Educating Amelia

A junior in college, my daughter called me yesterday, presumably just to check in and say "Hi!". Very casually, she asks if I am going to vote in the next election. Sure, I am. "Oh, and when is that?" she asks. "The first Tuesday in November," I reply. My child is finally taking an interest in the political process. How nice! "And what do you know about the electoral college?" comes next.

The gig was up.

After lecturing a bit about electors and the popular vote and the 2000 election, I asked for the next question on the study sheet. It was a doozy. "What president was responsible for popularizing big government?"

Hmm.

Big government? Who wants that?

I counseled her to go early to the test and ask the T.A. -- the limit of my poly sci knowledge having been reached.

Our Farm Kittens

Here is our latest batch of farm kittens:

They were born in the spring and are thriving. They eat almost anything we give them. Our farm cats are special in that they have to fend for themselves during the week and then get spoiled by us on the weekends.

I recently treated Hubby to some new beers after discovering the paradise of Brix* here in Omaha. Well, given the shotgun approach to choosing single beers, there was one that he didn't quite fancy. He drank a bit of it, but decided to treat the kittens to the rest of it.

It's the dark one of the three red dishes.

After a couple of hours, they still hadn't touched it.

Hubby's reasoning?

"It's probably too early in the day for them to start drinking."

:)

*A wonderful new store that stocks wines, beers, cheeses, olives, and fresh French bread. What more could one want?

What a Day

Today I received my application for AARP membership.

Yes, I am turning 50 next month...get those presents ready!

I had a few hot flashes today. They were making themselves more evident than usual.

Do they have something to do with the arrival of the mail?

Hubby took me out for an early birthday dinner.

Yum, Thai food!

He also brought me the present that I have been waiting for for months --

something that is going to be hard for me to break --

something that is going to clean up the yard at both the house and the cabin --

a Stihl weedwhacker.

Yes, I really did want that as a present.

Cows in the Corn

Last Friday evening, Hubby and I were sitting on the patio at the farm on, arguably, one of the best evenings of the year. It was 72 degrees out, about 10pm, a starry sky above, and we had just finished a lovely dinner of Spanish lamb meatballs that we had prepared for ourselves. We were having a nightcap outside when I was startled by a specter blanking out the area in front of the chicken coop, some 30 yards away. We jumped up, grabbed the flashlights and, lo and behold, the neighbor's cattle appeared in the darkness. They had apparently decided to pay us a visit and drink from our swimming pool!

We called said neighbor, Tim, who responded immediately with, "I'm putting my boots on" (code for, "In order to deal with the likes of cattle, one needs foot protection" I surmised.) In addition, he mentioned that the fence they had breached had a hole in it that was "big enough to throw a cat through" (apparently a standard unit of measurement in farm circles).

Now, herding the cows back to where they needed to go was not as straightforward as one would think. You can't push them too hard or they will stampede and trample poor Tim. You can't leave them to their own devices or they will keep drinking from the pool (not the cleanest water around) and knock down the fence to the tender greens in the garden (also not desirable). You have to gently honk at them and go behind them in the truck and guide them to where they need to go. Which is exactly what we did.

Here is hubby driving the truck to corral the cows.

And here are some of the cows.

Most farmers around these parts would be pretty peeved that the cows had made themselves at home on their farms. They leave lots of "cow patties", which we happen to like and usually have to pay for; they trample crops, which we don't happen to have right now; and they knock down fences which, ok, we have to fix, but it wasn't that big a deal.

Being the naive, young farmers that we are, we experienced not annoyance but excitement at the prospect of activity in the late evening hours on a nice, late summer evening.

Thanks, Tim!

But let's not do it too often.

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.