For the past 3 months Simon has been preparing for his 8th birthday. His birthday falls pretty close to Christmas so it can easily be rolled into one big celebration -but not this year thank you very much. In our household it isn’t so much the birth DAY but a birthday SEASON.
We started it off the Saturday after Thanksgiving in Hood River, Oregon with a combined party for Simon and two other adult family members who have birthdays in December. Homemade chocolate cake was on the menu, lots of balloons, party favors, pin the tale on the donkey, musical chairs and musical statues. Now this may sound rigged, but Simon won all the games! Although to be fair Grandma, the most sprite-ful octogenarian on the planet, did a phenomenal job dancing to We Will Rock You. And Grandpa was rudely misinformed when he asked for direction on where to direct the Donkey’s tale and it ended up on the light switch not even in the same room as the donkey.
Leaving Hood River in the rear view mirror we headed up to Mount St Helen’s, then into the big city of Seattle for a few days, across to the Olympic Peninsula, down through the rainforest, back along the Oregon Coast and on to Highway 5 to Palo Alto.
Every day there was at least one conversation about the upcoming birthday celebrations. More to the point it was a pop quiz to make sure we all knew what was expected on the big day in mid December.
We were all very well versed on how Simon would wake up in Aunt Lalitha and Uncle Garret’s house on December 17th. Breakfast would be brought to him in bed and would include scrambled eggs, bacon, hot chocolate with extra extra whipped cream and multi colored sprinkles. He would open one present in the morning then take the Cal Trains from the California Street station up to San Francisco. There would be a walk over to the Hyde and Market Trolley Car to Fisherman’s Wharf, a walk down to Pier 39, an adventure at the aquarium and then top it all off at Ghirardelli Square for an ice cream sundae.
Research was done to figure out the train schedule, maps, admissions cost for the aquarium and lists of ice cream flavors available at Ghirardelli.
As Simon’s real birthday eve approached Simon was looking more and more pale, he had a non existent appetite and a forehead that kept getting warmer and warmer. At 1 AM, an hour in to being 8, he woke up in a feverish stupor saying, “Mom, can I have a rain check on San Francisco?” His actual birthday was spent at the doctor but he did rally for a Birthday Bike Ride with Balloons thanks to Miracle Motrin, bubblegum flavored.
On December 28th, 11 days into being 8, we were in San Francisco for the Birthday Make Up Day – and, hang on to your hats Ladies and Gentlemen – you may wonder if the following could possibly be true, but it is!
A cable car ride. You have to ride the cable car up and down the incredible hills of SF, especially if it is your birthday. But when there is a 90 minute wait behind 548 fellow tourists you start questioning just how necessary it really is. Who knew that the week between Christmas and New Years would find the city chock a block with everyone and their mother? The line wrapped around the round house and circled down the long block towards Union Square.
We had been waiting about 15 minutes and had moved up hardly 10 feet. There were plenty of Cable Cars coming and going but it takes a while to unload, turn them around and load them up again with the maximum of 50 passengers per car. There was a Cable Car next to us with a couple of conductors in their brown uniforms chatting and laughing. I got to thinking there must be some other stops along the way. So I asked Simon if he would feel comfortable asking the conductor if there was another stop near where we could board that didn’t have such a crazy line. He said he felt fine with that I reminded him to be polite and wait for them to finish their conversation before he asked. He looked back at me and asked smiling, “Should I tell the conductor it is my birthday?” “Sure, why not?” I replied.
Simon waited patiently for the Conductors, who spoke in a mixture of English and Spanish, to finish up their chat while I watched from the line. The conversation ended. Simon looked up at the Conductor and started out, “Excuse me sir, I am sorry to interrupt but today is my birthday and I was wondering if there might be another line….”
The Conductor stopped Simon and asked him his name, how old he was, who he was here with and then said, “Come on up here Simon. Today is your lucky day.” Not only did he pull us out of the line and have the two of us jump aboard the Trolley Car, held him up to ring the bell, and sit in the very front, but after he spun the car around and we headed towards the front of the line to let the other people on he shouted, “No other passengers on this Trolley Car today folks, this is the Simon Birthday Special.”
Should the Conductor be suspended for favoritism of 8 year old adorabel red headed boys? Did Simon work the birthday angle? Perhaps a little of both, but it made for a memory that will last a lifetime.
Thursday 31 December 2009
Tuesday 22 December 2009
Flying Alone With A Walking Stick
I am sitting in the Phoenix Airport on Monday the 21st of December waiting to catch a Southwest flight to San Jose, CA. Evan and I flew here on Friday to help my mom move into her new place in Scottsdale. We left the kids with my brother and sister in law in Palo Alto. That was the trade off. They take the boys, we move Mom. Excellent. We are all happy. Evan flew back yesterday so I am flying alone today. 3 nights without my boys after close to four months of rather extreme togetherness has produced interesting separation issues and intrigue around a walking stick.
Alone. Nobody knows I am a mother. Nobody knows I have no set address and that I live in a travelling RV.
On Saturday night I made the mistake of phoning to check in on the boys. Reminder to all mothers whose kids are under the age of 10: Never let them hear your voice if you are away over night. My sister in law Lalitha and I were chatting about their day, how Simon has been feeling, what they had eaten. All is well. “Josh is out on a walk with Garret and the boys but Simon wants to talk with you,” she says. “Great, put him on! Hi Babe,” I say in a bright, sunshine voice. Who knows what Simon was saying between the tears, snorts and blubbers. My interpretation: “Mommy, I am being tortured by my brother and ignored by everyone else. You are a Bad Mother. I will be scared for the rest of my life. I will never be able to have a close relationship with any other human being. `I will need extreme psycho therapy AND IT IS ALL YOUR FAULT!”
I am at gate C4 in the Phoenix Airport, I am coming home Sweet Simon!
Lots of families travelling with multi colored backpacks, activity bags and brothers’ poking each other. Standing in line at security there was a Dad in his late 30’s travelling with his 3 kids. The eldest was about 11 and the Dad was getting ready to blow up. “Can’t you stop touching or poking your brother for one minute?” he yells. The answer of course is, “No, I a programmed genetically to be annoying and this won’t stop until I am in my early 20’s.” Which reminds me of the song Simon and I made up last week, sung to the tune of Up on the Roof Top: “Let’s be annoying 1-2-3, I’ll poke you and you poke me, Then we will sing an annoying song. If you are lucky it will last REAL L—O—N—G--.”
But I am flying by myself. I will not sing the song to the 11 year old boy behind me. Nobody knows that I am a mother, they would just think I was a weirdo. I am so focused on watching the Dad and the three kids I forget to focus on my stuff and make sure the walking stock went through. It did.
It is a Cattle Call here at the gate. I am in the C group – the last group. Why even bother figuring out where to position myself. It is just me. Nothing to check in. Nothing to declare. I am flying alone so I can sneak in anywhere. Anonymous. Maybe people are looking at me and thinking I am a business woman typing important documents on my little computer. Maybe they think I am brokering a deal that is worth lots of money and that I am highly valued. But business women don’t travel with walking sticks.
Let’s be real. Nobody is looking at me. Everyone around me is too busy trying to figure out how to position themselves so that when the Flight Agent says GO they can take off and get the best seat with a roomy overhead compartment.
The Gate Agents for Southwest Airlines wear regular street clothes. Many are wearing shorts. I don’t like that. Call me old fashioned but I want my Gate Agents in a uniform. Not necessarily caps and gloves, but a basic uniform so I can tell them apart from the customers would be nice. For some reason reading Comme Caca (written out like Coca Cola) does not instill deep loyalty or confidence in passengers
There goes the first bell and the masses are off and running onto the plane. Unaccompanied minors are first. Families and the infirmed are next. Maybe I could use the walking stick and pretend I am handicapped so I can go first. But why? So I can sit on the plane longer?
My phone rings. Josh reset my ring tone last week and it is straight out of an Indian Epic Movie. I am thinking of Delhi and I am hungry for a palak paneer. I want to dance with scarves but that would blow my cover as an important business woman with a walking stick. It is Evan. He calls me about every 4 hours. He is very helpful. He has lots of ideas on how I can be more efficient. I love him. I love the fact that he is always thinking about ways to make my life easier. “Yes sweetie, the flight is on time. No, I didn’t have any trouble getting the walking stick through security. Yes, I have something to suck on for departure and arrival. See you soon.”
Back at Gate C4…oh shit. They just called my name. I was so busy pretending to be an important business woman I forgot to pay attention. They are closing the gate. No problem. Throw my stuff in the bag. It is just me and I am fast. I am at the gate. They check my boarding pass. I am waiting on the gang way at the end of the line behind a mother who looks about 12 holding a beautiful baby. They are both wearing pink valour. We smile. I think she thinks I am old enough to need a walking stick.
I am the last person on the plane. I am entering the cabin. Open seat in the middle of the right hand second row. I eyeball the woman in the aisle and ask if the seat is free. She moves over to the middle. I put the walking stick on the aisle seat along with my hand bag. I shove my carry on suitcase up above the seat. I spy another overhead for the walking stick. I sit down. I turn to the woman in the middle and offer to sit there, but “No”, she says, “just tell me the story of the walking stick.”
Alone. Nobody knows I am a mother. Nobody knows I have no set address and that I live in a travelling RV.
On Saturday night I made the mistake of phoning to check in on the boys. Reminder to all mothers whose kids are under the age of 10: Never let them hear your voice if you are away over night. My sister in law Lalitha and I were chatting about their day, how Simon has been feeling, what they had eaten. All is well. “Josh is out on a walk with Garret and the boys but Simon wants to talk with you,” she says. “Great, put him on! Hi Babe,” I say in a bright, sunshine voice. Who knows what Simon was saying between the tears, snorts and blubbers. My interpretation: “Mommy, I am being tortured by my brother and ignored by everyone else. You are a Bad Mother. I will be scared for the rest of my life. I will never be able to have a close relationship with any other human being. `I will need extreme psycho therapy AND IT IS ALL YOUR FAULT!”
I am at gate C4 in the Phoenix Airport, I am coming home Sweet Simon!
Lots of families travelling with multi colored backpacks, activity bags and brothers’ poking each other. Standing in line at security there was a Dad in his late 30’s travelling with his 3 kids. The eldest was about 11 and the Dad was getting ready to blow up. “Can’t you stop touching or poking your brother for one minute?” he yells. The answer of course is, “No, I a programmed genetically to be annoying and this won’t stop until I am in my early 20’s.” Which reminds me of the song Simon and I made up last week, sung to the tune of Up on the Roof Top: “Let’s be annoying 1-2-3, I’ll poke you and you poke me, Then we will sing an annoying song. If you are lucky it will last REAL L—O—N—G--.”
But I am flying by myself. I will not sing the song to the 11 year old boy behind me. Nobody knows that I am a mother, they would just think I was a weirdo. I am so focused on watching the Dad and the three kids I forget to focus on my stuff and make sure the walking stock went through. It did.
It is a Cattle Call here at the gate. I am in the C group – the last group. Why even bother figuring out where to position myself. It is just me. Nothing to check in. Nothing to declare. I am flying alone so I can sneak in anywhere. Anonymous. Maybe people are looking at me and thinking I am a business woman typing important documents on my little computer. Maybe they think I am brokering a deal that is worth lots of money and that I am highly valued. But business women don’t travel with walking sticks.
Let’s be real. Nobody is looking at me. Everyone around me is too busy trying to figure out how to position themselves so that when the Flight Agent says GO they can take off and get the best seat with a roomy overhead compartment.
The Gate Agents for Southwest Airlines wear regular street clothes. Many are wearing shorts. I don’t like that. Call me old fashioned but I want my Gate Agents in a uniform. Not necessarily caps and gloves, but a basic uniform so I can tell them apart from the customers would be nice. For some reason reading Comme Caca (written out like Coca Cola) does not instill deep loyalty or confidence in passengers
There goes the first bell and the masses are off and running onto the plane. Unaccompanied minors are first. Families and the infirmed are next. Maybe I could use the walking stick and pretend I am handicapped so I can go first. But why? So I can sit on the plane longer?
My phone rings. Josh reset my ring tone last week and it is straight out of an Indian Epic Movie. I am thinking of Delhi and I am hungry for a palak paneer. I want to dance with scarves but that would blow my cover as an important business woman with a walking stick. It is Evan. He calls me about every 4 hours. He is very helpful. He has lots of ideas on how I can be more efficient. I love him. I love the fact that he is always thinking about ways to make my life easier. “Yes sweetie, the flight is on time. No, I didn’t have any trouble getting the walking stick through security. Yes, I have something to suck on for departure and arrival. See you soon.”
Back at Gate C4…oh shit. They just called my name. I was so busy pretending to be an important business woman I forgot to pay attention. They are closing the gate. No problem. Throw my stuff in the bag. It is just me and I am fast. I am at the gate. They check my boarding pass. I am waiting on the gang way at the end of the line behind a mother who looks about 12 holding a beautiful baby. They are both wearing pink valour. We smile. I think she thinks I am old enough to need a walking stick.
I am the last person on the plane. I am entering the cabin. Open seat in the middle of the right hand second row. I eyeball the woman in the aisle and ask if the seat is free. She moves over to the middle. I put the walking stick on the aisle seat along with my hand bag. I shove my carry on suitcase up above the seat. I spy another overhead for the walking stick. I sit down. I turn to the woman in the middle and offer to sit there, but “No”, she says, “just tell me the story of the walking stick.”
Thursday 10 December 2009
Christmas in the RV Park
We are tucked in for the night in an RV park in Port Angeles, Washington on the Olympic Peninsula. We took the ferry over here today from Seattle. Port Angeles is a town of about 8000 across the bay from Victoria, British Columbia.
Our next door neighbor here at the RV Park is a Class A. Judging by the winterizing to the RV it has been here awhile – the wheels are all covered up and a thick canvas skirt is secured around it to help keep the heat inside. It is a fancy rig with 2 slide outs. Peeking in the windows it looks like the $250,000 - $400,000 variety. There is a 6’ lit up wreath across the front engine, 3 spiral Christmas trees of different heights lit up in front of the door, and candles are in the window. It looks very cozy. As I was backing up into our space watching Evan as he was giving me direction in the rear view window, I took a quick sideways glance and caught the eye of the woman inside lighting the candles. We smiled. She had on a knowing smile. I imagined it to say, “Ahh the stress of backing up your RV while your husband tells you what to do. Ever since I backed up over Ralph in Idaho and took off, I don’t have to listen anymore.”
What is her real story?
Maybe she lost the house in the recent recession and is now living in the RV and all these decorations are from her former life that she pulled out of the storage facility. I mean, buying that many decorations for an RV? Where do you store them in the off season? Or maybe she just keeps them up all year. One of “those people” – the kind that never takes their lights down and keeps their tree up until mid February.
Is there a pecking order in RV parks? The permanent people vs. those just passing through? The Class A v Class B v Class C? You betcha! Here is the run down - according to nobody else but me:
Class A (these are the busses). Usually driven by tiny old men they are the fanciest of the line up. Inside they are the equivalent of a one bedroom apartment in New York. Only roomier and nicer. While they are larger then Class C’s they are usually occupied by older couples. We have been in many in various showrooms and have even witnessed one with a full size bathtub, and another with 3 flat screen TV’s. Sometimes they even have televisions on the outside so you can sit in your recliner rocker by the lake and watch you favorite Discovery Show at the same time. Talk about weird. Living in an adventure, watching someone else’s adventure. And here I am writing about someone having an adventure watching and adventure on a blog. WHERE IS REALITY?
Class B (converted camper vans). Think VW bus. Groovy. These are for the serious campers who are 1. living out of their camper doing the alternative thing or; 2. mountain climbers who could care less where they sleep (not a lot of room in these puppies) but need the room for their gear.
Class C (trucks chassis with integrated living – the Big Pig). Families. Most of the rentals are Class C’s as well. Alternative families with web sites writing blogs from RV parks in the pacific northwest wondering why they think they are so important as to warrant a blog.
5th Wheels. These are the campers that connect into the back of a big pick-up truck so that when you get to the RV park you can dismount and drive the truck independently. Hunters. Serious campers.
How I would love to be a sociologist – or more to the point – I just want to ask all the nosey questions that you are never allowed to ask and have a legitimate reason to do it. How I would love to be able to stop the world, find out the answers and then continue the revolving. In the 7th Harry Potter book that we are listening to as we drive, Hermione has just delivered the ever useful forgetful spell (“obliviate”). What I wouldn’t give for just a little bit!
It is Christmas time here in the RV Park. A little sad. We won’t be hosting our annual Holiday Party this year, and our ornament collection will be taking the year off. With that said, we have our own bit of cheer going on in the Big Pig. 3 nice big red bows adorn the cabinets, two sets of twinkle lights, 4 matching plastic holiday cups, and a new Santa tea towel hangs in front of the oven with a matching hand towel in the bathroom.
And we are headed down to my brother’s and sister-in-law’s next week where a proper tree and parties and family await.
Last night we strolled through the town and admired all their decorations in the windows and on the street. When we got back to the RV, we had dinner and then all got in pajamas, lit the fairy lights, added a few tea lights, and started reading aloud from Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.
No Bah Humbug here thank you!
Our next door neighbor here at the RV Park is a Class A. Judging by the winterizing to the RV it has been here awhile – the wheels are all covered up and a thick canvas skirt is secured around it to help keep the heat inside. It is a fancy rig with 2 slide outs. Peeking in the windows it looks like the $250,000 - $400,000 variety. There is a 6’ lit up wreath across the front engine, 3 spiral Christmas trees of different heights lit up in front of the door, and candles are in the window. It looks very cozy. As I was backing up into our space watching Evan as he was giving me direction in the rear view window, I took a quick sideways glance and caught the eye of the woman inside lighting the candles. We smiled. She had on a knowing smile. I imagined it to say, “Ahh the stress of backing up your RV while your husband tells you what to do. Ever since I backed up over Ralph in Idaho and took off, I don’t have to listen anymore.”
What is her real story?
Maybe she lost the house in the recent recession and is now living in the RV and all these decorations are from her former life that she pulled out of the storage facility. I mean, buying that many decorations for an RV? Where do you store them in the off season? Or maybe she just keeps them up all year. One of “those people” – the kind that never takes their lights down and keeps their tree up until mid February.
Is there a pecking order in RV parks? The permanent people vs. those just passing through? The Class A v Class B v Class C? You betcha! Here is the run down - according to nobody else but me:
Class A (these are the busses). Usually driven by tiny old men they are the fanciest of the line up. Inside they are the equivalent of a one bedroom apartment in New York. Only roomier and nicer. While they are larger then Class C’s they are usually occupied by older couples. We have been in many in various showrooms and have even witnessed one with a full size bathtub, and another with 3 flat screen TV’s. Sometimes they even have televisions on the outside so you can sit in your recliner rocker by the lake and watch you favorite Discovery Show at the same time. Talk about weird. Living in an adventure, watching someone else’s adventure. And here I am writing about someone having an adventure watching and adventure on a blog. WHERE IS REALITY?
Class B (converted camper vans). Think VW bus. Groovy. These are for the serious campers who are 1. living out of their camper doing the alternative thing or; 2. mountain climbers who could care less where they sleep (not a lot of room in these puppies) but need the room for their gear.
Class C (trucks chassis with integrated living – the Big Pig). Families. Most of the rentals are Class C’s as well. Alternative families with web sites writing blogs from RV parks in the pacific northwest wondering why they think they are so important as to warrant a blog.
5th Wheels. These are the campers that connect into the back of a big pick-up truck so that when you get to the RV park you can dismount and drive the truck independently. Hunters. Serious campers.
How I would love to be a sociologist – or more to the point – I just want to ask all the nosey questions that you are never allowed to ask and have a legitimate reason to do it. How I would love to be able to stop the world, find out the answers and then continue the revolving. In the 7th Harry Potter book that we are listening to as we drive, Hermione has just delivered the ever useful forgetful spell (“obliviate”). What I wouldn’t give for just a little bit!
It is Christmas time here in the RV Park. A little sad. We won’t be hosting our annual Holiday Party this year, and our ornament collection will be taking the year off. With that said, we have our own bit of cheer going on in the Big Pig. 3 nice big red bows adorn the cabinets, two sets of twinkle lights, 4 matching plastic holiday cups, and a new Santa tea towel hangs in front of the oven with a matching hand towel in the bathroom.
And we are headed down to my brother’s and sister-in-law’s next week where a proper tree and parties and family await.
Last night we strolled through the town and admired all their decorations in the windows and on the street. When we got back to the RV, we had dinner and then all got in pajamas, lit the fairy lights, added a few tea lights, and started reading aloud from Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.
No Bah Humbug here thank you!
Penelope Snodgrass’s School for Boy(s)
Penelope Snodgrass’s School for Boy(s)
Mission: To enlighten young charge to the silliness of life through games, recess and small chocolate treats whenever possible.
Objective: To keep up with the 2nd grade curriculum so that repetition of the year is not necessary upon landing back in alternative reality.
Materials used: Every Day Math, Time 4 Learning Web site, writing books, blank books, random writing journals, blogs, Junior Ranger Programs, road signs, tourist brochures, maps, restaurant menus, sticks, pinecones, stones, money, marshmallows, bits of paper, colored pencils, crayons, needles and thread, old socks, egg cartons and lots of books.
Sample Day
7:15 Alarm. Ignore.
8 Alright already. Out of bed.
8:15 – 8:45 Cooking class. Banana chocolate chip muffins. Review fractions by
doubling the recipe. ½ tsp +1/4 tsp = ¾ tsp of baking soda. More
importantly, whenever given the option of ½ cup vs 1 cup of
chocolate chips – go for the 1 cup. Sample chocolate chips to
ensure they are not poisonous.
8:45 Breakfast. Bacon and scrambled eggs. Hot chocolate if possible.
Whipped cream if available. Sample whipped cream if in a canister
directly into mouth for sanitary purposes.
9 AM School starts. Strictness about the timing is crucial. Kind of.
Schedule for the Day
9:03 – 9:10 Day Book. Fill in first new clean page with: date, where we happen
to be that day and the day’s activities. Sometimes includes a quote
of the day depending on creativity, organizational skills and
preparedness of Ms Snodgrass.
9:10 – 9:30 Write postcards to four best friends. 3 in London. 1 in
Connecticut. Discuss how much we miss them. What they are doing
now?
9:30 – 9:45 Clean out and reorganize pencil box and traveling milk crate.
9:45 – 10:45 Research fun things to do in Seattle. Times open. Cost. Café and
gift shop availability. Proximity to public transportation or
parking for Big Pig. Zoos are always good.
10:45 – 11:05 Card game! 21… with chips. Ms. Snodgrass is reminded of Willie
Nelson song The Gambler. Pulls out guitar, finds words and music.
Impromtu music class. Discussion of metaphor “I see you are out of
aces” and Simon’s middle name – Ace. Make connections between
whiskey swilling, cigarette smoking, gamblers and 7 year olds. No
real whiskey is involved.
11:05 – 11:45 Everyday Math. Knock off 6 pages. Review digital and analogue
clocks with the help of our Marshmallow Clock and home made flash
cards for a matching game. Ms. Snodgrass loses…again.
11:45 – 1 PM Bike Ride
1. Post office to mail postcards written in the AM. Discuss
postal system, stamps. Price variance between US and UK stamps.
Stamp design.
2. Hood River Water Front Playground. Practice climbing techniques
picked up at the Sun Valley YMCA. No, Ms. Snodgrass will not be
joining her class on the top of the structure even though she does
realize the view of the Columbia River Gorge is even better from the
higher vantage point. Yes, or course Ms. Snodgrass could mount the
wall in a matter of moments – it is the fear of not being able to
get down that has her worried.
3. Children’s Park on 9th Street. Fabulous Adventure Playground.
Lots of places to hide. Game of Jet and Star ensues where we are
both boys at the mysterious School of Light.
1:00 – 1:45 Lunch. Mac and cheese, broccoli, milk.
1:45 – 3 PM Read. Current book – Charlie Bone.
3 PM School dismissed.
Mission: To enlighten young charge to the silliness of life through games, recess and small chocolate treats whenever possible.
Objective: To keep up with the 2nd grade curriculum so that repetition of the year is not necessary upon landing back in alternative reality.
Materials used: Every Day Math, Time 4 Learning Web site, writing books, blank books, random writing journals, blogs, Junior Ranger Programs, road signs, tourist brochures, maps, restaurant menus, sticks, pinecones, stones, money, marshmallows, bits of paper, colored pencils, crayons, needles and thread, old socks, egg cartons and lots of books.
Sample Day
7:15 Alarm. Ignore.
8 Alright already. Out of bed.
8:15 – 8:45 Cooking class. Banana chocolate chip muffins. Review fractions by
doubling the recipe. ½ tsp +1/4 tsp = ¾ tsp of baking soda. More
importantly, whenever given the option of ½ cup vs 1 cup of
chocolate chips – go for the 1 cup. Sample chocolate chips to
ensure they are not poisonous.
8:45 Breakfast. Bacon and scrambled eggs. Hot chocolate if possible.
Whipped cream if available. Sample whipped cream if in a canister
directly into mouth for sanitary purposes.
9 AM School starts. Strictness about the timing is crucial. Kind of.
Schedule for the Day
9:03 – 9:10 Day Book. Fill in first new clean page with: date, where we happen
to be that day and the day’s activities. Sometimes includes a quote
of the day depending on creativity, organizational skills and
preparedness of Ms Snodgrass.
9:10 – 9:30 Write postcards to four best friends. 3 in London. 1 in
Connecticut. Discuss how much we miss them. What they are doing
now?
9:30 – 9:45 Clean out and reorganize pencil box and traveling milk crate.
9:45 – 10:45 Research fun things to do in Seattle. Times open. Cost. Café and
gift shop availability. Proximity to public transportation or
parking for Big Pig. Zoos are always good.
10:45 – 11:05 Card game! 21… with chips. Ms. Snodgrass is reminded of Willie
Nelson song The Gambler. Pulls out guitar, finds words and music.
Impromtu music class. Discussion of metaphor “I see you are out of
aces” and Simon’s middle name – Ace. Make connections between
whiskey swilling, cigarette smoking, gamblers and 7 year olds. No
real whiskey is involved.
11:05 – 11:45 Everyday Math. Knock off 6 pages. Review digital and analogue
clocks with the help of our Marshmallow Clock and home made flash
cards for a matching game. Ms. Snodgrass loses…again.
11:45 – 1 PM Bike Ride
1. Post office to mail postcards written in the AM. Discuss
postal system, stamps. Price variance between US and UK stamps.
Stamp design.
2. Hood River Water Front Playground. Practice climbing techniques
picked up at the Sun Valley YMCA. No, Ms. Snodgrass will not be
joining her class on the top of the structure even though she does
realize the view of the Columbia River Gorge is even better from the
higher vantage point. Yes, or course Ms. Snodgrass could mount the
wall in a matter of moments – it is the fear of not being able to
get down that has her worried.
3. Children’s Park on 9th Street. Fabulous Adventure Playground.
Lots of places to hide. Game of Jet and Star ensues where we are
both boys at the mysterious School of Light.
1:00 – 1:45 Lunch. Mac and cheese, broccoli, milk.
1:45 – 3 PM Read. Current book – Charlie Bone.
3 PM School dismissed.
Tuesday 1 December 2009
Shut Up and Listen
I have moved a lot and every time I move I think, “This is the time I will be the quiet, mysterious one. The woman that leaves a lot unsaid. The woman who people wonder about because she said so little - but what she did say was so intriguing. The woman with the slightly foreign accent wrapped in a scent of sandal wood.”
It hasn’t worked yet because I talk too much. Only when I hit the age of 35 did it dawn on me that if you don’t tell people things, they don’t know. For some reason I have felt compelled to tell everybody, everything, all the time, whether they were interested or not.
Then we moved to the UK where it is socially unacceptable to divulge much of anything, ever. Unless you are drunk. You barely nod acknowledgement to people whom you do know as you walk down the street, let alone a stranger. Then there is the whole protocol when it comes to the morning school run that I had to learn as I would walk the mile to the Hampstead Garden Suburb Infant School to drop Simon for reception, the US equivalent of preschool. Women, mostly all women, whom I would walk next to everyday under the large arcade would not share a glace, god forbid a smile. After the first term there might be an acknowledging look, after the second term a half smile, towards the end of the year, a slight wave.
On my low self esteem days I would think, “These women with their posh British accents have all attended Oxford, grown up with Dickens and Shakespeare and are probably dropping their kids off before they return to their massive 17th century home libraries to translate Chaucer and just can’t be bothered with the unwashed masses such as myself.”
On my better self esteem days I would think, “This nation is so repressed and stuck in its ridiculous social classes that nobody can acknowledge anyone without a proper introduction. They are missing all the fun in life!”
And then I went out to lunch with an American woman whom a friend from the US had introduced me to. She had just moved to London and was in the market for friendship, information on the city, and the gossip about the local school. I had been living in London for a number of years and I could fill her in. Over the course of our one hour lunch she didn’t stop talking a second. By the time we asked for the bill I knew where she was born, went to college, her children’s learning issues, her professional life, her part relationships, her future travel plans, her relationship with her husband, her hopes, dreams and bowel movement patterns.
Profound observation of the absurdly obvious: The more someone else talks, the less you have to talk. And the more this woman talked the less I wanted to tell her anything about myself. When we said goodbye I felt as if I was walking away from a one night stand – bowled over, exhausted, used and making a promise to myself to never to be the chatter like her again.
Over the past three months since we have been on the road I am talking less and less. Given, I don’t have as many people to talk to and the three people I am with are mostly interested in the latest Hero’s episode, computer role play games, and bionicles. But I have also had more time by myself than I have ever had – by myself but not alone.
I am realizing it is ok to be quiet with others in the room. I don’t feel compelled to fill up the room with my chatter. And I realize that most of my chatter was about the adventures of the day and the people I had encountered. When you live with people 24/7 there are no adventures they don’t already know about. And since most of our adventures are of the remote variety – we don’t have as many encounters with other people in the course of the day.
I am learning to listen more. Snow shoeing for a couple of hours around Crater Lake we stopped to listen to the quiet. The silence was deafening. Not a bird. No wind. No airplanes. No cars. Just stillness.
When we finally land, maybe this will be the time I will start speaking with a slight accent, change my name to Elise, and dab myself with sandal wood perfume.
It hasn’t worked yet because I talk too much. Only when I hit the age of 35 did it dawn on me that if you don’t tell people things, they don’t know. For some reason I have felt compelled to tell everybody, everything, all the time, whether they were interested or not.
Then we moved to the UK where it is socially unacceptable to divulge much of anything, ever. Unless you are drunk. You barely nod acknowledgement to people whom you do know as you walk down the street, let alone a stranger. Then there is the whole protocol when it comes to the morning school run that I had to learn as I would walk the mile to the Hampstead Garden Suburb Infant School to drop Simon for reception, the US equivalent of preschool. Women, mostly all women, whom I would walk next to everyday under the large arcade would not share a glace, god forbid a smile. After the first term there might be an acknowledging look, after the second term a half smile, towards the end of the year, a slight wave.
On my low self esteem days I would think, “These women with their posh British accents have all attended Oxford, grown up with Dickens and Shakespeare and are probably dropping their kids off before they return to their massive 17th century home libraries to translate Chaucer and just can’t be bothered with the unwashed masses such as myself.”
On my better self esteem days I would think, “This nation is so repressed and stuck in its ridiculous social classes that nobody can acknowledge anyone without a proper introduction. They are missing all the fun in life!”
And then I went out to lunch with an American woman whom a friend from the US had introduced me to. She had just moved to London and was in the market for friendship, information on the city, and the gossip about the local school. I had been living in London for a number of years and I could fill her in. Over the course of our one hour lunch she didn’t stop talking a second. By the time we asked for the bill I knew where she was born, went to college, her children’s learning issues, her professional life, her part relationships, her future travel plans, her relationship with her husband, her hopes, dreams and bowel movement patterns.
Profound observation of the absurdly obvious: The more someone else talks, the less you have to talk. And the more this woman talked the less I wanted to tell her anything about myself. When we said goodbye I felt as if I was walking away from a one night stand – bowled over, exhausted, used and making a promise to myself to never to be the chatter like her again.
Over the past three months since we have been on the road I am talking less and less. Given, I don’t have as many people to talk to and the three people I am with are mostly interested in the latest Hero’s episode, computer role play games, and bionicles. But I have also had more time by myself than I have ever had – by myself but not alone.
I am realizing it is ok to be quiet with others in the room. I don’t feel compelled to fill up the room with my chatter. And I realize that most of my chatter was about the adventures of the day and the people I had encountered. When you live with people 24/7 there are no adventures they don’t already know about. And since most of our adventures are of the remote variety – we don’t have as many encounters with other people in the course of the day.
I am learning to listen more. Snow shoeing for a couple of hours around Crater Lake we stopped to listen to the quiet. The silence was deafening. Not a bird. No wind. No airplanes. No cars. Just stillness.
When we finally land, maybe this will be the time I will start speaking with a slight accent, change my name to Elise, and dab myself with sandal wood perfume.
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