The Prune Song translation I typed up before made me think of an Andy Kaufman routine. This is a more lyrical version, for which I thank www.kovandasczechband.org, the translator, and the publisher:
English interpretation by Robert Ermis. This is a literal translation of Prune Song rather than a translation designed to be sung.
Verse 1:
Beyond our village on the state highway
plums are growing.
With Annie I searched. We used to eat plums.
It was always so nice.
We always sat near each other.
We gazed at the stars and heavens.
And now, so alone already, I recall everything
I would like to be near you.
Refrain:
In our lane, plums are rolling.
I don't watch them today.
My eyes are burning.
If I had a girl, I would go after her.
I would give her a kiss on the cheek.
Nobody would know.
Verse 2:
Beyond our village on the state highway
plums are like fists.
Annie said nothing. She ran away from me.
Now I have no good luck.
Annie now watches the plums with somebody else.
She no longer watches our plum jam.
The stars used to see things.
One doesn't talk about that.
This presentation Copyright © 1998, 2004 George W. Jolly. Permission is granted for use of this information provided that you observe all rights of the original author, publisher or other legal copyright holder of this song. Without those writers and publishers we would have no access to beautiful music.
6/11/04
6/10/04
Svestkova Alej
My dad didn't learn to speak Czech, but he did sometimes sing this song, particularly when we were feasting on plum dumplings:
The Prune Song: A Tale of Plums
Back of our village, on the main highway
Bosensky grows plums--oh yes!
Ann and I watched the plums
We ate the, it was so nice.
Always we sat beside each other.
Upon the stars, we gazed at the haeavens.
And now I, I do everything alone.
I think about wanting to be near you.
Chorus: On that avenue
Plums are rolling
I, today, am not watching.
I, today, am not watching.
My eyes are burning.
Back of our village, on the main highway
Plums are large as a fist--oh yes!
Ann said nothing and ran from me.
I have no desire for happiness.
Ann watches plums with another
Now our plum jam she will not see.
Earlier here stars saw little things
Of which one does not talk.
Chorus
Back of our village, on the main highway
Plums are gathered--oh yes!
Clothing I have in the wardrobe
And I met with the parson, we have it signed.
Surely after I'm married I'll forget--
Then you, Ann, will remember what you did,
That you deceived me.
Plums now have no value.
Chorus
(I will copy the rest of the background info & mail it upon request)
This is the recipe for Plum Dumplings (or Cherry Dumplings).
My grandma's recipes are always short on the details.
The recipe is for twelve dumplings, to feed two people. I have a contradictory note saying to make a half recipe for a family.
3 eggs well-beaten
1/2 c. milk
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp baking powder sifted into
3 c. flour (plus 1/2 c. for rolling out)
Mix and turn out on a board and knead until smooth.
Roll out into a sheet about 1/2 inch thick and cut into twelve 4" squares.
Add plum and a little sugar to each square and fold and seal, being careful not to let sugar touch edge of dough. For cherry dumplings put about eight cherries into each square.
Drop in large kettle of boiling water (a little salt in the water) and boil, covered for twenty minutes.
Remove from water and open each dumpling and add 2 tsp. of sugar and a tbsp. of browned butter. Then rinse the butter skillet with about one cup of the water from the dumplings and pour it over dumplings and mix gently.
Scoop dumplings into bowls. Serve as the entree. Make orgasmic moans while eating and don't think about carbs or calories. Fan yourself.
United in Marriage
Two of Pierce's popular young people, Miss Halma Burkhead, and Adolph J. Mastalir were united in the holy bonds of matrimony last evening, December 5. The marriage took place at Sioux City at the home of the bride's sister, Mrs. H. J. Palmer [my Auntie Myrtle], at 8 o'clock p.m., Rev. E. H. Gaynor of the St. Paul's Episcopal church officiating. On Friday or Saturday the newly married couple will return to Pierce and go to housekeeping in the Tawney hoiuse, recently vacated by the L. P. Tonner family.
Both of the contracting parties are well know to Pierce people. The bride is one of the estimable young ladies of Pierce. Up until this year she taught in the public schools of Pierce and previous to that she taught in the rural districts. She is blessed with a sweet and happy disposition and will prove a useful helpmate for the man she has chosen as a life partner. The groom is one of Pierce's popular young men. He is intelligent, moral and a gentlemen in every sense of the word. Five years ago he came to Pierce and started in as bookkeeper in the Pierce County bank, and he has made good, and now holds the position of assistant cashier. He is popular and has the good-will of everybody.
It is a pleasure indeed for the Leader to join with the many friends of this worthy, young couple in wishing them a long, prosperous and happy wedded life.----1912
I have a wonderful photo of the happy newlyweds joking together at the lot where their home was being constructed. They look very relaxed, and are horsing around for the camera. Adolph did not serve in WWI. He was married with a young son, and responsible for his widowed mother and two sisters. During the Depression he argued against the bank's foreclosure of farmers devastated by the drought, and lost his job. He died at age fifty. Halma managed to support their three children working as the night telephone operator and taking in boarders. Later she became the librarian at Pierce's Carnegie library. And she was an incredible cook. She could effortlessly "whomp up" an impromptu midnight snack for a dozen people that might include chicken tamales, cukes and onions, prune and apricot kolaches, or ginger creme and sugar cookies.
Eat more prunes!
The Prune Song: A Tale of Plums
Back of our village, on the main highway
Bosensky grows plums--oh yes!
Ann and I watched the plums
We ate the, it was so nice.
Always we sat beside each other.
Upon the stars, we gazed at the haeavens.
And now I, I do everything alone.
I think about wanting to be near you.
Chorus: On that avenue
Plums are rolling
I, today, am not watching.
I, today, am not watching.
My eyes are burning.
Back of our village, on the main highway
Plums are large as a fist--oh yes!
Ann said nothing and ran from me.
I have no desire for happiness.
Ann watches plums with another
Now our plum jam she will not see.
Earlier here stars saw little things
Of which one does not talk.
Chorus
Back of our village, on the main highway
Plums are gathered--oh yes!
Clothing I have in the wardrobe
And I met with the parson, we have it signed.
Surely after I'm married I'll forget--
Then you, Ann, will remember what you did,
That you deceived me.
Plums now have no value.
Chorus
(I will copy the rest of the background info & mail it upon request)
This is the recipe for Plum Dumplings (or Cherry Dumplings).
My grandma's recipes are always short on the details.
The recipe is for twelve dumplings, to feed two people. I have a contradictory note saying to make a half recipe for a family.
3 eggs well-beaten
1/2 c. milk
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp baking powder sifted into
3 c. flour (plus 1/2 c. for rolling out)
Mix and turn out on a board and knead until smooth.
Roll out into a sheet about 1/2 inch thick and cut into twelve 4" squares.
Add plum and a little sugar to each square and fold and seal, being careful not to let sugar touch edge of dough. For cherry dumplings put about eight cherries into each square.
Drop in large kettle of boiling water (a little salt in the water) and boil, covered for twenty minutes.
Remove from water and open each dumpling and add 2 tsp. of sugar and a tbsp. of browned butter. Then rinse the butter skillet with about one cup of the water from the dumplings and pour it over dumplings and mix gently.
Scoop dumplings into bowls. Serve as the entree. Make orgasmic moans while eating and don't think about carbs or calories. Fan yourself.
United in Marriage
Two of Pierce's popular young people, Miss Halma Burkhead, and Adolph J. Mastalir were united in the holy bonds of matrimony last evening, December 5. The marriage took place at Sioux City at the home of the bride's sister, Mrs. H. J. Palmer [my Auntie Myrtle], at 8 o'clock p.m., Rev. E. H. Gaynor of the St. Paul's Episcopal church officiating. On Friday or Saturday the newly married couple will return to Pierce and go to housekeeping in the Tawney hoiuse, recently vacated by the L. P. Tonner family.
Both of the contracting parties are well know to Pierce people. The bride is one of the estimable young ladies of Pierce. Up until this year she taught in the public schools of Pierce and previous to that she taught in the rural districts. She is blessed with a sweet and happy disposition and will prove a useful helpmate for the man she has chosen as a life partner. The groom is one of Pierce's popular young men. He is intelligent, moral and a gentlemen in every sense of the word. Five years ago he came to Pierce and started in as bookkeeper in the Pierce County bank, and he has made good, and now holds the position of assistant cashier. He is popular and has the good-will of everybody.
It is a pleasure indeed for the Leader to join with the many friends of this worthy, young couple in wishing them a long, prosperous and happy wedded life.----1912
I have a wonderful photo of the happy newlyweds joking together at the lot where their home was being constructed. They look very relaxed, and are horsing around for the camera. Adolph did not serve in WWI. He was married with a young son, and responsible for his widowed mother and two sisters. During the Depression he argued against the bank's foreclosure of farmers devastated by the drought, and lost his job. He died at age fifty. Halma managed to support their three children working as the night telephone operator and taking in boarders. Later she became the librarian at Pierce's Carnegie library. And she was an incredible cook. She could effortlessly "whomp up" an impromptu midnight snack for a dozen people that might include chicken tamales, cukes and onions, prune and apricot kolaches, or ginger creme and sugar cookies.
Eat more prunes!
Steamy and exotic
The rain finally ended after 3 1/2 days, and now Dallas is a steambath. The roof is leaking in the theatre, the drama classroom, the adult potty, the intermediate art classroom, and onto the stage. A guy kayaked in the flash flood rapids on the creek across the street. It all bodes for a very bad skeeter summer.
We have been making tiny jungle safari campsites with tents, awnings, yellow cellophane fires, camp stools, mosquito netting, paper towel tube trees with dead hula skirt raffia for leaves, and little clothespin Stanleys and Livingstones. Some campsites have exotic birds made out of the lids from dead magic markers. Others have clothespin monkeys in the trees. Most of the explorers are roasting marshmallows, but a few are boiling in large pots made from liquid laundry detergent lids. We used striped pipe cleaners for poisonous snakes, and green craft foam to make crocodiles.
I wanted to show the kids the funny Land Rover scenes from "The Gods Must Be Crazy", but naked bushmen got into the scenes. Still, that is a wonderful movie.
It's not the heat, it's the humidity.
We have been making tiny jungle safari campsites with tents, awnings, yellow cellophane fires, camp stools, mosquito netting, paper towel tube trees with dead hula skirt raffia for leaves, and little clothespin Stanleys and Livingstones. Some campsites have exotic birds made out of the lids from dead magic markers. Others have clothespin monkeys in the trees. Most of the explorers are roasting marshmallows, but a few are boiling in large pots made from liquid laundry detergent lids. We used striped pipe cleaners for poisonous snakes, and green craft foam to make crocodiles.
I wanted to show the kids the funny Land Rover scenes from "The Gods Must Be Crazy", but naked bushmen got into the scenes. Still, that is a wonderful movie.
It's not the heat, it's the humidity.
6/9/04
Spectator SAXophone Online
Yes, indeed, we have reached a new low at the condo. Mike and his friends are upstairs keeping tabs on the EBay bidding for Mike’s old saxophone. It is a beginner saxophone, only good enough for grade 6-7 band. By eighth grade Mike was playing the school’s baritone sax instead, and it had a case the size of a coffin. In tenth grade Mike had the horrible experience of playing in the high school marching band, being screamed at for several hours a day by a band director bent on getting another perfect rating at the UIL competition. That pretty much killed Mike’s interest in band and saxophone, and mine. Where’s the fun of marching in the 4th of July parade playing Sousa, doing a Star Wars medley on the football field, or playing “We Are the Champions” at the basketball game? This is Plano, Texas. We don’t have fun learning about music, we conquer the hell out of it.
Anyway, the bidding is up to $280 with four hours to go. I hope the $280 will cover the cost of shipping.
Anyway, the bidding is up to $280 with four hours to go. I hope the $280 will cover the cost of shipping.
World Domination, Parker Brothers, and Milton Bradley
Way back when we lived in Edmond, Oklahoma, I used to watch a 6:30 p.m. tv show with Burt Reynolds and Loni Anderson drawing on dry-erase boards with celebrity teammates. It was on during that calm half hour after the kiddies were fed, their daddy came home, and mommy was briefly off-duty but completely brain dead. The tv game wasn't Pictionary, but something similar. Not as annoying as Hollywood Squares, though.
A dear, demented friend and I have been brain-storming a team parlor game about redrawing the political map of the world. You know, redraw the Kurds into Turkey, or add the Turkish Kurds and the Iraqi Kurds to create an independent Kurdish nation. Make the Kurds try it out for a year, which could be a spinoff reality show. Circle gets Red Square. And for Eastern Europe, nobody gets to buy a vowel! I am dieting so I will look good in those Vanna White outfits.
Please tell me you have read Jumanji, by Chris Van Allsburg. We often design board games in my art classes. We make card games, too.
My favorite part of playing Risk as a kid (who was finally old enough to play with the big kids) was grooving on all the tiny colored wooden blocks for the armies. I loved how the colored blocks fit in their little plastic boxes. World domination was secondary.
I really loved playing Clue. I first played it at a friend's house in fifth grade. When I got home I recreated the game board on corrugated cardboard from an old box, and drew all the cards from memory. The game fit so well with my obsession with drawing floor plans for houses on graph paper, and my Nancy Drew/Cherry Ames book favorites. It was Professor Plum in the billiard room with the candlestick...
The students at my Montessori school sometimes play the old-fashioned game of Life. You remember the little cars with the pink and blue pegs for people. At the school the kids are allowed to choose same-sex marriages if they just want pink pegs or blue pegs. It's very open-minded.
We used to play Monopoly on school snow days. Texans don't understand the incredible snow glare headaches we used to get when the sun would come out after the blizzard. Texas winters are so gray and wimpy. Thinking about Monopoly gives me a snow headache sometimes.
Yahtzee isn't a board game, but we always played it during Christmas vacations. We might have 8 or 10 family members and friends around the dining table laughing, telling family stories, and rolling the dice until midnight, then eating sugar cookies. Howie and I prefer our sugar cookies very thin and dark brown.
Playing Scrabble is how we honor my mom. She enjoys it, and my dad won't play. I love when 3 or 4 generations are playing Scrabble. We set the board on a lazy susan. It's fun to look back through the scoring notepad to see who was old enough to add the scores in a particular year. Again, I have this thing about the little wooden tiles.
And, dang, if real life isn't a whole lot like Chutes and Ladders.
A dear, demented friend and I have been brain-storming a team parlor game about redrawing the political map of the world. You know, redraw the Kurds into Turkey, or add the Turkish Kurds and the Iraqi Kurds to create an independent Kurdish nation. Make the Kurds try it out for a year, which could be a spinoff reality show. Circle gets Red Square. And for Eastern Europe, nobody gets to buy a vowel! I am dieting so I will look good in those Vanna White outfits.
Please tell me you have read Jumanji, by Chris Van Allsburg. We often design board games in my art classes. We make card games, too.
My favorite part of playing Risk as a kid (who was finally old enough to play with the big kids) was grooving on all the tiny colored wooden blocks for the armies. I loved how the colored blocks fit in their little plastic boxes. World domination was secondary.
I really loved playing Clue. I first played it at a friend's house in fifth grade. When I got home I recreated the game board on corrugated cardboard from an old box, and drew all the cards from memory. The game fit so well with my obsession with drawing floor plans for houses on graph paper, and my Nancy Drew/Cherry Ames book favorites. It was Professor Plum in the billiard room with the candlestick...
The students at my Montessori school sometimes play the old-fashioned game of Life. You remember the little cars with the pink and blue pegs for people. At the school the kids are allowed to choose same-sex marriages if they just want pink pegs or blue pegs. It's very open-minded.
We used to play Monopoly on school snow days. Texans don't understand the incredible snow glare headaches we used to get when the sun would come out after the blizzard. Texas winters are so gray and wimpy. Thinking about Monopoly gives me a snow headache sometimes.
Yahtzee isn't a board game, but we always played it during Christmas vacations. We might have 8 or 10 family members and friends around the dining table laughing, telling family stories, and rolling the dice until midnight, then eating sugar cookies. Howie and I prefer our sugar cookies very thin and dark brown.
Playing Scrabble is how we honor my mom. She enjoys it, and my dad won't play. I love when 3 or 4 generations are playing Scrabble. We set the board on a lazy susan. It's fun to look back through the scoring notepad to see who was old enough to add the scores in a particular year. Again, I have this thing about the little wooden tiles.
And, dang, if real life isn't a whole lot like Chutes and Ladders.
6/8/04
Keeping things in perspective
This is a mind-blowing report my dad sent back to his local newspaper during WWII. The date is 5/10/45, the Pierce County Leader (Nebraska):
V-E Day means many things--but one thing that cannot be wiped out by the signing of the peace pact is the crimes of the German prison camps.
Our soldiers who have viewed these atrocities will not be satisfied with an "easy" peace.
St. Sgt. Howard Mastalir is one of these soldiers, who has written a vivid description of what he saw in Gardelagen, which he wanted published in The Leader so that those at home could know why they are fighting.
His letter follows:
"Somewhere deep in Germany"
April 18, 1945
It has been a long time since I last wrote. But you know as well as I that there have been good reasons. I am happy to say that I have received a good deal of mail for which I am grateful.
Now, I have something rather gruesome to relate but it is on my mind and I feel I must write it to somebody. You will read about it in the papers and see pictures but mine will be a first-hand account. You can hand it to The Leader if you like.
I have just returned from Gardelagen, Germany: just a typical German village, but one that is in the news. Out of that village comes another story of Nazi brutality. This is an account of their latest infamous crime.
About six weeks ago the Nazis started moving a large group of prisoners from the area threatened by the Russian advance. One group, numbering about 1,800, was a mixture of political prisoners and Russian and Polish war prisoners. These doomed men were making the march on a ration of six potatoes a day. They were guarded by a few trusted prisoners, who were promised freedom for their work, several more Wehrmacht and SS troops.
These prisoners reached Gardelegen last Friday, the 13th, on their way to Hanover. By now there were ony 1,100 of them. At this time their escort discovered that Hanover was in American hands. Late in the afternoon they were herded a short way from the village to a large hay barn. The barn is a brick structure approximately 120 by 40 feet. This, supposedly, was to be their sleeping quarters for the night. But inside, the prisoners found the floor spread with straw and soaked with gasoline or kerosene. At about 6 o'clock that evening, with the prisoners inside and the doors bolted, the straw was ignited but the prisoners beat out the fire. So the Nazi maniacs threw in several concussion grenades, followed these with white phosphorous grenades, incendiaries and flares. That did the job.
The imprisoned men rushed for the smallest of openings, forced a brick out here and there, tried to squeeze under the doors or dig out under the foundation. Two or three men did free themselves and escaped. At one time about 50 men stormed the back entrance and broke out into the open. Here they were immediately mowed down by machine gun fire. The Nazis did the job well.
The next morning several hundred of the victims were removed and thrown into huge trenches around the buildings. Some were only partially covered.
The village of Gardelegen fell to the American troops Saturday evening but the scene of this atrocity was not discovered until Monday morning. This morning I visited that building--stepped into its entrances, walked around the mass graves, looked over the bloody open ground. I am still sick and furious from that sight.
Why did this horrible thing come about, what was accomplished by this mass murder? What sort of man is it who can do such things? The same men who expect mercy and gentle treatment when they throw up their arms and yell, "Kamrade." Let no one wonder why we fight.
It isn't a nice story nor a pleasant one to read, but it will remind you how important the job is we are doing. It will also explain why the job must be completely and thoroughly done.
Love,
Howard
V-E Day means many things--but one thing that cannot be wiped out by the signing of the peace pact is the crimes of the German prison camps.
Our soldiers who have viewed these atrocities will not be satisfied with an "easy" peace.
St. Sgt. Howard Mastalir is one of these soldiers, who has written a vivid description of what he saw in Gardelagen, which he wanted published in The Leader so that those at home could know why they are fighting.
His letter follows:
"Somewhere deep in Germany"
April 18, 1945
It has been a long time since I last wrote. But you know as well as I that there have been good reasons. I am happy to say that I have received a good deal of mail for which I am grateful.
Now, I have something rather gruesome to relate but it is on my mind and I feel I must write it to somebody. You will read about it in the papers and see pictures but mine will be a first-hand account. You can hand it to The Leader if you like.
I have just returned from Gardelagen, Germany: just a typical German village, but one that is in the news. Out of that village comes another story of Nazi brutality. This is an account of their latest infamous crime.
About six weeks ago the Nazis started moving a large group of prisoners from the area threatened by the Russian advance. One group, numbering about 1,800, was a mixture of political prisoners and Russian and Polish war prisoners. These doomed men were making the march on a ration of six potatoes a day. They were guarded by a few trusted prisoners, who were promised freedom for their work, several more Wehrmacht and SS troops.
These prisoners reached Gardelegen last Friday, the 13th, on their way to Hanover. By now there were ony 1,100 of them. At this time their escort discovered that Hanover was in American hands. Late in the afternoon they were herded a short way from the village to a large hay barn. The barn is a brick structure approximately 120 by 40 feet. This, supposedly, was to be their sleeping quarters for the night. But inside, the prisoners found the floor spread with straw and soaked with gasoline or kerosene. At about 6 o'clock that evening, with the prisoners inside and the doors bolted, the straw was ignited but the prisoners beat out the fire. So the Nazi maniacs threw in several concussion grenades, followed these with white phosphorous grenades, incendiaries and flares. That did the job.
The imprisoned men rushed for the smallest of openings, forced a brick out here and there, tried to squeeze under the doors or dig out under the foundation. Two or three men did free themselves and escaped. At one time about 50 men stormed the back entrance and broke out into the open. Here they were immediately mowed down by machine gun fire. The Nazis did the job well.
The next morning several hundred of the victims were removed and thrown into huge trenches around the buildings. Some were only partially covered.
The village of Gardelegen fell to the American troops Saturday evening but the scene of this atrocity was not discovered until Monday morning. This morning I visited that building--stepped into its entrances, walked around the mass graves, looked over the bloody open ground. I am still sick and furious from that sight.
Why did this horrible thing come about, what was accomplished by this mass murder? What sort of man is it who can do such things? The same men who expect mercy and gentle treatment when they throw up their arms and yell, "Kamrade." Let no one wonder why we fight.
It isn't a nice story nor a pleasant one to read, but it will remind you how important the job is we are doing. It will also explain why the job must be completely and thoroughly done.
Love,
Howard
Making a list and checking it twice
Since I was first old enough to read a newspaper (we are talking about over forty years ago here), I've been pondering what four famous people I would invite to my fantasy dinner party. You know those kind of newspaper columns about some local person-of-the-hour: What kind of car do you drive? A rusted-out puke-yellow Chevy Nova with a defective air intake ...What kind of car do you wish you drove? The Rhinemaiden always wishes to drive the 1961 Plymouth Sport Fury...What would you choose to eat at your last meal? A Nebraska corn-fed beef T-Bone, of course, and a baked potato with sour cream...Your all-time favorite TV show? If you were stranded on a desert island for the rest of your life, what four books, four movies, and four LPs would you want to have with you? (Ignore the absurd premise of the question).
For much of my life of worrying about these major philosophical questions, I've been inviting Dr. Seuss, Alexander Calder, Jerry Garcia, and Henri Matisse to my fantasy dinner party. Sometimes I decide that I have to invite at least one woman, and that leads to lots of guilt and anxiety. Henri Matisse gets dumped, and I feel just horrible about that. The women I've considered inviting over the years include children's author Margaret Wise Brown, quilt artist Nancy Crow, novelist Louise Erdich, NPR contributor Bailey White, Bonnie Raitt, Hillary Clinton (when I thought she was going to change the health care system), and writer Nora Ephron. I can't ever seem to find a woman with the playfulness, creativity, humor, and impact to fit in with the guys. And who is supposed to cook and clean up at this fantasy dinner, I ask you that. It better not be me. I was planning to retire to the study for port and cigars with the men.
The desert island LP list has two constants; Derek & the Dominoes, and Dave Brubeck's "Take Five". A recording of Mozart's clarinet, bassoon, and oboe concertos is usually on the list. I used to sit out in the front yard digging dandelions and listening to the Top Forty countdown on my AM transistor radio with the earphone on Saturdays in the mid-Sixties. A 45 rpm recording of Petula Clark singing "Downtown" cost 88 cents, and a vinyl LP of Peter, Paul, and Mary cost $3.98 plus sales tax. I made between thirty-five and fifty cents per hour babysitting. Even then I worried about the fantasy dinner guests and the desert island.
"Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid" always leads the movie list. I would be quite willing to trade places with Katharine Ross/Etta Place even if I had to stay forever on the desert isle (or in Bolivia) with Paul Newman and Robert Redford. Let me ride just once on Butch's handlebars! I often list "Dr. Strangelove" and "What's Up Doc?" They have mysterious curative powers.
Desperadoes, by Ron Hansen, is always the first book. I know, I know. It's some kind of outlaw attraction that goes along with Butch and Sundance. The outlaw attraction is powerful, and can lead a good woman to marry a no-good gunfighter or a bankruptcy attorney... Pussywillow, by Margaret Wise Brown is next. After that I always decide I should get to choose at least ten books for the island.
I do have my heroes, despite my fondness for outlaws. "The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle" is my favorite TV show of all time. Mr. Peabody is sooooo my type!
I am hoping if I confess all this I will be relieved of my life-long obsession. Maybe I'll just be too embarrassed to ever mention it again.
For much of my life of worrying about these major philosophical questions, I've been inviting Dr. Seuss, Alexander Calder, Jerry Garcia, and Henri Matisse to my fantasy dinner party. Sometimes I decide that I have to invite at least one woman, and that leads to lots of guilt and anxiety. Henri Matisse gets dumped, and I feel just horrible about that. The women I've considered inviting over the years include children's author Margaret Wise Brown, quilt artist Nancy Crow, novelist Louise Erdich, NPR contributor Bailey White, Bonnie Raitt, Hillary Clinton (when I thought she was going to change the health care system), and writer Nora Ephron. I can't ever seem to find a woman with the playfulness, creativity, humor, and impact to fit in with the guys. And who is supposed to cook and clean up at this fantasy dinner, I ask you that. It better not be me. I was planning to retire to the study for port and cigars with the men.
The desert island LP list has two constants; Derek & the Dominoes, and Dave Brubeck's "Take Five". A recording of Mozart's clarinet, bassoon, and oboe concertos is usually on the list. I used to sit out in the front yard digging dandelions and listening to the Top Forty countdown on my AM transistor radio with the earphone on Saturdays in the mid-Sixties. A 45 rpm recording of Petula Clark singing "Downtown" cost 88 cents, and a vinyl LP of Peter, Paul, and Mary cost $3.98 plus sales tax. I made between thirty-five and fifty cents per hour babysitting. Even then I worried about the fantasy dinner guests and the desert island.
"Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid" always leads the movie list. I would be quite willing to trade places with Katharine Ross/Etta Place even if I had to stay forever on the desert isle (or in Bolivia) with Paul Newman and Robert Redford. Let me ride just once on Butch's handlebars! I often list "Dr. Strangelove" and "What's Up Doc?" They have mysterious curative powers.
Desperadoes, by Ron Hansen, is always the first book. I know, I know. It's some kind of outlaw attraction that goes along with Butch and Sundance. The outlaw attraction is powerful, and can lead a good woman to marry a no-good gunfighter or a bankruptcy attorney... Pussywillow, by Margaret Wise Brown is next. After that I always decide I should get to choose at least ten books for the island.
I do have my heroes, despite my fondness for outlaws. "The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle" is my favorite TV show of all time. Mr. Peabody is sooooo my type!
I am hoping if I confess all this I will be relieved of my life-long obsession. Maybe I'll just be too embarrassed to ever mention it again.
6/7/04
Died & gone to heaven
Mind-boggling day at the Cotton Bowl for the Crossroads Guitar Festival. Ten hours of music, never mind the uncomfortable seats and cramped space! Larry Carlton, Pat Methany, John McLaughlin in a zen jam, Robert Cray, Jimmie Vaughan, a run to the porta-potties, Booker T & the MGs, Bo Diddley (WHO do you love?), a guy from Los Lobos, Joe Walsh, Vince Gill with Jerry Douglas on slide guitar, some awesome duo from India, James Taylor (disrespectfully upstaged by Joe Walsh), BB King (everyday & everyday I have the blues)....
...joined by Eric Clapton, Jimmie Vaughan, Buddy Guy, and eventually John Mayer. Taking turns. Jamming. Call & response for over an hour.
Then Santana. Carlos. I love you. Joined by EC. I love you. Then EC with Doyle Bramhall II doing Robert Johnson songs. Busting loose with "I Shot the Sheriff", "Have You Ever Loved a Woman", "Badge", "Layla", "Wonderful Tonight", and "Cocaine".
EC & Jeff Beck jamming.
The weather is getting weird. Lots of lightning. ZZTop comes on, but I am still so wowed by "I Shot the Sheriff" that I can barely inhale. And should I ever catch my breath, there's a pervasive whafting of ..
Called my parents after work today. I was worried that they would be worried because I didn't call all weekend. My dad informed me I misspelled Slowhand's name. "There's an M before the P," he says. It's Clampton. Eric Clampton.
Did I mention that my dad's ship came in. All my life I've heard the expression, "When my ship comes in". Well, Howie, come on down(!) You've won the Miller Genuine Draft drawing at the
Hi-V grocery store. You've won the portable Weber tailgate gas grill and the hundred dollar beef shopping spree!
Dad. Dude. Jed was on the Beverly Hillbillies. Dude. Peace. And Alleve for old ladies the next day.
...joined by Eric Clapton, Jimmie Vaughan, Buddy Guy, and eventually John Mayer. Taking turns. Jamming. Call & response for over an hour.
Then Santana. Carlos. I love you. Joined by EC. I love you. Then EC with Doyle Bramhall II doing Robert Johnson songs. Busting loose with "I Shot the Sheriff", "Have You Ever Loved a Woman", "Badge", "Layla", "Wonderful Tonight", and "Cocaine".
EC & Jeff Beck jamming.
The weather is getting weird. Lots of lightning. ZZTop comes on, but I am still so wowed by "I Shot the Sheriff" that I can barely inhale. And should I ever catch my breath, there's a pervasive whafting of ..
Called my parents after work today. I was worried that they would be worried because I didn't call all weekend. My dad informed me I misspelled Slowhand's name. "There's an M before the P," he says. It's Clampton. Eric Clampton.
Did I mention that my dad's ship came in. All my life I've heard the expression, "When my ship comes in". Well, Howie, come on down(!) You've won the Miller Genuine Draft drawing at the
Hi-V grocery store. You've won the portable Weber tailgate gas grill and the hundred dollar beef shopping spree!
Dad. Dude. Jed was on the Beverly Hillbillies. Dude. Peace. And Alleve for old ladies the next day.
6/6/04
Toilet trouble
A few days back I wrote about our first house in Omaha, Nebraska. I'll now attempt to answer questions raised by Gentle Readers regarding the bathroom with its yellow fixtures.
The house was a little tract house, built in the late-Fifties. The brown wall tiles were original to the house. The brown tiles went half-way up the walls behind the yellow bathtub and sink. The crinkle mirror tiles above them were probably added by the same aesthetically-challenged previous owner who painted the green stripes on the exterior of the house. The brown went with the pastel fixtures better than some of the other colors the builder used, like swamp green tiles with pink fixtures...
Sometimes you have to work with no budget. By the time I got the bamboo window shade, and put a 3 foot square oil painting of fossil turtle shells on one wall, it got to be a cute bathroom. Then one night the yellow toilet tank spontaneously cracked apart. The only credit card we had was Sears, so we rushed to Sears and bought a yellow toilet. Sears would bring it the next day and install it, but they had no yellow toilet seats in stock. They would order one, and let us have a "loaner", which is a pretty bizarre concept.
We waited for months for the yellow toilet seat. I would call Sears every few weeks to check on the status, and they would say it was back-ordered. Finally one store clerk realized that something was wrong with the order. The clerk who originally wrote up the order for us entered the store number, 256, in the space for quantity ordered instead of one. Can you imagine if a truck had pulled up and delivered 256 yellow toilet seats?
Jump to last evening. My toilet was running and running. I asked Mike what he did to it. He said he took the lid off, and messed around with the handle and float and flapper.
This morning the toilet was running laps again, plus, it wouldn't flush. I headed off to Home Depot to buy a new flush valve flapper and flush handle. I installed those, did the plunger dance, burned incense, prayed for forgiveness for offending the 256 yellow toilet seats. Mike finally woke up and mumbled something about "the black thing in the hole being upside down maybe". I had no clue what he was talking about. He staggered downstairs, and took a black cup from the pipe below the flush valve flapper. He inverted it, and went back to bed.
At this point the situation deteriorates further, and the little black cup thingie won't come back out of the pipe. I start reading instructions for removing the tank from the toilet. My vocabulary heats up. I try one last removal attempt with a screwdriver, and the black cup thingie pops out. Lo, and behold, it is the little hat that belongs on top of the fill valve column. The toilet is happy. I am happy. Ten dollars and two and a half hours of how not to fix a toilet. At least nothing was back-ordered.
That is my salute to Mr. Clapper, inventor of the flush toilet. Now we are leaving to hear Mr. Clapton at the Cotton Bowl.
The house was a little tract house, built in the late-Fifties. The brown wall tiles were original to the house. The brown tiles went half-way up the walls behind the yellow bathtub and sink. The crinkle mirror tiles above them were probably added by the same aesthetically-challenged previous owner who painted the green stripes on the exterior of the house. The brown went with the pastel fixtures better than some of the other colors the builder used, like swamp green tiles with pink fixtures...
Sometimes you have to work with no budget. By the time I got the bamboo window shade, and put a 3 foot square oil painting of fossil turtle shells on one wall, it got to be a cute bathroom. Then one night the yellow toilet tank spontaneously cracked apart. The only credit card we had was Sears, so we rushed to Sears and bought a yellow toilet. Sears would bring it the next day and install it, but they had no yellow toilet seats in stock. They would order one, and let us have a "loaner", which is a pretty bizarre concept.
We waited for months for the yellow toilet seat. I would call Sears every few weeks to check on the status, and they would say it was back-ordered. Finally one store clerk realized that something was wrong with the order. The clerk who originally wrote up the order for us entered the store number, 256, in the space for quantity ordered instead of one. Can you imagine if a truck had pulled up and delivered 256 yellow toilet seats?
Jump to last evening. My toilet was running and running. I asked Mike what he did to it. He said he took the lid off, and messed around with the handle and float and flapper.
This morning the toilet was running laps again, plus, it wouldn't flush. I headed off to Home Depot to buy a new flush valve flapper and flush handle. I installed those, did the plunger dance, burned incense, prayed for forgiveness for offending the 256 yellow toilet seats. Mike finally woke up and mumbled something about "the black thing in the hole being upside down maybe". I had no clue what he was talking about. He staggered downstairs, and took a black cup from the pipe below the flush valve flapper. He inverted it, and went back to bed.
At this point the situation deteriorates further, and the little black cup thingie won't come back out of the pipe. I start reading instructions for removing the tank from the toilet. My vocabulary heats up. I try one last removal attempt with a screwdriver, and the black cup thingie pops out. Lo, and behold, it is the little hat that belongs on top of the fill valve column. The toilet is happy. I am happy. Ten dollars and two and a half hours of how not to fix a toilet. At least nothing was back-ordered.
That is my salute to Mr. Clapper, inventor of the flush toilet. Now we are leaving to hear Mr. Clapton at the Cotton Bowl.
6/5/04
A Life-Changing Purse
I sing here the praises and powers of the truly perfect purse. Six months ago I was seduced by a purse at the Plano East craft fair. I didn't need a purse. I wasn't looking for a long-term relationship. I didn't have any discretionary income.
Still, the purse had stolen my heart and my senses. This purse was the Real Me. It was my destiny. It challenged me to do something on intuition not reasoning. I suspended reasoning, and bought the purse. It began to change my life almost immediately.
I'm not a trend-setting person, to say the least, but I was suddenly the object of blatant purse envy. Total strangers at the art museum and opera began commenting audibly about my purse. Homeschooling moms and Wiccas saw the purse and saluted me as a woman of impressive creativity.
The compliments came from women age 22 to 72. All this positive energy inspires me to go off on new adventures and trips. My youngest child will go off to college in another year, and it is time to change my focus from full-time mom to creative traveller.
The purse pushes me to a greater acceptance of opportunities and self-knowledge. It holds a lot of stuff, too!
Still, the purse had stolen my heart and my senses. This purse was the Real Me. It was my destiny. It challenged me to do something on intuition not reasoning. I suspended reasoning, and bought the purse. It began to change my life almost immediately.
I'm not a trend-setting person, to say the least, but I was suddenly the object of blatant purse envy. Total strangers at the art museum and opera began commenting audibly about my purse. Homeschooling moms and Wiccas saw the purse and saluted me as a woman of impressive creativity.
The compliments came from women age 22 to 72. All this positive energy inspires me to go off on new adventures and trips. My youngest child will go off to college in another year, and it is time to change my focus from full-time mom to creative traveller.
The purse pushes me to a greater acceptance of opportunities and self-knowledge. It holds a lot of stuff, too!
Googlewhacking
This week someone in the UK let me know that he had scored a Googlewhack searching chutneys and scarab on Google. The only search result was this blog, where jellied beetles are a tasty way of life. This was my introduction to the challenge of Googlewhacking. So far it seems to me the main challenge imposed by Googlewhacking is quitting and going off to do some real work. The time-wasting possibilities of this game are enormous. I am proud to report there is only one Google search result for wookie chutneys. I should probably quit while I'm ahead, before I end up in Googlewhackers Anonymous.
Managing my money
I have made a lot of mistakes managing my money. I haven't squandered billions of dollars, mainly because I've never had enough to squander. The dumb things have always been because I didn't have enough money. Specifically, enough to pay the bills when they came due.
Quite possibly my dumbest money moment occurred in September of 2000. My oldest had just started college. His father suddenly decided that he would not pay ANYTHING for college. I can't really get into the complexities here, but it had something to do with vasectomy reversal and Armenia...
Anyway, I needed to deposit my paycheck and have money in my account REALLY BAD. Please learn from my mistake:
Should you ever happen to drive up to the night deposit drop of your bank with a deposit of checks that might keep your account above the drowning mark, and you find no deposit envelopes in the night deposit box, and you walk to the ATM and find no deposit envelopes there, either, don't succumb to the urge to dump out your Altoids in order to have a container for your deposit. It seems to goof up the bank's system, makes them think of bombs, and generally slows down your desperately needed deposit.
The deposit did not show up in my account. On the fourth day I was forced to call the bank and tell them that I was the idiot who put the Altoids box in the night deposit slot, and beg them to open the box and deposit the checks.
"Where did you deposit the, ahem, Altoids box?"
"In the night deposit at Parker and Custer Roads."
"I'm sorry, but we have closed that location."
"What? Huh? There's no sign or anything!"
"Well, it is closed. Let me see if anyone has checked the night deposit over there. Please hold........I'm sorry, ma'am, but they say the box isn't even there any more."
"But I put my checks in it on the thirty-first!"
"At Parker and Custer?"
"Yes! At the branch bank at Parker and Custer!"
"The branch bank?"
"Yes, the branch bank on the southwest corner of Parker and Custer. There weren't any envelopes in the drive-through ATM..."
"Oh. That branch bank. I'll call over there and ask them about the Altoids box. Please hold...."
"But, huh, what?"
"Ma'am, they say your checks were deposited this morning, and they did wonder about the Altoids box."
"But you said the branch was closed."
"That was our desk inside the Bag & Save grocery store on the northeast corner of Parker and Custer. It was closed, and the grocery store was closed."
"So the money is in my account? I am so confused."
"The money is there. Can I be of any other help?"
"I'm so, so, so, so sorry about the Altoids box...Were they afraid to open it? Was it stuck in the night deposit drop? Could they be sure to leave out plenty of envelopes at night from now on?"
"Thank you, ma'am, and have a nice day."
Quite possibly my dumbest money moment occurred in September of 2000. My oldest had just started college. His father suddenly decided that he would not pay ANYTHING for college. I can't really get into the complexities here, but it had something to do with vasectomy reversal and Armenia...
Anyway, I needed to deposit my paycheck and have money in my account REALLY BAD. Please learn from my mistake:
Should you ever happen to drive up to the night deposit drop of your bank with a deposit of checks that might keep your account above the drowning mark, and you find no deposit envelopes in the night deposit box, and you walk to the ATM and find no deposit envelopes there, either, don't succumb to the urge to dump out your Altoids in order to have a container for your deposit. It seems to goof up the bank's system, makes them think of bombs, and generally slows down your desperately needed deposit.
The deposit did not show up in my account. On the fourth day I was forced to call the bank and tell them that I was the idiot who put the Altoids box in the night deposit slot, and beg them to open the box and deposit the checks.
"Where did you deposit the, ahem, Altoids box?"
"In the night deposit at Parker and Custer Roads."
"I'm sorry, but we have closed that location."
"What? Huh? There's no sign or anything!"
"Well, it is closed. Let me see if anyone has checked the night deposit over there. Please hold........I'm sorry, ma'am, but they say the box isn't even there any more."
"But I put my checks in it on the thirty-first!"
"At Parker and Custer?"
"Yes! At the branch bank at Parker and Custer!"
"The branch bank?"
"Yes, the branch bank on the southwest corner of Parker and Custer. There weren't any envelopes in the drive-through ATM..."
"Oh. That branch bank. I'll call over there and ask them about the Altoids box. Please hold...."
"But, huh, what?"
"Ma'am, they say your checks were deposited this morning, and they did wonder about the Altoids box."
"But you said the branch was closed."
"That was our desk inside the Bag & Save grocery store on the northeast corner of Parker and Custer. It was closed, and the grocery store was closed."
"So the money is in my account? I am so confused."
"The money is there. Can I be of any other help?"
"I'm so, so, so, so sorry about the Altoids box...Were they afraid to open it? Was it stuck in the night deposit drop? Could they be sure to leave out plenty of envelopes at night from now on?"
"Thank you, ma'am, and have a nice day."
6/3/04
Going over to the Dark Side
My calling is to train young Jedi warriors to use Fiskars scissors. Using scissors is a powerful force for change. Mastering the skill involves not just coordination, but focus and imagination. The young Jedi must become one with their inner crocodile.
Sadly, there comes a time when most Jedi must flirt with the Dark Side. They have mastered the power to use Fiskars. Now they must prove they have the mature judgment to use that power.
Often, a young warrior or warriorette will exercise the power without the judgment. These are the sad days when I must send ponytails and bangs home to mommy in a ziplock bag. Then I want to zoom off in my landspeeder to the cantina.
My current group of Jedi-wannabes includes a four year old warriorette who has used the force for evil. She has snipped sections of her hair down to the scalp in rows. Try to visualize the wookie after a John Deere convention.
Make a Crocodile Your Cutting Buddy
Mastering scissors is an exciting moment in every preschooler's life. It takes a small investment of an adult's time and attention to reach that mastery safely, but it doesn't have to be torture for either child or adult. The two best friends of the child learning to cut are a pair of Fiskars round-tip scissors, and an imaginary crocodile.
Why Fiskars? I find the extra expense over other round-tip scissors to be worth every penny in reduced frustration. Also, lefties usually experience success with Fiskars as well as right-handed children. This is important when hand preference has not yet been determined.
Why the crocodile? Ah, that's a good question. Preschoolers sense that mastering scissors will make them more powerful little people. A crocodile is a powerful animal that can bite the way the child wants the scissors to bite the paper. Grown-ups forget the thrill of personal power that comes with being able to cut snowflakes, paper lanterns, valentines, and "play money". The crocodile imagery helps the child remember the correct way to hold and manipulate scissors.
Help your youngster place his thumb in the small round hole of the scissors, and then two or three fingers in the larger hole. Say that the thumb is the crocodile's eyes. The crocodile can only bite if it stays awake, so the thumb needs to stay on top when the child is cutting. Children usually try to roll their hand inward, and their thumb down when beginning to cut. Tell the child that rolling the thumb under makes the crocodile fall asleep and then it can't bite anything.
Before trying to cut, have the child make the biting motion of opening and closing the scissors. If your child doesn't have the hand strength to open and close the scissors, delay learning to cut, and instead spend some fun time together squeezing and shaping with Play-doh or clay to increase strength. When the child is ready to make the crocodile bite, you can help hold the paper and say, "Bite, bite, bite" along with the child.
Crocodiles are very hungry, so stock up on construction paper. It is easier to cut than copier paper or newspaper (or sibling's hair). Soon your young crocodile will be ready to expand its diet.
We often jokingly compare risky behavior to "running with scissors". What's the best way to carry scissors? Have your child put their fist around the crocodile's closed mouth, with the scissor blades pointing down, as if you were going to peek through the handles or use them for a microphone.
Share these wonderful books with your young snipper: Imagine You Are a Crocodile, by Karen Wallace; Bernard Waber's Lyle the Crocodile stories; and The Elephant's Child by Rudyard Kipling.
Sadly, there comes a time when most Jedi must flirt with the Dark Side. They have mastered the power to use Fiskars. Now they must prove they have the mature judgment to use that power.
Often, a young warrior or warriorette will exercise the power without the judgment. These are the sad days when I must send ponytails and bangs home to mommy in a ziplock bag. Then I want to zoom off in my landspeeder to the cantina.
My current group of Jedi-wannabes includes a four year old warriorette who has used the force for evil. She has snipped sections of her hair down to the scalp in rows. Try to visualize the wookie after a John Deere convention.
Make a Crocodile Your Cutting Buddy
Mastering scissors is an exciting moment in every preschooler's life. It takes a small investment of an adult's time and attention to reach that mastery safely, but it doesn't have to be torture for either child or adult. The two best friends of the child learning to cut are a pair of Fiskars round-tip scissors, and an imaginary crocodile.
Why Fiskars? I find the extra expense over other round-tip scissors to be worth every penny in reduced frustration. Also, lefties usually experience success with Fiskars as well as right-handed children. This is important when hand preference has not yet been determined.
Why the crocodile? Ah, that's a good question. Preschoolers sense that mastering scissors will make them more powerful little people. A crocodile is a powerful animal that can bite the way the child wants the scissors to bite the paper. Grown-ups forget the thrill of personal power that comes with being able to cut snowflakes, paper lanterns, valentines, and "play money". The crocodile imagery helps the child remember the correct way to hold and manipulate scissors.
Help your youngster place his thumb in the small round hole of the scissors, and then two or three fingers in the larger hole. Say that the thumb is the crocodile's eyes. The crocodile can only bite if it stays awake, so the thumb needs to stay on top when the child is cutting. Children usually try to roll their hand inward, and their thumb down when beginning to cut. Tell the child that rolling the thumb under makes the crocodile fall asleep and then it can't bite anything.
Before trying to cut, have the child make the biting motion of opening and closing the scissors. If your child doesn't have the hand strength to open and close the scissors, delay learning to cut, and instead spend some fun time together squeezing and shaping with Play-doh or clay to increase strength. When the child is ready to make the crocodile bite, you can help hold the paper and say, "Bite, bite, bite" along with the child.
Crocodiles are very hungry, so stock up on construction paper. It is easier to cut than copier paper or newspaper (or sibling's hair). Soon your young crocodile will be ready to expand its diet.
We often jokingly compare risky behavior to "running with scissors". What's the best way to carry scissors? Have your child put their fist around the crocodile's closed mouth, with the scissor blades pointing down, as if you were going to peek through the handles or use them for a microphone.
Share these wonderful books with your young snipper: Imagine You Are a Crocodile, by Karen Wallace; Bernard Waber's Lyle the Crocodile stories; and The Elephant's Child by Rudyard Kipling.
6/2/04
Terra Cotta Masks
We have been looking at African mask examples this week in preparation for making clay masks. The examples help illustrate how students can make their masks more three-dimensional, how they can use incised lines and patterns to add interest, and how we can add raffia, feathers, and beads when we complete our fired masks. The examples also inspire the kids to add features from different animals--horns, beaks, ears, etc.
Each summer I teach two-week thematic camps. Right now we are on a jungle theme. Two weeks is enough time to make a clay project, let it dry, and fire it, but not enough to glaze it. I have to fire seventy pieces in one load, so projects that can nest and "spoon" in the kiln are easier than bulkier objects.I took my sample to inspire the kids, but not to limit them. I used it to explain the steps in the process:
1. Making the mask.
2. Letting the mask dry over a toilet paper tube to give it a rounded form.
3. How firing changes the color of the clay.
4. The painting of the clay.
5. The unpainting of the clay.
6. The decorating possibilities.
7. How the mask looks if left outside for months.
This project works for age five and up. The materials needed are low-cost and readily available:
1. The clay, of course. I gave each child enough to form an "apple" ball and a "golf" ball.
2. A Chinet plate for each child. The plate doesn't have to be new.
3. A plastic drinking straw, plastic fork, and a craft stick for each child.
4. A toilet paper tube for each child.
5. A kite string for cutting, and a toothpick or stylus for writing names.
I push all the tables together to seat seven children on each side of a 10x6" surface. After demonstrating the ever-magical slicing of the clay with the kite string, we have the Clay Race. The Clay RaceFamilies don't sit down to those big meals and pass the plates and bowls anymore, so kids don't know how to pass. Passing is a skill, and passing without spilling is a really useful skill. The Clay Race is also a time choreographing tool for the teacher, allowing stretching or squishing to fit the time available. It helps if the teacher has ever observed the bizarre pitching motion used in cricket games.
The Clay Race can be used with age three and up:
1. Explain that each team has a Starter and a Stopper. The Starter stays the same, but the Stopper changes with each round.
2. Do an elaborate get set-go display of grabbing a chunk of clay in each hand, twirling it about, and plunking it down before the Starter of each team. The kids start yelling, "Pass! Pass it! Pass it!" Get the teams to stop passing at the Stopper.
3. The Stopper, obviously, changes to the next person on each team. The get set-go display can become even more crazy. The kids are learning The Clay Stops Here, with apologies to Harry S. Truman. They are also overcoming whatever aversion they have to touching the ooey-gooey clay.
4. There's lots of energy and excitement without actual winners.
Now it's time for aerobic squeezing, but first, The Two Rules of Clay. The Two Rules are easier than the Eight-fold Path of Buddhism, yet still guide us in our daily search for Nirvana:
1. Don't Eat It!
2. Don't Pound It!
Rule One reminds us to care for ourselves.Rule Two reminds us to be considerate of others.Doesn't that pretty much cover it?
Aerobic Squishing and SqueezingWarning! The art teacher should not actually put on a leotard. Our goal is not to traumatize youngsters. Our goal is to increase their hand strength. [Right now I have a student who practiced with scissors to create a Susan Powter meets John Deere hairstyle all her own.]...and squeeze and squish. And squish and squeeze. And pass it. Left hand. Right hand. Left hand squeeze. Right hand squeeze. Left hand. Right hand. Up-squeeze. Down-squeeze. Behind your back-squeeze. Over your head squeeze. Other side now! Repeat....And pat and pat and push and slap. Now pull apart, and 1-2-3-4 Slap! Now roll and roll and ROLL it! Feel the burn?....[Try to end up with an apple-size ball, and a golf ball-size blob] Set aside the "golf ball".
Remind everyone of the distinction between patting/pushing and "The Forbidden" pounding. Pat and push the apple into a pancake. Use the toilet paper tube to "cookie-cut" two eye holes in the pancake. Show the kids how to use the craft stick to poke the clay out of the tp tube, then give the tube a mildly crushing squeeze. (The tube needs to compress as the clay shrinks during drying.) Save the circles of clay. Use the fork, Luke, to incise a design on the surface of the clay. Scritchy-scratching turns out bad, so go for something more controlled, texture-wise.Now it's time to put the crunched tp tube on the old Chinet plate. Carefully pick up the pancake with eyeholes, and drape it over the tp tube on the plate. Use the cut-out clay circles to form monkey ears or baboon mouths. Use the extra "golf ball" clay to create other strange features.The drinking straw is for poking holes around the edges.
When the clay is fired, thread raffia and other decorations through the holes. Add a wire or leather thong for hanging the mask.Oh, no! Wait, wait! Back up a step! After the clay is fired, we will paint it with black tempera, then wait a few minutes. We'll take turns washing the paint off the surface at the big art sink, leaving the black paint in the crevices like a patina. Each child decides how much paint to wash off.My sample mask has been hanging on the patio fence for 3-4 months. The lizards have been using it as their clubhouse/kiva. Even though it is drenched in downpours and spritzed with the automatic sprinklers, it still has the black contrasts in the grooves.
Groovy, baby. And the art teacher has been sweating with the oldies.
Each summer I teach two-week thematic camps. Right now we are on a jungle theme. Two weeks is enough time to make a clay project, let it dry, and fire it, but not enough to glaze it. I have to fire seventy pieces in one load, so projects that can nest and "spoon" in the kiln are easier than bulkier objects.I took my sample to inspire the kids, but not to limit them. I used it to explain the steps in the process:
1. Making the mask.
2. Letting the mask dry over a toilet paper tube to give it a rounded form.
3. How firing changes the color of the clay.
4. The painting of the clay.
5. The unpainting of the clay.
6. The decorating possibilities.
7. How the mask looks if left outside for months.
This project works for age five and up. The materials needed are low-cost and readily available:
1. The clay, of course. I gave each child enough to form an "apple" ball and a "golf" ball.
2. A Chinet plate for each child. The plate doesn't have to be new.
3. A plastic drinking straw, plastic fork, and a craft stick for each child.
4. A toilet paper tube for each child.
5. A kite string for cutting, and a toothpick or stylus for writing names.
I push all the tables together to seat seven children on each side of a 10x6" surface. After demonstrating the ever-magical slicing of the clay with the kite string, we have the Clay Race. The Clay RaceFamilies don't sit down to those big meals and pass the plates and bowls anymore, so kids don't know how to pass. Passing is a skill, and passing without spilling is a really useful skill. The Clay Race is also a time choreographing tool for the teacher, allowing stretching or squishing to fit the time available. It helps if the teacher has ever observed the bizarre pitching motion used in cricket games.
The Clay Race can be used with age three and up:
1. Explain that each team has a Starter and a Stopper. The Starter stays the same, but the Stopper changes with each round.
2. Do an elaborate get set-go display of grabbing a chunk of clay in each hand, twirling it about, and plunking it down before the Starter of each team. The kids start yelling, "Pass! Pass it! Pass it!" Get the teams to stop passing at the Stopper.
3. The Stopper, obviously, changes to the next person on each team. The get set-go display can become even more crazy. The kids are learning The Clay Stops Here, with apologies to Harry S. Truman. They are also overcoming whatever aversion they have to touching the ooey-gooey clay.
4. There's lots of energy and excitement without actual winners.
Now it's time for aerobic squeezing, but first, The Two Rules of Clay. The Two Rules are easier than the Eight-fold Path of Buddhism, yet still guide us in our daily search for Nirvana:
1. Don't Eat It!
2. Don't Pound It!
Rule One reminds us to care for ourselves.Rule Two reminds us to be considerate of others.Doesn't that pretty much cover it?
Aerobic Squishing and SqueezingWarning! The art teacher should not actually put on a leotard. Our goal is not to traumatize youngsters. Our goal is to increase their hand strength. [Right now I have a student who practiced with scissors to create a Susan Powter meets John Deere hairstyle all her own.]...and squeeze and squish. And squish and squeeze. And pass it. Left hand. Right hand. Left hand squeeze. Right hand squeeze. Left hand. Right hand. Up-squeeze. Down-squeeze. Behind your back-squeeze. Over your head squeeze. Other side now! Repeat....And pat and pat and push and slap. Now pull apart, and 1-2-3-4 Slap! Now roll and roll and ROLL it! Feel the burn?....[Try to end up with an apple-size ball, and a golf ball-size blob] Set aside the "golf ball".
Remind everyone of the distinction between patting/pushing and "The Forbidden" pounding. Pat and push the apple into a pancake. Use the toilet paper tube to "cookie-cut" two eye holes in the pancake. Show the kids how to use the craft stick to poke the clay out of the tp tube, then give the tube a mildly crushing squeeze. (The tube needs to compress as the clay shrinks during drying.) Save the circles of clay. Use the fork, Luke, to incise a design on the surface of the clay. Scritchy-scratching turns out bad, so go for something more controlled, texture-wise.Now it's time to put the crunched tp tube on the old Chinet plate. Carefully pick up the pancake with eyeholes, and drape it over the tp tube on the plate. Use the cut-out clay circles to form monkey ears or baboon mouths. Use the extra "golf ball" clay to create other strange features.The drinking straw is for poking holes around the edges.
When the clay is fired, thread raffia and other decorations through the holes. Add a wire or leather thong for hanging the mask.Oh, no! Wait, wait! Back up a step! After the clay is fired, we will paint it with black tempera, then wait a few minutes. We'll take turns washing the paint off the surface at the big art sink, leaving the black paint in the crevices like a patina. Each child decides how much paint to wash off.My sample mask has been hanging on the patio fence for 3-4 months. The lizards have been using it as their clubhouse/kiva. Even though it is drenched in downpours and spritzed with the automatic sprinklers, it still has the black contrasts in the grooves.
Groovy, baby. And the art teacher has been sweating with the oldies.
6/1/04
More excitement than necessary
In the living room I have many teen guys watching "Reservoir Dogs". This is one of the last movies I watched with my former spouse, and so, I am repulsed and close to breaking out in hives. Nevermind the whole "Stuck in the Middle with You" thing.
Out back, behind the privacy fence, I've got the TXU utility guy trying to find the smelly gas leak. I've also got my neighbor, Sheila, who must have played the Addams family's grandmother. She is accompanied by the petit Napolean of the condo mutiny.
Overhead we have a tornado watch with expected hail. It smells like a big one. I had the teens move the old Buick out in the open, and put their nice Honda Civics under the carport.
I sure hope the storm washes away the pollen.
Out back, behind the privacy fence, I've got the TXU utility guy trying to find the smelly gas leak. I've also got my neighbor, Sheila, who must have played the Addams family's grandmother. She is accompanied by the petit Napolean of the condo mutiny.
Overhead we have a tornado watch with expected hail. It smells like a big one. I had the teens move the old Buick out in the open, and put their nice Honda Civics under the carport.
I sure hope the storm washes away the pollen.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
LinkWithin
