May began with a release of the budding libertarian in me. And it ended with a long book on the history of nuclear Pakistan that took me forever and a day to read.
| Author | Book |
|---|---|
| David Harsanyi | Nanny State: How Food Fascists, Teetotaling Do-Gooders, Priggish Moralists, and other Boneheaded Bureaucrats are Turning America into a Nation of Children |
| Adrian Levy, Catherine Scott-Clark | Deception: Pakistan, the United States, and the Secret Trade in Nuclear Weapons |
K and I often tend to find events by accident and then, becoming somewhat enthralled, work those events annually into our calendar of outings. In two weeks, we’ll be going to the Bluff Mountain festival in Hot Springs, North Carolina, and it has been an annual trip since we first went in June 2006.
We’ve added another one: the Greenville Scottish Games. We arrived late, but we were lucky: we made it for the best portion of the day. But first, some exploring.
As with all festivals, food was everywhere. As with most festivals, non-standard dress was everywhere. Granted, some of the non-standard was actually standard. One can’t have a Scottish festival without the kilts, or the traditional Scottish favorite, deep fried Snickers.
Some of the non-standard clothing seemed not necessarily to be “standard” anywhere but Celtic legends. And so I guess there, in a round-about kind of way, was the connection.
The day was filled old crafts and new styles.
As Mystery Man dabbed paint, the Scottish band Albannach performed in the big tent. They struck me as a Scottish version of Kapela ze Wsi Warszawa: traditional instruments with somewhat modern rhythms.
The highlight, of course, was the pipe and drum combination. We managed good last-minute seats and watched them all march in,
ready themselves,
perform for the judges,
and march out.
At the end of the day, all bands came out and played.
Four hundred and some pipers and drummers.
An amazing sight and sound.
The school year is nearing completion: just under two more weeks remain. Everyone — teachers, students, administrators, custodial staff — everyone in the building is counting the days.
Such an odd thing: we’ve spent 170+ days working together, and we’re all sick of each other, rather like a family on a long vacation. A bit of time apart and all would be well. Yet “a bit of time apart” is impossible: the students move on, and we teachers remain, waiting for the next group.
It’s as if we’re on a cosmic treadmill. We take a few steps with the kids, and though we all (teachers, students, parents, administrators) keep walking, the students slowly move on ahead of us teachers, occasionally looking back with a smile of thanks, occasionally staring straight ahead, occasionally — tragically — looking down.
“I’m so sick of all this,” we all mutter, but come what may, there will be tears on the final day, and I’ll probably be accused of laughing at someone’s tears as I was last year. “No, no, I’m not laughing at you,” I’ll insist. “I’m just smiling because it’s all rather sweet.”
It’s this time of year that I start making resolutions for the next year. Knee deep in all the mistakes I’ve made this year, I resolve not to do this or that, promise myself to be more systematic about some thing or other, commit myself publicly to more of this, less of that. I’ve a six-page, detailed outline of changes I’ll be making in one course next year, and I’ve only just begun recording my thoughts and plans. (A lesson learned from last year: all the brilliant ideas one has about changes to this or that unit tend to disappear the day school is out.)
And in the midst of all this planning for next year while making sure this year ends positively and productively comes a call from a parent. The long conversation includes a story about how her son came into my class apprehensive. Now he admits that the class is “alright” because I’m a “cool” teacher.
And another student sends me an email: “Thank you for helping me get through this year maintaining my grades.”
Bittersweet moments, indeed.
We thought about going to the beach today. None of us really wanted to — well, none of us who would have been doing the driving and paying. We ended up going to the park for some bike riding:
And then to McDonald’s for shakes and a televised softball game:
We all felt thoroughly red, white, and blue.
When I was around six, I was obsessed with Star Wars (especially the action figures), and my father was obsessed with running. I shared my obsession with him (naturally), and he came up with a way to join our interests: incentivized running. For every mile, as memory serves, that I ran, I got a new Star Wars figure. Most often, I managed to make a lap around the quarter-mile track before heading to the long-jump pit to play in the sand. It took me a long time to get a figure. (Then I discovered that holding my father’s hand as I ran made all the pain disappear: I got figures more quickly soon after).
The Girl is starting even earlier than I, through her own choice. L’s school has established a running club. For the children L’s age, this means stretching out and running some laps around the parking lot every Thursday. At first, she wasn’t keen on the idea. Then, as she saw her friends heading out every Thursday, she became curious. Finally, she asked, “Mommy, can I join the running club?”
Today, we had our first run. It was probably less than a quarter of a mile, but for three-, four-, and five-year-olds (and the occasional older child), it was quite something.
It was not entirely surprising that said older children — especially the boys — took off at full speed.
The rest, accompanied by parents, took a more leisurely approach.
“Way to pace yourselves!” I called out as they passed.
I was particularly proud to see the Girl’s fine running form: relaxed, pumping the arms, taking good, long strides. She was running with a purpose: not to win any race (indeed, the adults constantly urged the kids not to think of it as a race but as a test of endurance), but merely to finish strong.
And she did, with a brief walking break.
Afterward, the celebration began, as did the rain. Rather than decrease excitement, however, the rain was merely an added bonus: what three-year-old doesn’t love stomping in puddles?
And more.
Toward the end, the water balloons appeared, and the morning’s DJ was a favored target — not without some encouragement from the DJ himself.
Crepes wrapped around a mix of pureed fresh strawberries, farmer’s cheese, homemade whipped cream.
Strawberries: they’re what’s for dinner…
So many enjoyable things require so little effort or money. Thinking of what to do this afternoon, K suggested we go strawberry picking. The Girl was soon excited, then disappointed when it began raining, then thrilled when it stopped.
“Can we go? Can we go?”
Half an hour later, L had her first fruit.
Within less than fifteen minutes, we had two buckets of berries.
We probably would have filled the buckets even sooner if we weren’t snacking so frequently. L used the 1-2 method: pick one, eat two.
It is a favored method…
We’ve measured the Girl with her beds all her life.
From the strange, transparent bassinet of the hospital to her latest upgrade, L’s bed has served as a constant against which to measure her growth.
For most of her life, she’s had the same crib, though. In the early days, the mattress was high: she couldn’t move about, so there was no danger, and it put her within easy reach. She soon outgrew it, though: as soon as she began rolling around and pulling herself up, we had to lower the springs that suspended the mattress.
But it seemed like she was able to crawl out of it almost instantly. We began thinking about changing it to a day bed, but we never quite made it. Instead, we jumped straight to the full.
“You’ll have a new bed when you get home,” K told the Girl as she took her to Nana and Papa’s house today. We were eager to see her reaction: would she be frightened (L doesn’t like changes) or thrilled?
The response:
squeals and shrieks.
The next test: would she like the bedding selections? After all, there was not a single princess to be seen.
But there were flowers — almost as good.
There was little left to do but practice snoring in the big bed.
