Using the Princesses.

A little girl is cute. She looks like a living doll romping around in skirts and ponytails. One moment she is mimicking the tenderness of a mother with a baby doll in her arms. The next minute, she is upbraiding the dog for its considerable sins.

My own daughter is all too aware of the power of her cuteness. She has always been able to land herself in the lap or on the hip of a teacher. For a child of one or two years, this isn’t that big of a deal. She passed the four year mark many months ago and she still has the knack of insinuating herself into places no four-year-old should be able to go. This is partly because she is quite petite for her age, but it has more to do with the fact that she sees herself as irresistible. After all, who wouldn’t want to hold her and give her everything she asks for?

From the beginning, we have tried to keep our daughter from seeing herself as only a pretty thing. We have constantly found ways to compliment her that are not based on her appearance, but on her character. Yet, she still cannot pass a mirror without being captivated and if you don’t notice what she is wearing today she will surely bring to your attention.

Like many girls in this modern age of marketing, my daughter is obsessed with the Disney Princesses. She sleeps beneath them at night. She wears their clothes. She listens to their music. She begs to watch their movies. She wants to be like them. In her four-year-old heart, she is one of them. These are her heroes.

We have resisted this as much as we can. My wife wasn’t that kind of girl when she was little. It is hard for us to understand. Yet our own girl is exactly the kind. She loves pink and wants to be pretty all day long. How do you fight something that is so ingrained? She wants to be a princess. Of course she’s obsessed with clothes and expects to be waited on hand and foot. All she needs is a ball gown and a prince and she’ll be set for life. But, is it possible there are other lessons to be gleaned from these iconic Disney debutants?

My wife thought of it. Enlist the princesses. Recruit them to our cause. In one of those teachable moments we read about in books, she began to discuss some of the things she had noticed about the princesses with our daughter. Cinderella was kind to others and a very hard worker (that front hall blings in every scene). Belle is a big reader who makes good use of the library. Snow White was fair and took care of others. Pocahontas respected nature. Ariel saved a drowning man. Mulan was brave. (Yes, I know Mulan is not a princess, but she is female lead in a Disney animated film, therefore she qualifies in my daughter’s eyes.)

The more we talked about it the more we could draw out the virtues we wanted to teach from these heavily marketed hussies. I don’t think there is much we can do to keep my daughter from being vain. Even now, if you ask her about her modesty, she will go through her pockets, look behind her and then throw up her hands and say she hasn’t got any. She doesn’t even know the meaning of the word. Time will heal this, thought, and there really isn’t anything wrong with being pretty, which she is. But, maybe we can teach her to be a whole lot more. After all, she’s not afraid to climb a tree or brawl like an animal with her brothers. I think in her heart she’s really a warrior princess.

Well, I failed to keep my Tu Th Sat schedule last week. My wife says the Tuesday post was good enough to carry me, and it did get a few extra hits, but I'll try to get back on schedule. In the mean time, if you don't see a new post when you expect one, imagine me lecturing a child or whizzing down a hillside on a homemade go-kart. That's probably what I'm doing instead of writing. Thanks for paying attention to me anyway.

Homeschool and the Education Cop

We got an e-mail a couple of weeks ago about truancy officers turning up at the homes of local homeschool families. In the state of Illinois, homeschools are essentially private schools. They have the all the same rights and privileges of any other educational institution. A truancy officer inquiring of a homeschool family is akin to a highway patrolman pulling over motorists for no real reason.

So, with this in mind I decided to compile a short list of suggestions in case the “education cop” comes knocking on your door.

1. Fight fire with fire.
   

   Truancy officers are primarily a product and functionary of bureaucracy. Take the officer’s name, title, agency, contact information, shoe size, favorite color, and American Idol pick. Promise to pass this information to the superintendent just as soon as he gets back and tell the officer to expect a call in two to five business days.

2. Use a prearranged signal to tip the children off.
   

   Approximately forty-five seconds after answering the door, a child should shriek like a burning cat. Apologize and explain you’ve been studying the Spanish Inquisition and you really need to go take care of that. (Don’t forget to lock the door. This sends the correct message that you don’t need any help.)

3. Dig a Burmese tiger pit. Don’t forget to warn the mailman.
   
4. Try to convert them.
   

   It is very difficult to talk about why the kids aren’t enrolled in school when someone is adamantly wielding the Sword of the Spirit to the edification of your everlasting soul. Use this to your advantage. If you are not Christian, that’s okay, borrow a bible from a Christian friend or order one from Amazon.

5. Grill the officer on state and capital names, the American presidents, English grammar, spelling, multiplication tables, etc. For greatest effect keep score and give prizes to the child (or officer) who wins.
   
6. Tell them you are in the middle of a class, but your office hours are from four to five, Monday through Friday.
   
7. Duct tape the officer to the wall while the kids explain the Law of Gravity and other applicable principles.
   
8. Cast the officer as Polonius in the HS Group production of Hamlet.
   
9. Ask if the kids may interview them for a report on Government in Action (subtitled Freedom: What makes America great.
   
10.  Don’t worry about it because you weren’t home when the officer came by. You were at the lumber yard buying project supplies,
    at the newspaper office, dairy farm, history museum, wildlife refuge center, or police station on a field trip,
    at music lessons, soccer practice, book club, co-op classes, 4-H, or just taking a nice walk in the park because you only need one-hundred eighty days of school a year and you schooled through the summer so you could enjoy  a really beautiful day when one came along.

Please add your suggestion to the list.

Epic Perseverance

He jumps. One day he will be famous for that gravity-mocking jump. Right now, he’s not worried about fame. He doesn’t know why he can jump so high. He doesn’t care. He concentrates on using this new-found talent to clear the big lizard with the heels of his boots. He comes down on the flashing switch at the monster’s back. Some laborer’s instinct tells him this is the lynch pin, the thing holding the bridge together. His feet smash it, letting the bridge behind him collapse. The lizard falls too, plummeting with a cartoonish laziness.

     He doesn’t look back to watch. He hears the clak-clak-clak of the bridge coming down and knows he has won. Instead of gloating, which isn’t his nature anyway, he takes a few deep breaths. He lets his pounding heart slow down. His cap trembles in his hand as he removes it to run his fingers through his thick, dark hair.

     It’s over. That’s all that matters. He’s rescued the girl, that pretty blonde he’d met years ago. The day is saved and maybe they can live in peace for a while.

     He wonders if he can really live here in her strange country with her. He doesn’t know if he can. This place, where rust-colored stones pave every bit of the ground, unsettles him. The conical grassy hills that rise from it remind him of burial mounds.

     His mind wanders back to the even more disturbing things he’s encountered. He thinks of the mushroom he ate that made him grow like Alice in her Wonderland adventure. He thinks of the bricks that hang, suspended by nothing but as solid as any masonry he’d ever seen.

     Still, he had been able to topple a few with the new strength his increased size gave him. Others had not yielded even to that. Instead, they had given up treasure, mostly copper coins, bright and flashing and as big as his head. A few had held stranger treasures; there were the Wonderland mushrooms that made him grow, there was a large-blossomed flower that gave him power over fire, there was a rare star-shaped amulet that wreathed him in a protective aura.

     And he had needed the protection. In this world there were monsters. He’d faced terrible hybrid animals that hadn’t seemed aggressive at first, but had proven deadly when engaged. There was a breed of tortoise spliced with some kind of raptor. The product was an armored beast with a sharp, tearing beak. He’d learned to dodge the mouth and strike the crown of the shell but the lesson had been costly.

     He feels calmer now. The darkness is hot and oppressive inside the castle, but he has mastered it. He has beaten the guardian and now he stands, catching his breath in the inner rooms of this evil den. Not bad work for a common union plumber. He is no prince charming, short and swarthy as he is, but he can get a job done right.

     He snugs his hat back into place. It is a brilliant scarlet thing that is impossible to miss, even in this gloom. The bright, vivid colors were his father’s doing. His father had told them, him and his brother, that to be successful they must be memorable. His own mother had sewn the first set of vibrant uniforms.

     Sometimes he thinks the bright clothes make him look like a gypsie, especially with his darker, Mediterranean complexion. But, people remembered his name and the brothers had always stayed busy before they’d come to the strange country he was in now.

     He has one more thing to do. He enters the long, narrow chamber on this side of the chasm he fought to cross. His eyes fall on a writhing sack on the bare floor.

     They stuffed her in a sack! His love, his princess, tied up like potatoes in a feed bag!

     He looses the knot binding the neck of the sack and pushes the rough canvas away. Instead of the spill of pink satin and blonde hair he expects a large, spotted toadstool tumbles out. The toadstool stands up on tiny legs and blinks at him. an expression both grateful and apologetic is on its face.

     He recognizes the creature. It is one of her people, one of her subjects. To love her is to love them. But, he can’t hide his disappointment. He misses her and his fear is mounting the longer she stays lost.

     “Thank you,” says the toadstool, “but our princess is in another castle.”

     Tears leak from his eyes, frustration and fear spilling out. His nerves are raw, his limbs exhausted. He only nods and leaves by the door at the back of the room.

     When he is outside again he stares at the alien landscape for a long moment. A dark shape smudges the horizon. It is a castle. Another castle.

     “Our princess is in another castle.”

     He thinks of the three levels of Hell he has already descended to get here; the weird stone-paved plains, the cavern with it’s shifting platforms and pitfalls, the weird forest canopy of flat-topped trees. He thinks of the castle full of fiery traps and nightmare creatures.

     He pushes the clutter of anxieties out of his mind. His resolve firms into an iron-clad perseverance. He will find her. He will rescue her. He loves her and will not abandon her. He will fight his way to the next castle, through the next castle and the next and the next. He will follow her to the end of all worlds and fight the king of all monsters if it means he can see her once more.

     He leaves the rust-colored ramparts behind and sets out for the distant horizon. A wicked mushroom creature with baleful eyes sidles toward him. He jumps. He brings his heavy steel-toed boots down, smashing the ill-fated monster flat.

     He will go. He will fight.

His princess is in another castle.

Taste.

We took a field trip on Monday.

We got up early and loaded the kids in the car and drove South down Illinois 127 to Rendleman Orchards. The drive to the orchards is a little more than an hour if we don’t get lost. Sometimes we do.

We pass the time ooh-ing and aah-ing at the bright, jewel-toned trees we pass, golden and ruby and emerald. We sing songs. We watch for items on our scavenger list; a point for seeing a tractor or an unusual mailbox. We saw no less than four Large-mouthed Bass mailboxes.

At the orchard we browse the delicious smelling wares and select a peck of Fuji apples and a couple of bottles of cider.

The apples are magnificent. If you have never eaten an apple directly from the orchard, make the drive. Nothing you can buy in a grocer’s will compare with the fresh and flavorful fruit of a local producer. Try the Fuji apples. They are in season right now and a personal favorite of mine.

We turn back north a few miles to explore the Pamona Natural Bridge. We see more brilliant plumage on the trees. We hike back to see the arch of stone formed by erosion. Frogs surprise us and one toad tolerates a gentle handling for us.

Another, longer drive eventually takes us back to Murphysboro and the 17^th Street Bar & Grill. Mike Mills’ award-winning ribs do their magic on us and the entire family falls upon the feast with gusto.

I ate too much. I freely confess it. There’s a part of me that always exalts a little in good food. I might be a hedonist or a glutton, but I will praise God in heaven for the Fuji apple and the Smoked Beef Brisket. I hold them up, exhibits A and B, that the world was made to be a paradise. There is still a lot to enjoy, to savor in it. “Taste,” says the Psalmist, “and see that the Lord is good.”

Because we are different...

We have a rule at our house. The rule is ‘no guns’. We own no toy guns despite having three boys that are as rowdy and aggressive as ever a man-child was. We have this rule because I don’t want them pretending to kill each other. That’s not a game.

Perhaps I am being too serious about it. Perhaps. It’s my house though. It’s my rule.

My children say, “What about hunting?”

If you believe in reincarnation then believe my children were trial lawyers in a previous life. If you don’t, then understand that my children are like all others in Western Civilization. They like to argue, so they ask about hunting.

“That’s true,” I say. “If you want to pretend to hunt with rifles and shotguns, you could. Do you want to play with toy rifles or toy pistols?”

I explain that pistols are hand guns.

They say, “We want toy pistols.”

I say, “I know.”

Now it’s October and it’s time for another hard decision. Halloween has been heavily marketed, like most holidays, toward kids. Each year my wife and I have grown more uncomfortable with the grisly displays that captivate and creep out our children when we go to the store. Skeletons, zombies and ghosts lurk in every Wal-Mart. Horrific movie posters decorate the windows of video stores.

I know that my kids don’t have to dress up like monsters and murderers. They could wear any number of innocent costumes. It would still be Halloween. It is the season for haunted houses and horror movies. These things belong. We do not.

I don’t know when vampires and witches became the good guys. I do know I have to draw the line somewhere. I’d rather not eat a brownie at all than eat a turd by mistake if there’s a chance of a mix up. I think in this case, there is a chance.

Maybe I’m sheltering them. In fact, I know I am. It’s my job. If I’m wrong, they can have all the Halloween fun they want when they grow up and leave home. They will be little the worse for wear, I think. We can play dress up any day of the week and candy is always in season. I see no reason to observe a holiday that is the traditional night of the deathly, the macabre and the nightmarish. Rather, I will take a pass. Let it be another day on the calendar like Bastille Day or Yom Kippur.

"Dear friend, do not imitate what is evil but what is good."
John the Beloved in a letter to his friend, Gaius ~ A.D. 90

Naptime

     “That’s my stick!”

     “No it isn’t!”

     “Yes it is!”

     “You’re stick is over there!”

     “No it’s not!”

     “Yes it is!”

     Abel made a grab for the stick in his brother’s hand. He was rewarded with a hard stroke across his ear. His shriek of pain and anger filled the little cave. It crashed off every hard surface and shattered the last of his mother’s patience.

     “That’s it!” She gritted her teeth, closed her eyes. Some of the scream went out of her voice. “That is it! You two have done nothing but argue all morning—Cain!”

     She pierced the boy with her glare.

     “Put the stick down. Now.”

     The thing clattered to the floor.

     Eve seized each of the boys by an arm and marched them deep into the warm interior of the cave. She stopped at a pile of blankets and animal skins heaped at the back.

     She settled them on the pile, arranging them where they couldn’t touch each other. She looked down upon them and uttered words that would ring throughout history in the mouths of exhausted mothers everywhere.

     “It’s nap time.”

---

     I don’t know whether Eve really invented naptime or not. I do know she had two boys and I doubt that famous incident that ended with Abel dead was their first argument. At some point, it had to occur to her that a break in the middle of the day might be a good idea. Kids get tired.

     When I was in Kindergarten, they still made us take naps after lunch recess. I’m not sure if they still do or not. They should. My own kids have to take a break after lunch. I encourage those who can sleep to do so, although they all maintain that their not tired. Still, the four-year-old tends to fall asleep more days than not. Even the eight-year-old crashes sometimes when he was up late the night before or it has been a big morning.

     I wouldn’t mind a nap midday myself, although that’s a more unattainable dream than publishing a novel at this point. Gotta have priorities. I would never sleep if I didn’t have to, but when I’m tired my body can be quite insistent.

     Still, I think I will keep naptime an institution in my home until the kids are grown and leave. Everyone needs a little quiet time during the day, a time they are guaranteed some peace uninterrupted. Even a teenager’s life (especially a teenager’s life) is full of hectic activity and an hour to stop everything and read a book could mean a lot.

     We are very busy at our house and people ask how we handle four kids and the challenges of homeschooling. The truth is, putting the kids down for a nap is as much for us as for them. That is our chance to talk, to rest, to get ready for the rest of the day. It is an island of peace in a sea of chaos. If Eve did pioneer the childhood siesta then I applaud her. Many thanks O mother of us all.

Seriously!? Like a little child?

And he said: "I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.      --Jesus of Nazareth circa 30AD

"Wait, what? I have to become like a child? But children are needy and selfish. Why do you want me to be like them? Adults are smarter. We know things. We can do things. We're autonomous. Give me a job and I can get it done. You don't have to micromanage me. I know you're busy. Just between us adults, those kids aren't exactly the best at doing a job, you know. There's a lot they miss. It's a big world. You need big people to take care of it."

"Yes, I heard what you said about being like a child but..."

"yes, but..."

"no, I don't really understand it."

"Yes I usually do understand things pretty quickly... "

"What do I think it means?... I don't know. I guess..."

"sorry, you're right, no guessing...um...kids have lots of faith, right? My kids take everything I say at face value. They really don't do subtle. I crack a joke, you know something witty and sarcastic--"

"Yeah, faith. They just sort of trust. It's genuine, too. Adults always hold something back when they trust, but kids will put it all out there."

"What else? Uh, I gue--  I mean, I think kids are preceptive. They see things as they really are, not as they want them to be or as someone else has told them. If what they're told doesn't match with what they see, there will be questions. Lots of questions."

"Thank you."

"What else? Man, I don't know. They love real purely. They tell the truth, they like to cuddle, they still know they need their Daddy most of the time, they..."

"What do you mean you think I'm getting it? What am I getting?"

"You? I need to love you like that? Trust you like that? You want my questions and my childish, not to be deceived faith, huh. But..."

"No but's. Fair enough."

"Well...love me back, please. I need you, too."

Autumn.

I love autumn. It is far and above my favorite season. It is a bittersweet love since I suffer from allergies annually, but it is a small price to pay for the best weather of the year. Autumn comes with harbingers for each of the senses. It is a sometimes gradual sometimes overnight transition. It is the dying of the earth and its death knell is beautiful.

One day, halfway through September I leave the house and air smells different. It is no longer the hot, green smell of growing grass and steaming leaves. Some if it is the harvest. Farmers gather in their crops and the disturbed soil and chaff flavor the air, cluing in my nose that autumn has arrived, even if the mercury in the thermometer hasn't been told yet.
I go about my business of the day and as I drive down the highway I am annoyed by the glare of the sun. It gleams from a low place in the sky, bright, but not so hot as a few weeks ago. The very quality of light has changed. The sun seems tired all of a sudden, tired and far away. Everything begins to look like fall.
Cicadas sing and frogs, a constant buzzing you can hear even in the towns. One day hot, another cold. A few days of rain and the temperature dips in the fifties. It won't go higher than eighty after that. Why? Because the weatherman says? No. I can feel it. There's a finality to it all. Summer is passing away.The winter king cometh and he sends his chilly heralds before him.


We know in the deepest part of us that all things die. But we have the certainty that next spring all things will live again. For now, we can enjoy the familiar smells, the long-awaited holidays the goodness of this season. We have a promise that the seasons will continue, each in their own time until the earth itself is no more. There's a peace in this. Maybe the autumn is practice, year after year, for our own death one day. We can have that peace, knowing there will be a new spring after our physical winter, too. Maybe not.

Whatever it means to you, it is upon you, without guile or subtlety. Brilliant scarlet and gold leaves will  greet us one morning and frost some morning after that. The autumn has arrived.