Analog Parenting

There is one priest at our Church that can wrap up Sunday Mass in 40 minutes or less. He's the kind of speed reading, prayer condensing, get me out of here before the Bears game starts celebrants that Catholics love. We rarely have him at 10:30 Mass though. Instead, Peter and I settle in every week for a good hour and ten minutes, set to the sonorous, soft and slow prayers of our Pastor. I'm not complaining - I need that time. But generally the jersey-clad assembly starts getting restless when the myriad of post-Eucharist guest speakers step up to the pulpit. This past Sunday, that speaker was the School Board president who extended an invitation to us to stop by the Parish's elementary school for an open house.

For kicks; a trip down memory lane for Peter and an accelerated planning session for me and Mary; we heeded the president's call to action and took a tour of the school. We were met in the auditorium by three enthusiastic eighth grade ambassadors, eager to show Mary her potential classroom. 

While Peter moseyed down the hallways where he had grown up, reminiscing about where his old teachers had reigned, I started to notice things that didn't look like school as I knew it. I suddenly became an incredulous observer of bulletin boards, classroom decor, and academia that were a far cry from what I remember.

There was the second grade artwork, hanging on the walls of the first floor. The herd of dinosaurs wasn't depicted with the help of a set of crayons or markers, instead it was composed with the paint brush function of Apple's drawing program.
I saw a bunch of exercise balls in the classrooms.
'Um, what are those for?'
'Oh those are for the kids that can't sit still. They use the balls instead of their chairs and it helps them concentrate.'
'Are you kidding me?!'
The blackboard - that wonderful tool that I used to practice writing on before class started - was covered with maps, schedules, pictures, and other laminated paraphernalia. There wasn't an inch left to use. And the chalk? There wasn't a single slice of it.
'A lot of kids are allergic to chalk.'
'Seriously?!'
'We have interactive white boards instead! How cool is that?'
Then there was the library. A classroom that boasted perhaps four, maybe five book shelves.
'This is the library. But they cancelled library classes. They were replaced with additional computer classes.'
My heart skipped a beat. No Mrs. Sabeh. No plastic covers that crinkle when you open them. No library cards and overdue notices. No quiet time at a table in between the stacks for you and a good book to bond.
'So, they don't teach you the Dewey Decimal system?'
'Um. No. They don't teach that anymore.' 

I left school, feeling a little uneasy. It was shock I guess, but it was exacerbated by the daunting themes of my recent non-fiction reading binge. Within the past two weeks, I've read Omnivore's Dilemma, The Last American Man, and Cod - A Biography of the Fish that Changed the World. I highly recommend them all. Each book painted a rather ominous portrait of our society - from manipulating the food chain, to replacing hard work with laziness, to raping the oceans - we have spent decades, no centuries reshaping and reclaiming natural human systems. 

And as we do this, we foster and pass on new techniques to future generations. Instead of teaching our children how to do things for themselves, we give them products, which are most likely electronic and programmed to do the work for them. We surround our children with over stimulation to the point that it is impeding their ability to process things in a linear fashion. And apparently, the stimuli are making us so attention deficit that we need bouncy balls to concentrate. We are feeding ourselves and our children food that we were never as humans were supposed to eat. Whether its something jacked up on corn and its bi-products, shot up with hormones and chemicals, synthetically farmed, or genetically modified, it's doing crazy stuff to the way that we think, age, and interact. And yep, it's probably making us allergic to freaking chalk. 

Yes, I'm being pessimistic. And honestly, for all that had changed in the classrooms that I observed, there were many things that were the same. The love that our tour guides showed for certain teachers, especially that science teacher who drank her coffee out of a beaker. Hey, I had one of those teachers too. The fear they remembered as second graders in the middle of a bustling third floor hallway filled with seventh and eighth graders. Their band pride - from the remedial Hot Cross Buns playing fourth grade band to the more advanced group of instrumentalists in the upper school. And their giggly friendship accentuated by their matching Sperry shoes.

With Mary arriving in five weeks, I've been doing a lot of thinking about parenting and the world that she will inherit. It's far different from the place I knew and the speed at which it continues to shift is scary. But I've made a promise to myself that despite what the rest of the world is pushing and promoting, Mary and the rest of our children will be raised in a rather analog house. We'll always be equipped with a record number of books per capita and everyone will have a library card, we'll stick with economy cable, music will come from a record player, there will be ample tools for growing, gathering, and yes, hunting, we will spend quiet time listening to the crackling of birch wood in the fire place, we'll open up the box of art supplies on lazy Saturday afternoons, and our refrigerator will continue to be stocked with food that is local, fresh, and as unprocessed as possible.

I am bound and determined to fill in the gaps in Mary's education with the stuff that I'm afraid is going to be missing from school by the time she gets there. There will be plenty of time for artwork, exploration in Bemis Woods, theater, dance, and imagination. And if there ever comes a day when there is a choice between the short version of Mass and the long version; a pew versus a bouncy ball; an e-reader hymnal versus the bound edition; our family will always take the longer, slower, sturdier, steadier, and more tangible route.

Lo. 

The Fireside Book Club

Three doors up, the 400 hundred block, all of Peck and the sole rep from the 200 block of our street all seemed to know Peter. Oh yeah, we've seen you raking - yard looks nice. His wife however, they didn't so much recognize. Maybe it was the puffy face or the belly. Regardless, I had an impression to make.

I easily slipped into comfort conversations - those that tend to spark some interest: McDonald's (great company, beautiful campus, so do you get a discount?), Manti (should have one the Heisman), marathons (I'm normally not this fat), and my status as mama-to-be (have any day care recommendations?). I found a rhythm. I miraculously evaded awkward remarks or silent pauses. And soon enough, my bedtime had slipped by.

Sans alcohol, I rationalized: I had a birthing class in the morning, I had been tired all week, I had to pull the plug - Peter could hold down the fort. Around 10:15, I grabbed my coat from the front hall closet and told the neighborhood goodnight. I turned to Sue, one of the neighbors that I had just met, sweet, bubbly, down to Earth Sue, and said,"well I better sally forth, I'm feeling really tired."
Oh no. Did I just say, 'sally forth?!'
I heard the statement ringing through my mind, over and over again. I blamed Tolstoy. It was something Levin or Stepan or one of those other Russians would have said.
The look on Sue's face was somewhere in between perplexed and pitying - confused at my statement, but sympathizing with my pregnant, sober state of affairs.

During my 50 meter walk back to our house, I felt the after shocks of my verbal bomb over and over again. There went the cool, hip impression that I had wanted to convey.

Over the past three months or so, I've become increasingly removed from the party circuit and initiated deeper and deeper into a little fireside book club that can boast only two members: Peter and I. Weekend cocktail hours have been replaced with sparkling water, a crackling birch fire, and many good novels. I've been paging through book after book, escaping into worlds with characters who have far greater problems than my current self image - that of an inverted, two-humped camel. And I've effectively found a way to completely relax through this more tiring stage of pregnancy.

In the past three months or so, I've made it through eight books, and am midway through the ninth.
 
Perks of Being a Wallflower. Pittsburgh, the Fort Pitt Tunnel, and great characters. Winning combination.
Gone Girl. Started off good, then took a turn for the worse. I started to find it annoying around page 300.
Fifty Shades of Grey. The writing is awful. The sex isn't sexy. And frankly Mr. Grey bored me. 
Tess of the D'Urbervilles. So that's what happened. I should have read this book sophomore year of high school, but obviously I had done one of those fake reading jobs that I was quite good at.
In the Garden of Beasts. I had bad dreams about Nazis every night while reading this book.   
A Tale of Two Cities. Again I had an epiphany as I had skimmed this book in eighth grade. It's awesome.
The Family Fang. Weird. And I now hate performance art. 
Fountainhead. Howard Roarke is the reason I like to work in a silo, and he's convinced me to stick with it.
I'm now deep within the rich Russian landscape of Anna Karenina. The pages turn a little slower in this novel, but it gives me more time to warm up by the fire.

Peter makes fun of me for morphing into various characters from the novels I read. Apparently, I take cues from their behavior and language, adopting certain affectations. He calls me out for it. I immediately deny the accusation, and quickly slip into something more colloquial. And apparently, that's what happened last night. I'm now stripping 'sally forth' from my word bank.

What Peter does like about book club though is the dinner inspiration that comes from reading. For instance, on Friday, as Anna and Vronsky escaped into Italy, we had bowls of pasta e fagiole. 

And despite not having a glass of Barolo to go with it, I was quite satisfied playing the role of Anna to Peter's Vronsky, minus the whole affair thing.

Lo.

Pasta e Fagioli 
Serves Four (or two with leftovers for lunch the next day)
Every recipe that I read on Friday required dried beans, that needed to be soaked overnight. I didn't have the time to soak beans on Friday after work, so I turned to John for some advice on using canned beans. Mixing inspiration from him and others, I came up with the following recipe. 



Ingredients 
6 cups water 
2 cans cannelini beans
Two celery stalks
1 carrot, unpeeled and cut into four piece
1 carrot, pealed and chopped
1 onion, quartered
2 sprigs Italian parsley
1 bay leaf
2 sage leaves 
6 cloves of garlic
Salt, pepper
3 pieces of pancetta, diced
Olive oil
1/4 cup tomato paste
1 - 1 1/2 cups water
1 cup Macaroni or another kind of smaller noodle
1 tablespoon Italian parsley
Grated Haystack Queso de Mano or another kind of salty, hard cheese

Directions: 
In a medium soup pot bring water to a boil with one can of beans (with liquid), celery stalks, carrot pieces, 2 quarters of onion, 3 cloves of garlic, parsley, bay leaf, sage, salt and pepper. Reduce heat to medium and let the stock continue to cook for an hour or so.

Drain the liquid, reserving the solid vegetables and beans, into another medium pot and keep warm over low heat. Take out the celery, carrots and herbs from the remaining solids and place everything else in food processor. Pulse till smooth. Set aside bean mixture.

Drizzle a couple teaspoons of olive oil in a large soup pot, and over medium heat, brown the pancetta pieces until crispy, about 7 minutes. Dice remaining quarters of onions and garlic cloves and add to pot. Saute until tender, about 4 minutes. Add tomato paste and stir until incorporated. Add stock and water (depending on how much the stock reduced while cooking and how thick you like your pasta fagiole, you should add more or less water.) Add pureed bean mixture, whole beans, salt and pepper. Let simmer over medium low heat for 30 minutes. 

Meanwhile, cook macaroni in salted, boiling water for about 7 minutes, until very al dente. Drain and then add to the soup. Let the soup cook for another 5 - 10 minutes over medium low heat. Add another dash of salt to taste.

Serve topped with Italian parsley, freshly grated Haystack Queso de Mano, and (a couple) hunks of crusty Italian bread.

Required Reading

About a month ago, the sign on the high school near our house changed. The text went from 'congratulations graduates' to 'reading is required this summer' and the tone went from celebratory to threatening. I was simultaneously surprised by the direct and demanding nature of the promotion and guilt-ridden as my reading hiatus spread from one week to four. So after the tenth time running by the sign, I followed instructions, picked out a book, and made a commitment to fulfill my neighborhood quota. 

I chose a novel that is most likely on many required reading lists this summer: The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. I finished it earlier this week, and as I put it back on the shelf, I thought to myself how enlightened I had become.

It provided context to my favorite computer game growing up. (Actually, I should say second favorite - the best game was Peril's of Rosella, but it required the trusty partnership of my sister who made me less nervous about going into battle against ogres, witches and whales.) The Adventures of Tom Sawyer was my favorite solo game. The insertion of a floppy disk, the flip of a big button, and the characteristic revving and humming, signaling the start-up of one of the first IMBs to hit the general consumer market, made the screen light up and the game start. Your goal was to move Tom through a maze, collect all the apples, and avoid capture by one of three people running after you. After reading Tom Sawyer, I finally figured out who the Indian, the girl and the old woman with the broom were. 

I now know that there is a little more character in Peter's middle name - Thomas. Playing pirates, robbers, and treasure hunters, going fishing, finding the most unique friends, not wearing shoes, and showing off to get the girls' attention - that's Peter Thomas. My husband sewed a pirate patch on his shirt on Wednesday morning before he left for his annual sharking competition. He has just about found all the Huck Finns in the world and made them his best friends. If given the option, I'm sure he'd go without shoes. And to get my attention, all he needed to do was backwards flip off the boat, walk on his hands, and light up a grill.

Finally, had I not sworn of reading entirely from first to seventh grade, I would have made this book required reading for my summer trips to Quincy, Illinois with my family. Every summer, we would spend a week with my grandparents in the small city at the western tip of Illinois, nestled on the Mississippi River, up stream from Hannibal where Tom and Huck used to play. My siblings and I wrote our own stories on the Mississippi every summer, but knowing the we were walking in the footsteps of Tom, Huck, Joe Harper, Becky and Injun Joe, would have been nice.

So I'm now back in Quincy for the 2012 family reunion, about ready to live it up Tom Sawyer style.

If you haven't read it, Tom Sawyer is worth the read - not only for the beautiful portrait of Americana that Mark Twain's offers the reader, but for the opportunity to see the world through a child's eyes and to see everyday as an adventure. 

The Cheater

In fifth grade I cheated. I had figured out answers to the first, second and third fill-in-the-blanks. But when I got to fourth, I was stumped. Perhaps, had I read the book I'd have known what Danny's favorite possession was. But as a non-reader, I was solely dependent on class discussion. And we so didn't discuss that minute detail in class.

By the fifth grade, I had actually gotten rather good at taking Reading tests without actually having done any reading. The multiple choice answers were easily deduced; the essays were my bread and butter, mostly because I could always find one little thing we had talked about in class and massage it into an essay about me, which was lauded for its creativity; but the fill in the blanks - ugh, they were tough, and they seemed to multiply in number with every advancing grade level.

With three minutes until the end of class, and with half of my classmates out the door on their way to lunch, I still didn't have an answer for number four. And my stomach was growling. I raised my eyes as if conveying a pensive expression, and then despite my best intentions, my right eye drifted down and then over to Paul B.'s test. Aha! I got it.

Witch

Danny's favorite possession was a ... witch. That makes total sense. Done. Handed it in. Cold chicken patty sandwich, here I come.

The next day when we got our tests back, I cautiously turned it over, hoping that I had miraculously stumbled upon the kind of perfect A+ paper that my sister always received. Instead I revealed that my usual B had turned into a B-/C+. What did that even mean? It meant that Mrs. Harbist was harder than the other Reading teachers I guess. She apparently didn't like my essays. "Use more examples from the novel." Great. Her multiple choices were riddled with double negatives. And her fill in the blanks ... I mean seriously, who reads each line that carefully? I looked at my stolen answer, which was crossed out in red, and glaringly replaced with the word, watch.
Oh.
That actually makes a lot more sense. Danny's favorite possession was a watch. I guess that's why my B- was teetering on the verge of a C+. Mrs. Harbist knew I cheated.

Among my family members, I was labeled as the non-reader. And I literally, made it through second to seventh grade without reading an assigned book for school. I could read perfectly well. In fact, I was always good at reading aloud in class. But I just chose not to. Instead, I paid close attention to class discussions so I could pull out nuggets for the test, but to this day I only have a foggy idea what Number the Stars, Hatchet, Red Badge of Courage, and Island of the Blue Dolphin are about. I did read some American Girl Collection books, mostly so I could play with my Molly doll more effectively. And I read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in fourth grade. But besides that, my Book It numbers were completely fabricated. (I guess that would count as the other time I cheated - there was a personal pan pizza on the line, you would have done the same.)

My standardized test scores reflected my voluntary illiteracy too. I was always 98th or 99th percentile in Math, but in English and Reading Compression, I was in the mid 70s - An embarrassing low stat at St. Edmund's and in my family.

I attribute my literary turn around to The Giver. It was the last book that we were assigned in the seventh grade, and I decided to give it a chance. I ended up finishing it in two days - I loved it and wanted to talk about it. My teacher was shocked at my sudden desire to answer every question in class. And I was shocked by how exciting it was to be the go-to respondent. It ignited a spark and in eighth grade I read all the books. Throughout high school I couldn't put the books down. And in college, I switched into a major where all you did was read and write. By the time I applied for MBA school, my test scores had completely shifted. The verbal section trumped the math section, which actually didn't look so good to the right thinking admissions committee, and which made me use my words to negotiate not taking the test again.

Now, as someone who calls reading and writing her profession, it is really hard to believe that the girl who cheated on her Reading test was me. (It's also really hard to believe that at one time I was acing advanced Calculus tests, but that's another story.)

Yesterday, I discovered another past persona that was equally hard to recognize - Lo. I realized that she had changed a lot over the past three years, and that the "About Lo" page on this blog was a little scary. So, delete, delete, delete. Out went the pragmatic dater. Out went the theory of finding a relationship through optimizing your marketing mix. Out went the confidently, clueless single girl who wanted to use the jargon she learned in business school in a more creative way. In came me. I replaced the old Lo with the girl behind the computer.

Who loves cooking, running and traveling. Who keeps her family and friends close and invites them into her stories. Who loves remembering when. Who loves playing all the different roles that life demands of her. Who writes about what she knows now. And who loves being able to say that she is no longer a single girl - she is married. And will never be a cheater. 
Lo.