The harvest is over, I fear

Last night it really froze hard.  The basil that had been bravely blowing in the wind over the past few chilly days is now shriveled and dead.  Luckily I have a freezer full of pesto to remind us of summer in the months ahead.  One of the last things we pulled out were our carrots.  I am never good at thinning my 'crops' to the suggested spacing intervals.  I always feel like more = more even though I do somewhat understand the concept of crowding and such.  So our carrot harvest is always a surprise.  We get a few that run straight and true and look like something you might buy at the store (but taste SO much better) but most of them are short stunted little fellows.  This year we had one whopper of a surprise when we pulled up this mammoth mother of all carrots.  It was not really the length that was inspiring- but its circumference and just general heft.  I think it could have made a pot of carrot soup all by its lonesome. 

Spy Master

One of our first stops during our weekend blitz of Washington DC was the International Spy Museum.  It was a hoot.  Upon entering you are brought up to a room where you 'select a cover' and then throughout your visit you use little computer terminals to answer questions about your 'cover' and are given new segments of your mission.  And the whole time you are learning really a massive amount of information about the spy trade throughout history.  The only thing wrong with the museum is that I fear it might inspire my boys to jobs that I would really in the end hate for them to have!  Being the mother of a spy can not be easy. 
When we left the museum we practiced the techniques of espionage we had learned and spotted dastardly spies on almost every street corner.  Luckily they did not spy us, due to our incredible ability to blend in....

Surprising myself in Washington DC

If there is ever a time that I have to come up with a few adjectives to describe myself, patriotic is not one that comes to my lips right away.  It's not that I'm anti-American at all.  It's just that in my travels around this lovely planet I have at times felt a little sheepish about how others perceive us.  This feeling probably peaked back in the nineties when I was living and working as a teacher on the small Caribbean island of Antigua.  The experience most Antiguans had with Americans was when scantily clad tourists right of the cruise ships would rush by in taxi's, video cameras panning the countryside from open windows.  Anyway- back to our trip to the Capitol.  As we toured around at all of the sites I found myself getting teary with some frequency.  It happened when we were hearing about the incredible valor and bravery of those first rebels, when we toured the vast library of congress, when we watched old video footage of the astronauts stepping out onto the moon, when we gazed up at Abe Lincoln.  But the experience that moved me most was while we were standing in line on the bottom floor of the white house, waiting in the endless stream of visitors to weave our way up the steps and get a glance at just a corner of the famous estate.  As we waited in the line we moved past photo displays of life in the white house over the years.  Every large frame had pictures from different eras- and I was incredibly moved by the sight of Michelle Obama and her family looking out from the sea of otherwise white faces.  It struck me again what an amazing thing our country did back in 2008.  We elected a man because of his qualifications and talents and charisma and smarts, and didn't let the color of his skin trip us up.  If I could sum up the essence of DC that touched me it was just the outstanding evidence of bravery everywhere you looked.  It re-warmed my heart toward this old country of mine. 

High Praise

Last week while the boys and I were sitting in the airport waiting for our flight back to Minnesota, Eli was trying to get his math homework done.  There were a lot of challenging new concepts and he had neither textbook nor teacher handy.  He was getting a little frustrated and testy.  Lucky for him he was trying to figure out how to graph lines and write their equations.  This just happens to be one of my favorite math topics.  I was a math major for the first half of my freshman year of college, after all.  Then I bailed for a major where I could sit around and read books, but I put in the effort for a while there.  And at Avalon I am often called upon to help with algebra and geometry homework.  Kids know not to ask me for help once they hit the imaginary numbers.  I never got that.  Anyway- back to me and Eli and his math.  At first he was a little snippy with my because I was trying to explain the process in a way his teacher had not discussed.  I asked him if he wanted my help or not.  He thought long and hard about that and then conceded that yes, in the end, he would like my help.  So I gave it and I saw the little light bulb go off in his head- which was pretty exciting to see because what he was working on is really the crux of Algebra and if you get that, so much more becomes clear.  After he worked through a couple problems without my help he put his pencil down, looked me in the eye and said, "You know mom, I guess you are pretty proficient in math."  The woman (mom) reading a book in the seat next to me took a pause, looked up, and smiled.  I told her I was going to write that comment down and cherish it as we move through the years ahead.  So here it is.  According to Eli, in the month of October in the year of two thousand and ten, he has proclaimed that his mother is indeed proficient in math.  I will be reminding him of this statement often, I think. 

Feral brawling revisited

Last fall we took the kids down to the pizza farm on a September evening and the boys loved it- they ran around in the dark playing tag, chasing kittens, running wild.  When we returned and got snuggled into warm beds Eli said something along the lines of how much he loved it and how it made him feel like a feral brawler.  He admitted that the did not know what the term meant, just that it seemed to fit the situation.  Of course it did.  We took some city kids to the country and released them into the ultimate childhood pastime- running free in the night. They reveled in the freedom of it, felt the release, and at some point started rolling all over each other in their enthusiasm.  Hence the brawling.  We returned to the pizza farm again this fall, with a smaller group, and the results were the same- maybe a little less brawling this time, but as soon as the car stopped in the glowering dark, the boys tumbled out and were hotfooting it after a pack of kittens.  It was, once again, lovely.   It's just kind of far away, and only open on Tuesdays- so not super accessible.

Today we did the next best thing- we took the kids out to Camp St. Croix on a beautiful fall day.  Our boys, plus the three little NeskeMoens, had the run of the camp while the parents helped split wood.  They all have spent a good number of weeks out there as day campers, and some of them have now graduated to overnight campers and their level of ownership is pretty lovely.  They jumped out of the car and were off- playing on the A-field, creating structures in the woods, laughing and playing and without (direct) adult supervision for about 3 hours.  They returned to us when we called at the end of the afternoon- dirty and tired and grinning.  I don't think there was any brawling today, but I definitely saw something feral about them.  If I remember correctly, the definition of feral is to 'return something to it's more natural state'.  I love our city home- I love walking to their school, biking to work, being close to the dentist and doctor and grocery and farmer's market and park- but the kids need the time away from others, in the woods, without adult planning and supervision.  They need this time so that they can grow straight and true and tall- full time citified life makes you feel a little stunted every now and then.

Perspective

Today as we were heading out to Camp St. Croix for a log splitting jamboree, Ildar (the russian son) asked me when the snow melts in the spring.  I did a little calculating in my head, and in an attempt to soften the blow for him a bit I said, well February- mostly in February.  Which is almost true.  I just failed to mention that March is often our snowiest month.  This kid could have been sent anywhere in the US and he got Minnesota.  I was trying not to depress him too badly.  But then he did his own calculating, looked at me with a big grin and said, "So, your winters are pretty short then!".  He is from the middle of Russia, afterall.   

Lucky me

So I still work part time.  I think both Jon and I thought that once the boys both got into school full time that I might start working five days a week again.  And I've thought about it, but I just can't make the jump.  Because if I did I'd have to give up moments like I had last week when I was working with a small group of Eli's classmates over in the library of Expo.  Our task was to read and analyze two poems by Maya Angelou which had been made into a sort of graphic novel.  We did a lovely job, I like to think.  But then the kids wanted more.  So I found another Angelou poem online and brought it in to the group.  We read it, analyzed it, and then I sat back as this group of three girls and three boys worked together to create their own graphic novel of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.  The listened to each other, gave respectful feedback, helped each other out when someone was stuck, and had some hearty laughs.  And I just got to sit there and listen.  Lucky me.

A little tidbit

I was in the back of Eli's classroom the other day doing a little work for the teacher while all of the kids were sitting up front listening to her mini-lesson about plot in writing.  She asked a few questions about the difference between the plot of a picture book and that of a novel.  The students were all mostly involved, answering questions, asking their own.  Then the teacher asked, 'What about poetry?  Does poetry have plot?'  Eli raised his hand and was called upon.  "Well, it depends, something like an epic poem, say like the Illiad by Homer, that definitely has plot..."  And I'm in the back wondering how in the world he knows about the Illiad.  I'm and English major for goodness sakes and have yet to read it.  I knew from the start of this parenting business that at some point these guys would pass me by in math.  I was not prepared for it to happen in about 2nd grade math with this dumb new lattice method of multiplication, which I just do NOT get, but whatever, I knew the day would come.  But I thought I would have a little more leeway with English.  Wishful thinking, I guess.

Sounding Off

The news lately has been full of tragic stories of teens taking their lives, most in response to being bullied for being gay, or perceived as being gay.  I work at a school where the GSA (Gay Straight Alliance) is strong and proud, and really mostly made up of straight allies who are standing up to support their peers.  They have no agenda other than to create a safe space for themselves so that they can turn their attention to learning, rather than focus on mere survival.  And they've done it.  The other day a student announced at the All School Meeting that it was "National Coming Out Day" and then explained that this was a chance for people who have had to live closeted lives to step out and start to live as who they are.  It is the custom at Avalon that all announcements are met with applause.  Even when I announce that there will be a high stakes standardized test in the afternoon.  They clap.  They are nice that way.  After this student made his announcement I held my breath for a second, wondering what kind of response he would get.  I will point out that announcements about the activities of the GSA (protests at the capitol, a school dance, a booth at a festival) are made often and greeted with respect, if not always enthusiasm.  I should not have worried- maybe it had something to do with the news of suicides and the tension around this issue, but the applause was thunderous and went on for a quite while.  Here was a diverse group of kids from all corners of the twin cities and they were taking a moment to say (with their hands) stop the hate, stop the madness, give everyone a chance to learn and live in a safe environment.

This same student was recently quoted in a StarTribune article on the subject and today a letter penned by him (and his GSA compatriots) was published in the 'point/counterpoint' section of the editorial page under the heading:  What does it take to make a school safe for learning?  The counterpoint to our student was written by Tom Prichard, the president of the Minnesota Family Council.  The comments on the page have been a mixed bag of support, questions, and a bit of hate-mongering.  I hate to read those.  All this young man is asking is that schools are safe for all.  We work hard to do this at Avalon, and I see the payouts.  In a conversation with his mom last week she said that what she loved about Avalon is that her son's main force of energy is NOT spent defending who he is or keeping out of the way of bullies, but rather on investigating the local food movement and getting intimate with the details of organic farming.  He is learning and growing in ways that were not possible in other environments and she is thrilled.  So am I.  Here's a link to his article.  It may not be perfect, but it's honest and it's brave, and he signed his full name, unlike many of the hateful people leaving their comments below it.  Go Ben.  Strib Article

School Pictures

It's school picture day today.  Jon and I tried to make last minute hair cut appointments for the boys last night, risking them going down in history with a bad cut, but it wasn't to be.  We couldn't find an opening for them.  They were thrilled, of course, and in their relief from avoiding the cut, they promised that I could throw them both through the shower this morning and then actually take a brush and perhaps a blow dryer to their hair. Eli is no problem.  He has relatively short hair and it sits how its going to sit.  There's not much managing needed or possible.  But Theo.  His locks are long right now, and after a few minutes under the influence of my blow drying prowess he came out looking a lot like....Andy Gibb.  Don't know how I came to be the mother of Andy Gibb, and I'm not sure I like it.  But Theo does.  I will take a picture of him soon so we can do a comparison.

Covert Operations

Last night after dinner we realized that we were in fairly desperate need of hay for the rabbits.  Not that the rabbits were showing any signs of desperation- they never show many signs of anything.  But the hay was gone so I convinced Eli to ride his bike down to the pet store with me.  The only glitch in the plan was that it is October in Minnesota, and although our temperatures have been summery lately, the sun goes down ever earlier each night, and by 7 it was pitch black out there.  I suited up our bikes with a variety of lights, including cool green glowing boomerang shaped things that stick in the spokes, and reluctantly put on Jon's sweat-smelly reflective vest.  At first I was going to have Eli wear that and I was just going to wear a white shirt and hope for the best, but then I saw Eli's school guard vest and I thought Aha!  He can wear that. 

Not so fast.  Apparently part of becoming a guard these days includes signing a blood oath that you will not wear the vest in vain.  Or so Eli led me to believe.  I did manage to convince him that protecting his life while we went on an emergency hay run was not using it flippantly.  He countered with, "or we could drive."  I didn't buy it.  I manhandled him into the vest and took off down the road.  He followed, but he kept glancing furtively left and right, looking for undercover traffic cops (which may be the romantic branch of traffic copping, if it exists) who might arrest him on the spot.  As our friend Tim mentioned, we made it through the dragnet unscathed. 

It turned out to be a lovely ride with hardly no traffic on the back roads we traveled.  And the whole way down the hill into the village we were guided by the most lovely banana moon I've seen in a while.  I said, "Oh, it's reminding me of old Wild Bill" (my grandfather who shared a banana moon connection with me and who passed away a few Octobers back) but Eli wouldn't let me elaborate, I was making him sad.  But at least that distracted him from his fear of being caught out in the vest.  He will be most mightily upset if he knows that I am about to post a picture of him all vested up.  Sorry Eli.

Borscht

So yesterday I looked around the kitchen and found myself staring at quite a supply of beets and cabbage and potatoes from our CSA.  These are not ingredients I use every day so I entered them into google to see what kind of recipes might pop up.  And sure enough the first 468 entries pointed toward borscht.  I have nothing against  this Russian soup- it's just that I have never made it before and I was a little nervous to have my debut taste tested by a real live Russian who happens to be pulling up a chair to our dinner table every night.  But it couldn't be avoided.  So I made it and awaited the verdict from Ildar.  He came in, looked in the pot, asked, "What's this?"  "Borscht."  He raised his eyebrows.  He gamely took a bowl and sat down for dinner.  I watched closely as he tasted the first spoonful.  He smiled and then said, "It's good, but it's not borscht."  I guess I'll take that as a positive review.  Right?  It got the rest of my dumb family laughing and pretty soon all of them were making plans as to how I could open up a stand in Russia selling "American style borscht."  Ildar added several points to the marketing plan, including this conclusion, "I think you should plan to take your stand to a new city every month, because maybe most customers will only come once and then not return, so you will have to find new customers somewhere else."  Hmmmm.  Well, I guess I don't know how to feel about the borscht, but it made it clear to me that Ildar is feeling downright comfortable in our household.  I like that.  But I don't think I am going to be making anymore borscht here for a while.

Status Update

So our new 'son' has been here for just over a week and I think we've all pretty much fallen in love with him.  He's a delightful kid.  I'm completely surprised how quickly I've come to think of him as part of us.  I know that we're going to lose him at the end of the school year, that he's really just a visitor passing through our lives- but I'm feeling pretty lucky that we get him for the duration.  Two weeks ago when this hosting of a foreign student was first posed to us I had some real misgivings about how it was all going to work.  And I admit that I was less than generous in my thoughts when I came to realize that this was going to translate to extra laundry, more meal prep and clean up, and some random expenses.  But that was when it was for some unknown kid.  Now that Ildar is in the house and we know him, of course I can toss his laundry in, and he is a great help in the kitchen, and I'd love to help him experience as much of the St. Paul life as he can, so a little extra expense is no big thing.  I do realize that we are only about 10 days into this and there is much time left in the year, but so far all is good.  Until he finds out that I sometimes write on a little blog and that he might end up as a topic!  Awkward.