Russian Class

We recently started Russian lessons for our two youngest daughters. We have the good fortune of having my former Russian teacher, Tatyana, from the local university, to tutor them privately. All is going extremely well. The girls are already reading in Cyrillic -- a feat that took yours truly at least six months.

The books Tatyana had us get for the girls are very Russian. I love how true to the culture they are.

One of the first things I had to explain to my older daughter was

Га-га́-рин

That's Yuri Gagarin, the first man in space. OK. Yeah, she should know about him.

Then we happen upon

Моск-вич

This is a car, the Moskvich, that was produced in Russia from 1945 until 1991. OK. I guess it doesn't hurt for her to know about this common item of Russian life for over half a century.

But, I had to laugh when she sounded out

Ка-лаш-ни-ков

Especially when she perfectly pronounced "Ka-lash-ni-kov"!

What a proud Mama I was!

A Meeting of Minds

Meet Joyce.

Joyce is the Food Service Director for the Clarinda school system. And she is a maverick in that she is committed to giving the children good, pure, local, organic food to eat.

Like myself, she was impressed by Jamie Oliver and his Food Revolution.

She has already transitioned into homemade chicken nuggets from real chicken breasts in the school kitchens.

She is planning to take on beef next year.

She is even plotting to improve the sacred pizza that the kids love. (She knows that this is the last bastion, though.)

I'm so glad we found each other!

Last weekend, we began our working relationship. She came to the farm and bought all that I had harvested on Saturday morning -- summer and winter squashes, seven kinds of cucumbers, sweet and hot peppers, and a few tomatoes.

We finish each other's sentences about the quality of good food.

We both remember times when our mothers and grandmothers made meals from scratch, and in season.

We are both excited about the addition of organic produce to the school lunch menu.

She is going to have a few of the unique squashes on display for the kids to touch and learn about.

She has obtained a farm-to-school grant to promote local and organic food in the schools.

She is even going toe-to-toe with the USDA!

We represent the baby steps on the road to healthy, flavorful, wonderful eating.

Summer Camp

"Aim for the Stars" is the name of the Lego Robotics camp at the local university that Maya (aged 9, our fourth daughter) was excited to attend when she got the paperwork at school last May. Sunday night, before the start of the week-long camp, she was filled with dread at the prospect of actually attending it.

I hate this part of parenthood.

Do you make her go? Do you let her off the hook because she's scared? (And forfeit the non-refundable $160-payment you've made.)

It's not like I haven't had experience at this. You would think that I should be pretty well equipped to handle this stuff.

Let us review...

I spent almost a year with my eldest (now 21) when she was three years old and dying to be a ballerina, deciding whether to make her go to dance lessons. I did make her go (well, half of the time). Twenty years later, a quite accomplished ballerina, in a heartfelt moment, summing up all of her life to that point, she thanked me for making her go to dance class early on and couldn't even really imagine not having danced all her life.

I let my second daughter skip out of soccer. Not only did she not take to it, but also the other parents had the worst potty mouths! I couldn't believe my ears at most of the games. Anyway, this one ended up a ballerina, too. And a beautiful one she was.

Next we have our third daughter. She doesn't do anything she doesn't want to do. If you can make her do anything, I tip my hat to you. I've known her since she was born, and I defy anyone to cajole, bribe, threaten, or blackmail her to do anything. So, in a sense, she was easy. I don't make her do anything. It seems to work for all of us.

Then there's Maya. She's the baby. She still needs to explore things, try things, find what she likes. Hence, the camp. It promised to wed playing with toys and programming the computer. Here she is coming out on the first day:

I wished I had been the parent of the boy in front of her. (Not really.)

She hated it. It was boring. It was hard. No one helped her. There were no potential friends. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. (What movie was that from?)

So, Monday night, I called the director of the program and told her Maya's findings at the robotics camp. The director assured me that she would contact Maya's teacher and get her some extra attention and even move her to another subject, more to her liking, after trying a second day at the camp.

Ok, Maya, here's the plan. You go one more day and see how it goes.

Kicking and screaming, she goes.

I cross my fingers on Tuesday when I go to pick her up.

Same deal.

She hates it. She is bored.

So, daunted by the thought of half an hour in the car on Wednesday morning with a sobbing child, I relented and told her she didn't have to go anymore.

What stuck in my craw was that she had left a rather nice lunchbox on Tuesday. Since I was in the area on Thursday, I stopped in to pick it up. I ran into her teacher.

"Oh, is Maya alright? Is she sick?"

No, she's throwing fits so I didn't make her come.

"We miss her! She had a bit of a frustrating day on Monday, but, by Tuesday, she was helping the other girls and showed a predisposition for programming."

What a stinker. I had no idea of any of this.

The gig was up.

I made her attend Friday, the last day of the camp, and she had a really good time. Here she is with Dad, both wearing their badges.

Thank goodness she's the last one. I'm really tired of figuring this stuff out.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

Our good friends, Jayne, (Liz's dear friend from ages ago), J.P. and Tiddler (Jayne's ducklings) are arriving tomorrow from Merry Old England for their annual visit to the Big "O" (Omaha) and to our farm in Iowa where Jayne and I plan to sit on resin garden chairs in the pool and visit for as long as we can stand it. Given the Brits' mad-cow scare some years back which resulted in a few years with no beef in the country, we also plan to eat lots of good ol' midwestern meat, some of it cooked over the open fire at the farm.

Yum.

So, in anticipation of their visit, I thought we should tidy up a bit.

With the help of my ducklings, I took all the seedling trays and shelves to the basement where I should have put them in, oh, say, April (when I was done with them). I also put the peat moss and seed-starting dirt in the compost bin. I hung the Girl Scouts' painting (from May) on the wall instead of leaving it where it had been -- in front of the hearth. I vacuumed. I pickled cucumbers and made pesto, i.e., I cleaned out the fridge. I swept. I did dishes.

Then, today, I asked the ducklings to get me the sheets and pillow cases from their and the guest's beds.

Maya, my nine-year-old, after seeing this flurry of activity all week, finally asked:

"So, Mom, does it take someone coming from overseas for us to clean the house?"

Having sworn to myself years ago to always be as honest as possible with my children, I answered,

"Well, yes, I suppose it does."

Here is an ancient photo of the trinity of friends in our apartment in Paris in 1984 -- from left to right: Sarah (age 21), Liz (age 24), and Jayne (age 21). It was a great year!

There Goes My Baby

I am the mother of four absolutely wonderful girls. In the great cosmic roll of the dice, I got super lucky. The eldest is 21 and is a bi-lingual para-legal in Brussels, Belgium. The second is 19 and a Spanish/Psychology major at San Diego State University. The third is 12 and in the middle of middle school.

And the youngest, Maya, is 9.

Since it's summer, the rules around the house are more lax than usual, which is saying something if you know us. Maya has been spending time at her aunt's house lately and was due to come home a couple of days ago, but I got this short email:

i miss you but i don't want to come home.

AGH! My baby is growing up! The first taste of independence has struck!

As any mother reading this will understand, I felt thrilled and nostalgic at the same time. A former colleague once reminded me of an old saying that has stayed with me, "A parent's job is to give children two things -- roots and wings."

I closed my eyes and could just see my fledgling daring to eye the sky.

Given that her three predecessors had always been one step ahead of me, I was prepared for the leap into the air that she took the following day. While still at her aunt's house, she concocted a veritable grown-up plan for herself for the weekend. The only thing lacking was a little financing, hence the next email:

hey mom i love you so much can u please give me 86$ for 3 tickets to the Justin Bieber concert?

I suppose I can.

After all, how could I stand in the way of my baby bird taking flight.

Having a Field Day

Two months ago, Luke Gran from the Practical Farmers of Iowa contacted me as he was making up his annual field day schedule for the state of Iowa. He thought it would be nice if I had some folks over to our farm and talked about "going organic". No sweat, I thought. There would be a $500 stipend for half a day of showing off our farm and a $200 food allowance for putting on a lunch.

Easy money.

Ha!

There's no such thing as a free lunch. (Why do we have to learn this lesson over and over? Maybe it's just me.)

Here's how things progressed:

We buy some local chicken at the Clarinda Fareway for the field day.

We buy paper plates, paper cups, and drink containers.

I order the grassroots movie "Fresh" to show.

I create the menu.

I plan the talks.

I make the schedule for the day.

I collect materials that may be of interest to farmers "going organic".

I order the natural, grass-fed beef patties for hamburgers.

Great. No problem. The Practical Farmers of Iowa will reimburse all these expenses.

I create an ad on Facebook to invite people to the event. The Practical Farmers place ads in various publications.

How many people will turn up? No idea. No problem. We'll wing it.

I put together a packet of information for people to take with them for reference. As I'm copying, the ink cartridge goes dry. I run to the store for a new one.

This is getting stressful.

As the day draws nearer, I try to locate tables. A neighbor suggests I call the local community center for them. I call and I call and I call. It seems Mike isn't always at the phone. I write a letter and Mike calls me...three days before the event. He says he has to check with the mayor and get back to me.

Are you kidding? The mayor has to "Ok" the use of the tables?

Mr. Mayor never does let me know, one way or the other, about the tables. Mike and I are both stymied. I even find the mayor's cell number and leave him a message. No response.

He won't get my vote the next time around.

Fortunately, the neighbors helped me cobble together enough chairs and tables for everyone who attended.

They've saved my butt more than once! God bless 'em.

The day before the event, I buy all the fresh ingredients we need. With help from Grandma Jan, we make salads and help Dec prepare her 15-minute talk. It takes about four hours.

Dec was supposed to either have her talk done so that she could weed today or pull it out of her butt at the appointed time so that she could weed today. Ugh!

I mow the aronia berries so that Hubby won't be embarrassed when he shows them off on the tour. I mow the expanse of field for the kids to play on. I turn to mow the heart of the compound so that it looks nice for all the visitors.

The mower seems to be sluggish. I get off to see what the problem is and find the back wheel completely shredded.

Are you kidding me?

The day arrives.

Everything is ready.

The skies open up at 5am and fire and brimstone (and two more inches of rain) descend on our lovely little patch of heaven.

Natch.

Setting up the tables outside, I suddenly hear screams coming from the house. I rush inside to find the roasting rosemary chicken on fire in the oven.

Knights, new plan!

We moved the chicken to the grill with the hamburgers, the rain abated and the sun shone for the rest of the day. We had a nice turnout of about 45 people. Lunch was tasty. The talks went well.

I didn't get to a tenth of what I wanted to say!

While winding down watching "Fresh", I started to feel a little queasy in the hot, airless cabin. I excused myself to the bathroom and proceeded to toss my cookies.

"What cookies?" Hubby asks, apparently looking for dessert.

Gotta love that Russian of mine!

We're four days out and I think I've just about recovered.

Reviews of the day were pretty good, even though the garden wasn't weeded.

But, we offered Grandma a deal. If she gives us $500 next summer when she comes to visit, we'll agree to forego the field day! Heck, we may even forego it for free.

Putting My Feet Up

Yesterday, May 31st, was Memorial Day which meant an extra day off and, therefore, an extra day at the farm. And the weather couldn't have been better. On top of that, Meelie and her boyfriend, Tom, popped out to spend the afternoon with us.

Hubby grilled some perfect hamburgers. We all went for a swim. Then, there was a request to go horseback riding. (Meelie and Tom hadn't been for ages.) Our wonderful neighbor, Marlin, has horses that he likes us to ride as often as we like, to keep them from getting wild.

Well, we hadn't availed ourselves of this privilege for a long time. It's probably been about ten months since we took out a horse or two for a ride. The result of this hiatus is that the horses can get a little uppity, or lazy, or both.

I caught the sweetest of the horses, Slick, in his paddock and was leading him into the saddling area where he accidentally planted his foot onto mine (which, in violation of Marlin's hard shoe rule, was clad in only a flip-flop -- ouch, it hurts all over again).

Slick's half ton plus of horse flesh was firmly planted on my foot for a good ten seconds while I punched him in the gut yelling "side!" for him to go to the OTHER side and get off of me. Apparently, it took him that time to remember his training. He finally did move and seemed oblivious to what he had just done. He even licked me (as is his habit) as I was bridling him.

The picture doesn't do it justice. It's much worse than it looks.

The pity party can commence!

Amazingly, it hurt for the rest of the day but now is only a bit stiff, making me look like I have a peg leg when I walk.

Also amazingly, another of Marlin's horses stepped on me four years ago and the result was about the same.

I wonder how many swollen feet I'll need to go through before I start following Marlin's hard shoe rule.