what I saw out front

I should've said ceiling, not roof... the underside of the roof over the front step:



That was taken Thursday morning as Marty and Ashlee were packing to go to Austin to surprise Kirby for his birthday, so I couldn't show it yesterday.

The reason we have water in buckets is that it ran off the roof, and Keith changed the buckets out. The reason we keep them is that five gallons of water is a big deal on a 100 degree, 10% humidity day. A big pretty collection barrel with a spigot at the bottom would be prettier. It would also be pretty much $200. And it wouldn't have made those "lights."

And the photo below was taken last Monday, partly for Adam Daniel. It's documentation that when the trash pick-up truck puts the little dumpsters down in our cul-de-sac, sometimes they land looking like R2-D2. It amuses me every time, because I am easily amused.

I'm that mom who follows the crowd!

I'm not usually that mom who follows the crowd, but this crowd was worth following.

Flo Gascon posted something, and Ronnie Maier picked it up, and then Frank and Jeff and a WHOLE bunch of others wrote, and pretty soon they had themselves a movement.

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I'm that mom who said "sure," and "that's okay," about so many things that when the kids were older they shared their fears and secrets, their firsts and their freakouts.

When younger boys were wondering where they could go to play video games, or to play Discwars or Legend of the Five Rings or something, they knew they could go to Kirby and Marty's house, because I'm that mom. I'd feed them, too, being that mom. :-)

When older kids were wondering where they could go to recover from frustration and anger, or to confide in someone, some came here, because I'm that mom (or they just as easily got help from Kirby, Marty or Holly).

Now that my kids are in the late-teen-to-grown range, sometimes I'm that tired, old mom. I'm that mom who remembers nursing and carrying and changing babies who couldn't put their own pants, shoes, coats or seatbelts on, though, and so I really appreciate the more recent freedom to sleep late, go shopping alone, and let my kids help me out sometimes, because they're some of those kids.




When I went looking for gaming photos I found the two above, but found an older one too, from Marty's Pirate Party, when he turned six. On the back in his grandmother's handwriting it says 1/14/95. That's Marty with the pirate vest, and Kirby on the floor. This was a game of "Dead Pirates." It's actually called "Dead Lions," but that wasn't the theme of the party. The object is for one person to be it, all others lie down quietly, and anyone who laughs is up with "it." The last one to laugh wins.


Holly was wearing angel wings. That's me on the couch. As I'm writing this fifteen years later, Holly is out with the girl standing in the back in white, Caiti.

Words up close and distant

I posted something on the Always Learning list, and I thought before, during, and after the writing that maybe it should have been here on my blog, instead. But it's not flowers and rainbows. It's a rant, and my blog has been all cheery lately.

Then came the tie-breaker, in the form of a cartoon sent by e-mail by my husband:

Comic by Randall Monroe Keith had written "a comic about the future history of english." If you don't really like the history of English or words or phrases much, you might want to bail out to a VERY cool Randall Monroe page. It has to do with chess. And Something Else. Chess and something exciting. (there it is)

Here's what I posted a while ago:

From: Sandra@SandraDodd.com
Subject: [AlwaysLearning] new phrases; old phrases
Date: July 26, 2010 7:48:03 AM MDT
To: AlwaysLearning@yahoogroups.com

In defense of "C-I-O," someone wrote on someone's blog somewhere far
away:

"I suppose I’ve never been in a family where either parent had the
time to be at the beck and call of their babies 24/7. "

I think it's lazy and chickenshit for people to turn phrases into
letters like "C-I-O," pronounced "cee eye oh" instead of "cry it
out." "Cry it out" is not harder to type than something with
hyphens. It's not longer to say, it's still three syllables. But
giving it a secret-jargon term makes it seem more distant, more a
general practice than a decision, more scientific, less about *crying.*

So that's too new, too "modern," too much attempt to turn flesh-and-
blood crying baby into something chrome and glass, or at least
organically treated crib-wood.

But that was tied in with the phrase "at...beck and call." Because of
my many years of medieval-studies hobby and my long interest in
language, I know a lot about "beck and call." I've thought about it
and written about it. What I wrote was not about babies, it was
about ladies-in-waiting and other attendants in a tableau situation, a
kind of theatrical make-believe situation where I've been a coach and
director.

I am at my family's beck and call, because I like them. If I have
house guests, I am at their beck and call. Nurses are at the beck and
call of patients. Flight attendants are at the beck and call of
pilots first and then passengers. Retail store clerks are at the beck
and call of customers unless assigned to stay behind the cash register
(convenience store clerks are not going to leave the liquor and
gambling cards to go 20 feet to help you find the cheese crackers).

That phrase needs be added here: http://sandradodd.com/phrases

Sandra

P.S.
For anyone who's into language, or curious about what my hobby was
before it was writing about unschooling, some "beck and call" notes:

"Ranking people shouldn't have to say much to get someone to come
closer. The concept of being at someone's "beck and call" means close
enough that a gesture (beck) or call will get them there in a jiffy
(or, more likely, in the nonce, meaning "in an instance") They can't
come quick, because "quick" meant "alive" in period, not fast
(besides, even now teachers will tell you to use "quickly."). If
someone said "quickly" it meant "lively," which can also be used in
terms of speed, as in "step lively." Fast meant stuck, constant, or
fixed. Supper was "fixed" when it was put on the table. (In the
southern U.S. people still "fix supper" even though it's not broken.)"
out
I wrote that. It's part of this:
http://sandradodd.com/ideas/language1.html
and there's more particular discussion in the fifth paragraph of this
letter:
http://sandradodd.com/duckford/attendants

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But Wait! There was more, this morning. Another e-mail, same list, also brought here because they are of a piece, as was once said of material, by which they meant cloth.

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From: Sandra@Sandradodd.com
Subject: Words. Single plain-old words.
Date: July 26, 2010 8:44:15 AM MDT
To: AlwaysLearning@yahoogroups.com

After I put up the new phrases; old phrases post, the next e-mail I saw was from Anu Garg at Wordsmith.org:

Illustrating the importance of using the right word, Mark Twain once said, "The difference between the almost-right word & the right word is really a large matter—it's the difference between the lightning-bug & the lightning."

I like that a great deal today. I suppose I would like it any day, but I've been thinking of how to bring up the continuing problem of people complaining about their words being pointed at and questioned here.

Someone I threw off the list (it's rare, but it happens) wrote several snarky, sarcastic things to me on the side, or in posts I didn't let through. One was this:

"So take the word teaching out and replace it with showing. You are right Sandra. Semantics are more important than meeting the needs of the child."

Neither lightning nor lightning-bugs (fireflies, in case that's not a universal-in-English term) are necessary to meet the needs of a child, but that doesn't make them equally safe or available or desirable.

Someone (don't volunteer who; doesn't matter) recommended maybe finding a place where more holistic writing was welcome. God save us all from "holistic writing," whatever that would be. Seriously. That enough words would eventually make sense even if the little parts didn't?

I don't want to hear "holistic music," or look at "holistic art." I want to experience the best, well-thought-out, edited, deliberate communication that others have to offer.

Holistic medicine is well and good, but that doesn't mean holistic rabbits are better than normal rabbits, or holistic combustion engines are better than something that just had a tune-up. I don't want people trying to dis- and con-tort words so that they're thinking about holistic rocks, holistic clouds, holistic computer programming.

If someone's going to write something like a post for this list, that piece of writing can be as important as any poem or novel IF IT CHANGES A LIFE. There's a mountain of writing in the world that has never changed a single person's mind or actions in any way.

Words matter. Words are chosen, they don't just hop off of people like fleas. They come from thought, and fingers on keyboards. Think carefully and clearly. If your thoughts are a jumble, don't post the jumble in public. If you don't think words are important, writing might not be a good hobby for you. Someone who doesn't think different shades of blue are very important probably shouldn't be advising painters. Someone who can't figure out how to tune a guitar probably shouldn't be coaching anyone about stringed instruments of any sort.

It's okay for someone to think people to think words are not important. They shouldn't be writing about the principles of unschooling, though, if they think principles and rules are just two different words for the same thing, or that "helping someone learn" and "teaching" are exactly the same. (Thinking it isn't as bad as writing and saying so.)

Sandra

Birthday Breakfast, Motorcycle Race

Ramona King's birthday is today. Most years since we met, we have a birthday meal together. This morning we went to Garcia's at Comanche and Juan Tabo. She was indecisive [about whether to get red or green chile] and said "Christmas," and they brought her the prettiest breakfast burrito with a straight-line division of red and green chile. The drinks were set down exactly that way—I could see both logos and the lemon overlapped the orange juice (visually).



Then Marty and I went to see Josh Vickery race his motorcycle. We only stayed for one race. He came in fourth, but was in third off and on during the laps. I was a little stressed about the possibility of accidents. I'm a sports-attendee wimp. Also it was sunny. We left our house under a heavily overcast sky, but the far west mesa was only a little cloudy. I had no sunscreen. Had an umbrella. Came home to light, nice rain.




That's Marty in the Learn Nothing Day t-shirt but Josh said he wore his to the track that day, and wished me a happy birthday.

I'm tired.

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Slowly breaking news: Josh came in second in another race later in the day and sent Marty's phone a photo of the trophy. I do love this technology.

3rd Learn Nothing Day winding down

This was very cute, on facebook. I came across a discussion of people all using the same "profile image" I had (more or less):



And now that I've been informed that a package I sent to Adam Daniel in the U.K. has arrived, I can show this image of Holly, in an ACE Festival shirt, yesterday:

And one of me in a paisley scarf I received in the mail from Deb Lewis in Montana (along with some other cool birthday goodies). Real woven paisley, in shades of brown. BEAUTIFUL. she suggested I might be able to blend in some in India next winter with this!

My birthday gift was a lot of help to clean up the library and rearrange things so that when our new couch [well, not really "couch," but set of modular couchish-to-guest-bed(s) thing] arrives on Tuesday there will be a good space for it. Found some things I had lost, and gathered up some books to give away. Kirby called to wish me a happy birthday, and talked to me and Marty about things we can send back to Austin with him when he visits, and IT RAINED! Real, hard rain with thunder and lightning. Beautiful. We opened up doors and windows. After the rain, Marty and Ashlee went and got food from Golden Pride—smoked chicken and carne adovada burritos. Holly's friend Tony was here. He played piano downstairs and we got to hear. He's the keyboardist for Holly's favorite local band. Very nice birthday.

Holly and Sandra, hanging out

Carpet Installers of the World, I salute you

Holly and I worked for two hours this morning and it seemed like half a day. I couldn't begin to do that for eight hours. Or a week or a month. And so those who have the strength and patience to do that down-on-the-floor and up and down and dirty and funny-smelling and unsanitary... you are noble and strong. And maybe a little crazy.

Not that we were installing carpet. We stripped half a bedroom, carpet out in two strips (rolled, bagged, taped and in the trash) and the padding (almost like new in the corners) and staples and tack strips, up and out. I was deeply grateful for the immediate presence of a Dyson vacuum. We vaccuumed the teeny particulate yuck that gets under the padding as we went, like "rinse and spit" at the dentist, so we were never sitting in it or touching it.

We only planned to do half at a time from the beginning, because it's been so hot here. And because Holly's never done it, and because I'm old. (I'm lining up all possible justifications for working only two hours and then stopping to shower and blog about it.)

I warned Holly about the danger of the razor-blade knife. Then I stabbed the inside of my forearm, just a little, to make the point. Okay, it was a total embarrassing accident and it hurt, and it bled, but I'm a big (BIG) wimp, and once it was washed, a little spot bandaid is all it needed. I didn't even need painkillers. :-)

We stored our tools together for tomorrow, I took a shower, and Holly went back to bed. Her bed had been covered with sheets on the "not yet" side, and we slid it over to the newly-bare wood. Next week she's getting a new twin bed. The house is all quiet again.