July 10, 2008
So there we were, post July 4 parade, and the boys (there were like 8 of them in a huddle) starting saying "Cool....!!!"
Turns out that this little bit of fluff on the ground was a BUG. What kind? Nobody knows. Just one of those "nature is wicked" kind of moments.
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October 16, 2007
Besides the thousands in taxes we pay for schools we aren't attending, there are the thousands we're not paying for Montessori tuition.
And, in between, the thousands for homeschooling.
The textbooks run you in the hundreds. Then there are the ink cartridges and sundry other dozens of supplies you'll need. The library helps, a lot, but the fact of the matter is that it isn't enough.
From supplies and education materials and library fines there are also the big ticket items - especially the additional activities you pay for to make sure your child is getting the peer interaction and specialty learning that you can't provide. Like enrichment programs that run $35 a week, and sports clubs, and art or music lessons.
In Bear's case, it's worth it. He feels absolutely perfect in the studies he has. And even though he knows that reading and writing are hard, he doesn't feel behind. And this is a critical difference. One, I believe, that will really matter to his self-esteem down the road.
That said, it's become an interesting challenge to make do. At first, I really resented it. Like a fish resents the big invisible wall at the end of the tank, I tell you. But brandy helps.
Plus, and I'm gonna share this little private bit of wisdom with ya because, hell, why not... anyone can get used to just about anything. Including the added time and energy it takes to do things on the cheap.
I'm here to testify. I'm here to say it loud.
My goal is a field trip every other week. My budget? $20 per trip. I discovered it can be done. If you don't mind planning. A lot of planning. And being really, freakishly, flexible.
The key for us so far has been that most places have "free" days - usually when the rest of the world is at school or work.
A-diggity-ha, I tell you.
Like the Swedish Museum in Andersonville has this wicked cool Children's Museum where kids can re-enact pretty much life on a Swedish farm all the way through the immigration trip via steamer to establishing a farm in the American Midwest.
And it's free on the Tuesday of the second week of each month.
Once you do the algebra on that one, the rest of the plan is simple. Street parking costs a couple of quarters. Plus the Swedish bakery and the Erikson's Swedish market are both a couple of blocks away, so you can top off the visit with an authentic treat for only a couple of bucks.
....I've been thinking of starting a website and gathering all this, plus our experiences, but somehow it seems a little silly. Despite knowing how important all this is, and being proud of it, most of the time I still feel somewhat marginalized in my new role.
A meekness I can not explain, or shed.
But that said, here's some pictures of last week's and today's $20/day outings.
"I, Lord BedHead, do claim this lake for all redheads!"
(Frolicking at Berger Beach last Tuesday)
Playing in the Swedish Museum's Children's Museum's interactive '1800's Immigration' display
"Bear, dagnabbit, I know that Swedish grocery is around here somewhere..."
"Uh, Mommy? Look behind you."
Checking out the planet at the Chicago Museum of Science and Industry today. Prognosis? Not good. Looks like we're all on status Ernie...
Checking our bad selves out in the thermal imaging scan.
Bear and friend loving the exhibit where they display, using lights and bubbles, how sludge gets clean.
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Can.I.come.next.time?(Pardon.all.the.periods,my.spacebar.is.broken)September 02, 2004
Fenway Park, from Sect 18, Box 39, Row G, Seat 1
Game 67: Ana 7 - BoSox 12 (Yeah Baby), 09/01/2004
My old friend Kevin was into baseball in a very big way and infected me with it when I was in my 20's. I lost count of how many games we caught together.
I remember one night, Kevin and I drove around Chicago looking for a somewhere quiet we could talk. It was a melancholy night, just before he moved away.
Finally he pulled over on Addison, and I looked up at that old sign over the stadium. "I think this," he told me quietly as we gazed at Wrigley Field, "is about as Holy a place in Chicago as you could find."
I understood.
Baseball is a language that has given me common ground with other people as well. Like my dad.
Last night, he took CD and I to the Red Sox-Anaheim Angels game. Dad surprised us with amazing seats, and we lucked out with weather - warm with a cool breeze and a bright moon.
Johnny Damon got 5 hits for 5 at-bats and made it home 3 times. Millar got a 3-run homer. Manny got walked a couple of times. Red Sox spanked Anaheim. It was a rollicking boisterous game, and a great time.
It was the second Fenway game I've been to with my dad.
Aug 18, 1993 was the first time we'd taken in a Red Sox home game together. We got same-day SRO tickets, White Sox/Red Sox and grabbed some programs and some beers.
Danny Darwin, #44, was the starting pitcher. Usually, the Red Sox go through pitchers in a game like a cocktail nuts at a bar - but this day would be different.
It was a sunny summer day and my dad and I found a piece of railing with a good view. As the first outs were made, Dad and I got into a rhythm - he held the beers while I scored the game. He'd look over my shoulder once in a while, correcting my marks - "That was 9 to 3" he'd say. Or, "I'm not sure they gave him the error on that play."
Midway through the top of the 3rd, and a hush began to spread around the stadium. Dad peered at my box scores and asked, "Is that what I.." and I nodded. We shared a long look, and then held our breath.
Darwin, that inconsistent pitcher, was pitching a perfect game.
The full stadium was riveted. We watched in absolute silence.
5th inning, into the 6th and we still had, unbelievably, a no-hitter on our hands. Danny was throwing strike after strike. The catcher, Tony Pena, had practically crawled out of his shorts. Darwin was cool. We were praying, pulling, with glistening eyes and bated breath.
The Chicago White Sox were swinging with everything they had. And theirs was a roster of power hitters.
But no one could get a piece of Darwin.
Finally, in the 8th, with one out, Dan Pasqua connected and ran hell bent for leather before settling on 3rd. Darwin retrieved the ball, ready to pitch to the next batter. As though nothing had happened. No sign of disappointment, just steady focus.
But the fans had were not about to let the moment slide by. Before he could throw the next pitch, we stopped the play.
The noise erupted all at once, overtaking me with emotion. My eyes were puddled with tears. I looked around and saw that every man, woman, and child was up. Dad put out beers on the ground and we joined in pounding our hands together in a beat that shook the walls.
"Darwin, Darwin..." came the cheer. We screamed ourselves hoarse for long minutes, while the refs let the man have his due. Darwin stood alone, tall on the mound.
This wasn't Ripken, or Williams, or any of the guys who I've cheered for before or since. This wasn't Ramirez last night, used to the pounding affirmation from stadium full of admirers.
This was Danny Darwin. Traded around, stats up and down, the oldest guy on the team. You think he'd want to bust out in the Macarena. But there's an unwritten code in baseball. It's dictates a calm, unruffled gratitude to appreciation. A stoic's approach to the boiling emotions of the game. Darwin embodied all the class and grace of that code on that August afternoon.
He simply nodded in acknowledgement.
And I joined with 30,000 fans to peal a last hoot of frenzied joy and appreciation before allowing Darwin to finish his day's work- a 5-0 shutout that was much more than the stats of the day.
It was the best game I've ever seen.
Last night, my Dad driving out of Boston and we look back at the park, windows open and the night breeze still soft and cool.
I got a chill watching Fenway recede. It's as Holy a place in Boston as you could find.
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