Living in Arizona

Thinking of you, dear readers, out here in the Arizona desert. I am looking forward to many things this weekend.

Living in Arizona means lots of dust. I’m looking forward to cleaning the carpets this weekend.

Living in Arizona means Mexican food cravings as I scan through the MANY Spanish-speaking radio stations while driving. We’re going to see about fixing some of those cravings this weekend, too.

Living in Arizona means you get two seasons. We’re in the hot season now, so it’s the perfect time to read!

Living in Arizona means ripe garden tomatoes in May. Yum.

Happy weekend!

Workspace

I recently saw a project where someone took photographs of the insides of people’s refrigerators. Along with each photo the authors listed the person’s profession, marital status, and age. I thought it was fascinating. And it made me think of my refrigerator, heavily stocked with milk and ketchup, sure signs of young children in the house.

I’m not willing to show you my refrigerator but here’s a picture of my workspace. It tells a good story about what’s going on at our house this week. Not visible on this table are the beanbags from Timothy’s foray into the world of juggling, my iron cooling before I put it away and a stack of CDs full of photos for a DVD project I’ve decided to do.

I admit it. I am overwhelmed today and that doesn’t happen very often.

Flu Bug

I’ve been in bed for 24 hours with a Nasty flu. The kids have cooked and taken good care of themselves.

Our butterfly larvae arrived in the mail.

These are Painted Lady caterpillars. It should be a special event to watch them emerge as butterflies in a week or two. Timothy is finishing up a butterfly unit.

A Day Begun with Peanut M&Ms is a Good Day

It felt like my blood was full of sludge. I was lethargic and a little testy. I wanted to go on a long walk and let myself get back to some kind of equilibrium of mental and physical health. But I decided to ignore that need and just press forward with THE DAY.

I ran two errands this morning and then I got stranded at the post office with a dead battery in the van; a battery that has been dying a slow death since December. I decided not to beg for a charge. I decided to walk home.

I only felt desperate for a second when I realized that no one was answering phones.

And so I trudged through the construction and dust, avoiding the bulldozers and cranes, all the time counting the ways this dead battery was a blessing and only once or twice wishing for a construction helmet. It was really fortuitous the way it all happened. I didn’t have the kids with me, who would have really struggled with the walk on a road with no shoulder; I had put on some shoes before leaving the house (for a change), and I was only a mile and a half from home. I got my exercise and I made my funny list of blessings on the way:

1. I woke up to find a forgotten bag of peanut M&Ms in my purse.

2. I was able to comfort a friend, mail a birthday package and the taxes all before the battery died.

3. I got the walk I knew I needed.

4. I wasn’t wearing my pajamas when I got stranded.

5. I have a capable teenager who stepped in to watch the kids when my 15 minute errand turned epic.

6. The walk canceled the M&M breakfast.

Memories

I don’t think I will ever get over leaving Texas.

Mark asked if this was Paige in this picture. Nope. It is me, 8 years ago in Salado. Richard and I were surrounded by  fireflies as we sat near this stream as it grew dark.

Sigh.

That’s all, folks.

Ditat Deus

This photo was taken in a yard in the middle of the desert.  The pavement ended at its gates;

the home was small and there were no fancy cars,  just flowers and cactus.

“Ditat Deus”

That’s Latin for Arizona’s State motto and it means “God Enriches.”

When I saw these flowers, I felt myself “considering the lilies of the field.” (Matthew 6:28)

I spend a lot of time in great effort trying to make life run smoothly, but the best and most beautiful things in my life

are here because Heavenly Father arrayed them thus.

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle

Yes, the following post is a little bit grumpy. Despite the flowers, I have to say spring is not my favorite thing. I roll with the seasons, and when the weather is wonky, I am wonky. I am fine, though, and planted wheat grass for Easter time and flowers today. I heard my oldest children play piano at the U of A this morning and that was nice.

Now, for the Angie-rant.

I had a dream of becoming one of those people who had cloth grocery bags but I could never bring myself to plunk down the money to do it. I decided the only way I was going to be ecologically responsible was to ask for Richard to buy them for me. (It’s how things work around here.)

We’ve been using the cloth bags for 3 months. They are so much nicer on your hands. They don’t cut into your flesh as you carry them around. They are stronger than plastic, and you don’t have to find a place to put all those plastic bags. The only downside is they affect the cashier-customer relationship.

I don’t interact with adults very often so when I go to the store, I expect a pleasant reception and maybe a little admiring comment about my little boy’s red hair. When I bring my cloth bags to the store, that’s all the cashier wants to talk about. Sometimes cashiers are noticeably bothered by the hassle. These cashiers alternately purse their lips, sigh audibly, and sometimes complain outright. One store gives me a 5 cent discount per bag. Here, the cashier says to me, “How many?” instead of “Hello, how are you?” I’ve had conversations about their pleasant pastel color, their depth (most cashiers say they are awkward), their strength (young bagging boys will load them so full I can hardly lift them), and oh, lots of other dull things.

Moving on to an equally dull topic, but one that affects my life, let’s talk about recycling.

We live in a town with 3 competing garbage companies. This is good for the prices, but in order to be competitive, our garbage company decided it needed to give us an additional recycling can… no charge! But wait! it’s 12 cubic feet of space that I no longer have in my yard. I crush boxes and milk cartons, I wash out cans and carefully monitor what’s recyclable and not. We went to a presentation about where our recycling items go. We learned that our recyclables aren’t recycled in town; they are SOLD to various recycling companies. That means I am working for the city!! I am sure my things are recycled after being transported by diesel engine across several states. However, I kind of resent the whole process and I’m not certain we come out any better off ecologically.

I’m not a fan of recycling, but I’ll do it. I guess I stand more firmly behind the idea of reusing and reducing. Here’s a photo of Daniel’s science fair project before we pulled off the papers so the board can be reused. I felt very Depression-era as I picked sticky things off two boards for 30 minutes. I didn’t do it for the paper. I did it for the money. That’s $10 I won’t have to spend next year.

And last, if you are still reading, I thank you for your time. I have a beautiful photo to share tomorrow.

A Great Matter settled

It’s settled. It doesn’t take much to make my little boys happy.

A Big Event came and now it is over. I oversaw many things: chemistry, cinema, costumes, photography, tents, model building, cooking, advertising and bunting. I went overboard. Again.

Sticks, pine cones and friends provided the most entertainment today. It’s a wholesome and encouraging truth to be remembered Next Time.

Under Construction

When a website is undergoing some kind of change, they say it’s “under construction.”

Something like that is happening here. I am a hesitant blogger (despite my frequent posts) because unlike many bloggers,  I am not here to start a discussion. I’m just here to share. I share to maintain relationships with family and have some personal validation. I have a very small readership. (Bless each of you!) I get a lot of questions about curriculum and activities, so I have tried to share these things here. This may be changing, however.

First, two bits of background information:

A few months ago I found a discussion that asked, “At what point do you stop posting about your children because they are old enough to tell their own stories?” This question has hovered over my head for a while and I can see wisdom in not treading heavily on the experiences of childhood. I have tried to be careful with what I post about the heart-wrenching or embarrassing moments of growing up. There are no posts showing the painful smile after braces or striking out during a baseball game, etc.

This weekend I read a homeschooling discussion and was once again shocked and horrified to read the hatred and mistrust that is directed against parents who educate their own children. Such comments ignore the good and highlight the bad. I have seen homeschooling done very well and I’ve seen it done very poorly. Over the past several days my reaction to the acerbic tone of so many against this movement has been to crawl into a shell and ponder two questions,

“Is the online telling of the education of my children ultimately unfair to them?” (even though I block search engines)

and,

“Do my homeschooling posts serve anyone but myself?”

Since I’m not looking for a discussion, I don’t expect these questions to be answered by my readers, but through prayer. And believe me, that’s enough.

But, if you see fewer posts in the future, or see that I suddenly start posting pictures of decorated corners of my house instead of scenes from the schoolroom you will know that I have decided to protect that aspect of our lives.

A gift, freely and meekly given

Last spring I decided to search out one of my favorite teachers, Mr. H.who taught me to play the violin for 6 years. I learned that he passed away in February of 2008. His online obituary listed his accomplishments. I was surprised at what I read because he had never really shared his credentials with us.

He did post-graduate work at Juilliard and obtained a master’s degree from Columbia University, though he never mentioned it.

He taught in the Bronxville Public School System for 25 years. I heard him casually refer to this.

He taught in my home town public schools for 11 years.

He played in the Utah Symphony.

The first time I met him, he was wearing plaid pants and going around to the 5th grade classrooms, playing something on the violin to entice children to join the elementary orchestra. The tune was lively and he tapped his big foot on the floor as he played. His thin white hair grew disheveled with his movements. I was enchanted. The next week I began my years of carrying a violin to and from school.

I have had several violin teachers and played in many orchestras, but Mr. H was the steady influence in my music training.

There were many adventures. There was the day when we took advantage of his good nature and asked if he would bring us some ice cream. He said he was out of cash and showed us his wallet. One spunky student grabbed the wallet and pulled out a check for something like $15,000 from the sale of one of his instruments. He chuckled and then set off to the ice cream shop where he bought each of us a large sundae.

My favorite year was in 9th grade when I was in an ensemble group that met at 7 am. I can still remember his expression once we mastered a piece. He was so happy.

The last time I met him was in 1994 when I went to his home to play a quartet with some old high school friends. He entertained us and gave advice. He told me that I needed to keep playing, even though I had decided not to major in music.

As is often the case when we lose someone we care about, I find that my mind now focuses differently on this man who spent 36 years teaching children to play stringed instruments. His story is the kind that could inspire a screenplay. He must have taught thousands of students. What a gift he shared.

I feel like I owe a few children in my a life a piece of that gift that was given to me so freely and meekly. Until I fulfill this obligation, I’ll treasure the gift and try to keep fiddling.