Bedtime Stories

There I was, lying in bed, intently watching another gripping episode of Monarchy on my iPod. What better way to unwind at night than to watch someone at least 30 years older than you work like a dog? Even better, work like a dog while dripping with jewels and surrounded by glorious room decor? I find it strangely relaxing.

I was deeply absorbed in a particularly complex explanation of Black Rod when Richard came into the room, brushing his teeth noisily. He peered over and a wave of spearmint fumes hit me. He stared at the screen solicitously. I had earplugs (oops, sorry technologically superior teen child - earbuds) on, so he couldn't hear the commentary, but Prince Charles was shaking hands with someone and grimacing in the way only Prince Charles can. Without concern for any future Black Rod knowledge I may or may not have been stashing away for later (Jeopardy battles being rife around these parts), he launched into his usual nightly behaviour. This generally involves bouncing into bed noisily and interrupting me cheerily while he decides which book to read from the tottering pile at his bedside. Sometimes he brandishes the cover of each book so I can be privy to his inner deliberations (I tell him to pick the nice yellow book). Sometimes the pile falls over (clouds of dust ensue). Sometimes he yanks the covers about if he thinks I'm hogging the duvet (we wrangle pleasantly about who has more blanket). Sometimes he launches into a discussion about the complexities of the tile cutting saw he saw in the Canadian Tire catalogue (I remind him he already has a tile cutting saw). Every now and then he madly leaps up and races around the house, remembering doors to lock or bread to remove from freezers (I remind him that the kids are - or WERE - asleep). Once he's chosen his book and his page he clicks off. Abruptly.

After this evening's performance was over, I returned to my Monarchy viewing. We read and watch for a while. I am just getting into a particularly tense scene involving an irritated Queen and a number of sheepish looking Corgis when Richard blurts out of nowhere:

"Think he'll ever be King?"

"Huh? Who?"

"Prince Charles. Think the Queen will outlive him? Throne pass to Wills?"

"What? Are you kidding? She won't outlive him! Poor Charles."

"It's happened before. It's not unthinkable. There IS precedent."

"What? When has it happened before?" (the Corgis are forgotten)

"The Black Prince. His father outlived him. Throne passed on to Richard II."

"Who? The Black Prince? What? When was this? Recently?" (in spite of myself I am starting to screech a bit)

"Fourteenth century."

I burst out laughing.

"Oh my GAWD! That's only 700 years ago. Practically yesterday! I'm sure it's something that weighs heavily on Charles' mind. The Black Prince. You are INSANE." (I roll about in the pillows, feeling quite hysterical at this point)

Richard smiles smugly. "Don't laugh. It IS a precedent. I'm sure the Queen knows about it."

For some reason this strikes me as both wildly improbably AND hysterically funny. Richard goes back to his book, with a rather knowing look on his face. I return to my iPod. The Queen is traipsing up a very long staircase in a white evening gown, looking barely out of breath. Camera shifts to Prince Charles, looking red faced and rather less robust than his mother. I peer at his face on the tiny screen, wondering.

I glance over at Richard. He smirks.

We Had No Idea Things Would Go This Far...

News Flash!

Historians admit to inventing the Greeks:

"We were young and trying to advance our careers, so we just started making things up: Homer, Aristotle, Socrates, Hippocrates, the lever and fulcrum, rhetoric, ethics, all the different kinds of columns - everything. Way more stuff than any one civilization could have come up with, obviously," he added.

Obviously.

"One thing led to another and before you knew it, we were coming up with everything from the golden ratio to the Iliad. That was a bitch to write, by the way..."

***************

And this just in: kids can understand irony.

No kidding, Sherlock, I could have told you this. Case in point:

My house, dinner. Dominic is eating brussell sprouts and exclaiming over liking them. Richard says "Funny you should like them. I don't. Maybe I'll call you BS - as in brussell sprout."

I object, on the grounds that the first thing people think of when they hear the initials BS won't be brussell sprouts. I frown at Richard. Richard smirks, pleased with the hilarity of this double entendre. Dominic looks shocked. Then annoyed. FDPG and Max howl with laughter. Dominic glowers at this new and unwelcome intrusion on his sense of personal dignity.

"Would you like me to call you F?" he asks archly.

We gape as one at Dominic, then burst out laughing. He's grasped the essentials of the ironic insult and turned them back on Richard with a certain amount of oddly mature sarcasm. Then again, he's always been like that: a very adult wit for such a very small body.

Weekend Projects

We're smack dab in the early middle ages right now - monks and illuminated letters and gold leaf. So it follows that we would make bookmarks with illuminated letters on them, doesn't it? When we've added the gold leaf I might laminate them to keep the colours from getting smeared. Or give them a little spray with some urethane. Not sure yet.

The idea for these came from this website. They very handily include the alphabet letters for tracing. (and you thought we all had really amazing talents for making perfect letters, I bet, didn't you?)

And yes, there are only three bookmarks in this photo. Someone hadn't finished theirs yet...

We also cleaned out the basement today. Richard got to reclaim his workshop and I got to empty the fireplace flue. Gosh, what fun that was. I also got to hear about how much of a squirrel I am, which is always high on my list of fun weekend activities. But I had to admit it later, when we hauled out a bag of maps and guides from when we lived in California. Maps and guides from ten years ago. Sitting tidily in a little cardboard box. "Hey!" I said to Richard, "I saw a very cool room in a magazine the other day - they'd papered one wall with maps! We could do that with these maps!"

We both smiled at each other: him with the knowledge that I am a Squirrel In Denial; me with the knowledge that papering a room with old maps is such an excellent idea even he can't disagree.

Later, in the spirit of doing something with all my, err, squirrellings, I finally finished up a project I've been accumulating for for the past three years.

Look! An old fork. A piece of pottery - leeks. And a postcard.

All together on a piece of board I found at the beach.

So there you go - you never really know when you'll need some of that crap you've got sitting in the basement in boxes and bags and tins and things those interesting items you found in all those second hand stores you drag your children into.

New Looks At Old Myths

Demeter's hair was yellow as the ripe corn of which she was mistress, for she was the Harvest Spirit, goddess of farmed fields and growing grain. The threshing floor was her sacred space. Women, the world's first farmers (while men still ran off to the bloody howling of hunt and battle), were her natural worshipers, praying...

Demeter had but one daughter, and she needed no other, for Persephone was the Spirit of Spring. The Lord of Shadows and Death, Hades himself, the Unseen One, carried her off in his jet-black chariot, driven by coal-black steeds, through a crevice in the surface of Earth, down the the realms of the dead...

With Zeus' help, the mother retrieved her daughter, but Persephone had already eaten a pomegranate seed, food of the dead, at Hades' insistence, which meant that she must come back to him. In the end, a sort of truce was arranged. Persephone could return to her sorrowing mother but must spend a third of each year with her dark Lord. Thus, by the four-month death each year of the goddess of springtime in her descent to the underworld, did winter enter the world. And when she returns from the dark realms she always strikes earthly beings with awe and smells somewhat of the grave.

— intro. "The Way They Came"

from Sailing The Wine-Dark Sea: Why The Greeks Matter by Thomas Cahill

But Wait! There's More!

We've been watching this series on DVD, which is easier on the eye, but thanks to the wonders of YouTube YouToo can watch them. Click on these links and you'll find more.

Try this Emperometer. It's brilliant. A mini history of Rome in under 2 minutes.

Viking Poetry. Or this soft rock classic from that crazy quartet: The Vicious Vikings.

This segment of the show is our particular favourite. Watch that skeleton dance!

Then there's the Shouty Man. I tried to find Inca Child but this one is almost as funny.

Why DO We Need A Dictionary Of Old English?

Ammon Shea answers this question in the most delightful way, well, provided you like reading about nuances in language.

Semantic change waits for no man, indeed.

Taking Pictures

Last year we were supposed to go on a tour of a well-known historical house, one that a famous local family occupied for many years, but the snow was so bad the buses stopped running and I couldn't get our teeny tiny car out of the driveway, so I bailed. Well, I think everyone bailed, actually. It was one of those We Might Get Over There But Do We Want To Walk Back From Town? decisions that day. The sort of decision I tend to cave almost instantly to. Because it was snowy. Really snowy. Really really snowy. And the bus system, because of all that incredible snowiness, was erratic enough for me to know that if I were to drag my charming but not very long suffering enfants out I might have to endure many hours of "Why did you think this was a good idea?" comments all the way home should we have to walk. And you know, to be perfectly honest, I'm not all that long suffering myself. Note: if you live on the prairies or somewhere further north of here, please don't remind me of how much it could snow before you'd get stuck. I realize I am a Snow Wimp. I'm okay with that.

Anyhow, this year they had the same Shockingly Affordable Homeschool Festive Season Tour, so off we went, the kids and I. It was raining this time round: a gentle misty rain that curled our hair and made FDPG's eyelashes sparkle. Lovely weather, considering, says Sheila the Snow Wimp. We whizzed over to the posh part of town, and up the posh winding hill to the top of Super Posh Hill, me keeping the heat in the car off should it melt the white chocolate snowflake lollipops we'd made for some friends, and the kids wilting with Snowflake Lollipop-Induced Hunger.

Fortunately I am a heartless mother. I might cave at snow, but I do not quail at the pleas of my children. The lollipops made it to their intended targets.




Our tour guide was a charming Brit, who may or may not have been named Christopher, in costume as a butler in 1881. I know this because FDPG told me later. I was outside getting the camera when he first introduced himself. After watching all the other parents and their cameras, click click clicking, I felt a wave of lemming-like behaviour come over me and before I knew it I was back out in the rain again digging around for my own camera. So I had to rely on FDPG and her apres-commentary, which was, in its own way, a little more amusing ("He sounded like just your friend Elizabeth! Do you think they are related? He kind of looked like her.").
Christopher kept in his role the entire time, whether he was singing The Boar's Head Carol or asking the kids if they knew what a dance card was. And he had such a fabulous English accent that the kids were all completely riveted, even the twitchy fiddly ones. He asked them if they had a boar's head for their Christmas dinner, and seemed genuinely taken aback at their groans and looks of horror, which caused the boys an awful lot of glee.

It was quite the fun time, us and Christopher. We saw glass cases with giant wreaths of twisted hair, marvelled at how small and short all the ladies were (their gowns were on mannequins in each of the rooms), giggled at his dry but goofy jokes, and trailed willingly around after him for about an hour.

Click: Leda and the swan.


He led us around the house, all 97 steps and 14 bedrooms, me dutifully click click clicking away with all the other parents, mentally filing away all the fabulously gossipy yet historical information (how young some of them were when they died! this one went mad! that basket is made out of an ARMADILLO!), but when it came to reviewing the pictures with the kids, I was a little taken aback to note that I had not one single shot of my charming offspring.





I had 2 of Christopher. I had a few Festive Christmas Display shots. And that was about it. Well, other than the 18 shots of the stained glass windows, the 11 shots of the interesting architecture, the 6 shots of the wild tiled floors, and 1 of the really amazing room where we could hear our echo if we whispered.



Click. Hmm. Where are those children?

Going To The Museum

FDPG and I went down to the fancy museum in the provincial capital on Saturday. We went to see Treasures: The World's Cultures From the British Museum. I'd bought advance tickets for the curator's talk and tour for Max and I ages ago, but by the time the dates come up he was booked on a Scout camp at the same time, so I made FDPG go with me. She loves history, and was more than willing, but we both underestimated what the curator's lectures would be like. I had visions of a gripping, technicolour IMAX sort of thing (since the lecture was held in the IMAX theatre it seemed likely) and FDPG had visions of Corinthian helmets in a gripping, technicolour IMAX sort of thing (because that was the item she was most intent on seeing and that's how her mind works), but in the end neither of us were on the money. The curators were very nice, very erudite English lecturers, and they spoke in that way only witty English people can ("It rather delights me to see the Lewis chessman piece as the poster boy for this exhibit"), but it was a little on the dry side. No Powerpoint fireworks. No dramatic mood music. Just a few slides and a lot of talking. A lot of talking about Oceania and Melanesia, too; places we weren't sure had any connection with the items in the exhibit. And FDPG and I were the only people there under the age of 60. Good thing she isn't the kind of kid to give me a "What the hell are we here for?" look. Enough of the people around were giving me that very same look. I probably could've ignored her just as easily as I ignored them, but it was nice she didn't. I tend to quail under FDPG's fierce gaze.

After the lectures we were escorted on a tour of the items in the exhibit. Well, actually, I dashed off to plug the parking meter while FDPG elbowed the old ladies who tried to push her out of our place in line.

They had divided the items up according to continent and time period, and in the middle of the entire exhibit they had something called an Enlightenment Circle, where one could go in and play with various items: writing implements, listen to a Rosetta Stone inscription read out in 6 different languages, roll carved stone rolls across Silly Putty to see what they spelled out, and so on. But exhibit was quite spectacular. FDPG saw the Corinthian helmet she'd coveted, as well as some coins from Greece and Persia, and we both stood spell bound at the Egyptian items they had on display. And everything was lit so wonderfully, things seemed to glow. Only one item was a reproduction, which made everything else all the more magical.

But I couldn't take any photographs, sadly.

Afterwards we went to the place where they rob you of any remaining cash Treasure Shop, just to see what they had there, and discovered some of the things we'd seen on-line on the British Museum website. Umbrellas with Egyptian art on them, neckties with hieroglyphs, lots of kids educational materials, and lots and lots of beautifully painted mugs. FDPG was quite taken with these ones, until we up ended them to see their price tag, and even she knew better than to ask me to buy her one.




I have always had a weak spot for anything with Anubis on it. But this Anubis cost $1000. "Why don't you make one in papier-maché?" said Richard the Slightly Idiotic, when we got home and I showed him this photo. "Gosh," I said, "why don't I? I'm sure I have a spare 200 hours to whip one up."

I think he was joking.

I don't think I was.







FDPG and I got into a rather spirited conversation about Bastet, the Cat Goddess. FDPG got her mixed up with Seknet, the lion-headed goddess. So we wrangled pleasantly about it for a while, until we saw the tag on this baby ($1000 as well: don't see myself doing this in papier-maché, do you?) and it read BASTET CAT. Whereupon I crowed only a little. And FDPG glowered only a little.











Rosetta Stone bookends, anyone?

















The chess sets they had for sale, while horrifically priced, were incredibly amusing: this one is Caesar and Cleopatra facing off. Another featured the Roman and the Greek gods squaring off.



And yet another featured the Poster Children of the Exhibit: The Lewis Chessmen. Here's what the BM says about them. And here's another view.

And of course FDPG had to get one of the replicas when we happened upon them. It's a very tactile object and we have all spent a lot of time holding it and rubbing its edges. "I LOVED these pieces. This knight makes up for that boring lecture," I overheard her telling her dad, later that day.












I bought a small papyrus, genuine-hand-painted-in-Egypt-specially-for-tourists print. I almost got the Bastet print, just so FDPG and I could wrangle pleasantly when we got home, but this one has a shot of Horus, and we all love Horus around these parts. I keep hoping we're going to see him strolling around the back yard one night, with his hawk's head sharply at an angle, eyes on the lookout for Osiris or Isis.










The one thing I was disappointed not to see was a book of postcards featuring all the items in the collection. There was a coffee table book, with lots of scholarly comments next to each photograph, but I wanted postcards, so I could tear them out and stick them up on the walls around here. So we could all look at the collection. And wonder. Because it's definitely a collection worth wondering about.

Even if I did have to resort to gift shop pictures.

When we got home, Dominic was waiting for FDPG with his Rock Monster Lego constructions. "Come see these!" he shouted at her as soon as she walked in the front door. Off she went. A minute later she was back in the kitchen, and Dominic was slamming his bedroom door. "What's up?" I asked her. "Oh, that Dominic," she said, "there was me having a really boring morning and all he can talk about it Lego."

Gee, FDPG. I'm SO glad you had a good time.

New Things

We picked up a few new educational items this past week. FDPG found this one, it's one of a series called Stories of Great People. There are 9 other titles in the series (ie: Shakespeare's Quill, Marco Polo's Silk Purse). So far it looks quite fun. It reminds me of that history series with the Binkerton Twins and their Travel Agency (forget the title) and has already proved quite popular with FDPG and Dominic. They immediately gravitated towards its clever, colourful, and engaging combination of Art & History & Comedy. I liked how they distinguished so clearly between the historical aspect (brown paper) and the modern story (glossy white).


Another FDPG pick. She's on a mission, no, make that A Mission to learn Japanese. She loves all things Japanese (well, all things she's come in contact with so far: sushi, Totoro, Miyazaki movies, Pocky, and Hello Kitty). And she's decided that learning Japanese will be a cinch. And I, I am but a passive (and deeply admiring) observer on this trip. Good luck to you FDPG.

We chose this particular CD set because it seemed the simplest language learning package at the bookstore we were at. The others looked far too complicated, with workbooks to fill in and all those characters to memorize. FDPG might be one bright little spark, but she's still only seven years old. I don't want to kill her zest. This will give her some phrases to memorize, some funny things to say to native speakers she might happen to meet, and she'll have a little dictionary to play around with, but in the end it'll be light. Light is good. Light is fun. Nekobasu!

History has been moving at a snail's pace around here lately. We really got bogged down took a long time with the Greeks, winding down way too many roads, but now we're on the bright and shiny other side. Phew. And with that other side comes some Latin for the twins. Max has done a few years of Latin, but dropped it this year (it's not much fun doing some things all on your own, I've noticed), so we're all going to pick it up this time. The twins will be starting with Prima Latina, but we're going to use Minimus for the historical angle. I think it's something all three of them can have fun with.
Anyhow, this is the audio CD that comes with the book. FDPG and I have listened to it twice, once with the book and once without, and while we both enjoyed it (I finally discovered how to pronounce "eheu!"), I thought it a bit overpriced for what it is. That said, I'm sure I'll be less critical once I've had the kids listen to it a few times.
Here is a video series we've been watching. We didn't buy this one - it's from the library - but after watching my kids watch it I will say that it's highly engaging to the male brain. The makers of this series have taken a game engine and used it to recreate several famous battles in history, sprinkling the 'recreations' with the remarks and interviews of various experts in the field, all of whom are fairly absorbing speakers. There's an Eric Bana doppleganger earnest host who appears in the exact geographic location of each historical event (Marathon, Thermopylae, etc), sets up the details of each event, then lets the game machine take over. At first we were all snickering a bit because the figures were so stilted and fake-looking, and the armies move in a weird hive-like mass, but the stories are very exciting and the action, while artificial in that slightly cheesy video game manner, is so clearly laid out and panoramic you can't help but get carried along. I liked that each segment is only about 20-25 minutes each: some of the History Channel videos we've had out really test the patience of the twins. Who am I kidding, they really test MY patience. So this was a hit with everyone.

Finally, this came for Dominic this week. Dominic is a bit of a dark horse around here. He's quite the comic, but he's also fairly shy in public and not nearly as verbal as his twin, so he tends to hang back a bit. Which inevitably carves out a niche in the family totem (and those niches are hard to get out of). But during Max's experience with the Lego League Dominic discovered that he has a gift for motors and gears and figuring out mechanical things in ways none of us can. So it's perfectly charming to see him hitting his stride with this. It's got a different motor on it than the one that he got at Christmas, so he can attempt several of the models in the Forbidden Lego book, plus it comes with a whack of model booklets and intricate pieces - all to do with building powered mechanisms. It nearly caused me to inhale my latté when I saw how much it cost, but given the intellectual stretch it'll give him, I think it's worth it.

Those Goofy Greeks

A new homeschooling friend of ours hosts a Multicultural Lunch once a year. This was our first year. The general idea is that you pick a certain culture you like, or some country you've always wanted to visit, or even the historical period you're studying, and do a mini display about it. Then bring it to the lunch, along with some food from that period/country to share.

We'd just finished up with our Greek Unit That Refused To Die, so our food contribution was a little on the Spartan side. (oooh, Sheila, you don't really think that was funny, do you?) We made some hearty peasant bread, some hummus (as opposed to roasting chickens or goats and in lieu of fresh figs), and ground some dates and walnuts together with cardamon powder, and rolled them into little balls.

And then we had to get our presentation board together. We had the standard map, the usual art work (clay pots, mosaics, hand made coins, coloured drawings from pottery), and some written work about things the kids favoured most, but we were lacking something to tie it all together.



Until I glanced down at the picture of FDPG in her Halloween costume.

She was dressed as the Greek goddess Athena. In a white chiton.

"Max!" I said, "Quick, get this on (I handed him FDPG's white chiton), then stand over there and pretend to be pointing at something. Look mischevious."

So he did. I took a few photographs of him.

"Dominic," I said, "Do what he did."

And he did, too, although Dominic's 'mischevious' extended only to pointing and staring at me with a dead-pan expression. I took some photographs of him too.

Then I printed them out. Then we carefully cut them all out, ignoring Max's "I look like a geek. Don't use this one. Argh, do I really look like that?" remarks.

We put this picture next to an explanation of How The Greeks Ate.
The boys started laughing. They rearranged pictures so they were introducing things. FDPG started jumping up and down wit excitement. So far so good.

Max copied his favourite joke from Terry Deary's Horrible Histories: Groovy Greeks. I pasted a picture of him pointing gleefully at it. If your eyes are as bad as mine, then you might need me adding that his word bubble says "Now that's funny!"
FDPG did what she does best and acted like her charming, bossy self. Only this time she's bossing Zeus around. I had a restful reprieve.
This is my particular favourite. Dominic, aka Young Greek Boy, is saying "Isn't he a little overdressed for dinner?" while our cartoon hoplight's rebuttal is "Aren't you a little underdressed for the Peloponnesian War?"
It was a fun day, getting this ready. It was a fun lunch too. Nothing like a little light humour to go with your lunch.

Athena and Herakles

I was amazed to hear that someone opened the door to FDPG last night and said, almost immediately "You must be Athena!"

Amazed and impressed. How's that for neighbours? I wasn't there or I would have queried further ("Are you a retired Classics prof?" "A member of Athena's Secret Club?").

Could it have been this picture on the front of her helmet? Or the Medusa head on her shield? Whatever it was, someone knew just who she was.

The next remark was "I bet you'll be the only Athena I see tonight."

I bet she was right.

Watching The Kids Watch Sister Wendy

We've been watching Sister Wendy's The Story of Painting this week. I discovered the first one, Early Art, at the library. It featured some Greek art, our historical period at the moment, and I had a vague memory from the 90's of Sister Wendy, cheerfully lisping her way through a sort of Grand Art Tour, so I added it to our pile of books to bring home.

Then we went home. We spent some time reading about Greek frescoes and murals and pottery. We painted little vases we'd shaped last year out of air-dry clay, detailing them with owls (for Athena) and triremes (for Poseidon) and the Greek key pattern. We used black and red paint, so they would resemble the pottery of our art books. We talked about how so much Greek art had decayed in the periodically damp air of Greece, which brought up comparisons to Egyptian art, so well preserved in the hot dry African air. We looked at the flat sideways bodies

and, when I was talking a bit about mood and atmosphere, FDPG piped up. "What does atmosphere mean?" she asked. I hauled out Henry Sayre's Cave Paintings To Picasso, and showed them some things they had already seen, things like the Hall of Bulls in the Lascaux Caves, the Toreador Fresco at Knossos, and an Egyptian tomb painting Sayre calls Nebamun Hunting Birds. "What do you feel when you see that bull?" I asked. "How about when you look at those bull jumpers? Do they look scared? Or glad? Or bored? Is this comic art or serious art? Why do you think this was painted?" Then we took a look at the bust of Nefertiti. "When you look at this, what kind of woman do you see?" I asked them. Max thought she looked bored, FDPG thought she looked smart, if a little long-necked, and Dominic thought she looked sort of scary. "She was Akhenaten's wife," I said, "remember?" Ah, yes, they did remember. How could they not? Akhenaten was one of those Strange Characters we liked from our study of the Egyptians. He had a peculiar upbringing and and effected an even more peculiar style on Egyptian life once he became pharaoh. He is most remembered for his singular worship of the sun when most of Egypt preferred their many god-ded pantheon. One medical historian claimed that Akhenaten might have had Marfan's syndrome. And Nefertiti was legendary for her beauty. All quite intriguing stuff. They looked at the bust again. "She looks aloof," said Max. "Aloof and sort of scary." Then we looked at the giant Olmec Heads from La Venta. "What would you think if you were a traveller and you suddenly happened upon these things?" I asked them. After the usual bluff responses from the boys ("giant heads! hahaha!"), and a little Miyazaki tie-in from FDPG ("they look like the heads from Spirited Away!"), they all agreed that they would find them most intimidating. "That's atmosphere," I told them. "The artist has created a mood for you, the viewer. A good artist can create quite an intense impression, as you can see."

 

And that's how we came to watch Early Art, part 1 in Sister Wendy's The Story of Painting. She'd talk a bit about art, I thought, and we'd see some ancient Greek vases. It would be edifying, I thought, thinking back to my first experiences with Kenneth Clark's Civilization. At first the kids found the image of a nun in full habit, standing in a field in France, almost too hilarious. I shifted a bit uneasily. Is this going to be too dry? Too adult? Too comic? Will I hear anything above their giggles?

But the she started talking. Phrases like "our small hairy ancestors," "Proof that they were really like us in all the ways that really mattered," "priest painters making hunting magic for the tribe" and even "that inspired black calligraphy of the legs" took us all hostage, hostage to her decidedly oddball charm. We were all quite enthralled. It was like listening to a slightly disapproving but deeply loving maiden aunt, one who wanted us to get some culture and get it quick, whisking us around the museum with nothing but her own strong opinions. I really fell for her when she said (of two bison) waving her hands around madly all the while: "these two great black balls of male erotic fury going to explode on one another." 

Great black balls of male erotic fury?

We adored hearing her talk, whether she was pointing out the "firm little apple" breasts of the young funeral mourners or tsk-tsking about the banal monastery scribbles in the Book of Kells (at which she shook her head very sadly, obviously very distressed at such very thoughtless desecration). We watched as she wandered through castles and opened books for us to see, chatting breathlessly all the while about art and atmosphere and how fascinating she found it all. It was impossible not to get caught up in her sense of delight and wonder, and when the thirty minutes was over the kids demanded another in the series. Max put it on, and off we went through France, then to Belgium where she showed us the wonderful Arnolfini Portrait, by Jan van Eyck. She had the kids on the edge of the chesterfield with her descriptions of the mirror, van Eyck's 'artist tag,' and why there was a red poster bed in the back of the frame. And when the camera travelled to a room from a period home, complete with red poster bed, the kids all shrieked "Sister Wendy talked about that bed!" in absolute delight. 

So there you have it. Our Close Encounter with Sister Wendy. We've only watched a couple of episodes, but I sense more viewings in the very near future. A Sister Wendy marathon. With popcorn. 

And I tell you, I'll never look at a bison in the same way again.

Oh, and I should mention that when I was trying to find out some information about Sister Wendy on the internet tonight, I came across a series of interviews on YouTube, interviews with Bill Moyer. One quote particularly caught my imagination, so I'll leave you with it. She is speaking of how art has made her more "alert" as a person:

"The one fatal thing is to be a zombie and I think we're all in danger of living part of our lives at zombie level, and I think art helps one to be perpetually there, as it were."

Love it.

What We Learned From Laura Ingalls Wilder, J.K. Rowling, and Diana Wynne Jones

We do read alouds in our family, which means that I read while the kids listen. We do it every morning. It wasn't something I'd intended to do when we started homeschooling, or desperately wanted to do with the kids. It just started. It was a fluke, really, when I look back. 

It was like this: I had a book from the library.  It wasn't getting read, by anyone. It was a good book - I was sure it was. I couldn't remember reading it as a kid, but I knew it had Potential. And it had to go back to the library. So after breakfast I started reading it to the kids. I read four chapters, then closed the book and said, without looking at the kids, "Okay, now let's get on with the rest of the day." I looked up and saw my kids staring back at me, open-mouthed, with wide eyes. "Do we have to stop NOW?" they all asked, with a slight tinge of shock in their eyes, "that is SUCH a great book!" 

I thought about it. I looked at the book. Then I said, "If we get some good work done this morning I will read more at lunch." They did, so I did. And before you knew it, we'd read the first book in the Little House series: Little House in the Big Woods. I don't know why, but this series caught ALL our imaginations. We discussed Laura and her family as if they were our next door neighbours; the kids argued over who was nicer: Laura or her dad; and I blogged about them. We spent at least a few minutes each day contemplating the wonderful Garth Williams sketches ("Oh look! There's Jack chasing a rabbit!"). It was enthralling to read about someone who lived in a house they'd built themselves, not to mention people who didn't automatically expect a visit from Santa Claus each and every winter. We were gripped in a fever of people who worked hard, lived thoughtful lives, and did everything themselves. Where were their TVs, telephones, libraries, hot water tanks, flush toilets, dollar stores, and Lego sets? Not to sound too naive, but was a completely new Moral Universe for us, in so many ways.

Then I went to the library to get the next in the series, but it wasn't there. It was out. Never mind, we would take a page from the Little House girls and not complain. We would look on the bright side. It dawned on me that this new Little House Moral Universe was aiding and abetting my own Prime Directive as a parent.   

So we started with the Harry Potter series. Max and I had already read them, but the twins hadn't. We read the first one: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone (unless you're in the US and have had your copy butchered to read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone). Same response: pure absorption from the kids. We talked about Harry. We talked about Ron. We talked about Hagrid. And every so often, when we were all feeling heavy from the constant rain, I would wear a satin red cape (from my Welsh grandmother) and pretend I was Professor McGonagall, using a ripe Scottish accent to convulse the kids into enjoying their math. Even better, I found the DVDs for $5 each and bought them all, promising a viewing after each book. We read the first two books and watched the first two movies. And yes, I blogged about these books too. How COULD Draco be so mean? How COULD Dumbledore not notice the terrible things happening to Harry? And those awful Dursleys. Ugh. Another new Moral Universe to contemplate. Less clear cut, but it insinuated itself into our daily lives just the same: we'd magic away things that were bothering us; we shouted "Expelliaramus!" at everything just for the heck of it, and the kids were all very thankful that their parents hadn't died and left them in the care of people like the Dursleys. More assistance for the parental Prime Directive. I was liking this Read Aloud time a lot.

Then By the Banks of Plum Creek came in, recalled from the library. So off we went, back to Little House Land. Oddly enough, it wasn't such a tough transition. We just moved into a different neighbourhood, with new but equally exciting neighbours, albeit a little on the sedate side after giants, flying broomsticks, and spells. We read about wading in creeks, nasty girls named Nellie, party dresses, the perfection of cold, sweet lemonade, living in sod houses, reliable dogs named Jack, and such mysterious things as button strings. Even now, the phrase "plum thicket" whirls me back into a hot summer day, wading in the creek with my skirts up, bonnet strings dangling down my shoulders. I can only imagine what it does for my kids.

We read through By The Shores of Silver Lake, The Long Winter, Little Town on the Prairie, These Happy Golden Years, and even The First Four Years, although by then the magic of the Ingalls' world was fading a bit. Detailed paragraphs about fabric and lace and sewing and marriage weren't high on my kids' list of Interesting Things To Read About. Still, to this day we talk about Laura and her family as if we knew them. When Max is peevish and unhelpful, I remind him how Laura had to look after her sisters for a whole week while her parents took Mary to the college for the blind, and she was just a few years older than he is now (and she spring cleaned the entire house!). When FDPG moans about dinner, I remind her about what they didn't eat during The Long Winter. That usually silences everyone. When we eat a meal composed entirely of garden produce - from our garden - Dominic says "this is just like a Little House dinner!" And when we hear a violin dancing on its own on the radio, Max asks if Pa played like that. 

When we finished the Little House series, I cast about a bit for something else to read. I blogged here about FDPG and the scariness factor of the Harry Potter series and how I didn't want to go on to the next novel, knowing how it (and the film) might affect her and her dream world. Plus, she and her twin were still only six years old, and I didn't think boggarts and Dementors were Suitable Subject Matter for six year old imaginations. Then we found Diana Wynne Jones, a British writer much akin to J.K. Rowling in that she writes about magic universes, but with less emotional emphasis and vastly more creative license. Suddenly such things as 100 league boots, fire demons, and magical suits were common parlance, not to mention the hilarity caused by chapter headings such as Chapter Eight: In which Sophie leaves the castle in several directions at once. We looked forward to those chapter headings, let me tell you. We'd ponder them, I'd ask why Wynne Jones used them - it showed the kids new things about writerly intent and comic appeal. They started creating their own chapter headings for moments in their day: In which Max learns how to wash a glass without incurring the wrath of his mother, or In which Toffee learns that wet food only comes his way once a day, or In which Dominic learns to make his bed. More fodder for the parental P.D. 

And so we read through almost the entire Wynne Jones oeuvre: Charmed Life, Lives of Christopher Chant, Mixed Magics, Magicians of Caprona, Witch Week, Castle in the Air and The Game. We were introduced to the intoxicating world of Chrestomanci, a sensible fellow who seemed to have the wisdom of the world at his fingertips. We met treacherous sisters, silly ladies, goddesses named Milly, tricky Uncles and Greek mythological figures come to life. It was a truly magical few months, reading all those books: so many people, so many different stories, so many emotions and events. So many clever writers.

I could say that the kids learned how a good author can recycle something seemingly commonplace (a Greek myth) and turn it into something new and inventive. I could also say that they learned a great deal about telling a good story, plot devices, settings, and character development (not to mention those intangibles of moral courage and facing adversity). Because they did learn all those things. Not didactically, by answering chapter questions or writing essays, but more as an "along the way" experience, an experience that permeated their lives as they brushed their teeth, got dressed and played together in the afternoons. An experience that coloured the ways they interacted with each other, reflected on their own lives, and treated their friends and neighbours. And I've got my fingers crossed that they won't forget them any time soon. 

These Happy Golden Years

We've been reading the Little House books every morning this year, and as we were finishing These Happy Golden Years FDPG asked me where the title came from. I mumbled something about reflecting on one's life, "rose coloured lenses" and "salad days" (and maybe even something from a David Bowie song), but one page turn later and it was all laid out for us:

"Golden years are passing by,

Happy, happy golden years,

Passing on the wings of time,

These happy golden years.

Call them back as they go by,

Sweet their memories are,

Oh, improve them as they fly,

These happy golden years.

Laura's heart ached as the music floated away and was gone in the spring night under the stars."

And as I read it, my heart ached as well. People always say that these are the best years of your life, these days when the kids are still able to be nestled in laps and cuddled, and as I read the words I was struck by a terrible terrible pang, that pang when you suddenly see all the days of their childhood rushing past you in a whirling, unstoppable blur. I teared up a little, and gazed fondly (if blearily) at my three happy golden children, only to find them looking at me as if I'd suddenly lost my mind. Nothing like a kid to drag you out of a wallow in Nostalgia Land.

These are your happy golden years, my sweet little chickadees, I thought, but I didn't say it. They'll find out soon enough.

The happy golden Greenridge kids, seven years ago...

Little Volunteers on the Prairie Farm

We started volunteering at the local Petting Zoo a couple of weeks ago, ostensibly so that Max can finish up his Purple Star in Cubs, but also (ever so stealthily) so that he can get the experience of doing something for someone else for no obvious reimbursement. This is a trait I have long admired when reading the Little House series to my kids: the Ingalls family works very hard at getting along and getting along well, even when they don't feel like it. Even when they almost starve to death during a horrifically cold winter they keep it together socially. (this book has taken root in my brain, hasn't it)

The idea first came about when we were visiting the Zoo a while back. We love animals, and this place has a lot of them. Even better, most of them are of the pygmy variety, so the twins don't feel intimidated. We were first drawn into the guinea pig room, partly because we have our own guinea pig (named Henry) and partly because they had little baby guinea pigs the twins were desperate to see up close. We stood there gazing at the sheer size of the enclosure, and at all the happy little pigs (well, okay, maybe I AM projecting a bit), and we were all struck by the same thought: Henry's cage was nothing like this. I think Max and I might even have shared a look of mild shame. Afterwards we went home and mollified our guilty consciences: Max scrubbed out his cage, I trimmed Henry's nails and the twins took turns brushing his long hairy coat.

Then, a few weeks ago Max was trying to find ways to to work through the Community Service section, and it occurred to me that this would be a natural way to work through it AND have some fun, although Max's response ("What? We shovel poo for free? Yuck.") wasn't quite what I had hoped for. Luckily the twins are still in the excitable stages of their lives, and they were delighted with the idea, so, studiously avoiding Max's glower, I signed us up. Fortunately Max has warmed to the idea and he actually enjoys cleaning out the cages. Wonders will never cease.



There are an inordinate number of peacocks here, and they wander freely about like cats, although they are a good deal more ungainly. They hop onto fences, hop off, raise their tails periodically in that fabulous fan, and follow us around the place, hoping for dropped food pellets. I find it hard not to stare at them, because they are such an arresting colour, and, well, because of those tails. Those tails. They launch a thousand ships for me every time.









Here are some baby pygmy goats we saw today. Cute, eh? Two days old! They frisked about on unsteady legs while we cleaned out their stall, and their incredibly sociable mother nuzzled Dominic's pockets for snacks, butting him gently when none were proffered.

FDPG was so thrilled with them that she momentarily forgot about going to groom the pony and the donkey.



(You can click on any of these shots for a close-up)







Sorry, but I have to give you another peacock shot. I love these birds. These birds have it all for me: colour, weird personality, an ever weirder call (I put their call up there with the loon for Calls One Never Forgets), and the sort of mildly aloof nature that makes me fall head over heels in love with them. Be glad I'm only inflicting 2 shots on you, because I took 20.

War Cries

More handiwork from FDPG's history pages. We were all reading about Ashurbanipal and his, err, methodology as both king and army captain when I came across this translation. It was carved into a wall relief and was supposedly something his armies were taught to shout as they neared the enemy. Judging from his war record it was quite effective.

"We are like an evil rain that washes its enemies away! We are like a net that tangles the feet of those who fight against us!"

Thou errant hedge-born joithead!

Sorry if anyone is getting multiple copies of yesterday's Poetry Friday post, but for some reason the embedded YouTube video caused an enormous amount of confusion with the blog's appearance. I wish I knew why, but I don't. All I know is that it looked perfectly normal when viewed using Safari, and horribly distressingly odd when viewed using Firefox.

Oh for a computer literate brain!

(But if you want an amusing Shakespearean Insulter like the one I used in my title, click here)

They Might Have Been Giants..

...but now they're all dead and we can only read about them.

I was wandering through the British Museum's virtual Assyrian section, and on a whim went to YouTube to see if there were any amusing videos about the Assyrians (oh, I know, a bit of a long shot, but I am ever the optimist).

And what do you know but the band They Might Be Giants is here to sing a little song they wrote just for you, a snappy little ditty about Sargon, Hammurabi, Ashurbanipal, and that old rogue Gilgamesh. It's called The Mesopotamians and you can even get t-shirts from the tour. (Warning: don't get your hair cut like a Mohenjo-daroan or you might end up in a TMBG video)

A Little Light Music Reading

Yesterday I happened upon FDPG, reading in a chair in the family room. "What are you reading?" I asked. "Oh," says she, "just reading about God." "Ahh, what's he up to?" I ask. "He's torturing the Egyptians with festering boils," she replies casually.
I do a double take. "What are you reading?" I ask, slightly bemused. FDPG is six years old; this doesn't sound like light reading for a six year old, somehow.

"God and his Creations, by Marcia Williams," she tells me. I glance. It is. And it has that very line in it. And FDPG looks completely unconcerned.

I'm glad at this moment that I'm not an Egyptian in FDPG's sights.

Ushabtis I have Known

We're moving our way through Story of the World: Ancient Times right now, which means that we're reading about places like Babylon, Assyria, and Egypt, tracing our way somewhat lightly through battles with kings and pharaohs and warring tribes, dynasties on their way up, dynasties on their way down, and lots of folk tales, with the odd Amazing Discovery (Silk! the Wheel! Copper!) thrown in for good measure. My kids love history. I love history. It's engrossing, it's full of intrigue, it can be funny, and (for me, anyhow) it shows how little we differ from people of old: we worry about similar things, we want our basic comforts, we think about how the world will be after we're dead, and we pursue the things that interest us.

I like the similarities in each area we study, too. One of the most striking things for me has been the proximity of river to settlement. Babylon had the Tigris and the Euphrates rivers, Egypt had the Nile, India had the Indus, and China had the Yellow River Valley. It's an obvious essential - fresh water - but I like the symmetry all the same. The pantheon of gods was similar, too: gods of harvest, gods of rain, gods of birth and death, gods of protection. All the variables Out There before the days of meteorologists, obstetricians, supermarkets and deep freezes. It reminded me of an incident at the end of our last read aloud: Little House on the Prairie (a lesson in self sufficiency if there ever was one), when the Ingalls family had to move from their homestead because of Indian Land Allotment issues. They ride off into the sunset and come across a couple who have had their horses stolen by rustlers. The couple are sitting dejectedly by their horseless wagon, and despite the entreaties of the Ingalls' they refuse to budge. As the Ingalls ride away, Pa remarks to Ma that the couple were silly to be without what he considered to be essentials of the homesteader: chains for the horses (so no one could rustle them in the night) and a big dog (ditto). They had no business wandering around out there, in his mind, without the necessary items for their own survival.

Sometimes I get mixed up with my gods and monsters, but the kids, never. Today I quizzed them on some of the stuff we've studied so far, asking questions like What does the word canopic refer to? What organ didn't go into one? or Who was Sobek? or What was the symbol for protection, said to come from Horus? And finally, What were ushabtis for? At this, the kids all scrambled for our handy dandy diorama, a cereal box we converted last week to an ancient Egyptian tomb, inspired by Egyptian Reno World (Wednesdays at 8 on HGTVBC). It's full of ushabtis, or clay figures Egyptian craftsmen made for the tombs of the pharaohs, there as workers to till the fields in the afterlife so that the pharaoh never need work. The idea of an eternal slave really caught the imagination of Max, who, at age 10, is deeply feeling his position as Cleaner of the Downstairs Bathroom. So when we decided to build a diorama, I asked him to make the ushabtis, and he did this with enormous zest, no doubt channeling his own frustrated ambitions into these small statues ("clean the bathroom for me!" "Don't forget the breakfast dishes!"). I tell him a little hard work never killed anyone, but I don't think he's convinced. He's remembering Little House in his own way.