Mamacita says:  Many years ago, I was teaching Public Speaking in a small farmland high school in southern Indiana. My students’ assignment, one week, was to give an informal “how-to” presentation, a brief demonstration of something they personally knew how to do.

That week, we all learned how to crochet a chain stitch, how to do macrame, how to carve a simple wooden toy, how to change a tire, how to juggle, how to put a belt on a broken vaccuum cleaner, how to put a zipper in a skirt, how to make various color combinations of Easter egg dyes with food coloring and vinegar, and how to make homemade ice cream.

We also learned how to put a suppository up a cow’s butt, how to take a horse’s temperature with a rectal thermometer, and how to neuter a bull calf.

It was a really interesting week. I’ve never been able to look at a rubber band or a razor blade the same way since.

Mamacita says:  This is a caffeine molecule. We hang out far too much.  I had thought about writing a humorous essay about how I’ve been known to drive to WalMart at 3 a.m. for Diet Coke because we were out and I couldn’t wait for morning to go get some.

But that isn’t really funny – it’s just sad. Besides, ever since I discovered the “People of WalMart” website, I’ve been afraid I’d end up on there with keywords like “dowdy” and “hoarder” under my not-even-lucky-enough-to-be-blurry picture.

So I thought I’d talk about how even my students know I’m happier when there’s a Diet Coke on my desk, and when the professor is happy, everybody in the room is happy. And how sometimes, a student will even bring me a Diet Coke.

Diet Coke is the new apple for the teacher.

But that’s not really humorous, either.

Then I thought about mentioning how people who know me make a point of having Diet Coke in their refrigerators when they invite me over or know I’ll be there.  People who wouldn’t touch a Diet Coke with a ten foot pole will make sure they’re a few for me, even in, among, and around their own wholesome, nutritious spring waters and fruit juices.

Again, not funny.

Well, how about a piece about how flavored colas are Satan Juice, especially the lime ones?

Naw.  Silly isn’t humorous; it’s just silly.

Finally, I thought about turning my original idea from humor to a serious talk about health and well-being, figuring that it might help a few people battle their own obsessions.

“My poor personal example might inspire someone to take charge of his/her own nutritional requirements and make wiser choices, ” thought I.

Like that’s going to happen.

So I’m showing you all what a caffeine molecule looks like because I think it’s all cute and stuff, and it makes me snicker to imagine an ice-cold bottle full of these little wiggly jobbers being sucked down someone’s throat on a hot day science is important.

In fact, science is one of my favorite things.  That’s because science is ALL things, a wonder at a time.

Oh, and the melted Mentos and Diet Coke dregs left in the bottle after the Geyser goes off are delicious.

And, I’m sure, quite good for us.  No, I’m not sharing.  Back off.

Mamacita says:  I first saw this cartoon a few years ago when I was thin and I thought it was funny.

Of course, I didn’t know then that it wasn’t a cartoon at all, but an actual documented photo of evil recurring entities, plotting to destroy the self-esteem of a lady who looks a lot like me and who is really very nice unless you piss her off.

Years ago, I gave in to them then out of pain and frustration and nasty medications that invited these entities to take up residence without even feeding them, but this time? I’m going to win.

Example: There were doughnuts in the lounge today at the college, but I didn’t touch them. Of course, I am not all that fond of doughnuts but even so.

Thank goodness there wasn’t a big bowl of M&M’s in the lounge. I’d be defeated instantly.

Plain or peanut: I’m not particular in my obsession for them. Obsession, I’m telling you.

It’s not my fault. I should be getting government money, in fact.  It’s nothing that can be controlled by any normal means.  It’s a disability.

I have OCM&MD.*

I’d stop if I could. Don’t let them near me. It’s not my fault. Pay me.

*Obsessive/Compulsive M&M Disorder

Mom and Dad interacted with us, just enough to make it special.

I do NOT, however, recall my parents being at my beck and call. I knew kids whose parents were at their beck and call, and we made fun of them – both kids and parents.  Even when we were really little, we knew such a relationship just wasn’t, well, RIGHT.

When my parents got down and played with me, it was a big deal, partly because it was such super extra fun, and partly because it was rare enough to be a genuine treat.

Mom was busy. I remember her ironing in front of the tv while the kids played all around her. Was she playing with them? No, she was busy. But it was all right, because we knew where she was and what she was doing, and we knew if we needed her she would drop everything and come.

We played outside in the yard. Our house was on a VERY busy corner, and the wide street was dangerous. We did not go near it because we had been told not to. Period. We played with each other and with the neighbor kids. If a parent had tried to play with us, we would have been frightened and we would have gone into the house. I mean, jeepers. All the parents in the neighborhood, however, watched over us and never hesitated to tattle if there was something they thought another parent would want to know.

I did not expect my parents to play with me constantly; why should they? The world is not supposed to be a 100% blend of adult-child things; there is an adult world and there is a child’s world. Frequently, they interact; mostly, they do not.

Nowadays, however, I guess I should phrase that last: mostly, they SHOULD not. Because in many households today, the children are in charge.

“Play wif me, watch Barney wif me, sit wif me, stack blocks wif me. . . .” And the parent drops everything and lets the child be the person in charge of the household, because to deny a child immediate pleasure is to be a bad, bad parent.

Children do NOT need a parent to play with them every minute of the day. Children need to be forced to acquire the inner resources to entertain themselves. Most kids own enough toys to stock a store; put the kid in there and tell him he’s on his own because you’ve got grown-up things you simply must do. Be sure you can keep a close eye on him, if he’s tiny, but make him do some exploring on his own, for crying out loud. And speaking of crying out loud, don’t fall for THAT one, either.

A child who doesn’t have the inner resources to entertain himself becomes an adult who requires outside stimulation (shut up) at all times because they don’t have what it takes to sit quietly and dream, or think, or draw, or read, or open the damn toy box and find something to play with. Requiring your children to learn to entertain themselves encourages them to become imaginative and creative. Being at your child’s beck and call discourages these things.

Far too many parents give up and turn on the tv for hours, every day.   That creates yet another generation of adults who can’t entertain themselves; it has to come from OUTSIDE themselves. How many adults do you know who MUST keep the tv on pretty much 24/7 because they CAN’T function without some sitcom or show on, always? I know several. Listening to background music isn’t the same thing at all, because there is no picture – often not child-friendly – for a kid to be captivated by.

Do not become your child’s on-call playmate. Make your child entertain himself. Whenever you can, sit down and play with him, but honestly? Your kid does not need a grownup play buddy. Your child needs to learn how to figure out how to play by himself.

Is your child more important than housework or yard work or home office work, etc? Absolutely. But your child also needs to learn that Mommy or Daddy is NOT at their beck and call, 24/7.

“Playpen” is a dirty word for many parents, but the fact is, with a playpen, you can put your tiny tiny toddler in there with some toys and get some work done. “But he cries when I put him in there!” So what? Let him cry a while, and eventually he’ll see he’s getting nowhere and he’ll start to play, by himself. This isn’t a sad pitiful thing, poor lonely child, etc; it’s a step towards independence and a step towards becoming a person who has what it takes to keep himself occupied and entertain himself, and become resourceful, so he won’t grow up to become a person so in need of outside stimulation and affirmation and so “entitled” to attention in all aspects of life that he talks out loud in the theater, bellows in a restaurant, talks on his cell phone in public, is at a loss if he finishes a test early and is told to just sit there and read for ten minutes, doesn’t have any homework and can’t handle the free time in study hall, etc.

Play with your kids whenever you can. But don’t let your kids rule your home, and don’t deny yourselves your share of the “adult” world you are so very much entitled to by reason of your ever-advancing age. And yes, those ARE grey hairs and yes, they appeared AFTER you had kids.

Seriously? There is something sad and creepy about a parent so involved with her kids and their activities that her feelings are hurt when the kids don’t invite her to play, too. It’s almost as creepy as the kids who have no conception of figuring anything out themselves because a parent is ALWAYS there to explain every. single. little.thing.

The children’s novel “Understood Betsy,” which is one of my favorites, has this to say:

“. . . Elizabeth Ann had always before thought it an essential part of railway journeys to be much kissed at the end and asked a great many times how you had ‘stood the trip.’

She st very still on the high lumber seat, feeling very forlorn and neglected. Her feet dangled high above the floor of the wagon. She felt herself to be in the most dangerous place she had ever dreamed of in her worst dreams. Oh, why wasn’t Aunt Frances there to take care of her! It was just like one of her bad dreams – yes, it was horrible! She would fall, she would roll under the wheels and be crushed to. . . She looked up at Uncle Henry with the wild eyes of nervous terror which always brought Aunt Frances to her in a rush to ‘hear all about it,’ to sympathize, to reassure.

Uncle Henry looked down at her soberly, his hard, weather-beaten old face unmoved. “Here, you drive, will you, for a piece?” he said briefly, putting the reins into her hands, hooking his spectacles over his ears, and drawing out a stubby pencil and a bit of paper. “I’ve got some figgering to do. You pull on the left-hand rein to make ‘em go to the left and t’other way for ‘other way, though ’tain’t likely we’ll meet any teams.”

Elizabeth Ann had been so near one of her wild screams of terror that now, in spite of her instant absorbed interest in the reins, she gave a queer little yelp. She was all ready with the explanations, her conversations with Aunt Frances having made her very fluent in explanations of her own emotions. She would tell Uncle Henry about how scared she had been, and how she had just been about to scream and couldn’t keep back that one little. . . But Uncle Henry seemed not to have heard her little howl, or, if he had, didn’t think it worth conversation, for he. . . oh, the horses were CERTAINLY going to one side! She hastily decided which was her right hand (she had never been forced to know it so quickly before) and pulled on that rein. The horses turned their hanging heads a little, and, miraculously, there they were in the middle of the road again.

Elizabeth Ann drew a long breath of relief and pride, and looked to Uncle Henry for praise. But he was busily setting down figures as though he were getting his ‘rithmetic lesson tor the next day and had not noticed. . . OH, there were were going to the left again! This time, in her flurry, she made a mistake about which hand was which and pulled wildly on the left line! The horses docilely walked off the road into a shallow ditch, the wagon tilted. . . help! Why didn’t Uncle Henry help! Uncle Henry continued intently figuring on the back of his envelope.

Elizabeth Ann, the perspiration starting out on her forehead, pulled on the other line. The horses turned back up the little slope, the wheel grated sickeningly against the wagon-box – she was SURE they would tip over! But there! Somehow there they were in the road, safe and sound, with Uncle Henry adding up a column of figures. If he only knew, thought the little girl, if he only KNEW the danger he had been in, and how he had been saved. . . ! But she must think of some way to remember, for sure, which her right hand was, and avoid that hideous mistake again.

And then suddenly something inside Elizabeth Ann’s head stirred and moved. It came to her, like a clap, that she needn’t know which was right or left. If she just pulled the way she wanted them to go – the horses would never know whether it was the right or the left rein!

It is possible that what stirred inside her head at that moment was her brain, waking up. She was nine years old, and she was in the third A grade at school, but that was the first time she had ever had a whole thought of her very own. At home, Aunt Frances had always known exactly what she was doing, and had helped her over the hard places before she even knew they were there; and at school her teachers had been carefully trained to think faster than the scholars. Somebody had always been explaining things to Elizabeth Ann so carefully that she had never found out a single thing for herself before. This was a very small discovery, but it was her own. Elizabeth Ann was as excited about it as a mother-bird over the first egg she hatches.

She forgot how afraid she was of Uncle Henry, and poured out to him her discovery. “It’s not right or left that matters! she ended triumphantly; “it’s which way you want to go!” Uncle Henry looked at her attentively as she talked, eyeing her sidewise over the top of one spectacle-glass. When she finished – “Well, now, that’s so,” he admitted, and returned to his arithmetic.

It was a short remark, shorter than any Elizabeth Ann had ever heard before. Aunt Frances and her teachers had always explained matters at length. But it had a weighty, satisfying ring to it. The little girl felt the importance of having her statement recognized. She turned back to her driving.”

If you’re not familiar with Understood Betsy, by Dorothy Canfield, run out and get it immediately! It’s a charming story, full of delight.

Parents, you also don’t need to tiptoe around the house and speak in whispers when the baby naps. Let the baby learn to sleep through the natural noises of a busy household, and you’ll save yourselves and everyone who lives with you YEARS of tip-toeing and whispering. You’ll also end up with a child who has learned not to wake up every time a feather falls to the floor.

I remember when Mom was teaching my brother to stay in his own bed all night. That first night, his crying broke all of our hearts, and it lasted pretty much all night, too. The next night, he went right to sleep and stayed in his bed all night.  Today, he is a highly successful university professor.  I see no signs of own-bed-trauma in his life.

They test us. They test us constantly. As they get older, the tests get harder. During the first years, they cry a lot to try and break us. As they get older, we cry a lot because sometimes, they do. But we can’t let it show, or we’ve lost.

Oh, and that curse all mothers put on their kids, the one that goes “I hope, when you grow up and get married and have kids, that you have a kid who is JUST LIKE YOU.”

That curse works.

By the way, the biggest problem with childrearing advice is that the best advice often comes from someone who has learned these things the hard way and wants to spare young parents from the same battles. The second biggest problem with the best childrearing advice is that young parents don’t know what these old people could possibly know about raising children.

Times change. Babies don’t.

Unless, by “change,” you are referring to diapers, in which case, starting saving your money now. Oh, and if you’ve got a sensitivity to bad smells, buck up and get over it.

My point? Do I have to have one?

You are not obligated to play with your children every waking minute. You are an adult and you have things to do, too. Kids will learn if you give them no choice. Make sure they know you’re nearby and can hear them, but require them to learn to develop inner resources for themselves. We’ve already got more than enough adults who don’t have what it takes to keep themselves internally entertained; we certainly don’t need any more.

One of them usually sits by me on a plane.

P.S. I’m not talking about newborns here; heck, I used to wear my newborns,  although I also used to put them in the playpen to keep the cat off them when I went downstairs to do laundry.  I was glad to have that playpen when the big snake got into the house, I’m tellin’ ya.

(Rerun.  Yes.)

Oh wait, that wasn’t what I meant to say.

It’s that time again.  The morel mushrooms are here.

My husband still speaks wistfully of the day he and the kids visited his step-grandmother Margaret (she whom John Dillinger once tried to carjack. . . .) and she shared with them her unbelievable and, naturally, SECRET, morel mushroom patch.

Remember now, Hoosiers do not share this kind of secret with ANYBODY. People who will show a stranger their genital surgery scars will not share a morel mushroom location with their own mothers. Margaret took Tim and the kids across her fields and invited them to help themselves to the mushrooms.

They were everywhere. It was like a planted crop. You couldn’t take a step without stepping on morel mushrooms. They were all afraid to move, because around these parts, folks, you just don’t STEP on morel mushrooms if you can help it at all. They’re too valuable!!

How valuable are they? Well, if you can bear to part with yours, you can easily sell them for fifty bucks a pound. But it’s rare to find anyone who would part with them.

They came home fully loaded.

We once went to dinner at a friend’s home, and when we got there, she was preparing morel mushrooms as a last-minute addition to the meal. It seems that the night before, her husband had gone to their secret mushroom patch and had dumped two huge buckets of morels into their kitchen sink. All the guests were flabbergasted; usually, people don’t share their found mushrooms with others, either. To this day, none of us can remember what the main dish was at that meal. All anybody can remember is the mushrooms.

Except for me. Naturally, except for me. I am a freak, for I do not care all that much for morel mushrooms. I enjoy preparing them, but as for eating them. . . . well, let’s just say that everybody wants to sit by me, because I don’t eat mine and am happy to share.

And speaking of preparing them. . . . don’t let anybody tell you to use crushed saltines!!!

The proper Hoosier method is to mix together a little flour and a little cornmeal and a dash of salt, coat each mushroom, and fry in butter for just a few minutes. Remember to turn them.

Let them cool just enough to tolerate, and turn your crowd loose on them. There will never be enough.

Back in the middle school, my students used to bring breadsacks full of morel mushrooms and sell them to the teachers for twenty dollars apiece. The teachers got morel mushrooms for bargain rates, and the students got cash. It worked out pretty well for both parties concerned. I never bought any from a student; it wasn’t that I didn’t trust them, it was just that, well, I’d seen these same kids try to tell the difference between a noun and a verb all year, and pick wrong every time. There was something about believing that they could tell the difference between a mushroom and a toadstool and pick correctly every time, that just didn’t hit me quite right. I’m sure they knew; outdoor kids know these things. It was just a feeling I had.

As for the finding of them, I am probably the only Hoosier in the history of the state who not only doesn’t like to eat morel mushrooms, but also can’t find them even if they’re right there by the toe of my shoe. I can’t SEE them. I also tend to step on them, which makes me the kid who is picked last for anybody’s mushroom team. Usually, I just stay home and get ready to cook them when they’re brought home, whether I end up with a bowlful or a handful.

But if you live around these parts, around this time of year, around now, anywhere you might go, you won’t be able to escape the morel mushroom stories. In southern Indiana, we’d rather hear about the morel that got away, than about your boring old six-feet-long fish that got away.

And since I don’t care for them myself, that would be the “Queen’s We” that I’m using here.

I love to say that. It sounds so borderline.

For some reason, it just hit me in a good place today.

==

Rules Kids Won’t Learn in School

Rule #2. The real world won’t care as much about your self-esteem as your school does. It’ll expect you to accomplish something before you feel good about yourself. This may come as a shock. Usually, when inflated self-esteem meets reality, kids complain that it’s not fair. (See Rule No. 1)

Rule #3. Sorry, you won’t make $50,000 a year right out of high school. And you won’t be a vice president or have a chauffeur, either. You may even have to wear a uniform that doesn’t have a Gap label.

Rule #4. If you think your teacher is tough, wait ’til you get a boss. He doesn’t have tenure, so he tends to be a bit edgier. When you screw up, he is not going ask you how feel about it.

Rule #5. Flipping burgers is not beneath your dignity. Your grandparents had a different word for burger flipping. They called it opportunity. They weren’t embarrassed making minimum wage either. They would have been embarrassed to sit around talking about Kurt Cobain all weekend.

Rule #6. It’s not your parents’ fault. If you screw up, you are responsible. This is the flip side of “It’s my life,” and “You’re not the boss of me,” and other eloquent proclamations of your generation. When you turn 18, it’s on your dime. Don’t whine about it or you’ll sound like a baby boomer.

Rule #7. Before you were born your parents weren’t as boring as they are now. They got that way paying your bills, cleaning up your room and listening to you tell them how idealistic you are. And by the way, before you save the rain forest from the blood-sucking parasites of your parents’ generation try delousing the closet in your bedroom.

Rule #8. Life is not divided into semesters, and you don’t get summers off. Nor even Easter break. They expect you to show up every day. For eight hours. And you don’t get a new life every 10 weeks. It just goes on and on.

Rule #9. Television is not real life. Your life is not a sitcom. Your problems will not all be solved in 30 minutes, minus time for commercials. In real life, people actually have to leave the coffee shop to go to jobs. Your friends will not be as perky or as polite as Jennifer Aniston.

Rule #10. Be nice to nerds. You may end up working for them. We all could.

Rule #11. Enjoy this while you can. Sure, parents are a pain, school’s a bother, and life is depressing. Something or someone is always annoying you. But someday you’ll realize how wonderful it was to be kid. Maybe you should start now.

Rule #12. If your generation behaves itself better than your parents’ generation, maybe the example will inspire the next generation to behave itself altogether.

You’re welcome.

Sonnet

I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling finger-tips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow !

There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
to the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.

=====

Mamacita says:  I remember the day I discovered this poem.  The first thought that crossed my mind was “How in the world has this poem escaped my notice all these years?”  I was actually angry!

Then again, I might not have fully appreciated this poem if I had found it earlier.  It takes more than a love of music and a playlist of thousands of songs to understand music.

I am assuming that you all do realize that a good poem is simply a good song, minus the melody. . . .

Those of you out there who claim to dislike poetry?  To be consistent, you will have to claim to dislike music, too; otherwise, your ignorance will be exposed to the universe at large, and the universe at large has great big hands and long scary fingers, and important inconsistencies are pointed and laughed at by a far larger, mightier, and more important audience that inconsistent people will ever know.  And even if they DID know, they probably wouldn’t understand.

You know, like the people who fear Harry Potter yet adore Disney.   In other words, stupid people.

Oh, dear, is that politically incorrect?  The truth often is.

Now let us all point and laugh at such.  We won’t hurt their sensitive fragile delicate feelings, as inconsistent people have been avoiding this blog for years.  Nobody misses them.  Except for, you know, entertainment purposes.

This poem is about a song, about a melody.  This poem is itself a song.  This poem also makes us long for more songs, and remember beloved songs.  Dumbledore says it thus: “Ah, music,” he said, wiping his eyes. “A magic far beyond all we do here!

Take the melody away (if you can!) from any song and what have you got?  The lyrics.  And what are lyrics?  Poems.

Administrators have forgotten that ultimately, our culture will be judged on the arts; that’s how we learn about ancient cultures. We did not find any remnants of standardized test scores or sports stats in Pompeii; we found art and day-to-day ordinary living; loaves of bread, and graffiti, and clay pots for sale, and poems.   Yes, the ancients liked sports; part of the Coliseum is still standing, but it wasn’t the hub and whole of their existence. They valued music, and sculpture, and dance, and poetry, and creativity of all kinds. Astronomy was considered an art by the ancient Greeks, and, indeed, who can properly study the stars without also studying the fabulous stories that gave the night sky’s formations their names? It is not possible to do so. If your child’s teacher is “teaching” astronomy and not mentioning the myths, your child has a poor teacher.

Cultures that valued the arts live on, even when they and their structures are gone.

What do Americans value? Gossip and scandal and immoral politicians? Drug-addicted sports figures and out-of-wedlock pregnancies? Prostitutes Athletes with bloated egos and high-priced pimps managers?  Lindsay and Britney and Brangelina and TomKat and celeb sightings and scores, all kinds of scores: sexual and standardized and steroid-filled scores.   Adultery made to look golden. Talentless hacks and wealthy nobodies with good agents. CoughcoughcoughKardashianscoughcough.  I hate thinking what we’ve come down to as a culture.

There was a time when a high school principal would hire a professional musician to fill an empty seat in the school orchestra; it was that important.  Now, if there is an empty seat, the class is canceled and the music teacher is either “downsized” or given a lot of before-school and after-school and cafeteria duty, and a couple of study halls for the non-participatory segment of our younger society which is growing larger every day.  I mean, why do a lot of unnecessary work when you get the same rewards for not doing it?

What will archaeologists find a thousand years from now when they dig up what remains of America?  A lot of crumbling gymnasiums and enough rock-hard fossilized breast and lip-shaped collagen to sink a ship?

We should be nurturing our young artists and musicians and scientists, not relegating them to the back of the room so we can look good on paper in the subjects that are easy to measure for a bunch of withered humorless twits with no balls and no guts and no gumption.  I believe in testing, yes, definitely.  But not to the exclusion of the arts, and I will say this again:  Cramming a lot of facts in our kids’ heads and then asking them to bubble them right back is not the same thing as educating them.

I’ll say this again, too:  The most important things our children should be learning can’t be tested.

One more thing:  Why can’t we let our children be children?  Almost every minute of their adult lives will be regulated and scheduled and over-scheduled; why can’t they have their summers and their weekends and their after-school time, to be kids?  Because you know as well as I do, that the moment a bunch of anal boring adults steps in to “take charge” of the ball game or the bicycle ride or the hike or the impromptu soccer match in the back lot, all of the fun is going to be drained completely out, everybody will have to buy a uniform and a helmet, and adults will start showing up to keep score and yell at the little kid who stooped to look at the cool anthill and let the ball fly right over his head.

Remember when high school kids could participate in several sports, because the year was divided into “seasons?”  Now, most kids are required to choose one sport and only one, because what was once a “season” has grown into a year-long practice session.  We don’t want a losing team, now do we?

I once had a student who was a starter on the varsity football team AND a member of the marching band.  At half-time, he didn’t go take a pee and grab a soda with the rest of the team; he grabbed his trumpet and joined the formation and marched in his helmet and uniform.  It was mind-blowingly inspiring.  This kid is now a professional musician and a successful one, I might add.  I’m proud of you, Jeremy!

He wouldn’t be allowed to do that, now.  Oh, heavens, no.

Now, a kid has to choose between music and sports, because the coaches just won’t allow any of the team members to do something weird like that.  Absolutely forbidden.

I hate this.

Oh, and that chick in Georgia  who maintains that science and social studies are not important? NOT IMPORTANT?  She had to have fallen down the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down.*

Yes, it’s very late.  Yes, I definitely need a sandwich.  But if I make one,  it might make me even more surly.  Are you sure you want to risk that?

*Yes, I know it’s really the “ugly tree,”** but I changed it to fit the context.  So bite me.

**  Politically incorrect?  Like I care.

===

Parts of this post were published in August of 2009.  My opinions haven’t changed, and may have become even more surly.

So, in keeping with her poem’s theme, I chose another picture.

The Builders

I told them a thousand times if I told them once:
Stop fooling around, I said, with straw and sticks.
They won’t hold up; you’re taking an awful chance.
Brick is the stuff to build with, solid bricks.
You want to be impractical, go ahead.
But just remember, I told them, wait and see.
You’re making a big mistake. Alright, I said,
But when the wolf comes, don’t come running to me.

The funny thing is, they didn’t; there they sat,
One in his crummy yellow shack, and one
Under his room of twigs, and the wolf ate
Them, hair and hide. Well, what is done is done.
But I’d been willing to help them, all along,
If only they’d once admitted they were wrong.

===

As usual, we could discuss rhyme scheme and symbolism, a little hyperbole, some alliteration, and first person narration, but isn’t this poem really about giving unasked-for advice that would have made a positive difference, and wishing we could say “I told you so” when someone disregards us, thus screwing up royally?

Not that any of us would gloat or anything.  Other people, maybe, but not any of us.

Smirk.

Oh, tis a wondrous thing to be Irish, although the same could not be said earlier in our country’s history. Many people do not know how unwelcome the Irish were here, in those days. We’ve since learned wisdom.

I loved to read about Beany Malone for so many reasons, some of which were the casual ways their Irish ancestry was a part of their everyday lives.

Click here for some cool St. Patrick’s Day experiments for you and your kids to do, stolen borrowed from the Master Magician Scientist, Steve Spangler.

What’s a little green water between friends?

(This picture is by Tim Nyberg, a fantastic artist who draws awesome things for the Wittenburg Door, which is a wonderful thing in and of itself.) (Don’t click the link if your corncob makes you walk funny.)

What is it supposed to be?

Why, it’s St. Patrick driving the snakes out of Ireland, of course.

It was no mean feat, and I should know.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day to you all. If you’re not wearing green, strangers are allowed to pinch you.

What’s that? I can’t hear you. Come a little closer. . . thaaaaat’s right. Gotcha.

I repost this, adding a little here and there and subtracting a little likewise, each March 17, so if it looks familiar to you, you’re not crazy. Well, not about this post, anyway.

Pogue Ma’Hone to you all, for you know why you deserve it even if I don’t.