Weeding

Our shelves were bursting with books. And although that's not a bad thing, many of the books were twaddle. And not fun twaddle either. Just . . . fluff. So I did something I feel a bit guilty about. I snuck books off the shelves, passing by Pippi with books shoved under my shirt, in my waistband, and wrapped up in playsilks and blankets. "What are you doing?" she asked a few times.

"Organizing."

One of these days she's gonna catch on. Momma starts attacking the bookshelves, walking around with square bumps under her shirt. That means purging.

But today was not that day. She was mostly oblivious. I became especially sneaky when handling her Junie B. Jones stash. I slipped this one and that one under cushions, sliding them on the floor, around the corner where they disapeared into a paper bag. I left her favorite titles. I'm not ruthless. But do we really need the entire collection? I think not.

Four bag fulls of twaddle later, our shelves are neater. Somehow fresh. No longer does a solid tug on one book pull down half the shelf's collection. Now we can flip through the books on the shelf, instead of taking out stack after stack, searching for the perfect book. Now when Pippi asks for the Seven Silly Eaters, I can find it. That one had been missing for months.

And the kids noticed. Nothing was said. Certainly no, "Hey Mom, this looks great!" Nor were there any tears over missing titles (I swear, most will never be missed.) But the kids spent most of the evening pulling books off the shelves and either looking quietly through them, or bringing them to me for a reading. We spent two and a half hours before bed, just reading. Book after book after . . .

I'm actually suffering from a bit of sore throat. I can't remember the last time I read myself hoarse.

And all it took was a bit of weeding.

Some Good Books and an Impromptu Narration

I was looking forward to book time last night. I had hauled my bags of twaddle to my favorite bookstore to turn in for credit. I came home with a small treasure.

Among the booty was this gem, Princess Nobody by Andrew Lang and illustrated by Robert Doyle. If I was somewhat befuddled by what makes twaddle twaddle, and what makes a living book . . . well living, one look at these exquisite illustrations, rivaled only by Beatrix Potter in my humble opinion, cleared up the matter for me.

I'm constantly amazed by how little I know about books.

Before my children were born, I worked in children's books. I've been reading to my kids for five years. And this snail riding fairy had never before made our acquaintance. But that's the fun of this book seeking business. If I knew all there was to know about good children's books, the world would be dreadfully dull, with no surprise, no secret thrill at what lies between the book wrappers.

But I digress.

For all the book build up, I was expecting an exciting session, Pippi pouring over the pages, taking in all the detail. See, I do that quite a bit. Spin scenarios in my head, building things up so that the actual event could never possibly measure up. So I was more than a bit disappointed when she said she'd rather tell stories than read books.

Tell stories? Come on. Any other night and I'd be fine with it. But tonight. Princess Nobody awaits. Not to mention The Hundred Dresses I'd been teasing her with for days.

Nope. Just stories.

So Pip begged my mom to join us, we turned out all the lights, buried ourselves under way too many blankets, and began. My mom told a story about how my great grandmother and grandfather met on a dance floor, got married, and had a little girl, Fay. A year after they were married, my great grandfather gave his bride an oblong wooden box filled with candy. That box now holds my mother's knitting needles.

My story continued the Old Testament saga. Whispers of a Deliverer filled Egypt's Hebrews with expectation and resigned bitterness. Yochebed had just begun to feel the first birth pangs as the boy child chosen by God turned in her womb.

"We'll continue tomorrow night," I said. I always end on a cliffhanger. I've learned a thing or two by watching shows like 24 and Lost. End with tension, fate of mankind in the balance, the world in flux, and you ensure your audience will return. So I never tie anything up neatly for Pippi. I want her to think and wonder about the story throughout her day.

"Now my story," she said.

"Once upon a time, a long time ago," she began, "a little baby was born, named Joseph. His father's name was Jacob. And Joseph had a whole lot of brothers. And Jacob loved Joseph so much. So one day, Jacob went and bought him . . . a car seat."

"Did they have car seats back then?" she whispered.

"No, they didn't," I said, glad of the dark so she wouldn't see my face.

"So," she continued, "Jacob made a car seat out of a lot of wood, and Jacob put Joseph in the car seat in a carriage that was pulled by a lot of . . . horses. And they rode for many days and many nights until they got to . . . Bethlehem. And a lot of years had passed because the journey was so long, so by now Joseph was a little boy. And he grew out of his car seat. Carriage seat, I mean. I think."

"And while, Joseph was in Bethlehem, he met . . . Momma, who did he meet?"

"Ummm. . ." I fumbled.

"Do you mean the disciples?" my mom prompted.

"Yes, the disciples."

"Matthew was a disciple. And John," my mom offered.

"So in Bethlehem, Joseph met Matthew and John and all the other disciples. And by this time Joseph was an old, old man. Until all of the disciples died. And after the disciples died . . . Jesus was born."

"And then Joseph and Jacob went back home to . . . their home, and there they met Joseph's brother, Benjamin, for the first time."

"The end."

Um . . . wow.

If her narration is any indication of what she has learned so far, I've got my work cut out for me.

The Story of a Pumpkin

Oh, how I love Fall. Apparently, Pippi does too. We dug her winter clothes out of the cedar chest a week ago, and she's been running around the house, yard, and about town in sweaters, stocking caps, and scarves despite the fact that here in the South, temps swing wildly in the Fall - fifties in the morning, upper seventies, even eighties in the afternoon.



Perhaps my favorite part of fall is the food. Sausage on a stick. Roasted ears of corn. My mamma's apple cake muffins. Wassail. Hot chocolate made with whipping cream instead of milk.

And pumpkin. Pumpkin muffins. Pumpkin pancakes. Pumpkin cookies. Pumpkin bread. Pumpkin soup. Spiced rice pudding swirled with pumpkin. Love the stuff. But all those cans of pumpkin get a bit pricey. Especially as much as we have been using.

So I bought my first pumpkin. Now, I'm great about thinking up activities, buying weird foods, intending to experiment. Bad about following through. There is a coconut sitting on the counter. Been there about a month. Before that sad coconut, there was another coconut. It rotted. All it would take is a screw driver and a bit of muscle and we'd have fresh coconut milk, but . . . well, I'd have to go down to the garage and search for the screw driver, and it'd take a really long time tapping at that coconut eye . . . and, well . . . Pretty soon we'll have another rotted coconut.

So I'm sure everyone rolled there eyes, when I rolled in the pumpkin. But low and behold, we dug into that thing the day after I bought it. Really! And we had the most fun. So here it is, the story of a pumpkin.

Pippi had finally taken off her layers of winter garb, admitting that seventy-ish degrees was not exactly winter, and she and Tommy began to droop a bit. We'd played restaurant, king of the hill (with hay bails- very fun), hunted for bugs, and rubbed dirt into all the stuffed animals (that would be Tommy), and they'd begun to get that I'm bored, nothing to do look in their eyes.

So I rolled the pumpkin outside.


From start to finish, this was the most fun we've had in a while. Tommy was reluctant to stick his hand in it, kept calling it fire, talked about getting burned. And with the sunlight shining in through the hole I'd carved, the insides did sort of shimmer like firelight.

But Pippi had no such reservations. She dug in, squished the pith through her fingers. Then she helped me separate the pith from the seeds, which we set aside for later.

The pith, I gave to the kids, and their game of restaurant began anew. This time with pumpkin pith, cups of water, and okra from the garden. Pumpkin soup with nutmeg and cloves (dirt and more dirt) were on today's menu at Cafe Pip 'n' Tom.

After lunch, Tommy went down for his nap. While Pippi played not so quietly, my mother prepared the pumpkin for roasting while I attended to the seeds. For the seeds, I cleansed the seeds of pith. This probably would have been easier if I had done this while the seeds were still wet instead of letting them dry, the pith hardening like snot dried hard on my son's cheek. Then I spread them in a pan, sprayed them lightly with olive oil, sprinkled them with sea salt, and roasted them on 300 degrees for about twenty-five minutes, stirring them once about halfway through. Yummy. Maybe next time I'll try tossing them with pumpkin pie spice.

To dress the pumpkin, my mom cut the pumpkin into three inch (or so) chunks, scraping off the pith with a paring knife. Then she turned the chunks skin side up in a roasting pan. For our pumpkin, we needed two roasting pans. Then she ran about 1/4 of an inch of water into the pan. Then put them into a 300 degree oven for about an hour and a half.

While the pumpkin roasted, Pippi and I read books. I must admit, I slipped my own selection into her stack. I couldn't resist. Have you discovered the Mousekin books by Edna Miller? Exquisite. I love these sweet forest stories. We read Mousekin's Golden House, a gentle story about Mousekin stumbling upon a discarded jack-o-lantern in the woods. When an owl flies at him, he jumps into the lantern. Sunlight floods the interior with a molten glow. He begins to line the pumpkin with feathers, thistledown, and milkweed, preparing his winter home. As the first snow of winter blanket's the ground, the lantern's eyes and mouth close, sealing the sleeping Mousekin inside

Snug as a mouse in a pumpkin.

After the pumpkin roasting, my momma mashed the pieces with a potato masher until the chunks were broken down quite a bit. Then while I cooked the evening meal, she slaved away with the immersion blender, reducing the mashed pumpkin into a puree every bit as fine as the golden stuff that comes in the can. Would we do this again? Not until I get a food processor. Momma spent an hour on the blending. Even for all the savings, that's a bit much to ask of a person's time.

But are we glad we did it?


Ask my mom.

Green Oranges

We have two new mandarin trees in the front yard. We put them in the ground in Feburary, and within days they were covered with sweet smelling flowers. Now for trees that young, a person should knock off all the blooms, allow the tree to put all it's energy into growing big and strong. I know this. But those blossoms smelled so good. Made weeding the bed around them a joy.

So when I saw my dad out there one morning knocking off all the blooms, I joined him. Not exactly a Fern Arable moment. My dad certainly wasn't sporting an ax about to cut a squealing life short. But it sure did seem a shame to knock all the blooms off. Couldn't we keep just a few? Or nine? Or ten? This was the question I put to my dad. Even though I knew better.

My dad left a few. Or nine. Or ten. Even though he knew better.

The blooms eventually fell off, revealing tiny round green balls, about the size of sweet peas. All through the spring and summer, they balls grew. But the trees did not.

Summer is through. Fall is upon us. The growing season is nearly gone, and the trees are not much bigger than they were when we planted them. So my dad went out and picked ten green oranges. Full size, just about to turn, but definitely green. Figured if we gave the trees a month or so to grow before the first frost, maybe they will make it through the winter.

So, ten green oranges lay on the table.

My dad was the first to peel one. Green on the outside. Pale orange on the inside. Beautiful.

He took a bite. "They're sweet," he said.

That was all the invitation we needed.

I scooped up two of them, and the kids and I headed outside. I peeled one for Pippi, one for Tommy. Pippi took hers to the awning swing, enjoyed it slowly, quietly. Tommy gobbled his up, dribbling juice down his chin, neck, shirt. His mandarin disappeared all too quickly.

"More," he begged.

"It's all gone," I said, showing him my empty hands.

"Green oranges gone?" he asked. "Pick more," he said headed for the front yard.

"Grandad picked them all."

"Oh." He hung his head and walked away.

Thinking the matter over, I pulled out my seed box, and began sorting them, filling a small basket with fall seed packets.

Tommy was back a few minutes later, hands behind his back, a big grin on his sticky face.

"What did you find?" I asked.

He opened his hand, and answered.

"Green figs."

Charlotte Would Have Smiled

I tend to imagine Charlotte Mason as a prim matron, no-nonsense, gentle yet stern, musn't dirty your clothes sort. Which is ludicrous, because Miss Mason was an advocate of play in childhood, of children living life mostly out of doors. And although living books, under a CM form of education, are the feasts upon which we should be daily supping, a person's gotta have a bite of chocolate now and then. Or even a fresh donut.

So while it's not McGuffy's Eclectic Reader, I believe Charlotte would have smiled at Pippi's latest reading lesson.

I know I did.

And you should have heard Pippi laughing. It was the sort of laughter born of total comprehension.

In other words, she got the joke.

Peter Piper Slays The Dragon

"We're going to be late for our honeymoon because Peter Piper wants to swing," Pippi says, swaying in her dress-up bride dress, fidgeting with her veil and tiara. I must say, she does make a lovely Lady Patsy in her getup. "Yeah. I Peter Piter," Tommy says. I stop the swing so that I can adjust the red cowboy boots that slip off of his heels with nearly every backswing. "Where are you going on your honeymoon?" I ask "To buy some food for our babies. Our carriage will take us to the store so I can buy them some artichokes and peanut butter." "So, you and Peter Piper have children already, do you?" "No, they're at the hospital. We'll go there after we get the food." "Come on, Peter. We're late. I hear the babies crying," Pippi yells. Tommy slips down. "I coming," he yells. Then they both run to the awning swing where Pippi is positioning in front, the red Radio Flyer trike, the plastic Dora trike, and the two yellow dump trucks. "These are the horses," she says. "There are ninety-nine horses, and this is our carriage. She helps Tommy onto the swing cushions. "Our carriage is made of the finest china . . . and lace . . . and strings of jewels surround these windows here," she points to the space between the swing frame and the bottom of the awning. "And the cushions are pink silk with the tiniest pearls." Tommy takes off his boots and shakes a cup full of sand onto the cushions. "You are the driver, Mommy, and you have to make the horses go." I take up my reigns (cord used to tie up hay bales) and slap the dump trucks. "Giddyup," I holler. "Now, Peter, we're going to be dreadfully late because you played too long. So while we're driving I want to sit here and read my book. So please be quiet." And she takes up my copy of Heidi and sticks her nose in it. "I see a dragon," Tommy says in a mannerly conversational tone. "Hush now, Peter. I'm trying to read," says Pippi. "There! A dragon!" Tommy's standing on the swing now, pointing to a bird circling above. "That's not a dragon. It's just a bunch of squirrels, Peter," Pippi says, never looking up from her book. "A dragon! I go eat 'em up!" Tommy jumps over the dump trucks, lands tangled up in the Dora trike, picks himself up then grabs his sword (PVC pipe.) "Oh, Peter! I see it! Peter watch out! It's coming after us!" "I get it! I eat it up! I Peter Piter! I eat it up!"

Funny what a book can spark. Pippi and I spent Tommy's naptime reading the Racketty Packetty House, by Frances Hodgson Burnett. I had read through the first few pages on my Kindle, knew Pip would love it, and began with my usual pitch. "Want me to read, while you draw?" I asked. "Sure." She took up a red marker, continued her work. My offer barely made a blip on her radar. An hour and a half later, she was on the floor, beside her dollhouse, acting out the story with her own dolls, prompting me to keep reading anytime I stopped to sip my coffee. She was not the only one a bit miffed when Tommy woke up early. I put aside my Kindle, wondering in what dire conditions I left the poor Castle dolls, languishing with scarlet fever with no one to tend them. For those of you who have not yet been enchanted by this story, I'll give you a brief rundown. Not too much information, mind you. That would ruin the story. Racketty Packetty House, published in 1906, is a story about two doll houses and the dolls who live in them. One house is old and shabby, a relic from the Victorian era, with holes in the carpet, pushed behind a chair and forgotten. The other house, a castle, is inhabited by a noble family of Ladies and Lords. The story is narrated by Queen Crosspatch, who more than once with the aide of the Fairies, saves the dollhouse from being destroyed by a grumpy nurse. The free edition I downloaded to my Kindle is without pictures, so without any visual aids, Pippi and I were free to dress Peter Piper, of the Racketty Packetty house, in the most dilapidated attire, while Lady Patsy, of the Castle set, reposes on her armchair, chin in hand gazing across the nursery floor at the shabby dolls frolicking in their parlor. And although, I know Charlotte Mason recommended choosing books with few pictures so as to free the child's imagination, and Pippi certainly did not seem bothered by the lack of pictures, I would have liked to have caught a glimpse of Queen Crosspatch. And Ridiklis. And Gustibus. And Lady Gwendolen. I would not be surprised if the illustrated thingy edition is found wrapped under the tree on Christmas morning. Oh, and the bit about the dragon? Purely Tommy. No dragons to speak of in the book. Fairies, yes. And nursery magic in good measure. But alas, no dragons. Tommy will oblige Pippi in almost any charade she proposes, even consenting to step into the split-toe boots of "Peter Piter," a character of which he knows nothing, and ride around in a pink cushioned carriage. As long as he gets to fight a dragon and eat 'em up in the end, he's content.

Sarah Beth

A few weeks ago, my grandmother sent home with my dad, who had been visiting, a rabbit. A soft cotton stuffed rabbit, with long loopy ears, blue print dress, and a white apron. My Grammy had sewn her ages ago for one of her children, and was now passing the rabbit, named Sarah Beth, to our Pippi. And she wanted me to write a story to go along with the bunny, give it a past, a history.

Immediately, I got to work - in my head that is. Going all blank eyed, when my children would ask me the same question over and over again, Tommy all but bopping me with a toy to get my attention. At first it was very hard to keep the Velveteen Rabbit and Edward Tulane far from my mind, two books I adore. You see, I didn't want this to be just another bunny story. I wanted this to be something my children, and my Grammy, would treasure.

Then about a week ago and a half ago, I hit upon it.

My Grammy is having some difficulty remembering. Mostly, it's remembering names of things, common everyday things, but I fear all too soon it will be names of people. Children. Grandchildren. Stories. Faces.

So I wanted to give her something to help her remember. I wanted to give her a book of memories. Have you ever read that delightful book by Mem Fox, Wilfrid Gordon McDonald Partridge? It's about a little boy who lives next door to a retirement home. He befriends a woman who has lost her memory, and he sets about collecting things, things that he believes embody the essence of memory. Each thing he collects - the egg still warm from the sitting hen, the funny feathered puppet dancing at the end its strings - each thing evokes a long lost memory.

That is what I want to do with this book. Loosely based on fact, the story will follow the lives of my Grammy, Granddad and their six children, with the rabbit as the thread that weaves in and out of the storyline. Some stories are old family stories. Some are purely made up. But I hope that this book captures the essence of who my family is. I hope that in reading this book, my Grammy remembers, not just stories, but faces. The curve of a smile. The tilt of a head. The warm breath of a sleeping baby.

Here is a sample from the second chapter. To set the scene, the rabbit has been rechristened. Sarah Beth is now Gus, and instead of a flowered blue dress, the rabbit sports a camouflage night dress.

Here is Bernard, one day in March when he is ten months old. Helen sits on the back porch shelling English peas while Barnard plays in the grass beneath the clothes line. Above his head, his diapers scrubbed clean that morning and bleached white by the sun, snap back and forth in the salty breeze.


At the midpoint of the line hangs Gus, pinned by his ears. To the right of him hangs his camouflage night shirt. To his left, the olive green bandanna.

Although Helen scrubbed hard at his head and ears with an old toothbrush and a scoop of baking soda, she was unable to remove all traces of mud, and a milky brown stain bruises his left ear. Helen pops a green pea in her mouth, and laughs again.

"What is it with boys?" she wonders aloud. A girl would never have thought to bury the rabbit's head down to its shoulders in the mud hole beneath the water spout. She'd caught Barnard, just as he'd stuffed one of Gus' legs up the spout, trying to feed the other foot in beside it. Gus' head had all but disappeared in the sludgy pool beneath the spout.


She'd been angry, a hot flush rising in her cheeks, a harsh word forming on her lips. Until her boy looked up at her and grinned, his face just as dirty as the rabbit's.

Now Barnard plays beneath his soggy rabbit, laying on his back, pulling his feet to his mouth and sucking on his big toes, rolling to his right, then his left. Then he pushes himself onto his feet and reaches for Gus' feet.

"Barnard. No," Helen warns. Barnard looks at her, grins, grabs both of Gus' feet.

"Barnard," Helen warns again setting aside the colander half full of shelled peas.

Barnard pulls with all his little might, and the ears snap free of the clothes pins. Barnard and Gus tumble to the ground, roll into a patch of white clover. Barnard pops Gus' left ear into his mouth and begins sucking.

Helen gets up, crosses the yard and takes Gus away. "I said no," Helen says. "Gus needs to dry."

She hangs him by his ears again and moves Barnard nearer to the porch and pulls from her apron pocket, his cloth book sewn from bits of cloth from the scrap bag. On the first page is an over sized orange button fitting the over sized button hole on the adjoining denim flap. Barnard skips past this page, and the page with the lace up shoe, and turns to the zipper page, made from an embroidered red linen napkin that she'd accidentally scorched with the flat iron.


Bernard begins at the bottom, works the zipper up to the top, splitting the page into two pieces, then yanks the zipper back down, rejoining them again. Zipping and unzipping. Zipping and unzipping.

Helen sets her bowl between her legs again and resumes shelling. She pulls at the stringy bit, then unzips the pod, scooping out the green peas with her thumb.

While she and Barnard work, Barnard begins to hum. He's been doing this lately, making a sound in the back of his throat with his mouth closed, his voice rising and falling, almost like a yodel. Wyndell was the first to hear him making this sound. He had taken Barnard into the garage with him, talking to him as he swept sawdust into small piles. When he bent over to sweep the piles into the dust pan, Barnard began making that sound, that later Wyndell swore sounded like music. "Impossible. He's not even talking yet," Helen had said.

Now listening to Barnard yodel, Helen understands why Wyndell called it music. His voice rises through a scale in an almost pitch perfect sequence of thirds. When his voice reaches the peak of it's scaffolding, it warbles a bit, before descending along a minor slope, hitting nearly every flat along the way.

She shakes her head, smiling at her musical boy, and sets the bowl aside, about to shamble to the pea patch to pick another pocket full, when she stops. Turns and faces Barnard.

His mouth is open now, brown eyes searching through the oak's branches, listening to the squirrels chittering among the branches. Barnard begins clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, chittering back to the squirrels. One squirrel pauses, scampers down to the bottom branch, and watches Bernard warily.


Barnard chitters again, this time changing the inflection, raising the pitch by a third.

The squirrel runs down the trunk, and scuffles across the grass, stopping a yard away from Barnard.

The tanned skin around Bernard's eyes crinkle as the sun shines bright through the leaves causing Bernard to squeeze his eyes shut.

The spell is broken.

Helen walks to the garden, and fills her apron pocket full of peas from the trellised vines.

It is not until that night after she tucks Bernard and Gus into their crib. Not until she pulls Barnard's blanket to his chin that she realizes why the squirrel looked at her son so.

Barnard spoke to the squirrel.

And the squirrel understood.

I'd hoped to be finished by Christmas, but that's a long shot. So until the book is finished, I will probably be pretty quiet here. Please forgive my silence. I hope to pop in at least once a week. Because we are reading some wonderful books that I would love to share with you. I probably won't provide book links, or pictures unless absolutely stunning. My prose will be spare. Syntax a bit choppy. And grammatical errors will abound.

Just know that we are here. Plugging away at this homeschool thing. And loving (almost) every minute of it. Wishing we could share more with you.