Strange as it may seem, the kids at the preschool get a pretty vigorous educational work out. Nursery rhymes, big and small, taking turns.
And at some point, each child gets a lesson in “things” and “purpose”.
“This is a hat. What do you do with a hat? Do you eat a hat? Noooo. You wear a hat. Where does a hat go? On your head! Right! Very good friend!”
Coats, shirts, shoes. All things you wear.
Then there is food.
“What is this? It’s a banana! What do we do with a banana? We eat it! Right friend, very good!”
I feel it’s only fair to note that in the beginning children were introduced to a VERY hungry turtle. Once the children properly identified an object in a picture; say a comb, or a truck, they would feed the item to the very hungry turtle. I’ll tell you, that was one deprived testudinata. It ate combs all morning.
So the idea of food and what can be eaten, particularly as it pertained to something other than a human, has a pretty wide definition.
Soon after, the young charges were asked to differentiate between food and other items.
Remember, they have recently witnessed a turtle that eats combs.
“What’s this? Is it a sheep? What do sheep say? Are sheep food or an animal? An animal. We don’t eat sheep, do we?….”
Wait. What?
Though I am not a regular red meat consumer, I have sampled lamb and other “exotic” meats. Maybe a rosemary and olive oil braised shank isn’t in the culinary repertoire of most 2-4 year olds, but what purpose does it serve to make a false distinction?
I mean, what happens when the kid finally learns that part of the hamburger in the fast food meal came from something else that once was called cow and said moo? Or that the family’s celebration roast comes from what was once called sheep and teacher said was NOT food.
No, definitely not food.
It is understandable if teacher doesn’t want to be the one responsible for breaking the news that some food once stood in the field while a buss full of children tried to call to it in its own language. All rheumy-eyed and slow looking.
The food that is.
But if it’s a topic too gruesome for young years, or too sensitive to broach during a simple lesson in things and purpose, maybe its better to just go for the full on vegetarian agenda? Don’t even include animals in the options.
Just those poor, innocent veggies. All green and unassuming.
And fer cryin’ out loud. Feed them to that poor turtle.
10.23.2009
10.15.2009
Rise Unruly Children!
Word of mouth has featured a few stories on children's books this week, what with "Where the Wild Things Are" opening in theaters on Friday. (I will be there at some point this weekend, by the way. Sans wolf costume.)
WWTA was one of apparently three Maurice Sendak books that are "all variations on the same theme: how children master various feelings" (quote found in Wikipedia entry on WWTA).
So it was only fitting that WoM spoke with Daniel Zalewski from The New Yorker about the trend he noticed in children's books, and then wrote about as a magazine piece.
The trend? Picture book parents who don't punish their children.
I'm not a parent. One of my parents was abusive, and the other was just scared. So it's difficult to say if a picture book parent exercising discipline over an unruly child would have even made my radar. Or if the picture book parent was more exasperated but loving. In my head wrong was wrong and you didn't test that.
Still, this reported change in picture book theme is fascinating to me. Just about as fascinating as the time a friend of mine who has just become a parent commented that the books he was reading to his child were lame.
"I don't remember children's books being like that when I was a kid," he said. "These books just ramble on and go no where."
That's a bit off topic though.
Could it be that authors are trying to highlight the glory of individuality and creativity in children? And that this should be respected and accepted by parents?
And truly, doesn't Max's mom in WWTA still say she loves him despite his bad behavior because, in the end, a dinner still hot on the plate is waiting for him when he sails back into his room? Or is it different because he got sent to his room for bad behavior in the first place?
There is at least once a day when I laugh out loud at work because I can hear the children in the classroom across the hall doing something that children do. Sometimes there is screaming, sometimes there is singing, rarely is there quiet, always there is an attempt to maintain some sort of order.
So, how to discipline without stifling?
Or, do children recognize the picture book for what it is? A story; a short fantasy to escape from the confines of parents and rules.
One thing I'm not sure Zalewski touched on was if he asked his own children what they thought of the story once the reading was done. And if the trend is a problem, or just a trend.
Either way, I'm making my escape on Friday. Maybe I'll learn something about my own anger. Most likely I'll just lose myself in a book made real on the screen and set sail in my own wolf costume to befriend some monsters of my own.
WWTA was one of apparently three Maurice Sendak books that are "all variations on the same theme: how children master various feelings" (quote found in Wikipedia entry on WWTA).
So it was only fitting that WoM spoke with Daniel Zalewski from The New Yorker about the trend he noticed in children's books, and then wrote about as a magazine piece.
The trend? Picture book parents who don't punish their children.
I'm not a parent. One of my parents was abusive, and the other was just scared. So it's difficult to say if a picture book parent exercising discipline over an unruly child would have even made my radar. Or if the picture book parent was more exasperated but loving. In my head wrong was wrong and you didn't test that.
Still, this reported change in picture book theme is fascinating to me. Just about as fascinating as the time a friend of mine who has just become a parent commented that the books he was reading to his child were lame.
"I don't remember children's books being like that when I was a kid," he said. "These books just ramble on and go no where."
That's a bit off topic though.
Could it be that authors are trying to highlight the glory of individuality and creativity in children? And that this should be respected and accepted by parents?
And truly, doesn't Max's mom in WWTA still say she loves him despite his bad behavior because, in the end, a dinner still hot on the plate is waiting for him when he sails back into his room? Or is it different because he got sent to his room for bad behavior in the first place?
There is at least once a day when I laugh out loud at work because I can hear the children in the classroom across the hall doing something that children do. Sometimes there is screaming, sometimes there is singing, rarely is there quiet, always there is an attempt to maintain some sort of order.
So, how to discipline without stifling?
Or, do children recognize the picture book for what it is? A story; a short fantasy to escape from the confines of parents and rules.
One thing I'm not sure Zalewski touched on was if he asked his own children what they thought of the story once the reading was done. And if the trend is a problem, or just a trend.
Either way, I'm making my escape on Friday. Maybe I'll learn something about my own anger. Most likely I'll just lose myself in a book made real on the screen and set sail in my own wolf costume to befriend some monsters of my own.
10.13.2009
To listen
Song birds and chipmunks hold constant court in the woods around Massabessic. Loons and osprey make special appearances, garter snakes look for sun (or maybe legs and socks if they are to truly live up to their monikers), mice ruffle under the leaves attempting the surreptitious gathering of food. It is easier to hear the fauna than to see it.
Unless you’re being dive bombed by a swallow in the fields, or find a blue heron as your fishing partner along the shore.
What is unexpected is a swarm of starlings. At least their pops and clicks and incessant flocking made them out to be starlings.
Their large size and prominent tail spread were not very starling like, but the jungle like atmosphere they created was the kind of cacophony only starlings can create.
For whatever reason, hundreds of these birds decided that this bit of forest along the shore was the place to be on Monday. I watched them flock in small groups, always 10 wing beats ahead of my slow progress down the trail. The air would pulse with the beating of their wings. When part of the group took off all at once, their motion barely discernable through the trees but the audible whoosh of their collective flight giving away their motion, another person on the trail who had stopped to listen to the noise turned to me, eyes wide “Did you hear that?”
It was hard not to.
Before entering the woods I stopped to hear the solo flight of a raven as it circled the Audubon Center. A slow croak was the only other sound it made. The slow push of its wings a stark contrast to the nervous flocking that came later.
Unless you’re being dive bombed by a swallow in the fields, or find a blue heron as your fishing partner along the shore.
What is unexpected is a swarm of starlings. At least their pops and clicks and incessant flocking made them out to be starlings.
Their large size and prominent tail spread were not very starling like, but the jungle like atmosphere they created was the kind of cacophony only starlings can create.
For whatever reason, hundreds of these birds decided that this bit of forest along the shore was the place to be on Monday. I watched them flock in small groups, always 10 wing beats ahead of my slow progress down the trail. The air would pulse with the beating of their wings. When part of the group took off all at once, their motion barely discernable through the trees but the audible whoosh of their collective flight giving away their motion, another person on the trail who had stopped to listen to the noise turned to me, eyes wide “Did you hear that?”
It was hard not to.
Before entering the woods I stopped to hear the solo flight of a raven as it circled the Audubon Center. A slow croak was the only other sound it made. The slow push of its wings a stark contrast to the nervous flocking that came later.
Poto phosting
Decided to take my camera with me to the Audubon trails yesterday. Clear blue sky, some nice color (though still a lot of green), came up with something in my head to talk about but now can't remember it. So a poto phost today! (Click on the pics for a larger view. Y'know. If you want to or anything.)
10.11.2009
For the love of cars
Catching up with an old friend and we started talking about cars. She moved her daughter back to college this year using a 1998 Honda Civic; made it all the way to South Carolina and it’s got to keep going strong for a few more years.
In the late 80s, soon after my parents divorce, my mom got her hands on a sweet little silver Honda Civic. Not much bigger than a VW bug, but certainly with just as much personality.
If you stretch out your arms, touch your finger tips together, and round out your elbows you will have the approximate size of the steering wheel. And don’t try to tell me that your arms are longer than mine. This polished wood accoutrement could have helped an export freighter full hydrogen Hummers for Schwarzenegger turn on a dime. So as large a circle as you can physically make is probably still less in circumference than the actual wheel.
It was beautiful. Almost fragile to the touch with material and styling you would expect to see in a luxury car.
Perhaps the scalloped edge for better grasp of this slick wheel was exaggerated, but it was part of the charm.
A stick shift to rival a Mack truck stuck proudly out of the four-on-the-floor transmission. With a gear stick head to match the wheel. It was always cool. Even after the scorching of the summer sun.
A bullet-silver exterior and black interior made the wheel and stick shift glow against the monochromatic sensibility of the rest of the two-door coup.
What truly separated this beauty from the crowd, and this had to have been a rarity for the late 80s, was the manual choke. An unassuming pull to the left and down from the steering wheel. Not too much lest you flood the engine. But not enough and you may as well crank that puppy forever ‘till you’ve ground down the starter to dust.
Winters meant driving with the choke wide open until the engine was warm enough to sip gas instead of funnel it like a freshman at his first kegger.
It was a subtle mastery the like of which no other car I’ve owned has required.
Then, while visiting a friend, I backed this eloquent beauty over a wooden railroad tie and into a ditch. To be fair, my friend was warning me to be careful backing into her driveway at the time. At which point I turned my head to ask “what railroad tie?” and my hand, caressing the almost silken wood of that fantastic steering wheel, pushed the steering in the opposite direction.
I bent the frame of the only car my mother owned.
She could only replace it with a dirty, automatic shift Chevette. That car made it for years. This included me making it airborne with a car full of seven friends on the way to the movies, and getting it up to 120 on the highway just to see if I could.
After that it was the Justy. A cheap rip-off of the Civic’s classic beauty. A mechanic joked that the company called it a Justy because you were always working on it to adjusty the breaks, adjusty the alignment, adjusty the transmission.
That Civic is my Platonic ideal of a car. Reality dictates that it would probably be a mess of emissions and fossil fuel consumption. But I would get that car again in a hearbeat. And I bet it would drive me across the country and back.
(Photo can be found here at adclassix.com)
In the late 80s, soon after my parents divorce, my mom got her hands on a sweet little silver Honda Civic. Not much bigger than a VW bug, but certainly with just as much personality.
If you stretch out your arms, touch your finger tips together, and round out your elbows you will have the approximate size of the steering wheel. And don’t try to tell me that your arms are longer than mine. This polished wood accoutrement could have helped an export freighter full hydrogen Hummers for Schwarzenegger turn on a dime. So as large a circle as you can physically make is probably still less in circumference than the actual wheel.
It was beautiful. Almost fragile to the touch with material and styling you would expect to see in a luxury car.
Perhaps the scalloped edge for better grasp of this slick wheel was exaggerated, but it was part of the charm.
A stick shift to rival a Mack truck stuck proudly out of the four-on-the-floor transmission. With a gear stick head to match the wheel. It was always cool. Even after the scorching of the summer sun.
A bullet-silver exterior and black interior made the wheel and stick shift glow against the monochromatic sensibility of the rest of the two-door coup.
What truly separated this beauty from the crowd, and this had to have been a rarity for the late 80s, was the manual choke. An unassuming pull to the left and down from the steering wheel. Not too much lest you flood the engine. But not enough and you may as well crank that puppy forever ‘till you’ve ground down the starter to dust.
Winters meant driving with the choke wide open until the engine was warm enough to sip gas instead of funnel it like a freshman at his first kegger.
It was a subtle mastery the like of which no other car I’ve owned has required.
Then, while visiting a friend, I backed this eloquent beauty over a wooden railroad tie and into a ditch. To be fair, my friend was warning me to be careful backing into her driveway at the time. At which point I turned my head to ask “what railroad tie?” and my hand, caressing the almost silken wood of that fantastic steering wheel, pushed the steering in the opposite direction.
I bent the frame of the only car my mother owned.
She could only replace it with a dirty, automatic shift Chevette. That car made it for years. This included me making it airborne with a car full of seven friends on the way to the movies, and getting it up to 120 on the highway just to see if I could.
After that it was the Justy. A cheap rip-off of the Civic’s classic beauty. A mechanic joked that the company called it a Justy because you were always working on it to adjusty the breaks, adjusty the alignment, adjusty the transmission.
That Civic is my Platonic ideal of a car. Reality dictates that it would probably be a mess of emissions and fossil fuel consumption. But I would get that car again in a hearbeat. And I bet it would drive me across the country and back.
(Photo can be found here at adclassix.com)
10.09.2009
And another thing...
So far, I've done some html work and organized contact lists and tried to use my communication skills to keep things moving.
Not dealing with the poverty question in the city directly. Though they told us that at orientation. VISTAS are behind the scenes. Building the foundation, ensuring sustainability by leaving a solid rock to stand on.
And I haven't done much reflecting on it either.
So I'm back here. Hoping to talk things out in my head. But what's happening is the kitten is pawing at the button on my sweater like its the best toy she's ever encountered. That is until the clicking of the keys and the motion of the words crawling across the screen dilates her pupils from the rush of curiosity.
And what I really wanted to come back here for was to write something. And I wish my brother were her to help spur me on. The last time I asked him for a challenge he gave me the phrase "the little yellow football from Mars" and I came up with this.
It’s football Saturday.
Martin’s favorite Saturday.
Not because his dad and sister are funny when they cheer wildly for the home team.
Not because Martin and mom drink as much hot chocolate, with mini-marshmallows, as they can while the team is on the field.
Because Martin gets to watch his favorite cartoons all morning while everyone else gets ready for the game.
Heroes and space battles and silly animals. Sometimes Martin will think of new stories for the cartoon characters long after the shows are over.
This football Saturday would have been like any other, except while Martin was making his favorite breakfast of oatmeal and apples he looked out the window to see if the tree had started to get red leaves overnight.
That’s when he saw it.
A bright yellow lump in the front yard.
Martin knew all of his toys by heart. The shiny green and red cars that he likes to race along the kitchen counter.
The little blue house to put bugs in so he can catch the beetles that crawl on the screen door at night and then look at them up close.
The stuffed animals and monsters that he keeps at the end of his bed.
Of all the toys Martin has, none of them are yellow.
He left his oatmeal steaming on the counter and ran out to the front yard, with his pajamas still on, to find out what the bright yellow lump was.
It was a football, a tiny football, and it was the roughest looking football Martin had ever seen.
There were chunks missing from the sides, like something was pulled off the football. Or maybe something had taken a bite out of it.
There were black marks all over the outside too.
As Martin turned the football over, he saw something written near the end.
In tiny little writing was four capital letters.
M A R S
“Whoa,” Martin whispered to himself. This was better than any Saturday morning cartoon could ever be.
He squeezed the football tight in his hand and ran back to the house.
Martin carefully put the football from MARS on the counter and got a stool and his oatmeal so he could eat and look at the football at the same time.
Last week Martin learned about MARS in his class. His teacher told the class “MARS is the fourth planet from the sun. Earth is the third planet from the sun, so we’re like next door neighbors in the solar system.”
Next door neighbors, Martin thought. That’s like the Meads in the brown house, with their dog Scruffy. Last week there was such a strong wind that one of their recycling bins had blown into Martin’s front yard.
Or maybe the Renns in the brick house, who always have great Halloween decorations. Martin knew that on the first day of October he could look down the street and see the ghosts and gravestones as they got ready for the spookiest month in the year.
If these things could happen, then a football could certainly make it to his front yard from MARS.
Martin remembered something else his teacher said. “It is possible to see Mars from Earth, and often it looks like a bright red or yellow sparkle in the sky.”
Of course, Martin thought, as he ate his oatmeal and stared at the football. A yellow planet would have yellow footballs. Earth was full of colors, and you could buy footballs of any color at the toy store.
Sometimes the footballs would have more than one color.
That didn’t explain who threw the football into Martin’s yard.
Martin chewed slowly because it helped him think.
His teacher said that the government sent robots to Mars to look for water, but not for animals or people. Mars wasn’t a friendly planet to live on.
We used to believe that there were people on Mars, his teacher said, and we would have called a person from Mars a Martian.
Martin’s mouth dropped open, still full of oatmeal, just as his mom walked in the room.
“Close your mouth sweetie,” mom said. “What have you got there?”
Martin was so excited he shouted, “A football from Mars!” And he told mom everything teacher had said about Mars being a neighbor of Earth, and yellow and red, and about Martians.
“So this football has to be for me,” Martin said. “My name is only missing an A, and that would make it Martian!”
Suddenly, football seemed a whole lot more exciting.
Martin carried the football with him to the game and watched the players as they huddled and ran and threw the ball around the field.
He wondered how a Martian would play football, and just how far it would have to throw the ball so it landed on Earth.
He even cheered wildly, just like his dad and sister, when the home team made a touchdown.
Not too bad. But the real challenge is if I can challenge myself. Can I give myself something to write about everyday. And can I break out of the flowery, descriptive type of bullshit I usually come out with.
Ooo, off to a great start. Telling myself I write bullshit.
I will be back tomorrow to write some of that bullshit down. See if it grows mushrooms.
Not dealing with the poverty question in the city directly. Though they told us that at orientation. VISTAS are behind the scenes. Building the foundation, ensuring sustainability by leaving a solid rock to stand on.
And I haven't done much reflecting on it either.
So I'm back here. Hoping to talk things out in my head. But what's happening is the kitten is pawing at the button on my sweater like its the best toy she's ever encountered. That is until the clicking of the keys and the motion of the words crawling across the screen dilates her pupils from the rush of curiosity.
And what I really wanted to come back here for was to write something. And I wish my brother were her to help spur me on. The last time I asked him for a challenge he gave me the phrase "the little yellow football from Mars" and I came up with this.
It’s football Saturday.
Martin’s favorite Saturday.
Not because his dad and sister are funny when they cheer wildly for the home team.
Not because Martin and mom drink as much hot chocolate, with mini-marshmallows, as they can while the team is on the field.
Because Martin gets to watch his favorite cartoons all morning while everyone else gets ready for the game.
Heroes and space battles and silly animals. Sometimes Martin will think of new stories for the cartoon characters long after the shows are over.
This football Saturday would have been like any other, except while Martin was making his favorite breakfast of oatmeal and apples he looked out the window to see if the tree had started to get red leaves overnight.
That’s when he saw it.
A bright yellow lump in the front yard.
Martin knew all of his toys by heart. The shiny green and red cars that he likes to race along the kitchen counter.
The little blue house to put bugs in so he can catch the beetles that crawl on the screen door at night and then look at them up close.
The stuffed animals and monsters that he keeps at the end of his bed.
Of all the toys Martin has, none of them are yellow.
He left his oatmeal steaming on the counter and ran out to the front yard, with his pajamas still on, to find out what the bright yellow lump was.
It was a football, a tiny football, and it was the roughest looking football Martin had ever seen.
There were chunks missing from the sides, like something was pulled off the football. Or maybe something had taken a bite out of it.
There were black marks all over the outside too.
As Martin turned the football over, he saw something written near the end.
In tiny little writing was four capital letters.
M A R S
“Whoa,” Martin whispered to himself. This was better than any Saturday morning cartoon could ever be.
He squeezed the football tight in his hand and ran back to the house.
Martin carefully put the football from MARS on the counter and got a stool and his oatmeal so he could eat and look at the football at the same time.
Last week Martin learned about MARS in his class. His teacher told the class “MARS is the fourth planet from the sun. Earth is the third planet from the sun, so we’re like next door neighbors in the solar system.”
Next door neighbors, Martin thought. That’s like the Meads in the brown house, with their dog Scruffy. Last week there was such a strong wind that one of their recycling bins had blown into Martin’s front yard.
Or maybe the Renns in the brick house, who always have great Halloween decorations. Martin knew that on the first day of October he could look down the street and see the ghosts and gravestones as they got ready for the spookiest month in the year.
If these things could happen, then a football could certainly make it to his front yard from MARS.
Martin remembered something else his teacher said. “It is possible to see Mars from Earth, and often it looks like a bright red or yellow sparkle in the sky.”
Of course, Martin thought, as he ate his oatmeal and stared at the football. A yellow planet would have yellow footballs. Earth was full of colors, and you could buy footballs of any color at the toy store.
Sometimes the footballs would have more than one color.
That didn’t explain who threw the football into Martin’s yard.
Martin chewed slowly because it helped him think.
His teacher said that the government sent robots to Mars to look for water, but not for animals or people. Mars wasn’t a friendly planet to live on.
We used to believe that there were people on Mars, his teacher said, and we would have called a person from Mars a Martian.
Martin’s mouth dropped open, still full of oatmeal, just as his mom walked in the room.
“Close your mouth sweetie,” mom said. “What have you got there?”
Martin was so excited he shouted, “A football from Mars!” And he told mom everything teacher had said about Mars being a neighbor of Earth, and yellow and red, and about Martians.
“So this football has to be for me,” Martin said. “My name is only missing an A, and that would make it Martian!”
Suddenly, football seemed a whole lot more exciting.
Martin carried the football with him to the game and watched the players as they huddled and ran and threw the ball around the field.
He wondered how a Martian would play football, and just how far it would have to throw the ball so it landed on Earth.
He even cheered wildly, just like his dad and sister, when the home team made a touchdown.
Not too bad. But the real challenge is if I can challenge myself. Can I give myself something to write about everyday. And can I break out of the flowery, descriptive type of bullshit I usually come out with.
Ooo, off to a great start. Telling myself I write bullshit.
I will be back tomorrow to write some of that bullshit down. See if it grows mushrooms.
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