as a tie-breaker, "should one be needed", she enlisted the help of her English teacher, who had gotten her into th--provided her with this wonderful opportunity in the first place. Another English teacher graciously agreed to help out, and based on their advice and the majority opinion of a class of older students, Melly settled on "Death Be Not Proud."
She didn't get to recite that one.
As far as we knew, Poetry Out Loud was over for us for the year when we left the New York State Museum on the evening of February 3. Two winners had been announced, and neither of them was Imelda. (The regional competition was originally set for February 1 but had to be rescheduled due to inclement weather, which will come as a surprise only to anyone who has never lived in Upstate New York.)
Now, it turns out, she is going on to the state competition, also in Albany, on March 5.
If we were surprised, she was bewildered.
"Why?"
Nobody seems to know for sure. Her teacher phoned me, having received an email (and this to a school email account, while school was in recess for winter break):
"In reviewing the results... your student qualified to compete in the NYS finals...."
So we've been speculating. Somebody added points up incorrectly? (I certainly can sympathize with this; it's a pretty complicated scoring system, and involves, well, math.) They were supposed to pick three finalists, not two, and she came in third? So far, we don't know, and therefore can't tell her.*** But it's back to Albany on March 5.
And Jane-Clare, who had promised Imelda a fruit bouquet if she won, showed, or placed in the regional competition, now has to make good on that. Personally I'd be holding out for one with hand-dipped strawberries, but Imelda isn't all that fond of chocolate. Go figure.
And Imelda, who hates to shop, has to decide yet again what to wear. (Last time it was a shirt-dress Jane-Clare and I picked out for her while she was doing something else, boots identical but for the color to the ones Jane-Clare purchased for herself and asked Imelda's opinion about, and a little silk scarf I haggled over in Chinatown last August. Unless Jane-Clare objects, it'll probably be the same outfit again. Just a guess.)
She doesn't have to give any thought to which poems she'll recite, as the rules require she do the same three in the same order.
This is good, especially as she wound up with just a week and a half in which to prepare.
I got to thinking. Had Imelda not transferred from one small local school to another ** this past August, she wouldn't have gone to Albany for Poetry Out Loud even once, let alone twice. Her former school didn't participate. This means that she has the opportunity, rare for a younger member of a large family, to be a trailblazer. Her older siblings Bertille, Duthac, Matthias and Jane-Clare have received awards for creative writing; Peter and Duthac, for drama.
But not for reciting poetry.
It's certainly been a year for reflecting on how things develop, or don't.
Hmmm.
A person could probably get a poem out of that... let alone a blog.
*Well, okay, if you have been following the blog then technically you saw her last locating my buzzing cell phone for me, but this is all about Poetry Out Loud.
**names of both available upon request
***It's now official: they added up wrong, and she actually came in second. Apparently they should have a CPA looking over the score sheets.
"How DO you do it?"
I just read a brilliant little article at yourwisdom.yahoo.com entitled "5 things you can say to make another mom's day." And it got me thinking, which, surely, is what such articles are meant to do. I looked over the five things (go and do likewise), and decided that while four of them were guaranteed heart-warmers, the fifth is one I personally have heard several times too often.
"I don't know how you do it."
See, this has blighted more than one sunny afternoon for me, although (I hope) I have now learned simply to dismiss it. There I'd be, going pleasantly along, and then have someone shaking her, always her, head at me and saying: "I don't know how you do it." How I do what? I didn't just deliver a lecture on nuclear physics, or do a portrait in oils, or even win at mah jongg. I'm just walking along the street, for heaven's sake, or hanging out at the playground. And since you, Speaker, have encountered me, you are clearly doing the same.
This started when I had three young children and was enrolled in graduate school at a university perhaps an hour and a quarter from my home.
"I don't know you do it."
Seriously?
Here's what I should have said:
"How I 'do' grad school is to get into a nice quiet car, with nobody in the back seat who will have to go to the bathroom or throw up or have a dispute with a sibling mediated for the entire trip, and then I go to a nice room full of adults, one of whom is in charge and is not me. And I take notes, and have pleasant, uninterrupted chats with other grown-ups during breaks. Then I spend some time in a virtually silent college library, and when I am at home I spend a couple of hours reading after the children are asleep."
Yeah, it was hell, all right. I wonder whether anybody asked my husband how he did it. He, after all, was the one who got to serve dinner and put children to bed two nights a week after having worked at a demanding job all day.
Post grad school, while I worked part-time and had more children, the phrase came at me again and again.
You don't know how I do it?
Oh, c'mon.
Sure you do.
Because you do the same thing. Not identically the same, of course, but in essence the same.
You do what needs to be done, and relish doing the things that do not have to be done but that you enjoy doing, and you value the times when things are running smoothly (but you don't expect them to happen that way all the time), and you cherish the moments when things are wonderful (because you know darn well THEY don't impress themselves on you every minute, although perhaps they should), and then occasionally you feel overwhelmed, and have some chocolate and go on doing what needs to be done.
Hey, I might have liked to polish up my Superwoman medal, but I knew I hadn't earned one.
Eventually I hit upon the ideal answer:
"How do you do it?"
"I neglect my housework."
A lot of people who ask this, based on your being "so busy", figure you are neglecting something in your life, you see, and this is better than having them suspect it must be your husband or children.
Still, while having people suggest that I was carrying a heavier load than most might have been tiresome, it was downright irritating to hear the opposite. A former neighbor told my husband, "You are kicked out of the husbands' club for making the rest of us look bad. How does Marie have so much time to sit on the porch swing and read?"
Now, I knew the other wives living on that street, and I am confident they were not stuck down in the basement making soap or even brewing beer while I was (apparently) scandalizing the neighborhood with my porch swing and paperback Anne Tyler.
So what was that all about?
To my knowledge, though, that happened only once. Then again, based on my reaction, my husband may have, wisely, hidden other such comments from me.
Come to think of it, the one time I'd say it's wonderful to say "I don't know how you do it" is when you are honestly admiring a particular accomplishment. That lecture on nuclear physics would qualify. Or any artistic or athletic achievement, especially if it's one that really does have you awed. Or, of course, any volunteer activity which involved large numbers of children.
"I don't know how you managed to organize that Preschoolers' Opera!"
Granted, this will probably lead to the person's giving you a lot of information about just how she did it, along with stories about how it almost didn't happen at all, and a request that you help out next time. This, you see, is the test of your sincerity.
"I don't know how you do it."
See, this has blighted more than one sunny afternoon for me, although (I hope) I have now learned simply to dismiss it. There I'd be, going pleasantly along, and then have someone shaking her, always her, head at me and saying: "I don't know how you do it." How I do what? I didn't just deliver a lecture on nuclear physics, or do a portrait in oils, or even win at mah jongg. I'm just walking along the street, for heaven's sake, or hanging out at the playground. And since you, Speaker, have encountered me, you are clearly doing the same.
This started when I had three young children and was enrolled in graduate school at a university perhaps an hour and a quarter from my home.
"I don't know you do it."
Seriously?
Here's what I should have said:
"How I 'do' grad school is to get into a nice quiet car, with nobody in the back seat who will have to go to the bathroom or throw up or have a dispute with a sibling mediated for the entire trip, and then I go to a nice room full of adults, one of whom is in charge and is not me. And I take notes, and have pleasant, uninterrupted chats with other grown-ups during breaks. Then I spend some time in a virtually silent college library, and when I am at home I spend a couple of hours reading after the children are asleep."
Yeah, it was hell, all right. I wonder whether anybody asked my husband how he did it. He, after all, was the one who got to serve dinner and put children to bed two nights a week after having worked at a demanding job all day.
Post grad school, while I worked part-time and had more children, the phrase came at me again and again.
You don't know how I do it?
Oh, c'mon.
Sure you do.
Because you do the same thing. Not identically the same, of course, but in essence the same.
You do what needs to be done, and relish doing the things that do not have to be done but that you enjoy doing, and you value the times when things are running smoothly (but you don't expect them to happen that way all the time), and you cherish the moments when things are wonderful (because you know darn well THEY don't impress themselves on you every minute, although perhaps they should), and then occasionally you feel overwhelmed, and have some chocolate and go on doing what needs to be done.
Hey, I might have liked to polish up my Superwoman medal, but I knew I hadn't earned one.
Eventually I hit upon the ideal answer:
"How do you do it?"
"I neglect my housework."
A lot of people who ask this, based on your being "so busy", figure you are neglecting something in your life, you see, and this is better than having them suspect it must be your husband or children.
Still, while having people suggest that I was carrying a heavier load than most might have been tiresome, it was downright irritating to hear the opposite. A former neighbor told my husband, "You are kicked out of the husbands' club for making the rest of us look bad. How does Marie have so much time to sit on the porch swing and read?"
Now, I knew the other wives living on that street, and I am confident they were not stuck down in the basement making soap or even brewing beer while I was (apparently) scandalizing the neighborhood with my porch swing and paperback Anne Tyler.
So what was that all about?
To my knowledge, though, that happened only once. Then again, based on my reaction, my husband may have, wisely, hidden other such comments from me.
Come to think of it, the one time I'd say it's wonderful to say "I don't know how you do it" is when you are honestly admiring a particular accomplishment. That lecture on nuclear physics would qualify. Or any artistic or athletic achievement, especially if it's one that really does have you awed. Or, of course, any volunteer activity which involved large numbers of children.
"I don't know how you managed to organize that Preschoolers' Opera!"
Granted, this will probably lead to the person's giving you a lot of information about just how she did it, along with stories about how it almost didn't happen at all, and a request that you help out next time. This, you see, is the test of your sincerity.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Is Smart Phone an oxymoron?
I admit it. I have, over the years, abandoned telephone etiquette. Mea culpa.
I too was taught, once upon a long-ago time, to offer information upon picking up the receiver:
"Hello; Kirke residence."
This quickly began to sound affected: why? I don't know. But it does seem a shame, in light of our current practice of answering with a slightly suspicious, unornamented "Hello?" which offers no information to anyone.
Perhaps it's because we don't want to imitate (the surely inimitable) Hyacinth Bucket (pronounced Bouquet). Possibly it's just that we don't want to admit anything to possible telemarketers.
But you have to admit that it is unhelpful, if not unfriendly.
Yesterday, during lunch, I looked around the kitchen to identify the source of an insistent buzzing sound, clearly designed to notify me that something was wrong with some appliance or other. The laundry room is next to the kitchen, but this noise was not one I identify with the washer or dryer (still, they are fairly new, so you never know).
"What is that?" I asked.
"Somebody's cell phone," Jane-Clare said.
"Right here," added Melly, who does not have a cell phone but likes to be helpful. "It's coming from your purse."
Well, that narrowed it down, to be sure. I retrieved my cell phone, which had been set on vibrate lest it ring during Mass, and flipped it open despite the utter unfamiliarity of the number displayed.
"Hello?"
"Hello," a female voice responded.
I waited. And waited.
"Who is this?" the voice demanded.
--Well, you called me, I thought but did not actually say.
"Is this Joanne?"
"No," I said, relieved to have a question I could answer so easily. "You must have the wrong number."
I could say this with some confidence. See, wrong numbers always happened. Some of my mother's favorite, and most often requested, stories dealt with her responses to inquiries from the well-meaning but ham-handed trying to contact Holy Family rectory.
Now as then, surely, the general response is "Oh-I'm-so-sorry," followed by a quick hangup and dial tone.
Not this lady, the unknown pursuer of Joanne.
"Do you have a cell phone you are holding?" she asked.
At this point I felt fairly certain she was a Verizon representative bent on urging me to upgrade to something with a QWERTY keyboard, and I winked at my daughters.
"Yes, certainly," I assured her.
"Well, it is MINE."
Now, my cell phone is several years old and has a lovely display photo of my husband and me at Pizza Hut following an All-County concert which, two--nearly three-- years ago, necessitated our early departure from my father-in-law's birthday party because Jane-Clare and Melly were both performing. Therefore I was able to reply with some confidence:
"No it isn't; it's mine."
Unknown Female Voice was not easily convinced.
"Is the number 434-5555?"
(Okay, I made that up. I'm sure anyone who reads this is just delightful to speak with in person, but all the same I am not putting out my actual number. Especially since yesterday.)
"No, it isn't. It's close, and you must have meant to dial that, but my number is just a bit different."
This, clearly, was a cue for UFV to back off, apologize, and hang up. Is anyone surprised that she did only Number Three in that sequence?
Presumably she redialed, and we can hope that she did so with more accuracy, but really this is all just speculation on my part.
Oh, once upon a time, children, telephones were black, and large, and fastened to the wall. If you wandered, you risked missing a call. Oh yes; I assure you, it was as I say. Princess Phones, given only to the pampered, came in pastel colors but were similarly anchored.
And we were taught (should the Pony Express fail) to speak the family name into that receiver, casting that information boldly and momentously into the information stream, which in those days could not have been more than a trickle.
Yes! It could have been ( I suppose) a stalker; or a truant officer; or even a creditor, although credit was less easily obtained, and less abused, in those far-off times. We were not cautious.
Great-Grandma had a maid who would announce, whether or not with strict veracity, that Madam was Not At Home. We have answering machines, and voice mail; so why are we still scrambling to deal with UFV and her ilk?
Could we (perhaps) return to those days of admitting which house has been reached, but then filter the calls by means of personal identity as seems fit?
"Hello; Kirke residence."
"May I speak to Marie?"
"Oh, I'm sorry; she isn't available at this time. May I take a message?"
See how lovely that is? Even if I am Marie (I admit nothing, nothing) I can easily decide to be unavailable "at this time." And why not? You, caller, may leave a message.
And if there isn't a message to be left... well, oh my goodness, aren't we all fortunate not to have wasted our time?
I too was taught, once upon a long-ago time, to offer information upon picking up the receiver:
"Hello; Kirke residence."
This quickly began to sound affected: why? I don't know. But it does seem a shame, in light of our current practice of answering with a slightly suspicious, unornamented "Hello?" which offers no information to anyone.
Perhaps it's because we don't want to imitate (the surely inimitable) Hyacinth Bucket (pronounced Bouquet). Possibly it's just that we don't want to admit anything to possible telemarketers.
But you have to admit that it is unhelpful, if not unfriendly.
Yesterday, during lunch, I looked around the kitchen to identify the source of an insistent buzzing sound, clearly designed to notify me that something was wrong with some appliance or other. The laundry room is next to the kitchen, but this noise was not one I identify with the washer or dryer (still, they are fairly new, so you never know).
"What is that?" I asked.
"Somebody's cell phone," Jane-Clare said.
"Right here," added Melly, who does not have a cell phone but likes to be helpful. "It's coming from your purse."
Well, that narrowed it down, to be sure. I retrieved my cell phone, which had been set on vibrate lest it ring during Mass, and flipped it open despite the utter unfamiliarity of the number displayed.
"Hello?"
"Hello," a female voice responded.
I waited. And waited.
"Who is this?" the voice demanded.
--Well, you called me, I thought but did not actually say.
"Is this Joanne?"
"No," I said, relieved to have a question I could answer so easily. "You must have the wrong number."
I could say this with some confidence. See, wrong numbers always happened. Some of my mother's favorite, and most often requested, stories dealt with her responses to inquiries from the well-meaning but ham-handed trying to contact Holy Family rectory.
Now as then, surely, the general response is "Oh-I'm-so-sorry," followed by a quick hangup and dial tone.
Not this lady, the unknown pursuer of Joanne.
"Do you have a cell phone you are holding?" she asked.
At this point I felt fairly certain she was a Verizon representative bent on urging me to upgrade to something with a QWERTY keyboard, and I winked at my daughters.
"Yes, certainly," I assured her.
"Well, it is MINE."
Now, my cell phone is several years old and has a lovely display photo of my husband and me at Pizza Hut following an All-County concert which, two--nearly three-- years ago, necessitated our early departure from my father-in-law's birthday party because Jane-Clare and Melly were both performing. Therefore I was able to reply with some confidence:
"No it isn't; it's mine."
Unknown Female Voice was not easily convinced.
"Is the number 434-5555?"
(Okay, I made that up. I'm sure anyone who reads this is just delightful to speak with in person, but all the same I am not putting out my actual number. Especially since yesterday.)
"No, it isn't. It's close, and you must have meant to dial that, but my number is just a bit different."
This, clearly, was a cue for UFV to back off, apologize, and hang up. Is anyone surprised that she did only Number Three in that sequence?
Presumably she redialed, and we can hope that she did so with more accuracy, but really this is all just speculation on my part.
Oh, once upon a time, children, telephones were black, and large, and fastened to the wall. If you wandered, you risked missing a call. Oh yes; I assure you, it was as I say. Princess Phones, given only to the pampered, came in pastel colors but were similarly anchored.
And we were taught (should the Pony Express fail) to speak the family name into that receiver, casting that information boldly and momentously into the information stream, which in those days could not have been more than a trickle.
Yes! It could have been ( I suppose) a stalker; or a truant officer; or even a creditor, although credit was less easily obtained, and less abused, in those far-off times. We were not cautious.
Great-Grandma had a maid who would announce, whether or not with strict veracity, that Madam was Not At Home. We have answering machines, and voice mail; so why are we still scrambling to deal with UFV and her ilk?
Could we (perhaps) return to those days of admitting which house has been reached, but then filter the calls by means of personal identity as seems fit?
"Hello; Kirke residence."
"May I speak to Marie?"
"Oh, I'm sorry; she isn't available at this time. May I take a message?"
See how lovely that is? Even if I am Marie (I admit nothing, nothing) I can easily decide to be unavailable "at this time." And why not? You, caller, may leave a message.
And if there isn't a message to be left... well, oh my goodness, aren't we all fortunate not to have wasted our time?
Sunday, February 6, 2011
..and brothers
OK, guys, you knew you were going to come in for your share, right?
Given the makeup of our family (G,B,B,B,G,G,G,G) I no longer feel that I can say I am raising boys; rather, I have raised boys, and now have the peculiar pleasure of being the mother of grown men.
I don't think anyone will be startled at this date to hear that boys and girls are not the same.
There was a time, some years back, when I said that those who believe boys are easier to raise than girls are overlooking all of those trips to the emergency room. I don't retract the statement altogether, but I'm not sure I would make it today... possibly because the last time we had to take a boy to the emergency room was a while ago. Wait. It wasn't all that long ago. It was Christmas, the lad in question was nineteen, and he had just discovered the hard way that the pocketknife he'd received in his stocking did not have a safety catch.
See, this boys-vs-girls thing is a question anyone fortunate to have both sons and daughters is bound to encounter. As families have gotten smaller, it's become more common for parents to have the experience of raising sons or daughters, rather than sons and daughters.
Generally speaking, we all feel we have the toughest job, and do not like to be told otherwise. Parents like credit, which is understandable, but resent being told that they have it easier than anyone else.
Who has it easiest?
Cloistered Benedictines would be my best guess.
After one lively birthday party, given for a girl and attended largely by girls, my husband remarked, "At least with boys, you know where they are!"
Indeed. You do. Boys tend to stay in a group. Boys are in your living room, breaking your furniture. Girls, on the other hand, will scatter through your house, delving into closets and cupboards and trying on clothes and earrings.
Girls, bless them, will let you know how they feel. Sometimes at dinner, when you are tired; sometimes at 2 a.m., when you are exhausted.
Boys are often a bit tougher.
Our son Duthac moved from a cherubic babyhood and cheerful boyhood to a silent adolescence. It was anybody's guess what was on his mind. It's told of President Calvin Coolidge that a lady seated next to him at a dinner once told him, "I've made a bet I can make you say more than two words," and Coolidge replied, "You lose."
Duthac made Silent Cal look like a chatterbox.
The one safe bet, those teen years, was that the thought of food was never far from his mind. At 12, he accompanied me on an anxious trip to a medical center with his baby sister. As a thank-you treat, I took him to a fast-food restaurant afterward; after checking to make sure that he could (really? really!) have anything he wanted, he ordered a meal with a side of a second meal.
A couple of years later, I needed to take him on a clothes-shopping expedition, probably because of the way boys will sprout up several inches right after you have done your "back-to-school" shopping. I took the precaution of taking him right after dinner, on the theory that he was full.
He gazed wistfully at the Taco Bell across the street, and said, "I'm hungry."
I do believe it was on another occasion that I went into Taco Bell with him for lunch, and discovered the real reason that men are traditionally entrusted with the task of placing orders in restaurants. This had previously been a bit of a mystery; I mean, women do generally seem to be better at multi-tasking (sorry, guys, but keep in mind that being compared with a computer is at best a dubious distinction).
But who captures the waitress's attention better?
Duthac ordered some kind of taco party platter thing, and the girl at the register (about his age; perhaps a bit younger) gazed at him with the kind of fascination traditionally associated with snake-charmers.
"Are you going to eat all that?" she cooed. "That's a lot of food."
"Yup," replied Duthac, with a brevity Gary Cooper might have envied.
"I mean," she persisted, "that's, like, ten tacos and it's really for a few people...."
Could we ask for a better illustration of the difference between boys and girls? Name me a girl who would be flattered by the implication that her appetite is as the appetite of ten. Or even five.
Mom de Duthac, meanwhile, was leaning pleadingly against the counter saying, "Um, could I have a Chicken Crunchwrap Supreme? Please?"
Taco Bell, as of this writing, had done away with the Chicken Crunchwrap Supreme. Tant pis. Car-driving mothers of sons, I salute you.
Given the makeup of our family (G,B,B,B,G,G,G,G) I no longer feel that I can say I am raising boys; rather, I have raised boys, and now have the peculiar pleasure of being the mother of grown men.
I don't think anyone will be startled at this date to hear that boys and girls are not the same.
There was a time, some years back, when I said that those who believe boys are easier to raise than girls are overlooking all of those trips to the emergency room. I don't retract the statement altogether, but I'm not sure I would make it today... possibly because the last time we had to take a boy to the emergency room was a while ago. Wait. It wasn't all that long ago. It was Christmas, the lad in question was nineteen, and he had just discovered the hard way that the pocketknife he'd received in his stocking did not have a safety catch.
See, this boys-vs-girls thing is a question anyone fortunate to have both sons and daughters is bound to encounter. As families have gotten smaller, it's become more common for parents to have the experience of raising sons or daughters, rather than sons and daughters.
Generally speaking, we all feel we have the toughest job, and do not like to be told otherwise. Parents like credit, which is understandable, but resent being told that they have it easier than anyone else.
Who has it easiest?
Cloistered Benedictines would be my best guess.
After one lively birthday party, given for a girl and attended largely by girls, my husband remarked, "At least with boys, you know where they are!"
Indeed. You do. Boys tend to stay in a group. Boys are in your living room, breaking your furniture. Girls, on the other hand, will scatter through your house, delving into closets and cupboards and trying on clothes and earrings.
Girls, bless them, will let you know how they feel. Sometimes at dinner, when you are tired; sometimes at 2 a.m., when you are exhausted.
Boys are often a bit tougher.
Our son Duthac moved from a cherubic babyhood and cheerful boyhood to a silent adolescence. It was anybody's guess what was on his mind. It's told of President Calvin Coolidge that a lady seated next to him at a dinner once told him, "I've made a bet I can make you say more than two words," and Coolidge replied, "You lose."
Duthac made Silent Cal look like a chatterbox.
The one safe bet, those teen years, was that the thought of food was never far from his mind. At 12, he accompanied me on an anxious trip to a medical center with his baby sister. As a thank-you treat, I took him to a fast-food restaurant afterward; after checking to make sure that he could (really? really!) have anything he wanted, he ordered a meal with a side of a second meal.
A couple of years later, I needed to take him on a clothes-shopping expedition, probably because of the way boys will sprout up several inches right after you have done your "back-to-school" shopping. I took the precaution of taking him right after dinner, on the theory that he was full.
He gazed wistfully at the Taco Bell across the street, and said, "I'm hungry."
I do believe it was on another occasion that I went into Taco Bell with him for lunch, and discovered the real reason that men are traditionally entrusted with the task of placing orders in restaurants. This had previously been a bit of a mystery; I mean, women do generally seem to be better at multi-tasking (sorry, guys, but keep in mind that being compared with a computer is at best a dubious distinction).
But who captures the waitress's attention better?
Duthac ordered some kind of taco party platter thing, and the girl at the register (about his age; perhaps a bit younger) gazed at him with the kind of fascination traditionally associated with snake-charmers.
"Are you going to eat all that?" she cooed. "That's a lot of food."
"Yup," replied Duthac, with a brevity Gary Cooper might have envied.
"I mean," she persisted, "that's, like, ten tacos and it's really for a few people...."
Could we ask for a better illustration of the difference between boys and girls? Name me a girl who would be flattered by the implication that her appetite is as the appetite of ten. Or even five.
Mom de Duthac, meanwhile, was leaning pleadingly against the counter saying, "Um, could I have a Chicken Crunchwrap Supreme? Please?"
Taco Bell, as of this writing, had done away with the Chicken Crunchwrap Supreme. Tant pis. Car-driving mothers of sons, I salute you.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
sisters...
I have for some time been quite aware of the interaction between sisters who are close in age: say, two to three years apart. This is almost certainly due to the fact that I am the youngest in my family by six years, and have two older sisters just slightly over three years apart.
At this time I have four daughters at home, whose ages make possible three such pairings as described above (bear with me here; I was never good at math). D2 is three years older than D3, who is three years older than D4, who is two years older than D5. If you are talented at psychology, YOU figure out who should room with whom, and let me know.
So, we have these kinds of exchanges:
Melly: Mrs. Jones was in school today. I didn't realize it at first; she was talking to the principal; then all of a sudden there she was, standing behind me while I was at my locker, and she said, 'Hello, gorgeous!' Then she turned and said to the principal, 'This is one of the best actresses at her old school.' And he said, 'Oh, we'll be looking forward to seeing her act.'
Me: Oh? That was nice.
Melly: Yeah, but I kinda think she must have me confused with Jane-Clare. I haven't had any big roles, you know?
Me: Well, not necessarily. You have done a very good job with small roles, after all.
Jane-Clare: Um... Melly?
Melly: Yes?
Jane-Clare: She started out by saying, 'Hello, gorgeous'?
Melly: Yeah.
Jane-Clare: (chuckling softly) Well, OBVIOUSLY she had you confused with me.
Or:
Melly: In health class today Coach was talking about self-esteem... he said that comparing people to other people is bad.
Me: Comparisons are odious.
Melly: No, he didn't say THAT.
Me: No, Christopher Marlowe did. Never mind. Go on.
Melly: OK. So he was talking about some girl whose parents always said, 'You're not as cute as your older sister', or something like that. And so then he said to me, 'Imelda, for instance, how would you feel if people were always saying, "You know, Imelda, you're not as cute as Jane-Clare"?'
Me: Ahh...
Melly: And I said, 'Oh, Coach, nobody would ever say that. EVERYBODY knows I am MUCH cuter than Jane-Clare.'
Now, the good news here (it seems to me) is that neither sister is being eclipsed by the other. Often one is overshadowed. But not my girls. Both of them are in there swinging.. and laughing about it.
At this time I have four daughters at home, whose ages make possible three such pairings as described above (bear with me here; I was never good at math). D2 is three years older than D3, who is three years older than D4, who is two years older than D5. If you are talented at psychology, YOU figure out who should room with whom, and let me know.
So, we have these kinds of exchanges:
Melly: Mrs. Jones was in school today. I didn't realize it at first; she was talking to the principal; then all of a sudden there she was, standing behind me while I was at my locker, and she said, 'Hello, gorgeous!' Then she turned and said to the principal, 'This is one of the best actresses at her old school.' And he said, 'Oh, we'll be looking forward to seeing her act.'
Me: Oh? That was nice.
Melly: Yeah, but I kinda think she must have me confused with Jane-Clare. I haven't had any big roles, you know?
Me: Well, not necessarily. You have done a very good job with small roles, after all.
Jane-Clare: Um... Melly?
Melly: Yes?
Jane-Clare: She started out by saying, 'Hello, gorgeous'?
Melly: Yeah.
Jane-Clare: (chuckling softly) Well, OBVIOUSLY she had you confused with me.
Or:
Melly: In health class today Coach was talking about self-esteem... he said that comparing people to other people is bad.
Me: Comparisons are odious.
Melly: No, he didn't say THAT.
Me: No, Christopher Marlowe did. Never mind. Go on.
Melly: OK. So he was talking about some girl whose parents always said, 'You're not as cute as your older sister', or something like that. And so then he said to me, 'Imelda, for instance, how would you feel if people were always saying, "You know, Imelda, you're not as cute as Jane-Clare"?'
Me: Ahh...
Melly: And I said, 'Oh, Coach, nobody would ever say that. EVERYBODY knows I am MUCH cuter than Jane-Clare.'
Now, the good news here (it seems to me) is that neither sister is being eclipsed by the other. Often one is overshadowed. But not my girls. Both of them are in there swinging.. and laughing about it.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
"Poetry Out Loud": a parent's perspective
So, my ninth-grade daughter won a local school "Poetry Out Loud" competition. If you are not familiar with this, do please check out their website, poetryoutloud.org, to find out more. You will learn what a wonderful program this is; how students develop a new appreciation for poetry, the hearts of English teachers are warmed, and in general we take a giant step forward whenever a school decides to participate in this program.
I do not argue with any of this.
However, I think that one group is underrepresented:
Parents.
Today, Imelda selected the three poems she'll memorize for the regional competition (based on reading six or seven out loud at the kitchen table, to her father and me, while her younger sisters interrupted, they thinking more of their immediate wants than of Calliope, Erato, or Polyhymnia).
Now we know which poems we'll be living with during the next couple of months. I'm not going to say yet what they are.
Last time around, two of the three were "Richard Cory" and "The Harp Song of the Dane Women." ( I have to admit that I suggested these. I was mightily taken with "Richard Cory" some time ago (no, I am NOT old enough to remember when the Simon & Garfunkel song was released, thank you very much), and I loved reciting Kipling when I was a good bit younger than Imelda is now.)
I can confirm that Imelda's participation in Poetry Out Loud made me see these poems in a whole other light.
She was, you see, given to launching into practice recitations with no warning whatsoever. In the living room; in the kitchen; in the car, en route to school or grocery shopping or choir practice.
"WHENEVER," she would suddenly announce, "Richard Cory went downtown, /We people on the pavement looked at him..."
Once the startle reflex dissipated, and I was jumping a mere fraction of an inch at each new iteration, I began to feel some kinship with Richard Cory. --Really? WHENEVER? --I would think. --No privacy atall? Not even if he just wanted a newspaper, or a cup of coffee? Poor bloke; no wonder he became a bit neurotic.
"Harp Song of the Dane Women", as you may recall, opens with a question; fond as I was of Kipling, I began to wish that the good people at POL had picked something else from Puck, instead. Or possibly from The Jungle Book.
Into the rare quiet (while, for instance, her father was snatching a few minutes' well-earned rest before dinner, head nodding over his book), Imelda would inquire, abruptly, "WHAT is a woman, that you forsake her?"
This was enough to send her father leaping from the La-Z-Boy, his paperback James Heriot soaring to the ceiling.
"No, it's quite all right; calm down; nobody's forsaken, I haven't contacted a lawyer: it's just Melly doing her English homework."
I do not argue with any of this.
However, I think that one group is underrepresented:
Parents.
Today, Imelda selected the three poems she'll memorize for the regional competition (based on reading six or seven out loud at the kitchen table, to her father and me, while her younger sisters interrupted, they thinking more of their immediate wants than of Calliope, Erato, or Polyhymnia).
Now we know which poems we'll be living with during the next couple of months. I'm not going to say yet what they are.
Last time around, two of the three were "Richard Cory" and "The Harp Song of the Dane Women." ( I have to admit that I suggested these. I was mightily taken with "Richard Cory" some time ago (no, I am NOT old enough to remember when the Simon & Garfunkel song was released, thank you very much), and I loved reciting Kipling when I was a good bit younger than Imelda is now.)
I can confirm that Imelda's participation in Poetry Out Loud made me see these poems in a whole other light.
She was, you see, given to launching into practice recitations with no warning whatsoever. In the living room; in the kitchen; in the car, en route to school or grocery shopping or choir practice.
"WHENEVER," she would suddenly announce, "Richard Cory went downtown, /We people on the pavement looked at him..."
Once the startle reflex dissipated, and I was jumping a mere fraction of an inch at each new iteration, I began to feel some kinship with Richard Cory. --Really? WHENEVER? --I would think. --No privacy atall? Not even if he just wanted a newspaper, or a cup of coffee? Poor bloke; no wonder he became a bit neurotic.
"Harp Song of the Dane Women", as you may recall, opens with a question; fond as I was of Kipling, I began to wish that the good people at POL had picked something else from Puck, instead. Or possibly from The Jungle Book.
Into the rare quiet (while, for instance, her father was snatching a few minutes' well-earned rest before dinner, head nodding over his book), Imelda would inquire, abruptly, "WHAT is a woman, that you forsake her?"
This was enough to send her father leaping from the La-Z-Boy, his paperback James Heriot soaring to the ceiling.
"No, it's quite all right; calm down; nobody's forsaken, I haven't contacted a lawyer: it's just Melly doing her English homework."
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