Credit for Trying?

It's June 21st, the summer solstice, the longest day of the year, and the last full day of school for my three children. Notice, I did not say it's their last day of school.  Because it isn't.   We have 1/2 days next week until Wednesday for my high schooler and middle schooler and until Thursday (haha) for my 2nd grader, whose school had to close for a day last fall due to a water main break and ran out of extra days with the hurricane and all.  But, I digress.  Let's not talk about the insanity of our school calendar, shall we?  Rather, let's chat about the insanity of homework at the end of the year.

Yesterday afternoon, after everyone was home from school,  I conducted my afternoon inquiry regarding homework.  This gives me an opportunity to practice my deposition skills so that, if I ever need them again, like when we are paying college tuition, I won't be too rusty.

The high schooler has quarterlies -- those are what we used to call final exams, but which our district has eliminated because they apparently caused our poor, precious future leaders of America a tad too much stress about testing (but, I digress) -- so, no worries there.

I ask my second grader, "James, do you have any homework?"  "No, mom, field day," as if "field day" is a homework pass.  "So, you don't have any reading tonight?"  (Note the leading, follow-up question.)  "No, mom, field day."   Same answer, second time.  Score one for me.  This means that I don't have to fill out the reading journal with another smiley face, instead of actually recording the minutes that he read because, at this point, I have no idea how many minutes he is reading (I know it's supposed to be 20), how many pages he is reading or even what he is reading.  He could be reading cereal boxes for all I know, and, if he did that for 20 minutes, I am pretty sure it would count.  But, he said "field day," so, no worries there.

I ask my middle schooler, "Thomas, homework?"  No answer.  I ask again, raising the volume, "Thomas, homework?"  He lifts one Skull Candy earphone from his ear, "What?"  "Homework?"  "Uh, maybe, um, no.  Not a lot."  "Well, what do you have -- math, you have a test tomorrow, right?" (Note the follow-up question.)  "Yeah.  But, I did the whole study guide in school.  Mom, I'm good."  "Anything else?"  (That's the catch-all question, the one you ask so that the witness can't change his story later.)  "Uh, yeah, Latin.  I have a vocab quiz.  I'm good."  "Do you need to review the vocab with me?"  "No, I'm really good."  So, no worries there.

"Wow, how did that happen," I wonder.   I think I will finish the article I'm writing.  I walk toward my desk.  "Uh, mom."  "Yes, Tom?"  "I need stickers and a stencil."  "What," I reply in stunned amazement, a request for supplies today?  "I need stickers."  "What kind of stickers?  What do you need them for?  "I need them for my group science project.  To decorate the circuit board or something.  I think we have a stencil in the Box."

I am pretty sure there is no stencil in the Box.  There hasn't been one in there for years. Don't know where it went, stickers?  Hmm, let's take a look.  I think to myself, "I hope I find something because I am not, no way, no how, going to the store to buy stickers."

I open the cabinet above my desk to get the Box.  Dear Lord,  it's the Island of Misfit Toys in that cabinet, I realize.  The first shelf ostensibly holds the first aid kit.  But, it's been plundered so many times this year that there's very little aid to be had.  I don't think there even is a box of Band-Aids in there now.  I see the Tylenol and the bottle of vitamins and calcium supplements that I am supposed to remember to take every day.  I found the dog's ear drops, and the math facts flash cards.   Let's leave all that until later, shall we, and just get down the Box.

I take down the Box from the second shelf.   The Box is where I keep all of the things that my young learners may need for exciting things, like group projects.  This sounds great, in theory, except that it's June 20th.   I put the Box on the counter and pull out (with props to Eric Carle): one bag of dried up markers; one bag of cruddy crayon stubs; one old glue stick; one box of colored pencils of various sizes; two broken pencils without erasers; lots of loose index cards and one unopened package of colored index cards (that I bought last July because the Latin teacher said that we needed two packages of colored index cards); and three pencil sharpeners with pencil shavings leaking out all over.  And still, no stickers or stencil.

I keep looking.  I find the heart hole puncher that James immediately starts using on the index cards, thereupon scattering heart-shaped confetti on the floor and counter.  He hole-punches an index card into the shape of a heart, and says, "Here, mom, this is for you." Sweet, but no stickers or stencil.

I keep looking.  I find a stack of tattered construction paper and 8 Scooby Doo Valentine's cards.  I remember that I kept them thinking James could use them next year, and I could avoid buying two more packages of 16 Valentine's for James' class of 22.  I thought this was a good idea at the time, except that I donated the Scooby Doo pencils that went with the cards to the middle school some time in early April, after I received a desperate email from one of Tom's teachers begging for supplies, since apparently, they ran out of pencils.  And still, no stickers or stencil.

I keep looking.  What is this?  Can it be?  Yes, it's James' First Grade vocabulary workbook that his  teacher told us at the end of last year that he should take to Second Grade.  I sent it to school in September with a stickie note on it to his teacher explaining this.  His teacher promptly sent it back home, with the stickie note.  It was still on the workbook.  I don't think I need to send it in for Third Grade.  But still, no stickers or stencil.


I am at the bottom of the Box.  I pull out a gingerbread shaped activity book, probably from Christmas, and out falls a sheet of stickers -- 12 wonderful, little round stickers of snowmen.

"Tom, I found some stickers."  He lifts one earphone from his ear, "What?"  "Stickers.  They have snowmen on them, but it's all I have.  I found poster letters too, but no stencil."  Silence.  "I'll put them in your backpack."  "Mom, I think I'll look for the old Pinewood Derby decals in the basement."

So, the snowmen stickers, the letters, and the Pinewood Derby flaming decals all went to school today, the last full day of the school year, to add a special touch to the circuit board group science project.  I would like think that they will get some credit.   For trying?

P.S. Tom did not use the snowmen stickers, after all.

Remember

Is it really Memorial Day weekend?   I double checked the calendar, and it's here, the unofficial start of summer.  The weekend when pools open, families return to summer houses, and when communities gather for parades and ceremonies to honor those who died in military service to our country.

Formerly known as "Decoration Day," Memorial Day began as a ritual of remembrance after the Civil War when families visited graves of dead Union and Confederate soldiers.  The day was eventually extended after World War I  to cover all who died in military service.

Omaha Beach Memorial

We chose to take the kids to Normandy so that they could understand the enormity of the sacrifices made by Americans who fought in World War II and seemingly impossible mission that confronted the Allied soldiers on D-Day. 

It is one thing to learn about D-Day in a social studies or history class.

Tom on Omaha Beach

It is something else entirely to stand on Omaha Beach. 

Cliffs of Normandy

It is one thing to imagine landing on a beach and seeing cliffs to be liberated. 

It is something else entirely to see the cliffs that those soldiers fought to liberate.

Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial

It is one thing to read that 9,387 Americans are buried in Normandy.

It is something else entirely to walk among those graves and begin to understand the meaning of valor.

So, on this Memorial Day weekend, pause and remember and give thanks for all the service men and women who bravely defend these United States.

The Spirit of America's Youth Rising from the Waves,
Normandy American Memorial
Sculpted by Donald De Lue, Leonardo, NJ

Thanks for Making Lemonade

I read my Mother's Day Card from James this morning.  In his best Kindergarten print, he wrote:   "Happy Mother's (backward "s," love that) Day!  I love you!  Thank you for meken leanad."  I looked at James and pointed to the last two words on the card, "What does this say, James."  James stared and me and blinked, seemingly puzzled that I asked.  "Thank you for making lemonade," he replied.  "Oh, you're welcome, sweetie," I said.  "Happy Mother's Day, mom," said James as he got up from his seat and walked away.  I laughed as I thought, "This one thing I do --  make gallons of "lemonade" (Crystal Light, really) -- is important to him? This is the thing that mattered?"  Don't get me wrong; I'll take my thank you's whenever I can get them.  And, if my daily mixing of Crystal Light lemonade is important to James, I'm good with that.

Yet, the more I thought about it today, the more I saw the wisdom in those words, not because I think James was trying to make a statement; rather, I thought, "Isn't that what moms do every day?"  We make lots of lemonade, whether we want to or not.

We take the lemons that our kids (and spouse's sometimes) come home with -- the playground words, the friend who sat with someone else at lunch, the difficult class, the unreasonable teacher, boss, or client, the traffic or late train -- and squeeze them into lemonade.  Sometimes, we add lots of sugar and make the lemonade sweet.  On those days, the lemonade is easy to drink, especially if served with cookies.  Sometimes, though, the lemons are really sour and no amount of sugar is going to make that lemonade sweet.  We drink it anyway, even without cookies, make a sour face, and it's soon gone.

Then, those lemons find their way into our kitchens.  They're no good; they're soft; their clean, bright scent has disappeared.  Those lemons -- a parent's illness, a friend's cancer, a death, a job loss -- sit in a bowl, as we figure out what to do with them.  We definitely can't make them into lemonade.  They sit there.  Eventually, we realize that there's only one thing to do. 

Compost them and pray that, after some time, those very same lemons will help make our own gardens grow.

Happy Mother's Day!  Thanks for making lemonade.

Color Me Paris: Les Fleurs du Printemps

Spring finally has arrived in New Jersey -- the world is "painfully green," as Katie said.  Pink and yellow tulips fill my flower beds.  Korean spice viburnum and lilacs perfume the air.  Tree wisterias droop with purple cascades of blossoms.  Cherry trees and dogwoods are in full flower. 

These sunny, clear days bring me back to France a month ago . . . when spring had not yet arrived at home.  I nearly fainted at every florist, planter, and garden.

Who could resist le fleuriste avec les belle fleurs?  I could not.

 Or, les tulipes?

 Perhaps, you prefer les roses?

Or, sweet little pots of sedums. . . And, everyone needs a carte postale or deux to write home about les jardins de Versaille, n'est-ce pas?

Perhaps, the Sun King once walked by and admired urns filled with fritellaria.  I would have.

But, if I sent a post card, I would write about this fleuriste a block or two from our appartement on rue Babylone . . . and about the perfect potting bench and cherub that I wanted to bring home to my garden.  It wouldn't fit in my suitcase.

Instead, I remember these roses, in a perfect bouquet, on a fine spring day in Paris.

Arromanches-les-Bains: Welcome to the Shore!

Once upon a time, Arromanches-les-Bains was a Victorian vacation spot, perfect for taking the waters or playing games on the beach.

In 1944, Arromanches became the sight of Port Winston Harbor, an artificial "Mulberry" harbor created to move massive amounts of supplies to the Allies following D-Day or le jour J.

Today, all that remains of the Mulberry harbor are the hulking skeletons of the caissons. . . .

Visited by fishermen . . .

harness riders . . .

and touristes.

Today, Arromanches is a beach town, not unlike any other beach town, quietly waiting for summer.



Rouen: That's Some Big Clock

On our way to Arromanches, we stopped in Rouen to walk around and find some lunch because everyone was ravenous. 

Rouen is a 2,000 year old city -- most famous for the death of St. Joan of Arc who was burned at the stake in 1431.  It also has a really big and really old clock (c. 1528) that only has 1 hand for the hour -- close enough, I guess.  You can find it on rue de gros horloge or the road of the big clock. 

We followed the rue until we came to the Cathedral of Notre Dame which was built from 1200 to 1500 and almost destroyed by bombing during WWII (and since rebuilt).  The Cathedral is being restored (cleaned) to remove the centuries of grime that has accumulated.  Its gothic spires seemed to touch the sky. 

Tom loved this gothic cathedral and almost every other cathedral we visited.  He said to me, "Wow, mom, this is nothing like our church at home.  And, it's so old."  Tom started taking pictures in Rouen and didn't stop until we left -- over 600 photos on his camera.

Vaulted ceiling, organ, rose window -- mostly clear glass because the orignal was destroyed during WWII.  I loved these stairs. 

And gargoyles smiled at us on our way to a cafe . . .where Tom enjoyed a petit salade for the first time and pronounced it "bon."  "Mom, we don't have salad dressing like this at home!"  I guess I am going to have to master making a vinagrette.

Recharged and fueled, we pressed on to Arromanches.

 

On the Way to Normandy: What Are Those Yellow Flowers?

Well, I thought I would be able to write about our trip as we were taking it. Alas, it was too hard to get online to write and I could not upload any pictures. Luckily, I did keep a cahier with me so I could write.  Now, I can share.

Once we got past Paris, the highway opened up, and we started to see some amazing countryside.  France is primarily rural and agricultural.  As the kilometres passed, we began to see field after field filled with these yellow flowers.  What were they?  Tim and I guessed mustard. 

Wrong, they are colza flowers or rapeseed from which canola oil is made. 

Amazing.