Removing the Blinders

Bright before me the signs implore me

To help the needy and show them the way

Human kindness is overflowing

And I think it's going to rain today

-Randy Newman

My oldest son recently made his first solo trip to Chicago. With trepidation, we put him on an Amtrak and sent him off to his Aunt Tess in the Windy City. He arrived uneventfully and had a great time with my little sister- who showed uncharacteristic restraint, by the way, and wisely refused to allow him to get a tattoo.
After he came home, he related that one of the strongest impressions the city made was the many homeless families camped on each city block.
Statistics provided by the Chicago Coalition for the Homeless show that Chicago has over 80,000 homeless people and shelters serve 15,000 any given night. Chicago is one of five cities that collectively have over 50% of the nation's homeless population,many of whom are mentally ill -displaced after deinstitutionalization and a broken mental health system, but many are also victims of family violence.. There are more than 18,600 homeless students attending Illinois Public schools- a truly staggering number. The causes of homelessness are many and often complex and Chicago has a vast network of good people trying to help people find shelter, however,my son saw only the desperation and despair. He saw statistics in human faces and it was a revelation.
Through my work with the Illinois Family Violence Coordinating Council's 6th Judicial Circuit, I see suffering family violence creates and which often leads to homelessness for women and children. Last week, I participated in hosting a large conference in honor of Domestic Violence Awareness Month. Working in collaboration with the 5th Judicial Circuit, our own Piatt County Sheriff's Department, Prevent Child Abuse Illinois, HOPE,Dove,Inc, A Woman's Fund,Kirby Hospital, Piatt Probation, Safe from the Start,DCFS, and others, we were able to bring nationally renowned domestic violence speaker, Mark Wynn for a day long conference.
Mark is a 20 year member of the Nashville Police Department and served as a Lt. to the Domestic Violence Division. He is also a survivor and witness of years of brutal domestic violence. He brings his wealth of experience and training to law enforcement, yet the message that resonated with me-the image that will stay with me longest, is the same one that I have learned and witnessed throughout my years working with domestic violence; the image of children hiding under their beds, hands covering their ears, eyes squeezed tight- waiting for the violence to end. Mark related how he and his brother would hide under the bed and listen to their step-father brutalize their mother. They once even planned how they would protect their mother from further abuse by killing their step-father. They replaced the whiskey in his bedside bottle with roach killer and waited. The abuser drank the entire bottle, but fortunately for him and for the boys, he showed no adverse effects. Mark said they just kept waiting for their step-dad to flip over on his back with his legs up in the air, stiff like those bugs. Luckily, that didn't happen. I can't tell you how many times I have heard similar tales from child victims.
Contrary to the beliefs of wishful thinkers who profess, “we don't have those kinds of problems in Piatt County”- I assure you, we do. Sometimes we are blinded to the suffering of those around us, not by indifference, or because we have been hardened by the realities of suffering on our street corners, but by the absence of visible suffering. We are sometimes shielded by our own affluence. Immaculately groomed lawns are not violence proof. Although out most vulnerable citizens may not be living in cardboard boxes on our street corners, they are here. There are children in Piatt County who have become adept at finding hiding places and are waiting out the violence. We have domestic violence, child abuse, and even homelessness in this county. I have seen families without homes camped near corn fields. We must ask ourselves, can we do more to help in our own towns?

Halloween Memory

Excerpt from "I Want to Say" by Natalie Goldberg

I Want to Say Before I'm lost to time and the midwest

I want to say I was here

I loved the half light all winter

I want you to know before I leave that I liked the towns living along the back of the Mississippi

I loved the large heron filling the sky

the slender white egret at the edge of the shore

I came to love my life here

fell in love with the color grey

the unending turn of seasons

Each day when I drive my my sons to basketball practice, I pass the house where I grew up. Each of us has a house that we still think about and which we remember as truly home. For me, it is the house with the round window.
That old house absorbed the shouts and murmurs of my adolescence, saw the birth of my little sister,and was the scene of my wedding;vows said before the fireplace. The house sheltered me and seemed to mourn in tandem, while I grieved my brother within its walls. Two of my sons learned to walk on the old hardwood floors. I knew its every creak , identified while I cautiously tried to sneak in and out long past my curfew. I knew its harmless, but clearly audible ghosts, who inspired wonder and a little fear.
All of our family traditions evolved inside those walls and I think of those experiences as I watch the leaves change and feel the evocative emotions the change of seasons elicits. Many Halloweens were spent there. Each October. My mother would pain the huge round window with orange tempera. A giant, smiling jack-o-lantern would form under her brushes and be perfectly back lit by the warmth of our home. Families began their own tradition of driving by each year to see the giant pumpkin that, in the darkness, appeared to hover in midair.
This simple act of painting a window took time and effort, and I recall that the cleanup was often a nuisance, but it was well worth the trouble. People still remark to me that they remember that yearly pumpkin and that it holds a fond place in their childhood memories.
I remember that there were other traditions we held each Halloween...we lit a fire in the fireplace, often for the first time that year, my mom made special treats that we only had at Halloween (that kept them special)- a caramel, walnut and cream cheese apple dip that was fantastic, and an enormous bowl of buttered popcorn to share with the many children who trick or treated our house. My mother took care and artfully arranged simple but delicious snacks to balance the overindulgence of sweets she knew we would take part in later. It wasn't really about the costumes- although ours were always creative.
I remember the year I was a white rabbit and my infant brother was a carrot. I have a fuzzy snapshot of the two of us- an 8 year old white bunny holding a vaguely annoyed looking baby carrot. We won first prize at the costume contest held on the square; I recall first prize was a silver dollar and our picture in the paper.
Halloween evening at our home often became an informal party with parents, teachers, children from the school and others dropping in and staying to eat, laugh, talk. The little dining room off the entry would be cozily crowded and the front room pressed into service. A tape of creepy music would add to the atmosphere.
What I remember most fondly was not the frantic accumulation of sugar and door to door traipsing down sidewalks whose cracks I could map from memory, but the quantity and quality of time that was afforded me. Time to enjoy a lighthearted evening with family and friends, time to gloat over and meticulously sort my loot, time to listen and remember. The evening seemed to last and last. There were no cell phone interruptions, television was ordered off and remained so all evening. When we were together, we were truly connecting. I had time to think and reflect and enjoy each moment. The only interruptions were the periodic, gentle tappings on the front door.
I hope my boys will remember with similar fondness the Halloweens we have spent together, as a family. Happy Halloween!

Carmel Apple Dip

Granny Smith Apples
Jar of good quality caramel sauce
Cream Cheese
Toasted Walnuts or Pecans
Spread softened cream cheese on serving plate, pour caramel sauce over cream cheese, top with toasted nuts, serve with apples.

Smaller is Better

What is a community?

"A community is (among other things) a set of arrangements

between men and women. These arrangements include marriage, family

structure, divisions of work and authority, and responsibility

for the instruction of children and young people." Wendell Berry

As a child attending Lincoln Elementary School, I walked halls that were haunted in a friendly way with memories of experiences shared by my grandparents and my mother . I knew, for example, that my grandpa had, in first grade defeated a huge bully who chased him into the coal room and threatened him. I recall sitting wide-eyed for the hundredth time while my grandpa told me how he had squatted, in terror on the cement floor in the darkened coal room waiting for doom in the form of a huge red haired farm boy to destroy him.. My grandpa, aged 6, had picked up a hatchet he had found lying on the floor and as the bully approached my grandpa warned him, “Don’t come any closer,“ and tapped the hatchet repeatedly on the floor as a deterrent. The bully never slowed and menacingly advanced on my grandpa, a boy half his age and size. The hatchet came down on a barefoot with a sickening thud and the bully some toes. The injured assailant left school sadder but hopefully wiser, and my grandpa was expelled for the remainder of first grade. I never tired of hearing that story. When I was victimized by a huge older girl who poked me repeatedly in the back of the neck with sharpened pencils in chorus, I warned her that I had a toe -chopping grandpa that I would ask to exact revenge; it gave her pause. The pencils ceased poking.
While I waited for lunch in the cafeteria, I thought of my grandma and how, during the Depression, she was often starving while at school. With 17 children to feed, and few resources, the children in her family were usually hungry. She told of once feeling so faint with hunger while at school that she quietly ate a purple crayon while at her desk. She remembered how dreadfully sick she had become and how embarrassed she felt. Those stories helped me feel a deep connection with my school and my people, and gave me strength when I was weak. As I walked the halls and ran my small hands along the brick walls, I felt my sense of place and deep connection , identification and ownership with my town. The school was a familiar and comforting branch of my family tree.
Thus, I read with interest the front page story last week regarding the proposed reorganization study completed by the Consulting and Resource Group. Many small towns in our County are struggling with increasing costs and declining enrollment in public schools and are desperately searching for what they hope are fiscal solutions. In much of the Country, small schools are giving up and shipping kids to conglomerate schools.
Interestingly, the trend flies in the face of what we know to be beneficial to children; research clearly shows that children do better in smaller schools.
Researcher Lorna Jimerson identifies ten research based attributes of small schools that have proven benefits to children and learning. First, studies show that the relationships in small schools “intrinsically foster close relationships that not only help children feel connected to the school community and reduce alienation, especially among older students, but also lead to increased student learning. The close relationships inherent in small schools also have a positive impact on educators. For example, teachers in small schools tend to be more satisfied with their jobs, have less absenteeism, and take more responsibility for ensuring that their students are successful in school.” ( Jimerson, Why Small Works in Public School)
Other attributes of small schools listed in the report include:
greater participation in extra-curricular activities, increased school safety, smaller class size, and wider grade-span configurations.
What is lost in consolidation? I think of Cisco school and how much heart was taken from the town when the school closed. I had many friends who attended grade school in Cisco and they seemed to share a special bond throughout high school that remains even today. Schools have historically served as social glue for communities and ties formed there help make a cohesive and caring community.
Other documented negatives of consolidation include:

*Long bus rides
*Negative impact on the social and economic health of the community
*Increase in costs, particularly in transportation
*Higher dropout rates
*Increased anonymity in large schools
*Lower participation in extra-curricular activities by students and all school activities by parents and community members.
Interestingly, although consolidations have been sweeping the country for the past three decades or so, research has shown that in those schools that have consolidated- especially schools over 1,000 students, every predicted benefit has never bore fruit. In fact, many conglomerates are now participating in programs like that of the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation who have given millions in a new “smaller is better” initiative to carve up what only years before had been combined.

Additionally, I believe that the long term effects of consolidation contributes to the decline of rural populations and flight of children to cities. We need to think about the messages that we send rural children,; children whose families have participated in a agri-culture, long before it became agribusiness. We need to remember and reinforce the value of rural living.
Sadly, in the end, often due to apathy, these important social and cultural issues usually tip in one direction or another based on financial concerns. What is needed first then, is passion, commitment to believing in little schools. The understanding that bigger is not always better- and that in education, bigger is almost always worse.
There are many organizations who are designed to assist rural communities to shore up their schools and to hold onto their town’s heritage. The Rural School and Community Trust is a wonderful organization whose goal is to assist rural schools and communities to become strong. The Rural Education Finance Center (REFC), a program of the Rural Trust, is dedicated to improving educational opportunity for rural children by reducing inequities in state school finance systems, strengthening the fiscal practices of rural schools, and ensuring the adequacy of funding to rural schools.


In these troubled times, when Americans are realizing how much has been lost with the sweeping greed of the last 30 years- we are beginning to understand that what has vanished was actually more valuable than the trillions lost on Wall Street; self-reliance, competency, and the ability to trust our own instincts in evaluating what is right for our children and our communities without spending millions of dollars on consulting groups who will always consider fiscally and lead us only in the direction of money. Solutions are available and the power of a few committed individuals can make all the difference.



http://www.ruraledu.org/site/c.beJMIZOCIrH/b.1073993/k.9100/Consolidation.htm




ERIC articles about consolidation

http://www.ericdigests.org/pre-925/school.htm

http://www.ericdigests.org/pre-929/exploring.htm

Time is Passing

Listening

by David Ignatow

You wept in your mother's arms

and I knew that from then on

I was to forget myself.

Listening to your sobs,

I was resolved against my will

to do well by us

and so I said, without thinking,

in great panic, To do wrong

in one's own judgment,

though others thrive by it,

is the right road to blessedness.

Not to submit to error

is in itself wrong

and pride.

Standing beside you,

I took an oath

to make your life simpler

by complicating mine

and what I always thought

would happen did:

I was lifted up in joy.

My Sons' Read Aloud List

We have enjoyed these books, read aloud, beginning in 2001:

Read Aloud Book List Starting 2001

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory-Dahl

Fantastic Mr. Fox-Dahl

Big Friendly Giant –Dahl

James and the Giant Peach- Dahl

Little House in the Big Woods- Wilder

Little House on the Prairie-Wilder

Farmer Boy-Wilder

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone- Rowling

Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets-Rowling

Ramona and Beezus-Cleary

Henry Huggins-Cleary

Henry and Ribsy-Cleary

The Hobbit- Tolkien

The Lord of the Rings-The Fellowship of the Ring-Tolkien

The Two Towers- Tolkien

The Return of the King-Tolkien

Little Britches: father and I were Ranchers- Moody

Horse of a Different Color- Moody

Call of the Wild- London

Incident at Hawke’s Hill-Eckert

The Legend of Jimmy Spoon-Gregory

Sacagawea-St George

Lewis and Clark-Ambrose

Sounder-Armstrong

Gray Boy

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire- Rowling

Indian in the Cupboard-Banks

Dragonslayer’s Academy-McMullen

The Best School Year Ever-Robinson

The Return of the Indian- Banks

The Fear Place-Naylor

Watership Down- Adams

Little Men- Alcott

All Creatures Great and Small- Herriot

On the Banks of Plum Creek-Wilder

The Land-Taylor

The Hundred Dresses-Estes

Gentle Ben-Morey

Only Sky and Earth Last Forever-Bencheley

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix- Rowling

Harris and Me- Paulsen

Caddie Woodlawn-Brink

Hatchet- Paulsen

Sarah Bishop-O’Dell

Mr. Tuckett-Paulsen

The River- Paulsen

Call Me Francis Tuckett- Paulsen

Petey-Mickaelsen

The Great Brain-Fitzgerald

Brian’s Winter- Paulsen

Tuckett’s Ride- Paulsen

Tackett’s Gold- Paulsen

Tuckett’s Home- Paulsen

Goodnite, Mr. Tom-Magorian

Hear the Wind Blow-Hahn

A Day No Pigs Would Die-Peck

Loser-Spinelli

Poppy- Avi

Milkweed- Spinelli

The Hobbit (second Reading)

My Brother Sam is Dead-

Sundance

Hook Moon Night-

Dogsong- Paulsen

Harris and Me (second reading)

Yellow Fever 1793

Crash

On the Banks of Plum Creek (second reading)

On my Honor

Angela’s Ashes- McCourt

Watership Down (second reading)

Abel’s Island

Series of Unfortunate Events-Snickett

Wilderness Trek to Beaver Creek

The Road- McCarthy

Of Mice and Men

“Aw Lennie…I ain’t takin it away just for meanness. That mouse ain’t

fresh.” From Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men

I have made the acquaintance of many mice, a few I considered friends. My mother was liberal in her view of pets and my brother and I took advantage of her relaxed attitude to experience a wide variety of the animal kingdom in pet capacity. Rodents were small, easy to care for, inexpensive and brimming with personality and interest. They were also remarkably forgiving and sturdy.

I have a vivid memory of seeing my brother Nick’s hamster, Han Solo, floating in the living room in a mini hot air balloon my brother had devised from a paper cup attached to a helium balloon. The hamster seemed nonplussed, but showed less reaction than when he was an unwilling but lively passenger in toy trucks or electric trains. He was finally lost when we decided he might enjoy the real experience and tied kite string to our mock hot air balloon. The string slipped from my fingers in a gust of wind and he went sailing off into a galaxy far, far away and into the annals of rodent history.

Peaches and Herb were my favorite hamsters until I came home from school one day to find that Peaches had killed and devoured Herb. I couldn’t stand the sight of Peaches after she murdered her mate and was glad to hand her off to a friend who admired her and was unaware of her cannibalistic past.

In college, I had an obese black mouse named Gus who enjoyed traveling in my coat pocket. Occasionally, I would forget he was snoozing in my clothes and rush off to class with him curled asleep in my pocket. He seemed to enjoy the lectures on Egyptology at the U of I and would listen attentively long after I had lost interest. He acquired an appreciative fan base of young, neighborhood children who would pound on my apartment door and ask if he could come out to play. Gus lived well past normal mouse longevity- almost 4 years and when he finally expired, he was totally bald and blind. I buried him in a matchbox with a few crumbles of gorgonzola.

When my three sons were younger, they naturally gravitated to the mouse and hamster section of the pet store. When Ben was 4, he brought home a white hamster he named Ed. Ed was extremely adept at escaping. Frequent frantic cries of “Ed is gone!” could be heard throughout the house. Searches would ensue, and Ed would be located scampering down a hallway or crouching in the closet. He would be returned to his cage and various mean of securing his home would be mounted- tape, cardboard wall reinforcements, all to no avail. Ed was a minute Houdini. One day, I was busy about the house when I hear the familiar cry announcing that once again Ed was on the lamb. Within seconds I heard a shriek and ran to the living room. Jerry, the rat terrier was sitting on the couch and Ed, or what was once Ed was next to Jerry. Obviously, Jerry, ever helpful, had located Ed and in a friendly yet extensively damaging gesture, carried him to the couch. Jerry, in terrier fashion had secured Ed’s head in his jaws and this manner of transportation had caused Ed’s eyes to bulge gruesomely in a manner not conducive to life. Ed died with a particularly horrified expression on his whiskery face. Ben, unfortunately, had come upon this spectacle and after a momentary stunned silence, screeching commenced. Clearly disgusted at our lack of appreciation for his pest killing abilities, Jerry fled the scene, and I tried to calm an inconsolable Ben who, by now was cradling the dead, bug-eyed Ed, (the mouse really looked exactly like a rubber stress squeeze toy). Ed was buried and weeks later, Ben was still sensitive about the tragedy. One afternoon, Jerry sniffed out the rapidly decomposing Ed and came trotting inside with Ed’s mangled remains in his jaws eliciting another round of trauma.

Recently, we experienced an interesting rodent adventure with my youngest son Sam’s hamster, Vern. Vern was anti-social and perhaps even a pathological hamster. Disgusted and bitter towards humans, he escaped from his cage and after a thorough search of the house; we all braced ourselves for the inevitable discovery of dog mangled rodent. A week passed and there was still no sign of Vern-dead or alive.

While sitting at the computer one evening, I heard a scraping noise above me in the ceiling and looked overhead to see a large hole growing before my eyes. Vern was alive and well-surviving in the sub ceiling of the basement on a diet of ceiling tile. Attempts to corral him were futile and while I tried to work he chomped noisily overhead and sent a steady cascade of chewn material raining down on my head. He would craftily retreat when I tried to grab at him. Each morning, when I came down to work, I would fume at the ever growing holes in the tiles. Sometimes I could feel beady eyes watching me and would look up to find him staring at me from above. It was unnerving. I even took his picture to send to disbelieving friends. As the holes grew ever larger, I began to feel he was mocking me and grew irrationally angry and frustrated at my inability to corner him. I declared war with Vern-o.

I used every weapon at my disposal to flush him out, but he was too wily. He finally escaped via mysterious channels into the outdoors and I miraculously spied him once lurking in the front yard. When I approached, Vern reared up on his hind legs like a miniature grizzly bear, growled (I swear) and came at me in a threatening manner. He had turned feral. I slowly backed away. The last I saw of Vern he had joined a pack of voles and was leading vicious attacks on their sworn enemies, the shrews.

Links to Book Lists

Good lists for boys-

Another list sent from reader:
http://www.everygoodbook.com
Thanks Mark!

Young boys- http://www.bpl.org/kids/booklists/booksyoungerboys.htm


Older boys- http://www.rif.org/educators/books/booklist_boys.mspx

Junior High Boys-

http://us.macmillan.com/all/editorslist/Childrens/ForBoysagesJuniorHighandUp

LISTS FOR GIRLS

List for girls age preschool through grade 3

http://us.macmillan.com/all/editorslist/Childrens/ForGirlsPreschoolthroughGrade3


Good general list for girls-

http://www.randomhouse.com/rhpg/promos/greatbooks/booklist.html


Good list to help raise strong girls and boys-

http://www.genderequalbooks.com/

Reading With Children

I have a picture of myself at age 2, sitting on my great grandmother’s lap. We are at the kitchen table and she is reading to me. Looking over my childhood pictures, I am amazed at the number of photos that show me being read to by various relatives.

A favorite great aunt has often told me how my uncle would finally hide my stacks of books for brief periods because they were so weary of my constant demands to be read to.

After I taught myself to read with “Lovable Lyle”, books were my first friends and as a child I surrounded myself with them. Laura Ingalls, Tom Sawyer, and Jo March lived and breathed in my mind.

Frank McCourt, author of “Angela’s Ashes” wrote of the importance books played in his bleak childhood in Ireland and how one of his toughest school masters counseled him to “stock his mind” with books. Quoting his teacher, McCourt said, “You have to study and learn so that you can make up your own mind about history and everything else but you can’t make up an empty mind. Stock your mind, stock your mind. You might be poor, your shoes might be broken, but your mind is a palace.”

When I look back over my own years of parenting my sons, I know I have made significant mistakes. I didn’t say “no” and mean it often enough, I didn’t make them do enough housework- I’ve catered to them too much. The list could go on. I have, however, done at least one thing very well. From the time they were infants, I read aloud to them every day. We began with picture books and moved on until, by ages 5, 6, and 7- we were reading aloud young adult fiction books and even some adult books with ease.

While little, the boys shared a room which made the evening reading routine easy. Once everyone was settled in, I would read each night. I couldn’t wait to share my childhood favorites. Out came my old Little House books, Mark Twain and Louisa May Alcott. I discovered lists of good books especially for boys on the internet and we delved into Gary Paulsen and adventures with Brian and his survival in the wilderness with only a hatchet to help him survive. We eventually read all Paulsen’s books and many were so

fraught with excitement that the boys would demand many chapters read each night. The laughter we shared as we read “Harris and Me”- the tale of a boy’s summer spent on a wild cousins’ farm, will always remain in my memory. We loved “The Call of the Wild” Occasionally I pushed ahead of their listening abilities and made mistakes in choices. “The Red Badge of Courage” was too advanced and dry when read aloud. After a few chapters, and too many yawns, I admitted defeat set it aside for a later date. “Watership Down”, however, was loved and requested twice (and is still a favorite with all three). We read the entire Lord of the Rings Trilogy well before the movies came out- and the movies were made more vibrant because we knew the characters intimately through out reading.

Throughout their childhood, evening meant the routine of reading together, stopping to talk about scenes, character, a new word meaning; anything that related to the books. My middle son sometimes grew fidgety, and when this happened, he knew that he could work quietly with a basket of Legos while still listening, or draw with pen and paper on the clipboard by his bed. I kept a list each year of the books we finished and it was fun to try to top last years count.

During these years it was great to have wonderful children’s’ librarians to recommend books and to talk about books we loved. I think of Mrs. Doherty, a great librarian who kindly assisted my sons through grade school and is one their lists of best teachers. I also think of Paula Valentine. Paula is a wonderful librarian and teacher of children and one of the kindest people I know. We certainly miss her.

I know when I am old and my boys are living their lives with their own families, I will always remember the books and laughter we shared.

Orbit's Watch

I grew up hearing tales of amazing dogs my grandfather had known. There was Mike, a Springer Spaniel who guarded my mother when she was a toddler. My grandmother would place my mother in the backyard in the sandbox with a few toys, and then she would call the dog and say, “Watch Cody, Mike.” He would sit down and begin duty. Mike would patiently and repeatedly pull her back from the busy street when she pushed her doll buggy too close. He was the best of babysitters.

Mike was a valued member of the family and when he vanished one cool fall day, my grandfather searched the County for him. Several days passed before a neighbor on the edge of town called with the sad news that he had found Mike, dead, caught in his wire fencing. His collar had strangled him as he tried to free himself. Mike and his remarkable fidelity lived on in stories that I begged to hear and my grandpa loved to tell.

When my brother Nick was born, my grandfather dropped in daily to hold the baby. For the first few weeks, despite my mother repeatedly telling him that his name was Nicholas Joseph, my grandfather stubbornly called the baby “Mike”. After a month or so, when he saw my mother was unyielding in her choice, my grandpa finally gave up his attempt to christen my brother after his dog.

I had my own faithful guard dog as a child. Hershel the beagle lived with my paternal grandparents on their farm outside of town. Hershel had wide and knowing eyes, a gentle disposition, and an almost human presence. In the many pictures I have of myself on the farm, Hershel is always sitting a few feet away, observing me with his liquid and soulful eyes. Though he usually watched with benevolent boredom, he wasn’t afraid to voice his displeasure if I ventured into trouble and more than once began barking like crazy to alert my grandparents when I snuck too close to the barn. A particularly vicious bull lived there and I was fascinated by his dangerous horns. Hershel had more sense and thwarted my every attempt to get a closer look.

One fall day some trigger-happy hunters mistook Hershel for a turkey and blindly shot toward some low brush. After he was killed, it felt so alien to be alone on the farm without his ever watchful gaze; I pretended he was still there, a few feet beside me, keeping silent vigil.

Canine fidelity was a trait respected by my family, but I think one dog will forever be linked in my mind with true devotion. My brother Nick brought home a small black and white rat terrier from the pound, and named her “Orbit”. She had the frustrating qualities that many terriers possess: a willful spirit, a devotee of the dangerous art of moving tire biting, and a relaxed attitude about peeing wherever and whenever the mood struck her. Nick thought she was perfect, however, and even wrote songs in her honor. One I recall was sung to the tune of “O Christmas Tree” and included the lyrics, “O Orbie Dear, O’Orbie Dear, you’re the best dog in the hemisphere!” And she was.

They would often play a game of mock battle: Nick would grab Orb through a blanket and Orb would bite his hands and spin about in a delighted fake attack mode. Nick called the game “Pit Pup” or “Ninja Pup”. There’s was a perfect example of a dog finding her true boy.

When we lost Nick, suddenly, unexpectedly at age 12, we each were caught in our own waves of grieving for many months; we struggled just to keep breathing.

Absorbed with my own misery, Orbit was present, but not foremost in my thoughts until I noticed her sitting in the front window one fall day. Nick had died shortly before school had begun and now, weeks later, children were streaming down the street, released from school for the day. Orbit watched each child intently. Particular children were given extra scrutiny. Boys on bikes, boys with a familiar walk, boys with tee shirts and knobby shoulders, or a boy with dark hair – these traits excited her. As they passed by, and she recognized each not to be hers, she would sag a bit, and then resume the posture of patient waiting. Every day, she waited.

We moved to a new house and Orbit immediately took up her vigil in the front window. Each possibility that walked or rode by elicited brief excitement. A tiny quiver of hope. A black and white canine candle in the window.

Ten years passed and a much greyer Orb still watched with cloudy eyes. Too arthritic to jump up, she barked for a boost to her perch. She would keep waiting for as long as it took.

In her 14^th year she had a stroke and fell down a long flight of steps. After an emergency trip to the vet, mom called to tell me Orbit seemed to be paralyzed. I rushed home armed with bags of Orbits’ favorite treats and we worked with her all night. By midnight she was up, pudgy with treats and although unsteady, she was walking. We said how proud Nick would be: Orbit was healed by the power of Pupperoni.

Eventually, more strokes struck and the day came when Orb could no longer walk at all. Our family knew what needed to be done, yet it was excruciating to take that final trip to the Animal Hospital. The vets were wonderfully kind as always and as Orbit slipped quietly away we all sobbed together. The thought that sustained and comforted me was that her long wait was over; Orbit had finally found her boy.

List of Plants, Trees, Animals, Birds on Monticello Bike Path

Thanks to Mr. Harty who created this great list.

Two good books to recommend to hikers on the trail is Illinois
Wildflowers by Don Kurz
And/or Tallgrass Prairie Wildflowers by Doug Ladd and Frank Oberle









Yellow or grey-headed cone flower Ratibida pinnata
False sunflower Heliopsis helianthoides
Purple prairie clover Petalostemum purpureum
Bindweed Convolvulus sepium
Big Bluestem Andropogon gerardii
Wild petunia Ruellia humilis
Tall goldenrod Solidago altimissima
Stiff goldenrod Solidago rigida
Wild quinine Parthenium integrefolium
Prairie cordgrass Spartina pectinata
Fleabane daisy Erigeron strigosus
Rosinweed Silpihium integrifolium
Purple coneflower Echinacea purpurea
Ironweed Veronia fasciculata
Staghorn sumac Rhus typhina
Smooth sumac Rhus glabra
Poison ivy Rhus radicans
Trumpet creeper Campsis radicans
Sullivan's milkweed Ascepias sullivantii
Common milkweed Ascepias syriaca
Switch grass Panicum virgatum
Grey dogwood Cornus racemosa
Grapevine Vitis aestivalis
Winged verbena Vebesina helianthoides
Basswood Tilia americana
Green ash Fraxinus pennsylvanica
Black cherry Prunus americana
Hackberry Celtis occidentalis
White mulberry Morus alba
Silver maple Acer saccharinum
Box-elder Acer negundo
Elderberry Sambucus canadensis
Black walnut Juglans nigra
Pokeweed Phytolacca americana
Honeylocust Gleditsia triacanthos
Shingle oak Quercus imbricaria
Black oak Quercus velutina
Sassafras Sassafras albidum
Virginia creeper Parhenocissus
qinquefolia
Heal-all Prunella
vulgaris
Vine honeysuckle Lonicera flava
Catbriar Smilax
rotundifolia
Avens Geum canadensis
Hazelnut Corylus americana
Red elm Ulmus rubra
Solomon's seal Polygonatum commutatum
American bellflower Campanula americana
Canada wild rye Elymus canadensis
Joe-pye weed Eupatorium fistulosum
Thimbleweed Anemone cylindrica
Gaura Gaura biennis
Prickly lettuce Lactuca biennis
Illinois memosa Desmanthus illinoensis
Evening primrose Oenothera biennis
New England aster Aster novae-angliae

EXOTIC SPECIES: Not native to North American and cause are a huge threat
to natural ecosystems

Queen Anne's lace Dacus corata
Reed canary grass Phalaris arundinaria
Garlic mustard Allaria officinalis
Multiflora rose Rosa multiflora
Chicory Cichorium intybus
Wild parsnip Pastinaca sativa
Soapwort Saponaria officinalis
Depford pink Dianthus armeria
Bush honeysuckle Lonicera x bella
Hops Humulus japonicus

BIRDS:

Purple martin
Turkey vulture
Cedar waxwing
Redwinged black bird
Catbird
Crow
Indigo bunting
Robin
Yello-throat
Barn swallow
Bell's vireo

REPTILES:

Cricket frog

MAMMALS:

Grey squirell
Chipmunk

Goudy oak gall on shingle oaks
The acorn weevil isin the genus a Cuculio spp.

Back To School

The summer is waning, the evenings feel cooler and this week I caught the first scent of fall in the air. Late August is an evocative time.

As a kid, August represented a return to school. I always celebrated July 4^th with mixed emotions, for each day after the 4^th brought me closer to the end of summer. Even the droning of the cicadas seemed to hum vacations imminent end. After dragging my heels and squeezing out every bit of fun summer had to offer, I finally accepted the inevitable end of my break. I even began to enjoy the thought of a fresh start. I would lay out my new school supplies and admire the box of 72 crayons (with built in sharpener). I imagined how this year would be different from all my other years of scholastic mediocrity and odd duck status. This year was as fresh and unblemished as my Periwinkle crayon.

In my mind I saw myself dazzling my peers with my new school clothes and imagined stunning my new teacher with my wit and intellect. I banished all the many past educational and social failures from my mind and resolved to make this year successful.

I agonized over which outfit to wear; I wanted the best first impression. On the first day of school, I created many equally ridiculous styles with my mousy hair (In 4^th grade, after the success of Bo Derek’s movie, 10- I tried cornrows. I was less successful. ), and once even briefly tested a new walk- shoulders uncomfortably back, head held high, one foot placed directly in front of the other- a look I admired having watched the Miss America pageant. Adopting this rifle straight and odd looking gait in school merely resulted in boys asking if over the summer I had sat on a steel rod.

I nursed other expectations lovingly over the last long summer days; I would be organized, I would shock everyone with my new found confidence, I would find a true kindred spirit for a friend. Sadly, my hopes often fizzled within the first week. Boys and girls still treated each other unkindly, I was still scattered, awkward socially and physically, and unfailingly messy. It wasn’t many weeks before I would suffer the routine shame of an exasperated teacher shaking the entire contents of my crammed and disorderly desk onto the floor. I can still hear the sound a shaken desk and crashing books make in a hushed classroom. I spent many recesses slowly sorting and organizing my desk; always among the detritus- 72 broken crayons with torn papers.

When I think of these memories I have to admire my unflagging hope. I truly believed, however briefly, in each new beginning. I also remember with piercing clarity, not the curriculum, but individual moments of kindness shown by my teachers; those instances glow in my recollections. I remember how good it felt when a teacher seemed to genuinely like you.

I recall suffering a couple of teachers who made no effort to hide the fact that they didn’t care for me and how disconsolate their indifference, (or as in 3^rd grade- obvious distaste) made me feel. It made for a long, unhappy year. In 5^th grade, however, I met Ms. Moore who startled me with her kindness. Once, although I was taller by at least a foot, she helped me put on my coat, tied my hood with affection and then delivered a hug that felt like a benediction. That small gesture, and the many more she showed throughout that year renewed my faith in myself as likable.

Perhaps in these times of state mandated teaching to tests, rigidity and resistance in allowing creative teachers to be creative and an adopted mantra of “teach, don’t touch” holding sway, we sometimes forget how powerful simply connecting with a child can be. The 8 hours a child spends in school, nine months of each year, are central and formative to his life experience. In that time, in that place, young lives are being lived. I worry that important things are being lost in our resolve to “leave no child behind.” Teachers may be losing the time and the flexibility to teach at reasonable speeds and styles that match the natural development of children. Teachers and children alike are under increasing pressure to perform. I wonder what is truly being left behind.

Cellular Effects

Much has been said in recent days about the possible physical side effects of excessive cell phone use. We know that driving while talking on a cell induces the same effects as having a .08 alcohol blood count. Additional unease regarding the dangers of radiation from cell phone exposure continues to linger. Although the warnings have generally been pooh-poohed by Americans, European health agencies have warned their citizens for years and recommend limited cell phone use, especially for children.

Scientists in America are generally quick to assure the safety of new technology; however, blanket assurances always remind me of the radium dial girls of the mid 1920s. Few remember the story of the young women whose jobs involved painting radium laced illuminating liquid on clock dials. The girls were encouraged to shape the paintbrushes to a fine point with their lips. They were paid a penny and a half per dial. While shaping the brushes, they ingested the radium paint, called “Undark” and many developed deadly and horrifying jaw and lip cancers. Similar assurances had been made at that time regarding the safety of radiation exposure, yet those girls’ graves are still ticking out radiation like clockwork. Human fragility and our proven fallibility should dictate caution.

Lately, I’ve been thinking and wondering about unintended social consequences of many of the new tools our society has unhesitatingly embraced.

Wandering aimlessly around in Bement, searching for a street (only I could get lost in Bement), I saw a middle aged woman standing near a school and decided to ask for directions. I pulled up with my window down and then noticed she was laughing and talking on a cell phone. Before I could smile at her, and pull away- I didn’t want to interrupt; she glanced up at me, frowned, shook her head, and then turned her back to me to continue her conversation. Momentarily stunned by the ease of her rudeness, I waited a moment then pulled away. I looked elsewhere for assistance and added another mental entry to my list of the negative aspects of cell phones: they are a tool which enable and encourage rudeness. Cell phones can form an effective cloaking device that allows users to move through the world without connecting to others in the environment.

Last Spring, I watched a girl, perhaps 14 years old shopping with her grandfather. The grandfather was obviously making a graduation purchase for her- an extravagant piece of electrical equipment. She trailed him in a bored shuffle as he carried her gift; she never stopped texting or looked up from her cell phone/keyboard.

This disconnect is a distressing aspect of cell phones. It is something that many parents simply do not anticipate. When your teen has a cell phone and actively text messages, even when they are with you- participating in a family outing for example, they are also with their friends. It is intrusive and disruptive and parents are fighting to regain a measure of control.

As kids most of us talked with frequently with friends. I recall my mother’s irritation with the constantly ringing phone (a single phone, connected to the kitchen wall).The difference was, when we weren’t on the phone our pals, we were usually with our family. There were definite lines of demarcation. Texting has changed that notion. How is socialization and family life affected when peers are always available and present if only in voice or word? Additionally, the communication among friends is instant, often beyond parents’ sphere of influence, and can involve sharing confidential conversations with unintended parties. When these communications are posted to internet sites, the can even be criminal.

Kids are using technology in ways most of us simply did not envision. This technology is so new; we may not see results of physical risks associated with cell use for years to come; the social side-effects are all around us.

Poolside Memories

As I waited for my son to emerge from the pool this week, I watched the moms and small children paddle about in the baby pool. My boys are teens now, but how well I remember the days of floaties and swimming diapers. I look back with some wistfulness that those days are gone forever, but also with immense gratitude that I survived.

In my memory those days were always sweltering, so hot that even the daunting prospect of a trip across town with three fractious toddlers (my boys were one year apart so I often felt as though I had triplets), the laborious undressing and suiting up, the collecting of toys, and the slathering of sun block on three small, resisting boys was not enough to deter me from the undertaking. We would arrive at the pool and survey the kiddie pool crowd. The scene was always the same: pink suited, impossibly tiny, blonde babes and their often mirror-image moms bobbed and swayed gently in the water like so many graceful swans and goslings. Wee, cherubic girls poured tidy streams with toy watering cans or carefully scooped with ladles and buckets. A gaggle of moms made easy small talk with one another- it often resembled an outdoor cocktail party or a magazine spread exemplifying graceful summer living.

Then, Da Da DAT da DAAHH! my crew arrived like a pack of Bumpus hounds. I tried desperately to restrain my herd of wild things, but the task was daunting. They hit the gate running and, immediately, the peace was shattered. Tension electrified the air as splashing and yelling ensued. High-pitched wailing arose as small, pastel suited girls were flattened by rogue waves created by my zephyering, canon- balling little boys. My sons seemed to be everywhere at once, mini bundles of incredible energy- and I could feel my blood pressure shooting upwards as I scurried about, desperately putting out the social fires they continuously sparked. Here an accidental, but colossal splash to a face, there a toy grabbed (always a Snoopy-esque snatch) - a grab and go which left the victim momentarily bewildered, mouths agape in shock and set off the inevitable chain of events: screeching from the injured party, chasing of the offender, returning the toy to the indignant child (and parent), the hurried, forced, insincere apology from my son, and ending with the other parent mentally crossing off of our names from the invitation list of their child’s next birthday party.

My sons not only splashed others, snatched toys, and generally ran amok, but enjoyed varying their routine by occasionally sneaking fairly large sticks into the pool area to employ as weaponry. These sticks were crucial for games of water jousting, a less injurious form of the original bicycle jousting; a brief but lively game they invented which may hold a record for being attempted and banned during its trial run. In a lax moment, perhaps when my attention was diverted to my youngest toddler, who was fond of repeatedly bouncing slowly in the water- bobbing in wonder toward the deep end until he inevitably bounced too far, disappeared from sight and had to be rescued- in that moment, my other sons would strip nude and streak gleefully about to the delight of the bored teen lifeguards who were immensely pleased at any diversion. To shake things up a bit, my sons might join forces and create a multiple brown out-thereby shutting down the baby pool for cleaning and sterilization and alienating and disgusting the entire baby pool community.

Although the transgressions were unintentional (mostly) and never committed in a mean spirit, but simply in the goofy, gangly puppy stage that most little boy’s experience, I could tell that some parents thought my sons a menace. Heaven help me if I had to explain an incident to a protective father. On one memorable occasion, a paternal jaw had jutted aggressively and inordinate anger was expressed. After apologizing for my son’s dousing of his daughter and multiple counts of absconding with her kick board, I came away feeling excessively weary. I recall catching a glimpse of myself in the changing room mirror after this particularly grueling pool session (which had also included one of my boys inadvertently backing into a smaller child and toppling them headfirst flailing and shrieking into the pool not once, but three times in rapid succession), in that quick glance I noticed that my face was frozen in a look of apologetic embarrassment and chagrin. I wondered if it would remain that way throughout my sons’ youth.

The parents tried to be kind (mostly), yet it was obvious that parents of many little girls and of the more sedate little boys often thought my guys were a different species; some untamed, dangerous creature; possibly a minute Viking remnant or Cro-Magnon offspring.

I couldn’t blame them, although it wasn’t as if I sat back and allowed my boys to be ill-mannered. I never stopped moving -shepherding them, herding them to more neutral pool ground, speaking in low, firm tones, intervening at every transgression. I was (and continue) earnestly trying to civilize my guys.

Those years were often exhausting, yet I am so glad that I was with my boys; that I had the opportunity to tell them to stop running along the pool the million or so times it took before it finally processed. That is what they needed; a parent to be there, to say the words of guidance as many times as it took. Childhood is a short season. We must fill it with understanding, patience and love- and millions of guiding words.