Seeing With Fresh Eyes

There is a common parable politicians tell to elicit goodwill and exemplify the power of people to change. The story’s origin has a historical basis and many readers may know the short tale of a monk who visits Rome:

“A monk, named Telemachus, left his native Asia and was led by an inner voice to go to Rome. Upon arrival, he followed the rowdy crowds to the Coliseum. There the monk saw two gladiators fighting, to the death, with swords.

Telemachus jumped between the gladiators shouting, “In the name of Christ, forbear!”, and was immediately run through with a sword. When the crowd saw the monk lying dead in a pool of blood, they fell silent and were filled with remorse. The crowd slowly dispersed one by one. When the Emperor heard the story of the brave monk, he decreed an immediate end to the gladiator games.”

As a child I loved this story. As an adult, even after I learned the version from my childhood was not entirely truthful, I appreciated the story for its insight into the darkness and light that inhabits all of us. The true story is as nuanced as human nature. Telemachus did step bravely between two enormous gladiators in an attempt to stop the fighting; however, the parting gladiators did not kill him. The crowd, furious at the disruption of their entertainment, stoned the monk to death.

The impetus and date gladiator fighting ended is debated by historians. I like to believe that Telemachus’ act did have some influence on the Emperor. Perhaps the monk’s reaction to the scene and his actions reframed the games in the eyes of decision makers and the population.

I am reminded of this story and of the Coliseum when I watch television. I imagine that the chanting and jeering; the glassy-eyed bloodlust in the eyes of spectators at the Jerry Springer Show or the World Wrestling Foundation effectively conjure the atmosphere and crowds at the gladiator games.

I often think that we need people like Telemachus to help us see anew our own culture. We are so immersed in the sights and sounds of mass media that it is almost impossible to gain perspective. We’re assaulted with images- it often seems to me that these influences have permeated the very air around us. Television is in stores, doctor’s offices, restaurants, barber shops, schools, and some churches. Television’s bluish glow and inane sounds float on the evening air when I am out for a night walk. It feels like a culturally toxic amniotic fluid in which we all breathe and float. Yet, television is actually an isolating experience. I think communities need to use television and media collectively to help reveal its own dark side.

At our last Safe Schools Coalition Meeting, we showed a wonderful film called, “What a Girl Wants”. The piece is a short work by the Media Education Foundation that examines how media portrays girls and young women and the effects of popular culture on development. The film showed a collection of recent ad campaigns with young icons such as Brittney Spears. Professionals in education and socials services were in attendance. As we watched, I became increasingly uncomfortable with the images. One arresting ad had appeared in a popular teen girl’s magazine. The glossy page showed Brittney Spears in pig-tails, bending provocatively over a white, child’s bicycle complete with flowered basket wearing impossibly tiny pink underwear that had the word “Baby” across her bottom. The image purposely posed her as a prepubescent little girl. What is the message here and just as alarmingly, who is the intended consumer?

What I found interesting is that I had previewed the film alone and had not felt the same shock and embarrassment that I felt when viewing with others. Like most of us, I reached the Britney Spears saturation point years ago. I no longer really saw her –she had become just another brand name (now replaced with the newer, younger, and more marketable Miley Cyrus). I needed the eyes of others, whom I respected, juxtaposed with those images to help me see with fresh vision. They became my Telemachus.

While I worry about the path we are collectively traveling and often suffer from cultural indigestion, I am also very hopeful. History repeatedly shows that after dark ages, comes renaissance. Additionally, there are many people working diligently to help us re-examine the media and images we are consuming and that are consuming are children. People like Jackson Katz, Jean Kilbourne, Mary Pipher, Richard Louv and many others. The work of Jackson Katz can be viewed on You Tube for free. I also have a growing library of films produced by the Media Education Foundation and have planned a series of free parent film screenings and workshops and discussion groups which will begin this fall.

Links to You Tube Media Education Previews

Consuming Kids
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HKH4YGKnOSs

What A Girl Wants

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rFyxogYnv9w

Pleasant Hill

I have tried unsuccessfully for years to embrace simplicity- the art of shedding the clutter and disorganization that flies in a chaotic cloud around me. My efforts are foiled by boys, dogs and my own absent-mindedness. A glimpse into an average day in my life reveals: a cell phone dead from lack of charging, a mislaid appointment book resulting in a missed appointment, a candle left dangerously burning unattended half the morning, an empty gas tank, unwashed, sweaty basketball jerseys stuffed under the seat of the car (resulting in puzzlement about the rank smell permeating the hot car, and alarmed sniffs from passengers), and strangest of all, a lone sock found in the freezer. Sometimes I think my purpose in life is to make other people feel more competent about their own lives.

I admire people who seem to function smoothly, simply, and cohesively in life. I appreciate the Amish, Quakers and the now extinct Shakers for their respective faith, industry, simplicity and mindfulness. Thoughtful attentiveness especially, eludes me. I am scattered and often lost in thought- the obvious often isn’t obvious to me. For example, I once arrived to deliver a speech to a group of professionals wearing dark sunglasses that I thought gave me a certain sophisticated air. Unfortunately, I had unknowingly lost a lens at some point in my day. The resulting glaring, lopsided look drew hard stares and snickers from the appreciative crowd. (My family still wonders how anyone could walk around for hours like that and be unaware.)

Another time, an important colleague I wished to impress opened my car door and was met with a can of SPAM on the front seat. I have never knowingly purchased SPAM, so its presence was a mystery to me. The SPAM’s jarring randomness, however, seems a metaphor for my life. I just can’t seem to get it together.

Thus, it was with much anticipation and desire for inspiration that I decided to visit a restored Shaker village in Harrodsburg, Kentucky. Located about 45 minutes outside of Lexington, and only accessible via a snaking two-lane road through rolling countryside, Pleasant Hill feels like a tiny island of calm in the midst of a cultural hurricane.

Upon arrival, we entered a village that remains as it was 200 years ago. Each building is restored and has a specific function: Meeting House, Center Dwelling, Trustees House, and others. The entire village is a living history museum with demonstrations of spinning (with wool from sheep raised on the farm), medicinal uses of plants and herbs, singing in the Meeting House of traditional music, and more. Not surprisingly, my grandmother, my two sons and I were some of just a few people visiting, although I learned that some guests were staying in the buildings converted to inns.

We walked the village on our own, but period attired guides were available when I wanted to learn more. I was immediately struck by a feeling of immeasurable calm and peace. The last Shaker to die here did so in 1924, yet their spirits have infused the entire area with a sanctified glow. Millions of prayers seem to have seeped into the walls and continually released goodwill. The rooms were spotless, free of clutter and suffused with light. I watched a woman spin wool and was struck with how certain work is a meditation in and of itself. Purposeful, with its own rhythms, its own timeline.

I toured the gardens with acres of heirloom and rare vegetables while the boys were communing with horses and examining some rare cattle. I wanted to look at the huge barn, and parked my grandmother’s wheelchair (she doesn’t share my passion for barns) under the shade of an elm tree, where she could hear “Simple Gifts”. I made my way down a sloping hill toward the vast barn and was soon deep in conversation with the horseman. As I stood examining the beamed roof and the glowing wooden stalls, polished to a high sheen by countless generations of horse and cattle bottoms, I heard a commotion that broke my reverie. I popped my head from the barn and saw my grandmother careening down the hill in her wheelchair at about 150 miles per hour, hair whipping in the wind, an enormous grin on her face, yelling, “Wheeee!” A multitude of pseudo-Shakers poured forth from various buildings, summoned by some secret distress signal, arms pumping with alarm and legs pistoning, they gave chase.

As she roared to the bottom of the hill, my grandma expertly applied her feet and hand brakes and with a gentle, curving skid, and landed safely in a cloud of dust. The crowd arrived seconds later and surrounded her in a buzzing, concerned cluster.

After determining that she was fine, and had, in fact, intentionally raced downhill seeking some action, the would-be rescuers began to drift back up the hill to their designated buildings, at least one muttering un-Shaker-esque expletives.

Since my grandma was obviously ready to move on to more exciting attractions, I decided to end our visit. We had given the village more action than it had seen in a century or more and Pleasant Hill had given me more inspiration and peace than I had felt in a decade.

I think if I were able to spend a week there, all would be well. I brought home a Shaker guiding principle that I hung in my kitchen to help me be mindful,” "Do all you work as if you had a thousand years to live and as you would if you knew you must die tomorrow.”

Road Trip

My grandmother has always loved road trips. When I was a child, trips to the Florida shore in the winter and the Wisconsin woods in the summer were annual events. If memory is composed not of days, but of moments, my grandmother gave me some that I hope to recall all of my life. I think of the prickly thrill of fear I felt when black bears visited our cabin’s garbage cans in Wisconsin. As I lay saucer-eyed with fear, I could hear them snuffle inches away, next to my bedroom wall. I also remember being carried at 4 am to visit the sea at low tide with my grandmother. We saw a multitude of shark fins in the surf.

Sprinkled throughout the summer, my grandmother would surprise me with announcements to “pack up, we are going to St. Louis”, or Ohio, or Indiana to visit her sisters. If my friends were visiting, the invitation was often extended to them as well. It was wonderful for me (perhaps not so much for the hapless relatives who were not prepared to host hordes of children).

When my grandmother moved into the Piatt County Nursing Home last year after a series of health problems, it was difficult to help a person who had been independent and working only months before, try to shrink life down to fit a much smaller space. The transition was made much easier with help from the many employees who have been wonderful and have now become members of her extended family. Of course, meeting and sharing a friendship with a handsome fellow resident has also contributed to my Nana’s enthusiasm for her altered, yet still abundant life.

As she had every other year of her life, my grandma wanted to take a road trip this year. She wanted to go to Kentucky to see the landscape where her mother was born. With her short term memory failing, and confined mostly to a wheelchair, I wondered if I could manage her needs. The medicine schedule alone was daunting. I had a million projects to do for work and home; even a short trip would mean double duty when I returned. In the end, with the aid of her still formidable volition, we decided to go.

The trip would be short, just 6 days, but would cover large areas. Two of my three sons joined us and we all shared the excitement of venturing off to sights unseen; the Kentucky woods.

We set out as we had done so many times before, roles reversed. I planned and packed, drove and monitored the frequent rest stop breaks. She chatted and pointed out sights along the way. I brought music that I thought she would enjoy- songs from the 1930s and 40s. Many pleasant miles were spent listening to her sing “You Always Hurt the One You Love” and “Sentimental Journey”, songs she had always sung in the car. Her voice is still pretty.

The music and the green, undulating land seemed to lubricate passages of memory that time and disuse had rusted shut. We took time to excavate forgotten details. Stories were told that I hadn’t heard about family, friends, and a life lived.

When we arrived, we saw the area, but not the homestead of my great-grandmother. Too many Waffle Houses, Cracker Barrels and Wal-Marts have obscured the recollections of people and the land. Only our own family continues to hold the memories of a girl who once walked barefooted named Ita. In the countryside, however, we saw sights she must have seen, and walked paths she may have traveled. Nana was satisfied.

To please the boys, we stopped at a large pizza/ arcade place- boasting to be one of the largest of its kind. The day was also my Grandmother’s birthday and she confessed that despite new physical limitations, she felt only 35 years old. She certainly looked half a century younger as she enthusiastically played every game she could manage from her wheelchair. She “whacked a mole”, and played slot machines that annoyed her by only producing jackpots of game tokens instead of cash. I had to draw a firm line when she wanted to try virtual skiing.

We had pictures drawn together and then, always game for any new experience; she sat in a photo booth that electronically depicted her in various wild styles of hair. We both howled at computerized images of Nan sporting a mullet, then a blonde bouffant, and finally dreadlocks.

It was a lovely trip. I hope these new memories will stay with her; that they will stay with me and my sons and I hope we can retrieve them when we need them, years from now. I think about memory and regret and know that eventually, shared experiences will be all we have of those we love. Although often fragile, memory is also, as Kevin Arnold once said,” a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose.” I hope we can hold tight to our memories of our one last trip for the road.

Gatekeeping Pt. 1

There are moments in every parent’s life when they look at the behavior of their progeny and are simply horrified. At some low point during our parental tenure we will all wonder, “What, in the name of all things Holy, have I created?” A brief mental rewind can instantly illuminate several moments that still flood me with particular shame and embarrassment. For instance, when my oldest son James was three, we found ourselves in a social situation with a lovely Amish family. James was clothed in his everyday, self-selected attire: complete cowboy regalia. He was born equipped with a deep, gruff voice, and built-in swagger that authenticated his boots, cowboy hat, spurs, and ever-at-the-ready lasso (what was I thinking?).
The Amish family also had a 3-year-old son named James and the two looked very similar with their tow heads, blue eyes and toddler chubbiness. The Amish child was clad in his cultural outfit of dark pants and blue shirt with straw hat and both reminded everyone present of that ubiquitous picture of two blonde boys asking one another “Been farming long?” Both families formed a smiling half circle as the two babes stood bare toe to boot and silently eyed each other. After gentle prodding from his soft-spoken parents, the Amish cherub shyly offered a smiling, “Hello”, to which my own small heathen promptly and distinctly replied, “Hello, idiot.” In the deep, shocked silence that followed, I could hear the faint crackle of cultural bridges burning.
Not to be outdone by his older brother, my middle son Ben once wrought his own brand of havoc in the local Catholic Church. When the boys were ages 5, 4, and 3 we attended a mass with my mother, a member of St. Philomena. The boys had never attended a mass and the beauty and ceremony held them spellbound in their pew. The subject of the mass happened to be the Eucharist and as the priest began discussing the meaning and symbolism-the drinking of the wine that represented the blood of Christ and the taking of the host as His body, I glanced over at my small guys who were absorbing every word. I quickly did a double-take because the boys were not simply attentive to the priest; they were saucer-eyed, agape, apparently frozen in terror. I tried to smile reassuringly at the three, but to no avail. As the priest again extolled the drinking of the wine as blood and consuming the body of Christ, Ben could stand no more. He jumped up and yelled with sincere fear, “Mom, these people are all vampires and cannibals! Let’s get out of here!” I will borrow from Twain and ask to “draw a curtain of charity around the remainder of the scene.”
Now that the boys are older, we experience long stretches of relative calm and a welcome absence of parental humiliation. In fact it has been years since we’ve been excommunicated from a religious group with whom we have no formal affiliation. Occasionally, however, the boys still manage to create a mini-scandal or show such poor judgment in decision making that I am thrown into maternal despair.
Last week, I was expecting an important call from a well respected colleague who is a specialist in the field of sexual assault and violence against women. I had given her my various numbers including my cell number. However, because I am a hopeless flake, I unwittingly gave her my oldest son’s cell number instead of my own. When my son casually mentioned her name on his caller ID, I immediately called back. Normally warm, she was a bit cool and said she wondered if she didn’t have the wrong number when she hear the “music” played on my end while she waited. I had no idea what music she had heard and after we finished our business, I immediately called my 14 year old son’s cell number. I was greeted with that annoying recorded voice that urged me to , “Please enjoy the music while your party is located,” and then was suddenly loudly accosted by the following curse laden chant from a popular rap , “ B**CH STOP CALLIN ME!, B**CH STOP CALLIN ME!”, repeated many excruciating times.
Welcome to the world of cell phone technology, ring tones, clueless teens, gullible parents, and misogynistic hip hop music that enjoys a very lucrative association with all the above. With the ease of a button push, kids purchase and change the music on their phones almost as often as they change clothes. Not only had I been naïve in believing James would choose wisely, but to add insult to injury, I learned I had actually paid for Dem Franchize Boys’ to verbally abuse a colleague.
Cell phones and their accouterments are part of the vast wealth of technology that children and teens embrace and use with ease and which parents and others who care about kids and culture are struggling to fully understand. The technology and media that surround us can be incredibly useful, yet there are unintended consequences and side effects that we are just beginning to see and should start discussing.
Like many parents, I have put a great deal of thought and worry into what comes out of my children, what they do, what is visible. I realize that I need to focus an equal amount of time and energy thinking about what goes in, what they are culturally consuming, and the choices that are making. This is a difficult task in an age of social toxicity that makes parental gatekeeping almost impossible.

Community

As a kid I was an odd duck. I spent my days listening to family stories in my grandmother’s beauty shop, or traveling around Monticello with my grandfather checking on the houses he was building. Occasionally, I could be found hanging at Allerton Park with my young mom and her scruffy crew of friends whom my grandparents suspiciously called “hippies”. I knew how to wrap a perm, carried a carpenter’s pencil in my pocket, and could easily discuss the various merits of Cat Steven’s latest song. My social skills with children, however, were awkward at best.

At school I was so painfully shy that I rarely spoke to anyone. Eye contact was fleeting and uncomfortable. I found my peers fascinating, unpredictable and sometimes frightening, so I sat back and watched. I spent many recesses examining playground gravel, looking for fossils. Perhaps now, I would have been labeled with social anxiety disorder and medicinally jolted into a stimulated state. Back in the 70s, I was just a shy kid.

Children are expert diagnosticians. They can enter a room filled with children and within seconds have sifted out and mentally flagged those who are in any way unusual. As a child, I seemed to be a blip on every kid’s –“weird-dar” screen.

In 2^nd grade, a larger, louder girl, inspected me as I sat sifting stones and began an interrogation. When I remained stubbornly silent, she became annoyed. Suddenly, a look of recognition came over her face. “Humph!” she sniffed with authority to the large, appreciative crowd around her, “My mom’s a nurse. This kid has brain damage.” That scene set the tone for the remainder of my early school years. I recall my chagrin when entering the batter’s box to a chorus of,” Brain damage is up! Easy out!” I would then proceed to either strike out, refuse to swing at a succession of one million pitches, or trip over my feet thereby re-confirming their diagnosis.

While I wasn’t deeply scarred by my social dysfunction, and did ultimately enjoy some successes and lasting friendships in my early youth, I was generally inept with my peer community. I was unsuccessful not from a lack of desire for relationships, but from inability. Often a fear of embarrassment kept me from finding my voice.

Now, in my 30s, although I have improved, I continue to be shy. I know that there are people to whom congeniality comes easily, naturally even. These self-extenders seem to have been born with qualities that attract others.

I think of people locally who continue to teach me so much about the art of self-extension. People like my long-time neighbors, Billie and Terry Van Tine. They have been extra grandparents to my boys (They even painted a basketball court on their driveway!). Billie has cared for me when I was ill, while Terry has fixed and replaced things around my home without allowing me to reimburse him. Their generosity is overwhelming. (A large percentage of Jerry’s obesity can be traced the daily snacks they provide.) I can’t imagine better friends and neighbors.

I think of people like Kim and Matt Usher who exemplify their faith by simply giving of themselves, caring for others.

I think of people like Angie O’Brien and Cristin McMullen- each time I speak with them; I come away feeling a little better; as though I had been hugged. They both are genuinely warm without pretense.

I think of the great teachers I have experienced and whose teachings have had staying power: Mr. Nolte, Mr. Gardner, Ms. Moore, Mr.White. I think of teachers who have been touchstones in the lives of my children: Mrs. White, Mrs. Stratman, Mr. Smith, Mr. Hehn, and Mrs. Rose (my youngest son still corresponds with Mrs. Rose after nearly 4 years).

I think of the Coursons who embarked on a mission to create a mission and have already brought visible compassion and love to Cisco.

I think of the many people I work with who face overwhelming societal problems but who continue to serve on committees to find solutions in spite of depressing statistics. People like Chief Judge Shonkwiler, Sheriff Manint, J.D. Russell, Gayla Hislope, Kelle Sebens, Doug Edwards and others who tirelessly serve.

All of them self- extenders and our peers. I think about the word community and what it really means. Maybe it simply means offering ourselves to others; sharing what we know and what we have with one another. Finding solutions when others are experiencing difficulties. There was a time when our first response to friends and neighbors in need was, “What can I do to help?”, rather than, “What is this going to cost me?”

I am going to continue to aspire to learn from the many altruistic folks around me. I truly believe that community is what children and families need most. In these often dark times, communities offer hope. We desperately need to work together for the common good. Communities are, as author Mary Pipher eloquently says, “the shelter of each other”.

Little Jerry

Jerry, our elderly rat terrier, is the dignified veteran of our wild family of three dogs and three boys. Once spry and fast, he is now shamefully puffed with kibble and steak scraps, afflicted with stiff joints, and too genteel to poop in the rain. He seems to gauge the weather each morning. Pausing at the front door, he lifts his graying muzzle, sniffs the air suspiciously and if he detects a hint of moisture, refuses to venture out. I wheedle, demand, and then wearily carry him out and deposit him in the grass where, after a baleful glare in my direction, he resentfully does his business.

James, my 14 year old, purchased Jerry with his own, long saved money we he was very young. At age 7, James went to the Humane Society with his grandmother- his accomplice and advisor in all things pet related. I had no idea what they would bring home and steeled myself to accept anything from Great Dane to Poodle. When the two came home, thrilled with their small black and white choice and plunked the animal in front of me, my first startled thought was, “What is it?” The dog was terribly emaciated and resembled an oversized mouse. His head also appeared to be several sizes too small for his body. He was, in fact, a severely abused rat terrier of unknown age. He had been starved almost to death, thrown against a wall and his broken foreleg was wrapped in a bandage. Still convalescing from his long ordeal, he was understandably skittish and wild-eyed.

James, however, was beaming. He announced with barely contained pride, “He is Jerry. I’ve named him Little Jerry”. I was taken aback, but immediately squashed my misgivings regarding both dog and name and mustered enthusiasm.

Most parents know that giving a young child license in naming an animal can lead to some odd choices. In this case, our next door neighbor was also “Jerry” and this commonality led to some awkward moments. In the early days of attempted dog training in the yard, I would often shout, “Jerry, stop that right now! Or “Jerry, NO!” or “Jerry, DROP IT!” in a commanding or more often, frantic, shrill tone. Each sudden outburst caused Jerry, my human neighbor, peacefully waxing his car or raking his yard a few feet away to either freeze or induced a powerful startle reflex resulting in dropped rakes, botched wax job and strained neighborly relations. My howls and demands invariably had no effect on Jerry the dog.

I suppose I should feel good that James’ naming abilities were only mildly quirky. My mom once allowed my brother at age 5 to name his cat and we all regretted his choice, but faithfully referred to the cat by the name Nick chose, “Pizza Hut”.

Pets contribute so much to our lives. Children learn invaluable lessons about life, compassion, illness, bereavement throughout their pet’s lifetime. Pets help children learn empathy, responsibility, connection to nature and unconditional love. Sadly, with today’s hurried lifestyle many families simply do not have time for pets. Interestingly, a decrease in pet ownership is being noticed in several countries. A recent Australian study blamed their decline in pet ownership was due in part to children choosing video games over pets. The president of the Australian Veterinary Association, Kersti Seksel, said “These days children interact more by playing computer games and less by going out there and throwing the ball to a dog. We need to learn people skills, physical skills, and sitting with a computer doesn't teach you that."

Pets demand time and unconditional love. They teach us that life can be messy, come with unpleasant aromas, and that you don’t stop loving someone even though they are flawed. Jerry, despite his many deviant behaviors has become a much beloved member of our family. James has created a wonderful semi-fictitious persona for his dog and insists that Jerry is the Chuck Norris of dogs. Despite obvious evidence of Jerry’s propensity for overindulgence (his physique can best be described as spherical), and a head that never grew to match his now bulbous body, James swears that his dog is “ripped”. We can’t remember our life before he came to us. There has been occasional destruction of much of our boy-worn property, foul excretions, expenses and time spent in exasperated frustration as Jerry leisurely strolled the yard looking for the perfect spot while crucial deadlines and appointments loomed. It has been worth every second. He is and ever shall be ‘Little Jerry.”

Children and families need these experiences. Everyone should of sit side by side with a good dog. As the writer Milan Kundera said, “To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring - it was peace.

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Great Things to Do This Summer

In these difficult financial times everyone is feeling the strain. It occurred to me, however, that the rising fuel and living costs may actually benefit our community in some meaningful ways. Rather than driving to other larger towns and cities for recreation and shopping, many of us will be staying closer to home this summer and scaling back on spending. Living and playing locally strengthens our communities. These difficult times may be an opportunity to regain unhurried time with friends and family and to form deep community roots that have been slipping away.

Here are 10 great things to do with your family this summer, close to home and for little or no cost:

(1) Make my AMAZING GIANT BUBBLE MIX- Bubbles so big you can enclose yourself inside. Wands are made with straws and string. Prepare to be amazed.

Bubble contest-

Send me photos of best bubbles you make. Best bubble makers win super prize!

Here is a wonderful link to a place where you can learn everything about giant bubble making, including the recipe.

And another great recipe.

(2) Walk the trails at a local woods and look for owls. Sometimes if you hoot, they hoot back. Owls are elusive and tricky. Take some binoculars and move quietly through the woods. Let me know if you see one.

(3)Hike various woods together and clock your miles or steps with a pedometer. Keep a tally through August and send me your stats. Let’s see how many we can do. While hiking, discuss the unique personality of each wood. For example, some woods have spooky vibe sometimes. Look closely at the trees. Did you know that modern children can, on average, name over 50 brand names by age 3, yet many high school kids can’t identify 5 different types of trees?

(4) Make homemade lemonade and sit on the front porch or under a tree together.

Great Lemonade

INGREDIENTS

• 1 3/4 cups white sugar
• 8 cups water
• 1 1/2 cups lemon juice

DIRECTIONS

1. In a small saucepan, combine sugar and 1 cup water. Bring to boil and stir to dissolve sugar. Allow to cool to room temperature, then cover and refrigerate until chilled.
2. Remove seeds from lemon juice, but leave pulp. In pitcher, stir together chilled syrup, lemon juice and remaining 7 cups water.

(5) Choose one night a week when you collectively turn off all electronics. Tell the kids they can do anything they want as long as it doesn’t involve spending money or using electricity, or cell phones.

Great site to get you motivated to TURN IT OFF.

(6) Camp one night the old fashioned way- no camper, no electronics. Real campers don’t take a television or radio. My camping trips usually go like this- Pitch tent, manage to create unique, unintended octagonal shaped tent. Fish the pond. Enjoy the tugging sensation of swarms of piranha-like baby fish consuming all of your worms at lightening speed. Catch nothing. Make and eat s’mores, eat more s’mores, have another so the last half of the chocolate bar doesn’t go to waste. Remember that your fingers are wormy from fishing. Feel vaguely nauseous. Tell scary bear-attack stories around the campfire. Discuss the possibility that Bigfoot could be wandering Central Illinois. Notice the odd, rustling, Big-foot-like sounds coming from nearby woods, suddenly feel the urge to retreat to tent for safety. Turn on flashlight inside tent. See millions of bugs inside tent. Spend sleepless, sweaty night, wide-eyed, head zippered completely into sleeping bag imagining bugs crawling into ear. Wake up ready for a morning s’more.

(7) Older kids should read “Harris and Me” by Gary Paulsen. Read aloud each evening as a family or alone, it is one of the funniest books ever. “Hatchet” is another good choice. Younger kids- read Farmer Boy by Laura Ingalls Wilder.

Link to Hatchet Site

Link to Farmer Boy

(8) Harness the power of youth. Get behind one of our communities worthy projects as a family. Willow Tree Mission is trying to put a roof on the building that will assist children and women in need. An Animal Shelter is being created for our County. Children want to make differences and should be given the opportunity. Kids don’t operate in the same red tape and beaurocratic universe that adults do. They see problems and have answers. Often, given the chance, kids have the enthusiasm to make real change happen. Grassroots movements are wonderful opportunities for children to make positive impacts within the community.

Willow Tree Mission

Piatt County Animal Shelter

Youth Volunteer Corp

(9) Get some kids together in the evening for a night of little remembered games. Some great games are falling into oblivion and need to be played and rescued from oblivion. Try Kick-the Can, Ghost in the Graveyard, or Stalking the Drum. Try this game for wild kids (with mom’s who have nerves of steel): Noodle Battles! Choose a day when everyone has too much energy. Purchase several pool noodles- those long, Styrofoam-ey things. The cost is minimal. Cut each in half. These make wonderful whacking toys. Devise a simple fencing game with points or do what we do- have the entire family take part in an outdoor battle. It is wonderful fun with lots of movement, yelling and noise. The smack sounds impressive, but it is usually painless. It satisfies a deeply rooted boy instinct to whack one another-without the unpleasantness of blood and trips to the ER.

Link to outdoor game rules.

(10) Stop and buy at each lemonade stand you see. Send me time and place of yours and I promise to come.

Chris can be contacted at csanant@yahoo.com

Killing Special

Do you remember special things from childhood? I remember the excitement of a birthday cake, the rare treat of a trip to Champaign to see a movie, or the ice cream treats in the shape of snowmen and reindeer that my grandmother could buy only at Christmastime. I loved visits with a certain friend because her mother served us white bread bologna and processed cheese sandwiches smothered in Miracle Whip, cherry Kool-Aid to drink and Twinkies. Haute cuisine for 7 year olds. All of those delicious food items were strictly forbidden in my “whole wheat bread and water is good for you” home.

I remember the anticipation of Saturday morning cartoons- kid shows that in no way resembled the psychedelic frenzy of action and insanity that are many modern cartoons. I think of the weekend ritual that included rising at dawn on Saturday, watching the blank set until the station finally came on, and savoring every moment until they ended promptly at 12:00 on Saturday- never to return until next weekend.

Some friends and I were talking this week about special things from our own childhoods and we realized that most of what we really loved and remembered was not toys, or possessions, but experiences. I enjoyed trick or treating, but I loved when my mom painted the giant pumpkin on our huge round window each Halloween. I enjoyed Christmas and my favorite present of all time was my Big Wheel (with handbrake), but what was really exciting, what was special, was the playing with so many children and listening to family stories. One friend remembered that some of the best memories she had involved taking family hikes.

We tend to idealize our childhoods, but I think most adults would agree that events and special times seemed to resonate more in our past in part, because of the regular, steady amount of calm and uneventful space that surrounded our lives as children. We existed in what felt like a slower, more cohesive world and our indulgences were only occasional.

I wonder about modern children and what they will remember as special. Is special fading? Are the emotions of joy, wonder, anticipation all dying under the crushing weight of our “have everything instantly” culture?

Amy Dacyczyn, a wonderful writer told the story of taking her five young children to the ice cream store- a very rare occurrence for a family on a tight budget. Her children quietly debated their flavor choice and then sat in wide-eyed silence-blissfully savoring their junior-sized cones. Other parents, seeing the same enjoyment level from a junior cone and wishing to create more happiness would opt to visit the ice cream shop more. But with frequency specialness begins to die, and sooner or later the parent finds themselves buying the triple scoop, brownie deluxe sundae with flakes of candied gold leaf in order to elicit the same oohs and ahhs from the child. Eventually, with regular trips to get ice cream, even the most deluxe treat become blasé and you wind up with an ice cream jaded 8 year old. To keep specialness, some time and space are necessary between cones.

This principle applies not only to ice cream. We are all familiar with over-indulged children. They seem to be everywhere-including my own home. Remember the television ad for a credit card that told parents, “You want to give them everything…” not so subtly conveying you must give your children any item they desire to be a good parent, and that they had just the card to help you succeed? One of the ads even showed a misty eyed dad handing an elephant off to his small daughter. The image isn’t as far fetched as it may seem. Granted, we aren’t legally allowed to dole out elephants, but we are extravagant in so many equally exorbitant ways: we provide limo service for children’s’ birthday parties where children are entertained by acts worthy of Las Vegas. We hand out stuffed goodie bags filled not with the trinkets and piece of candy from our own childhoods- but more reminiscent of the Christmas stockings of our childhoods. We have only to watch television to see the popular reality show where witless parents spend tens of thousands on Sweet 16 parties where their children, all in dire need of immediate Oompa-Loompa intervention, arrive in Cinderella carriages and aim to inspire envy among their peers. We hand teens credit cards to use carte blanche. Instead of allowing children to build a playhouse made of chairs and sheets we kill their imaginations by giving them $5,000 custom built playhouses.

A recent CNN/TIME poll showed that 68% of parents indicated that their children were “very spoiled”. Yet, we parents behave as if we had no choice or control.

Parenting is certainly a difficult job- perhaps more difficult now than ever before. Our children are bombarded with advertising and images urging them to buy and spend. At our house we have long struggled with basketball shoe addictions. Often, the answer has to be “no” because at $125.00 or more per pair, we simply can’t afford them, but also because in our culture teens have become driven consumers with a combined purchasing power of $150 billion per year. I would like my boys to develop some skills to fight affluenza. I don’t want to raise spoiled brats.

I often feel that the culture is a huge, fast moving vehicle and we are being swept along within. We are bombarded with images and shaped by messages over which we feel we have little control. As we are carried along together, we can at least discuss the scenery.

What happens to children who are over-indulged? Over-indulged children grow into over-indulged young people and later into adults who are difficult to deal with. They believe rules only apply to others because they are privileged. Over-indulged young people exhibit obnoxious behaviors with superior attitudes, are often unmotivated and appear jaded. What is left when you have seen it all, done it all, and had it all by 16? Not many things will be special for Generation G. G for gimme.

As adults these kids probably won’t be able to tell the difference between needs and wants, will need constant stimulation and entertainment from others, might be deficient in basic life skills, be unable to take responsibility for their own actions, and lack empathy for others.

Education specialist Ada Alden, who helps teachers learn to handle over-indulged students, recently noted, “If you water a plant too much it dies. Even if you are watering it out of too much love, it still dies.” Did you miss that? Nationally, teachers are being trained how to handle overindulged children (and parents).

So what can we, as parents and people who care about families and children do to cope with the prevailing gimme culture? First, we can give of ourselves and our time. The prevailing notion of quality time has not benefited children and families. Children need quantity time. Simply sitting with your child while he or she draws or builds with blocks is so meaningful to children.

We can make family rituals- celebrations of events and holidays that don’t involve the giving of things, but sharing of experiences and family stories. We can work together to form a stronger community, building ties with neighbors and friends. We can help our children most by slowing down and finding more quiet time, without rushing, television, or electronics in our hectic lives. We need to allow time and space for special. Simply by slowing down and talking with one another we can change our culture.

Christina Sanantonio can be reached at csanant@yahoo.com

Additional Information About Children and Nature

Helpful Links for Parents and families who want to learn more about nature.

Auubon's Invitation to a Healthy yard-
http://www.audubonathome.org/yard/

Creating a Certified Wildlife Habitat

http://www.nwf.org/backyard/

Entire page of Useful Links

http://richardlouv.com/children-nature-resources#links


Links to Articles Advocating Sending Children Outside

http://richardlouv.com/articles

Where the WIld Things Are

Where the Wild Things Are

By Chris Sanantonio

I believe that there is a subtle magnetism in Nature, which, if we unconsciously yield to it, will direct us aright. ~Henry David Thoreau

As a child, I had a creek in my backyard. My younger brother and I lived at the creek. The minute perfection of a baby crawdad held in my palm elicited one of my earliest moments of wonder.

My creek was an ever changing constant. It could dry to a mere trickle in a dry summer or burst from its bank after a heavy spring rain with a current that begged attempts at rafting. It was a refuge, my chief source of entertainment, an interactive zoological exhibit, a place to play with like-minded adventurous friends, and a great source of snakes.

Long after my friends began wrinkling their noses when I suggested creek play, I could still be found ankle deep in silty water, net in hand.

The creek was what anthropologists call a “magic circle of play”. A place both real and imagined; it was a world away from adults. Adults were rarely needed or wanted - unless we made an exceptionally interesting find. I remember once, after a time of heavy rain, a huge dogfish had been washed from the Sangamon into our little creek through mysterious channels and my brother and I caught it in a butterfly net. The fish had barreled in an aggressive manner straight for my legs, electrifying the crowd of kids watching. As the large fish flopped in the fragile net, we raced up to find a grown up to show. My grandfather admired the fish and said it was a type of shark. A shark in our creek! The imagined danger was delicious.

With surprising wisdom, the adults of my childhood left children to their own devices. They knew that children need the space, solitude and most importantly, unrushed time in nature to be healthy people. I knew that kind neighbors were nearby if true need arose.

In the many years of creek play, I can recall only one time that an adult intruded, and injected unwanted interference into my wild world. When I was 4 years old, a neighbor glanced out her window and saw me. I was completely nude, wielding a shiny new hatchet, and making a valiant attempt to chop down a large tree. The startled woman made a hurried call to my grandfather. A child was collected and re-attired (despite my protest that clothing impeded my hatcheting ability). A few admonishments later, I was back at the creek sans hatchet. If the same scenario were to transpire today, I am certain the scanners would be ablaze with calls indicating a naked toddler carrying an ax, running amok and bent on murder and mayhem. Various social service agencies would be notified, schools would be put on lock-down, and well-intentioned interventionists would swoop in and various psychotropic drugs would be recommended.

Luckily for me, my neighbors were familiar with children and childhood. The creek was child territory. A communal green space. At twilight, children crouched and flitted along its banks like moths.

After my brother died at age 12, the creek was one of the first places I sought comfort in my haze of grief. Nick had written his name on the bridge with a writing rock. It became one of the few tangible traces of him left to me.

When my own sons were small, I looked forward to sharing the creek world with them and they were also thrilled with the creek’s offerings. We soon discovered, however, that the climate had changed.

The fish and animals were thriving, but the banks had been groomed and planted up to waters edge. New neighbors worried about damage children might cause to the plantings and to themselves. One expressed real fear that an injury in the creek might result in a lawsuit. The sidewalk that had connected the creek to several subdivisions was claimed as private property and made forbidden to walkers and children. These actions and speak not only to Americans’ growing litigiousness, but also of the pervasive paranoia, creeping isolationism, and culture of fear that is killing American neighborhoods and keeping our children indoors. Rather than quarrel with neighbors, we sadly departed the creek and mourned the loss.

Children have always been drawn to wild, natural spaces. Toddlers allowed to explore will seek out mud under a bush or explore the most unkempt area of a backyard. Children come equipped with a natural curiosity toward the wild. The author Valerie Andrews says in her book, A Passion for this Earth, "As a child, one has that magical capacity to move among the many eras of the earth; to see the land as an animal does; to experience the sky from the perspective of a flower or a bee; to feel the earth quiver and breathe beneath us; to know a hundred different smells of mud and listen unselfconsciously to the soughing of the trees." In much of America, however, children have disappeared from the landscape.

Richard Louv in his book, Last Child in the Woods-Saving Our Children from Nature Deficit Disorder, asserts that a lack of exposure to nature leads to not only a decrease in a child’s sense of wonder, but also an actual loss of senses.

Nature is restorative environment. A recent study from the University of Illinois shows what parents have long known anecdotally: that children suffering from ADHD who are exposed to green spaces show marked improvement. Nature therapy is becoming a popular recommendation among child psychologists. Yet fewer and fewer American children are playing outdoors.

It is my sincere hope that we can reawaken within ourselves and in our children the love of green places. I hope we can remember that aesthetics should not take precedence over sharing the natural world with children.

We should care less about trampled hostas and more about allowing children to experience wonder. We need to reclaim the creeks and other magic circles for our children. If we fail in reconnecting with nature, we will have millions of children with the constitutions of hot house flowers. We will have yet another generation of children who collectively echo the fourth grader in Louv’s book who announced, “I like to play indoors better ‘cause that’s where all the electrical outlets are”; a message truly worthy of our fear.