Who ya gonna call?

Home from work. Find myself phoneless. Panic kicks in, narrowing the sidewalk for reason.

Not in the car, under the seat, down in the crevice.

Not in the trunk, but glad my "new" car has a light in the trunk.

Not in my purse.  Dump everything out.  Try again. Still not in my purse, or the car, or the trunk.

Would anyone still be at work? Would they check email before leaving?

That's the trouble with living alone with just a cellphone.  No way to call myself!

Where did I go today? Rode in Janie's car. She lives way out in the country, and I won't see her for five days. Went to Fadi's for lunch, and sat in that goofy booth. Too tall cushion, too close to the pillar. Easy place for a phone to fall out, but be sure to get the cauliflower*.

Loaded stuff into the trunk--a big bag of pinecones.  Phone on the street where I parked?

Not hyperventilating, but getting close.  Go check the mail kiosk and near the recycling cart. It is NOT yet time for dumpster diving!

Did I flush it? Is it on vibrate? Is it out of juice? We're talking a disaster of Biblical proportions.

The last paranormal removal specialists at work received the email, and called my number. They wandered the library listening, listening.

How do I spell relief? G-H-O-S-T-B-U-S-T-E-R-S! Deep down behind a cushion in the back office a little blue phone was playing that song. The phone was found, and even brought to my condo.





I just wanna thank Egon, Ray, Venkman, and Zeddemore, plus Sharon and Pam. And since I can't figure out how to change it, my ringtone will probably remain the Ghostbusters theme song forever. And yes, I still miss those old card catalogs. Also the funny little Ghostbusters who lived in my house.

*Cauliflower--Stewed in its own juices with lemon juice and spices, then fried with zero trans fat oil. 

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Halloween census

My tallies have not added up correctly.  I'm afraid there might be hanging chads in my count of the preschool costumes, or maybe my memory is failing.  I'm sad to report that Norton the elderly class rabbit did not get out of his cage to be in the class Halloween photo this year.

1 Bat Girl
1 Bat Man
1 blueberry fairy
1 doctor

5 fairy/butterfly/tutu girls (1 with fever and diarrhea)
1 great pumpkin t shirt
1 Incredible Hulk
1 Jedi knight

1 Minnie Mouse
1 nonparticipant
1 peacock
1 pirate

1 princess

1 royal princess

1 Superman
1 Spiderman
1 tiger in Pull-Ups
1 vaguely pink sparkle cowgirl fairy with wand
_____________________________________
This does not equal 24 children

The elementary class only has nine students at the moment.  Those kids are always asked to be something or someone "real".  Andy and the Statue deserved applause.

Dr. Who
Maria Tallchief
1 ballet teacher
Andy Warhol
The Statue of Liberty
Amelia Earhart
Tim Burton
Queen Elizabeth
Julia Child

*

Most things change, but the popularity of Amelia Earhart for kids needing to read a biography or dress up as somebody famous has stayed the same.  The popularity of ironing has continued to plummet.

**

*Ninja turtle + 20 years or so at the Statue of Liberty.

**The bat is still without power in New Jersey.  Junior Birdman is now a daddy.  I wonder what ever became of the pilot's white scarf!

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

An elephant fly

Well, now I've seen everything. This is a slightly more grown up version of the patio predator that paralyzed a fly and then sucked out its guts like a giant Slurpee.  We have these little guys at the school playground, too.  I always thought they were baby katydids, and let them run around on my fingers. Now I find they are  musical killing machines--hitmen with marimbas.

What's up with the see-through head?

Actually, this dude has its feeding tube clipped onto its chest where it can make sound vibrations to intimidate predators. Imagine your worst date ever serenading you by tongue-strumming his chest hairs!

If that doesn't scare the predator (or date) away, this insect will unclip the feeding tube and maneuver it to inject a dose of lethal saliva. Okay, stop thinking about that college boyfriend!

That's a feeding tube/noise-maker/killing machine with its own carrying case.

It's all enough to make raising three sons in a small condo seem positively tame, a mere walk down the block to 7-11.  Speaking of which, this is an eighth birthday party with Slurpees before a performance of  "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown".  Those little guys could concoct vile flavor combos at 7-11, but they never hurt anybody!

May 1995

I saw a peanut stand, heard a rubber band,
I saw a needle that winked its eye.
But I think I will have seen everything
When I see an elephant fly. 

...

I heard a fireside chat, I saw a baseball bat
And I just laughed till I thought I'd die
But I'd be done see'n about everything
when I see an elephant fly


(from "Dumbo")

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

When bass use the crosswalk and the candidate washes his shirt

Why didn't Mitt just put his shirt on the car roof with the dog and drive through the carwash? Why didn't he do the sniff test and just squirt Febreez on the least worst shirt like any teenage guy?  The man makes me miss McCain, for heaven's sake!


I admit to once washing out my kids' Ghostbusters underpants and drying them overnight atop the a/c in a Wichita motel.  The vacation ran long because of car repairs and a broken arm.  BUT GEEZ! THIS MAN IS RUNNING FOR PRESIDENT and he can't look long range enough to send some local volunteer to the mall! He wants to play chess on the big board???  

So my sympathies go out to all the comparatively normal Illinois bloggers.  There were more fisherman than presidential candidates out at Oak Point Nature Preserve after our 4+ inches of rain in twenty-four hours.  


This father and son were fishing on the dam while water drained across the walk into a runoff stream.  It looked like a golden memory moment.  Suddenly there was a whoop and holler.  I was afraid the dad had lost the lad in the overflow rush.  Nope, the dad was whooping because a "fourteen inch bass just swam across the sidewalk."  Taking traditional fisherman measurement exaggerations into account, that was still a good surprise and a golden moment.

And yes, that is kale.  Scanned it because the camera was behaving badly.  Even if your old dog is on the car roof, it can still learn new tricks.  Never had kale before in my whole live-long life, but the minestrone recipe called for kale.  And it was good.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

The Woolly Mammoth's eggplant birthday party

8
No eggplants were ate.  I didn't know diddly about eggplant in 1995, and I still don't.

Why do young growing eggplants wear purple Charlie Brown t-shirts?
They are just hanging there on the plant like third-grader monkeys at an eighth birthday celebration.

Oh my baba ganoush!  Aren't those the cutest, smartest, funniest, best-behaved kids you ever met?  I am cherishing the memory of all those funny extra sons who used to hang out at my house.  I know the current status of three of these goofs, and wish I knew the other three.

Because I had designed and made the costumes for a production of "You're A Good Man, Charlie Brown" along with the the promo t-shirts, the birthday gang headed to the performance.  First, we made an important stop at 7-Eleven to concoct bizarre Slurpees.  If you are an eight year-old male, Slurpees are sport championship, art form, gross-out competition, and beverage.  This phase is harmless in the long run, and is not a gateway drug to tattoos and visible piercings.  So go ahead and celebrate 7/11 with a free Slurpee:  

Monday, July 11

Happy 7-Eleven Day
Our Birthday, Your Bash

Stop by for a FREE 7.11 oz Slurpee drink, general merriment and a one-man dance party should you choose to start it. 

When: Monday, July 11 12:00 AM until 12:00 AM

Not imagining Slurpee eggplant flavors! Just wondering why our garden veggies wear those little aubergine shirts with the zigzags.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Thank you, Nolan Ryan

Dad's supper included a red/yellow/green layered Jello dessert with the green on top, just like we learned to make in junior high home ec class.  The stripes reminded me of the old Houston Astros uniforms way back when Nolan Ryan was pitching for them. 

Then today I read it is the twentieth anniversary of Ryan's seventh no-hitter.  That was a golden moment for a young family of Texas Rangers fans: 

When we first moved to Texas we attended lots of Rangers games at the old Arlington Stadium. Little Steven would usually fall asleep in my lap. Jeff would count all the airplanes that flew over. Mike would eat fruit roll-ups, raisins, and jalapeno nachos. The Rangers had Bobby Valentine managing back then, Julio Franco 2B, Rafael Palmieio 1B, Steve Bueuchele 3B "Boooosh"!, Nolan Ryan, Pudge Rodriguez (age 19)C, Jeff Huson at SS, Ruben Sierra, Juan Gonzalez, and Gary Pettis in the outfield, Brian Downing at DH, Kevin Brown, Jose Guzman, Bobby Witt, Brian Bohanon, Oil Can Boyd, Rich Gossage, Kenny Rogers pitching.

Someday I might actually be able to retire and sit myself in a rusty lawn chair on a sagging screened porch and listen to baseball on the radio.  Or maybe I will just wallow in disjointed memories of 3B Dean Palmer's arm tendon rolling up like a window shade underneath his skin, of Kevin Kennedy letting Jose Canseco pitch, and of Nolan Ryan putting Robin Ventura in a headlock.

 

Twenty years is just two golden bead ten bars ago in the math manipulatives.  It seems hundred squares and thousand cubes ago in professional sports.

Maybe Dad is playing way-out-out outfield this season.  Perpetual klutz, I always wanted to be in the position least likely to actually have to field a fly ball. 

Dad has been sleeping for over twenty-four hours.  He won't remember Nolan Ryan.  So I just crank him up to sitting in bed and tell him I have to go soon to set up the school's twenty-fifth anniversary fair.  He isn't able to hold the styrofoam cup of coffee all the way up to his mouth.  He will never be able to hold Robin Ventura in a headlock.  He won't be inducted into the Hall of Fame.  The flowers in Dad's birthday bouquet are still golden, and light shines through the purple vase. 

In the hall right outside Dad's room the weekend aides gossip about the new resident who died just after he chatted with them over his breakfast tray.  I wonder if the deceased had orange juice and black coffee at his last meal.  The crossword puzzle is difficult, adding and subtracting "it" from answers.  The aides seem like comic costumed base-runners between innings.  In their muffled fake fur chicken suits they are unaware of the residents or of me.

Constipation yoga and glamour jobs

Just occasionally some of us teachers would like politicians and [gasp] even parents to spend a day in our shoes.  Those are the shoes we happily empty of playground pea gravel and wood chips every evening when the last children are picked up half an hour or more beyond the aftercare closing.  Once in awhile we feel a teensy bit beaten down and picked on. 

In our dual income household society, teachers of young children frequently spend more hours with a child than she has with either or both of her parents.  We are likely to be the only adult who sits down with that child to eat a meal.  We may be the only non-electronic source of enrichment in the child's experience.  We may be the only adult to talk with the child without conducting a cellphone conversation and driving at the same time.  Alas, we are often the only adults who think four year-olds are big enough to take responsibility for flushing and washing their hands, and who make the time to teach five to six year-olds to tie shoes.  At the same time we are under the gun to raise test scores we are microwaving students' lunches, providing them with appropriate attire for the weather, keeping detailed records of bowel movements, slathering kids with sunscreen, and remembering which students need hand lotion for dry skin and which need lip moisturizers.

Today I got to attend an outstanding Montessori training at Collin College.  The four presenters were all excellent, experienced, knowledgeable and inspiring professionals.  We gave up our Saturday to learn proven techniques for improving early literacy and nature study in learner-centered environments.  Then we learned which yoga poses relieve constipation in children who might possibly bring way too many processed foods and not nearly enough fresh fruits and veggies in their lunchboxes.  We took notes.

I don't have to keep a poop chart for my students, unlike some teacher friends who have to send that report home with each child daily.  My dad's nursing aide and I joke about the "Clog Log" where she has to record each elderly resident's successful elimination efforts.

I don't have a "Clog Log" at school, but I get to be the toilet paper cop. We have a bunch of kids who just like to unroll the toilet paper from the spool and wrap it around their hand and sit there and sit there and unroll and wrap until they have a wad as big as a pinata that will plug up the plumbing. If I don't have a mental ticker going for how long the kid has been in the potty and go intervene, I am the one who has to use the plunger and mop the floor.  That is not really what I call nature study in the learner-centered environment!

And that, Mr. and Mrs. Politician, must be why you are paying us those outrageously big bucks.  Wanna have a go at it?

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Pinking sheared

Itching for a fight, Dad grinned and declined when I suggested he eat at least part of the dinner roll on his meal tray to soak up his two small cups of coffee.  He might just as well have said, "who's gonna make me?"  We compromised on a third cup of coffee with two creamers stirred in, and then a fourth cup with two creamers and half a sugar packet.  That was his nutrition for the day.

Norton the Rabbit did better.  He munched on fresh cilantro, mint, and oregano.  I took him out to the patio.  He went right to his favorite place behind the a/c unit.  There's only one skinny route to this spot, and no room for a wide, elderly bunny to turn around and get back out.  That means a wide and middle-aged preschool teacher was standing on her head trying to lift a fat rabbit out of the gorge.  Norton snorted his tough guy snort, but I still hauled him out of the tight spot and back into his cage.

The outcome was never in doubt.  I'm wearing my "Fight Like a Girl" t-shirt from Cary's race against ovarian cancer.  I am Rosie the Rabbit Lifter!

Read part of Peggy Orenstein's Cinderella Ate My Daughter:  Dispatches from the Front Lines of the New Girlie-Girl Culture while Dad recaffeinated.  I'm enjoying her personal debates about raising a daughter in this consumer culture.  So, so thankful to have raised sons!  I only had to deal with guns, wars, army, Ninja Turtles, GI Joe, karate chops, paint ball, laser tag, contact sports, knights with swords, and camouflage pants.  I spent many years in the Olive Green Aisle at Toys R Us, and only entered the Pink Aisle as a tourist.

When I talk to my sons about discarding childhood possessions, they unanimously demand I not touch the "good wood rifles".  Playing with these guns did not turn them into criminals.  One son now works at the U.S. Institute for Peace, threatened by Republican budget cuts for heaven's sake!

How did playing with guns influence their imaginations?  Along with silver plastic swords, the good wood rifles let the boys play all the way from the Crusades to the Gulf War.  They were inspired to read, studied strategy, role-played, negotiated, and crept through the bushes getting fresh air and exercise.  They built model tanks and ships.  They survived the journey west on the Oregon Trail.  They blasted into space and figured out baseball statistics.  They developed the visual observation skills to identify aircraft flying overhead, while considering aerial maps and secret codes.  They tried to play beyond the range of grown-up eyes.

How do girls play in a tiara-filled, pinkified culture?  The preschool girls are distracted by their nail polish and sparkle blush.  They play princess, ballerina, butterfly, fairy, and occasionally branch out to shopping, mermaids, manicures, Dorothy, and practice for their post-princess attitude of cool/sassy.  They do not play history, sociology, geography, cooperative dramatic play, or problem-solving.  They talk about skin moisturizers and own more pairs than Prince Charming ever shoe-horned.  They hover nearby, looking constantly for adult reactions, recognition and approval.  I am worried.  Maybe none of them will grow up to style hair or trade their voice to meet the perfect guy...

 © 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Transporting old farts across state lines

Contemplating our upcoming road trip driving Dad from Lincoln, Nebraska to Plano, Texas, my sister and I have divided up the worries.  There are plenty to go around without duplication of efforts.  While MJ frets about blizzards, I fear multigenerational broiling.  To keep a frail, skinny old guy warm enough to ride 650 miles we will have to run the rental car heater on the perpetual Circles of Hell setting.  Yes, we will be driving through Kansas and Oklahoma in a toaster oven on wheels.

When we arrive in Lincoln, MJ and I will have to pack Dad's few belongings and obtain necessary supplies.  Remember the early versions of the Oregon Trail computer game?  It will be much like provisioning a wagon train.



That analogy doesn't bode well.  Through much of the Branch Davidian seige in 1993 my youngest was playing Oregon Trail.  The kindergarten Woolly Mammoth couldn't read, but he could defeat me every game.  My pioneer family never ever made it to the Dalles, and I was a college graduate! 



© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

Jury Duty Cookies

Got a text last night from my youngest wondering if I used to make some kind of oatmeal ball cookie.  "If so," he asked, "what were they called?"

Yes, indeed, I used to make oatmeal ball cookies back when the Woolly Mammoth was just a very little Ghostbuster. We called those cookies "Jury Duty Cookies". 

A member of our Edmond, OK, babysitting co-op brought us a batch of cookies when her children came to our house for the day. She had been called for jury duty. I had been called for babysitting on short notice. My youngest had been called "Slimer" by his brothers.



I phoned "Slimer" back to give him the recipe last evening.  Jury Duty Cookies are really easy.  Preheat oven to 350 degrees.  Mix 1 cup margarine, 1/2 cup flour No!  That would be 1/2 cup sugar!!, 1 cup flour, and 1 1/2 cups oatmeal together.  Form into 3 dozen balls.  Bake on cookie sheet 12-15 minutes.  Sprinkle with powdered sugar until they are slightly ghostly. 

If there's something strange




in your neighborhood



Who ya gonna call?



GHOSTBUSTERS


(or your babysitting co-op)

© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

Kindling

I kindled on the flight to Houston Hobby, between two iPod users with earbuds, one of whom was reading Laura Bush's new book. I'm still very new at this technology, and I'm using it to read a field biologist's book about observing turtle migrations in a swollen spring stream. The author, David M. Carroll has a blog and a video online. The illustrations on the blog are better than the illustrations on the Kindle.

The Kindle was a birthday gift from my sons and their wife/fiance/girlfriend special persons. The boys were more interested in halfshell heroes than real swamp reptiles in their childhood.

David M. Carroll's book helped me remember that wild species don't belong to one spot. They generally have a range that they travel through the seasons. We may pat ourselves on the back for preserving a small spot, but the encroaching development disrupts the range.


© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

Swinging in the rye

"I heard about the caterpillar homicide," said the preschool mom. We were visiting on the playground while she pushed her daughter on a swing. I was on the verge of a panic attack as clueless red-headed tots toddled way too close to the swingset.

Officially, I was not supervising the playground at the school picnic. Unofficially, that's a tough duty to turn off even when parents are present to monitor their own offspring.

Glad the caterpillar's violent end is talk between the preschoolers and their parents. Respect for living things, and the reality of death have to be discussed. I'm sad about the sensationalized tabloid reporting and harsh treatment of the very young caterpillar stomper.

Glad, too, that my sons eventually learned to "pump" on the swings so I didn't have to push. Seven year olds can do that.

© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

Halloween night in the classroom

James Howe's Bunnicula stories were favorite books on cassette for roadtrips when my sons were little. Bunnicula is a vampire rabbit, similar to our preschool bunny, Norton.

The children were so charged imagining animal visitors to our playground on Halloween night, I had to do the next project about those animals who stay in our school most nights. Norton, the fish in the aquarium, and the birds in their cage made the basic elements for the drawing, with our jack-o-lantern added. That gave us four shapes for the composition--rectangle fish tank, square rabbit cage, round pumpkin, and an arch for the bird cage.






Hope you enjoy our spooky results.

© 2009 Nancy L. Ruder

Don't fence me in

Drove past a former Braum's ice cream store where my family spent many happy hours when the guys were younger. The building has been home to many short-lived ventures since a fancier Braum's was built across the street.

Today the building had a temporary sign proclaiming it the "Lone Star Fencing Center". Does that mean it will be a club for thrusting and parrying? Or headquarters for privacy and chain-link installers?

A couple of my sons enjoyed Parks and Recreation fencing classes for exercise. They were in a phase more involved with creative drama and stage sword fights than physical fitness, so I had to sneak exercise into their schedules. It seemed counterintuitive, given all the time a mother of boys spends saying things like, "Don't point that stick at your brother! Don't wave it near his eyes! Do NOT bring those sticks into the house!"

As a lifelong crossword puzzle junkie, I assumed that the sign meant epees and rapiers, and not termite-treated lumber.

© 2009 Nancy L. Ruder

Walk and talk, Suzy

Since the 1995 installation of Dale Chihuly's colorful glass swirls in the Hart Window of the Dallas Museum of Art's atrium, I've imagined the pieces as swirling flowers and sea creatures. They usually remind me of the amazing twirling plates act on the Ed Sullivan Show in the Sixties. Last night, for the first time ever, I contemplated square dance skirts and petticoats, Dr. Pepper and Shiner Bock bottle caps while staring up at the art.


Image respectfully reproduced from the Chihuly website.

The DMA was celebrating Texas bluebonnets and swing music, and showing the classic movie, "Giant" with James Dean, Rock Hudson, and Elizabeth Taylor. Grandpas in western shirts were twirling little bitty granddaughters on the dance floor to the music of Maurice Anderson and his band, "The Dukes of Western Swing". The event had pulled in a different demographic for a Friday evening of special activities. Sharp marketing!

My companions were adamant about their allergies to "country music," and afraid they would break out in itchy rashes from prolonged exposure. Once upon a time I would have rejected it without listening, too. Now I just wear a great big smile, and never do look sour.

Sitting around the table and watching the dance floor, stages of life twirl before me. How wonderful to be those lucky little girls dancing with their attentive grandpas. Party and dance in the evening, and have a dish of butter brickle ice cream, too. Swirling in your dance skirt, you are the center of the known universe, pulling everyone into your personal movie with your amazing gravity!

Another guy, hopefully a gentleman, holds your elbow on your first encounter with inebriation. It's a funny dance, but the steps are tricky. He makes you a cup of Folger's freeze-dried instant coffee and sings softly, "Oh, walk and talk, Suzy; walk and talk Suzy. Walk and talk, Suzy; walk and talk Suzy." How does he know this incongruous dose of Bob Wills is the best way to sober up?

Three sons and a freeze-dried if not instant-divorce, it is time to get out of Dodge. A solo road trip to Caprock and Palo Duro canyons in the Texas panhandle yields and unexpected connection to Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys. Spend a little time in Turkey, Texas where Wills was a barber by day and musician by night.

When the boys were little we had a cassette tape of railroad songs, truck songs, and songs about Oklahoma and Texas. It had "San Antone" and "Take Me Back to Tulsa" by Bob Wills' band. They probably don't remember it at all, amidst all the "Wee Melodies" and singing multiplication tables we listened to on road trips. Maybe a little fondness for Texas swing will show up in their eclectic music tastes eventually. And, psst! Their mommy still says they are too young to marry!

Take Me Back To Tulsa - Bob Wills/Tommy Duncan

Where's that girl with the red dress on? Some folks calls her Dinah;
Stole my heart away from me, way down in Louisana.

Take Me back to Tulsa, I'm too young to marry;
Take me back to Tulsa, I'm too young to marry.

Oh, walk and talk Suzy, walk and talk Suzy;
Walk and talk Suzy, walk and talk Suzy.

We always wear a great big smile, we never do look sour.
Travel all over the country, playing music by the hour.

© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

Blooming mommies

Growing blooming mommies can be done easily in most home gardens with the proper cultivation techniques. The preschool students love the idea of a blooming mommy with flowers growing out of her head. Today they each made a portrait of their own blooming mommy on the seed packets for our special Mommy Seeds.

The Mother's Day projects are nearing completion. Like the Little Red Hen, the preschoolers grew the plants last summer, collected the seeds last fall, saved the plastic applesauce containers from their lunches this winter, drilled holes in the containers this spring, then filled them with potting soil, planted the seeds for the flowers, and marked the flowers with plant stakes. The Mommy Seed packets are the Mother's Day cards to accompany the gift of flowers.

The children are learning about cultivation, which they define as "taking care of the things we plant". At the same time, the children are being cultivated.

I've spread out my old American Heritage Dictionary, turned to cultivate and cultivation. Preschool is all about forming, refining, educating, fostering, and nurturing. To educate, we improve and prepare, plow and fertilize, tend and till.

Cultivation can also mean "socialization through training and education to develop one's mind or manners". Preschool is a never-ending battle for acculturation, which is "the adoption of the behavior patterns and norms of the surrounding culture". We aren't talking about diversity and multicultural awareness here. That is the territory of my eldest son working with university students. We are talking about not picking noses in public, and remembering to flush the toilet, the behavioral norms of the surrounding population of human beings! It's often a harrowing experience.

Till means to prepare for the raising of crops by plowing, harrowing, and fertilizing. It means to work at, to labor. It is definitely hard work to get preschoolers to stop picking their noses and start flushing the toilet. The word "till" seems to carry the frustrations of hundreds of generations of farmers on its back.

My young sons each went through a John Deere phase of fascination with farm implements. As a MOBO, I excelled in the choo-choo railroad fascination phase, and performed bravely in the truck stop big rig phase. I could identify every Matchbox car pulled from the three-gallon tub by year, model, and color. I really knew my hook-and-ladder trucks in the firefighter stage. I was damn tolerant in the military vehicle phase, if I do say so myself, waiting out G.I. Joe. I was never very good at farm implements, aircraft ID, or motorcycles, though. If I crammed for the test I could pass, but I never retained the information!

Harrowing experiences sometimes require using a plunger instead of a farm implement. A harrow is used to break and level plowed ground. It's a farm implement with heavy disks and teeth. To harrow is to inflict great distress or torment on the mind. Or perhaps on the foot. My mom used to receive an annual Christmas letter from an old high school chum. The best year the letter recounted the farmer dropping a sharp harrow upon his foot, but having to pull the harrow teeth out of the punctured foot so he could drive himself to the regional hospital because his wife couldn't shift gears on the manual transmission pick-up truck.

Sometimes on the commute home from work I chant, "It was a tough day, but at least I didn't drop the harrow on my foot." Being a mommy is a tough job, too. There were a lot of days when I felt I'd dropped the harrow on my foot as a parent. The most difficult years were those when I felt unable to shift gears.

Fortunately, there were many more days when I felt like flowers were blooming out of my head!


© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

I say flamingo, you say flamango

Montessori teachers and Scrabble junkies just can't help it. We see a group of movable letters, and we have to make new words. The sign originally had birthday wishes for the recipient of the shocking flamingo flocking, "WE FLEW IN FOR ____'S B'DAY".

A movable alphabet

The children were thrilled to find a pink flamingo flock in front of the school when they arrived. Some really believed the flamingos flew to school. Some fell in love!

A few plastic flamingos migrated from the front lawn to the playground. One preschooler wrapped her arms around a bird's neck and proclaimed, "mingo baby mine!"

The second morning we rearranged the sign letters to spell, "WE BIRDS PLAY NOW". We fixed a group of plastic birds inside a sparkly hula hoop. Plans to have jump-roping flamingos met technical difficulties.

"Mingos play!," the preschooler shrieked with glee. Usually we worry about baby birds imprinting on human rescuers. This time we were concerned that our little student had imprinted on the plastic flamingo. Would she be distraught when the birthday birds were collected by the rent-a-flock folks?

We didn't get a chance to arrange FLY BIRDS NOW on the sign this morning before the plastic flamingos were gone. Heading out to the playground for a session digging in the garden dirt, the preschooler lamented, "mangos gone, mangos gone". So sad, so sad. Mango must be the past tense of flamingo.

My sons never fell into a zoo flamingo lagoon, not even Danger Baby. Quite surprising, come to think of it. They had no accidental close-up encounters with roseate spoonbills or scarlet ibis in any aviary either. We were lucky to live near good zoos when the boys were little, and to receive family zoo memberships from generous grandparents so we could visit often.



The boys drew many maps of the zoos they knew so well in Omaha, Oklahoma City, and Dallas. They also designed some fantasy zoos based on their preferences and the need for frequent pit stops. They knew to put the picniks by the Aveary, Ellafuts, and Zeberas, but not too far from the rest rooms. The KagaRoos and Crokadils and Pigs should definitely be close to the Gift Shop (and more rest rooms)!



The Mingos and Mangos should be placed close to the playground and petting zoo! Should you need to draw a flamingo, the recipe is raindrop+S+4. Try blending purple, red, orange, and white with your pink for feather variations.

© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

ESL by Avodart

I rarely turn on my television, so visiting my dad is like learning a foreign language by the total immersion method. If a family arrived in the United States and wanted to learn English by watching television, the first phrase they would master would be, "ask your doctor about." Soon they would be able to recite "in the rare event of an erection lasting more than four hours, seek immediate medical attention to avoid long-term injury."

True, Dad's viewing tends toward ESPN, the Golf Channel, the Weather Channel, CNN Headline News,and MSNBC, with some local news broadcasts thrown in. The ads on those stations repeat ad nauseum. I'm somewhat embarrassed to report that the most effective ads for holding my attention (although not longer than four hours) are the Avodart museum miniature model ads.

When I grow up, I would love to work in a museum creating exhibits. Museums always feel like home to me. So even though the actor has to make frequent trips to the restroom, I think he's got a cool job.

My small sons loved the army miniatures at the 45th Infantry Museum, and the great model railroad layouts at the Omniplex in Oklahoma City and the Union Pacific museum in downtown Omaha. Their all-time greatest hit was the huge miniature model at the Alamo. When will the Avodart guy remember the Alamo??? Maybe the next ads will feature the prostrate actor creating a miniature Iraq for the Bush Library!

Just what is the tag line for the commercial? Our hypothetical language-learning family and I can never decide if the man has a going problem, a growing problem, or a groin problem. Learning English on t.v. is going to be grueling.


© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

Charley Harper's Desert

There we are in 1992 inside La Ventana, the grand stone arch in El Malpais National Monument. Danger Baby is on the left, then me, the Woolly Mammoth, and Mr. Speech and Debate. If ever I was going to post CollageMama's legs online, the 1992 legs are probably the best. Back then I was running 10K races and weighed about 120 pounds. True, I was suffering debilitating insomnia, eating disorders, and panic attacks, and my marriage was beginning to shatter.

Otherwise, it was a great New Mexico vacation! In the visitor center shop, my youngest and I were fascinated by a poster of birds and animals around a desert cactus. Although it would add to the complications of the flight home with three young sons, we had to have the poster.



Charley Harper's poster of desert animals for the National Park Service remains one of our favorite things. Later that summer of '92, the Woolly Mammoth would break his arm, and then start kindergarten. Pretty amazing that the poster is tacked up in his bedroom, three homes and sixteen years later, as he's now a junior in college. More than his brothers, he has chosen and arranged everything in his space, so I know he is still fond of the poster design.

We have an identical Desert poster in our preschool classroom, and it has the same intrigue for the students. They love finding the nocturnal and diurnal animals and naming the birds. I'm amazed to find that the poster is still available through the National Park Service for only nine dollars. Maybe I should order some back-ups for future generations!


© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

The parsnip stands alone

What would Beatrix Potter do this weekend to mollify the preschool class rabbit? Offer parsley and parsnips? Lettuces and salsify?

Norton only wants to chew on items in my condo that are expressly forbidden. Most of the time he is quite happy sleeping in his cage with his head upon a parsnip. I felt bad about my tough love approach the first night of his visit, so I got a small bag of parsnips at Albertsons. This was a first, as I'm generally afraid of white root vegetables. It's a long story involving creamed turnips and future in-laws, but I'm out of therapy now, and we just won't mention it.

I cut up two parsnips for the ham-bone crockpot soup, and gave one to Norton. Then I went back to hoeing just like Mr. MacGregor. Norton snorted at the parsnip, and went back to flinging hay around his cage. Clearly, he was not placated. I offered him three delicious and nutritious cooked edamame, and he dumped them to the cage bottom newspaper. He'd already made his opinion of fresh green beans known. Nothing was going to do but a carrot, an apple core, and a celery heart, pronto!

Two days later, the parsnip is still vegetabla non grata. My soup was delicious, but Norton still snorts at his veggie. He would rather hide in a watering can than nibble on that parsnip. I haven't asked about his former in-laws since I don't want to search the Yellow Pages for a rabbit psychologist.

My young sons and I loved listening to cassette tapes of Bunnicula stories on long car rides. James and Deborah Howe's stories of the vampire rabbit presumed to suck the juice out of vegetables would have us laughing so hard our seatbelts hurt. The Celery Stalks At Midnight is one of my all-time favorite book titles.

Just as an aside, I was sad to read the obituary for Suzanne Pleshette this weekend. It seems completely plausible that her Emily Hartley would give Bob Newhart her support and sardonic advice for dealing with Norton's parsniphobia. Suzanne Pleshette ranks second to Barbara Feldon for favorite voices.