So I was feeling like a really bad, bad mummy last Thursday evening as I pulled rapidly into the first vacant car park I could spy in Ballarat's Main Street. Jemimah had been telling me for the past hour that she was feeling ill, and I had basically been ignoring her. She looked okay; she was behaving normally; she was chatting cheerfully. She was even intermittently reading her book. "Stop reading your book, Jemimah," I directed, "that's what's probably making you feel nauseous. It does that to some people. Oh, and tell me if I need to pull over!" Well now she had - so I was.
A few short minutes later she was standing white and shaky beside me, the remains of her lunch deposited unceremoniously in the gutter nearby. "I feel better now, Mummy," she said bravely, "we can go on now." "Let's just take a bit of a walk before we get back in the car, eh?" I replied. (Can you see that I was trying to be a good caring mummy now?) We had only walked a few steps though when I turned back into a bad mother again...I spied something very dear to my heart...
...a secondhand book shop. One I hadn't yet plundered.
The pull was so strong...
"Once he hears to his heart's content, sails on, a wiser man." says Homer in The Odyssey of the Siren's song, but like the Sirens' singing lured unwary sailors, so the shop seemed to call to me, and alas I proved myself not a wiser man.
" Can I just look for one book," I heard myself asking my now recovered seven year old daughter, adding politely, "please?"
"One," she cautioned.
I fully meant to obey my daughter, honestly, but look what I found when I walked inside!
Oh my! This was no cluttered old shop. It was beautiful! It even had a coffee shop. If only we had scratch and sniff computer screens - the fragrance of fresh brewed espresso mingled with old books was just sublime. Can you just close your eyes and imagine?
This isn't the best of it though...
"Excuse me," I addressed the smart lady behind the counter, "Do you have Amy Mack's Bushland Stories?" (Nobody has Bushland Stories at a reasonable price - I've been looking for it for years.)
And then came this amazing reply -
"It's 15 dollars. I'll just get it for you."
Gobsmacked (yes, a nice lady-like term, I'll admit, but that's how I felt), I followed the lady past the calling shelves of books through to the back of the shop - past the coffee. Past a group of ladies knitting in beautiful jeweled coloured yarns. Past a couple of women talking about walking the 1200km Heysen Trail.
Back to this - the children's room. I'll say it again - THE CHILDREN'S ROOM. May I remind you that I'm talking about a used bookshop here?
Now Bushland Stories was exciting enough, but here was a room full of Australian Children's classics - shelves of them. Overseas AO type classics too. My eyes were boggling. There were titles here that I'd only dreamed of seeing in real life. There was May Gibbs, Peg Maltby, Ivan Southall, Colin Thiele, Ida Rentoul Outhwaite and even a Vojtěch Kubašta pop-up book.
Look closely into this cabinet at the very back of the children's room - I did...
See the book with the grey cover? That's May Gibbs' Nuttybub and Nittersing sitting there. In full view. Never did I think I'd see this anywhere - except Dromkeen maybe.
It's still sitting there. You can buy it if you have a spare hundred smakeroonies. Lots of other treasures aren't.
As I walked through the door, bags bulging at my side Jemimah looked at me accusingly, "You said one book, Mummy. One." Yeah, yeah, I'd failed again. Such a bad mummy.
Oh, I suppose you might want some details, eh? One of my readers has relos in Ballarat, I know...
Michelle sells online too, if you really need Nuttybub. You won't get Vojtěch Kubašta's Hansel and Gretel pop-up book though. It's now mine, all mine!! So's Bushland Stories. Reviews coming soon, Ruby.
So last night I ironed. And ironed. And ironed. Had a cup of Twinings Lemon and Ginger Tea - a big one, and ironed some more. And somewhere amongst all those clothes I got curious - who else irons but me? What are your ironing tips?
My friend Kerrie has an ironing lady. She comes once a week for a few hours and just irons everything in the basket. Good, eh? Who else'd like an ironing fairy like Kerrie's?
Another friend, Lizzie, uses a timer. Every evening, well most anyhow, she goes into the laundry and sets the timer for 15 minutes. When the bell rings she switches off the iron and walks away. She says it works.
I iron in short bursts - often when Jemimah is doing copywork or maths or illustrating her nature notebook or something similar. This, along with a couple of sustained evenings works for me. I did have to make one minor modification though - I find that if I only have a short time to iron that I tend to do the quick stuff - Jemimah's clothes, hankies, tea towels and the like. At the end of the week I'd end up with a big terrible pile of my nemesis - men's business shirts. Now I have a rule that every time I turn on the iron I must iron at least one shirt. Mostly this makes the dreaded pile much smaller - if it grows at all.
What about you? Do share your secrets...I'm curious.
While we're on the subject of ironing - which I am, believe me - do you iron your sheets? Now I'll grant you that nothing is lovelier than sinking into a big bed of freshly laundered and perfectly pressed white 1500 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, but that's why we stay in hotels on holidays, isn't it?
If you do iron sheets, how do you do it? Do you iron them when they're on the bed? My mum does that. I don't. Anyway, I only iron the tops of my flat sheets since that is all you see when the bed's made - oh, and I iron the pillow cases and the doona cover too.
So what about you? Do you iron or not? Do you think those who do iron sheets are enviably house proud or oddly obsessive compulsive?
One last question while we're in the laundry - how often do you change them? I change ours once a week. On Wednesday. Why Wednesday I wonder? Dunno really. There probably was a reason once-upon-a-time...
I think if I could be characterised by one word, that word would be...
...efficient.
Mostly that means I'm organised - mostly. Generally that means I'm a good time manager - generally. Always it means that I can juggle lots of balls - wife, mummy, friend, homeschooler, blogger, cleaning lady, cook and gardener. It also means that I can do all that to a fairly decent standard and hold down a full time job as well. It doesn't mean that I can do craft, or sport, or dance, or bake bread, or public speak. Those things require skill, not efficiency...
One of my secrets is the option of doing much of my paid work from my computer and telephone right here at home. I like my work and the mental stimulation that it provides. I also like my work colleagues and I value their friendship. Mostly it keeps me out of mischief, but not out of control.
Unfortunately, the problem with juggling is that sometimes the balls drop, and what is left? An inefficient mess, that's what...
The next ten days are going to have a lot of dropped balls...
Tomorrow I'm heading to Ballarat for a business meeting that runs from 6.30pm tomorrow evening until about the same time on Thursday. Mum and Dad will meet me there and take Jemimah to spend time with them, and I'll collect her from Geelong on Thursday and take her to Melbourne with me. On Friday we'll attempt to complete this week's school work. We'll stay in Melbourne for Sunday School and a birthday party Sunday afternoon - Daddy can drive down and meet us there on Friday night.
Next week gets worse. You'll find me at the office. (That's my workstation on the left in the pic.) All week. From 8:30am till 7:00pm. Jemimah will be there too. Generally we have three administrative staff at work, and I act in an extranumerary capacity as their manager, but not next week. Next week, I'm it - Kathryn's in France; Bronnie has a CWA conference; Lynne's at a golf tournament. That leaves me - doing three jobs, plus my own - as well as schooling Jemimah. You can see how many balls I'm going to drop.
So here's what I think I'll do (just thinking out loud): If I drop the blog for next week, and use some of the frozen meals I have in the freezer, that'll help a bit. I'm up to date with the washing, and I can finish the ironing this evening when Jemimah is in bed and her Daddy is at his badminton championship. I can prepare some meals for the days that hubby is home alone, this evening as well. I have a house guest arriving next Tuesday evening (Yes, I omitted that fact above, didn't I?). Anyhow, perhaps she can take Jemimah to her dance class on Tuesday and Auskick on Thursday. I can probably fit in lunch with her at least twice as well. The guest room is ready - I'll just give it a quick spit and polish on Monday night, and I'll tidy a little before homegroup on Wednesday. Perhaps she can help!
Really that just leaves school. I am reluctant to give Jemimah a week's holiday for two reasons. Firstly, she'll be at work with me anyway, and it will be totally boring if she is stuck there with nothing to do. School will give some structure to her day, and something to keep her occupied. Secondly, next week is the final week of Term 2, and on Friday she leaves for Falls Creek skiing with her Daddy for ten days. It would be a pain to have to finish school on her return.
I have been trying the last couple of days to do a little more than normal. I can do that tomorrow morning and Friday too. That should get her a little ahead. She can do copywork, music practice, nature study, and much of her MEP maths independently. I can read her read alouds to her during any quiet moments and hear her narrations, as well as work through her maths. Devotions, memory verses and singing can be completed before we leave in the morning. In between she can do TimezAttack on the computer and watch a French video or two. She can illustrate her Pilgrim's Progress scroll and do picture study too. I think that should work. Perhaps I could organise a playdate one night at a friend's house?
Lots of mums work as well as teach their kids. What do you do? Can you help? Does anyone have any bright ideas for me? Any suggestions gratefully received.
Otherwise, I'll see you whenever I get a chance. I like to blog. Maybe I'll drop in!!
Winter, a lingering season, is a time to gather golden moments, embark upon a sentimental journey, and enjoy every idle hour. John Boswell
Care to wander with me around our back garden?
We'll start in the Kitchen Garden.
We've got peas, carrots, rocket, cabbages, broccoli, strawberries, coriander, lettuce and silver beet growing this winter. In the green pot you'll see our bay topiaried Bay, and near the hedge with a white label you spy one of two pillar apple trees.
If you walk northish you'll get to the Children's Garden.
This is our view when we do maths. The two pots in front hold arum lilies. To the left of the path here are pink belladonna lilies and a pretty pink perennial that I don't know the name of. I'll show you when it flowers. To the right you'll see the cubby and sandpit. There are lots of things to climb in the children's garden too. Along the path to the cubby the hyacinths are pushing their way through. Jemimah's garden at the foot of the steps contains pansies, parsley, grape vines that should eventually cover the front of the cubby, and snapdragons amongst others. She has full control over this bed.
At the rear behind the two topiaried lillypillies you'll see wire mesh, which our sweet peas will shortly smother with their sweet scented blooms. As you pass the peas and the trampoline on their right you enter the Native Garden.
The beautiful Cootamundra wattle holds pride of place here at the moment.
Like our own Australian bushland, it's much harder to see the beauty in this part of the garden, but if you follow the path edged with what will shortly be a flowering grevillia hedge and wander past the firepit, you'll come to:
- the hakea in full bloom,
...and the beautiful pea flower of the 'Happy Wanderer', Hardenbergia violacea which is galloping along the back fence at break-neck speed.
Jemimah's favourite part of the Native Garden is the swing. You'll see why she was wearing a crash helmet shortly...
The hammock forms the border between the Native Garden and Daddy's English Garden. These two areas are also bounded by lawn, which is Jemimah's favourite place for riding her bicycle.
Riding past more of the native garden...
...and into the White Garden, which is mostly full of different daisy species at the moment. Lots coming here shortly though, and all sorts of interesting plants are peeking through the dirt...
You can see the bare wisteria walk in the background, one of my favourite garden features in spring and summer. This area of gentle exotics leads to the driveway and the front of the house, but if you take the left path here you'll arrive in the Courtyard Garden, nearest the house.
This Claret Ash is bare of its beautiful autumn finery, but provides endless hours of amusement for the New England Honeyeaters and Silvereyes, which nestle in its branches. Look at that winter sky!
The almond tree - that harbinger of spring is in this garden,
...with a carpet of erlicheer daffodils at its feet.
You'll find a table and chairs here, under the ancient pear tree. Just the perfect place for us to have a chat and a cappuccino, don't you think? Would you like some of Jemimah's brownies as well?
The flowers of late winter and early spring occupy places in our hearts well out of proportion to their size. Gertrude S. Wister
This was how we spent our Saturday. It was just wonderful to spend time in God's creation with my beautiful family. He is good.
The burden of the drought lay heavily on the Creatures in Gumnut Town. There were stern water restrictions. Notices pasted on walls in the town said: "Creatures, save the water." "Creatures, take care of the drips, the gallons will take care of themselves." "Creatures, bathe one half one day, and one-half the next." "Creatures, wear your clothes first one side and then the other." "Creatures, use dry shampoo."
Each day over the air a loud Voice warned all creatures to "Beware! Terrible punishment will fall upon all those who waste water or break the rules of the Water Board."
"Inspectors are watching," said the Voice. "Beware!"
Ah, that's what we're doing wrong. We've been washing both sides at once!!
This gorgeous description of drought was written by May Gibbs in Scottie in Gumnut Land back in 1941. This isn't the first drought in Oz; it won't be the last...
We're reading this book as our AO2 read aloud. It is like a wacky Snugglepot and Cuddlepie: Talking birds - "She's left eyed," said Mrs Dove; quaint Tiggy Touchwood who was turned into a pig by a wicked magician; a good smattering of gumnut babies and big bad banksiamen; and a Scotch terrier aptly named Scotty, combine to make a totally weird, entirely Australian tale that every child from 7-77 will love.
It is really rather strange, but entirely good fun!
Yarra Bend Park was the ideal place for a bit of urban nature study during our trip to Melbourne last week.
We took a pleasant stroll along the Yarra River to see the water birds...
oh - and a peewee...
and then retreated from the cold into the Studley Park Boathouse for a Raspberry Spider. (Are these Australian, or do you have them in other places as well?)
Of course, once there it was easy to talk us into lunch...it was 2:30pm, after all...
Suddenly Jemimah realised that she'd swallowed her olive pip...oops!
I don't know about you, but this section on memorisation in Charlotte Mason's first book, Home Education, has always intrigued me. It is long, but do take the time for a quick skim:
Recitation and committing to memory are not necessarily the same thing, and it is well to store a child's memory with a good deal of poetry, learnt without labour. Some years ago I chanced to visit a house, the mistress of which had educational notions of her own, upon which she was bringing up a niece. She presented me with a large foolscap sheet written all over with the titles of poems, some of them long and difficult: Tintern Abbey, for example. She told me that her niece could repeat to me any of those poems that I liked to ask for, and that she had never learnt a single verse by heart in her life. The girl did repeat several of the poems on the list, quite beautifully and without hesitation; and then the lady unfolded her secret. She thought she had made a discovery, and I thought so too. She read a poem through to E.; then the next day, while the little girl was making a doll's frock, perhaps, she read it again; once again the next day, while E.'s hair was being brushed. She got in about six or more readings, according to the length of the poem, at odd and unexpected times, and in the end E. could say the poem which she had not learned.
I have tried the plan often since, and found it effectual. The child must not try to recollect or to say the verse over to himself, but, as far as may be, present an open mind to receive an impression of interest. Half a dozen repetitions should give children possession of such poems as 'Dolly and Dick,' 'Do you ask what the birds say?' Little lamb, who made thee?' and the like. The gains of such a method of learning are, that the edge of the child's enjoyment is not taken off by weariful verse by verse repetitions, and, also, that the habit of making mental images is unconsciously formed.
I remember once discussing this subject with the late Miss Anna Swanwick in some connection with Browning of which I do not recall, but in the course of talk an extremely curious incident transpired. A lady, a niece of Miss Swanwick's, said that after a long illness, during which she had not been allowed to do anything, she read 'Lycidas' through, by way of a first treat to herself as a convalescent. She was surprised to find herself then next day repeating to herself long passages. Then she tried the whole poem and found she could say it off, the result of this single reading, for she had not learned the poem before her illness, nor read it with particular attention. She was much elated by the treasure-trove she had chanced upon, and to test her powers, she read the whole of 'Paradise Lost,' book by book, and with the same result, - she could repeat it book by book after a single reading! She enriched herself by acquiring other treasures during her convalescence; but as health returned, and her mind became preoccupied with many interests, she found she no longer had this astonishing power. It is possible that the disengaged mind of a child is as free to take and as strong to hold beautiful images clothed in beautiful words as was that of this lady during her convalescence. But, let me again say, every effort of the kind, however unconscious, means wear and tear of brain substance. Let the child lie fallow till he is six, and then, in this matter of memorising, as in others, attempt only a little, and let the poems the child learns be simple and within the range of his own thought and imagination. At the same time, when there is so much noble poetry within a child's compass, the pity of it, that he should be allowed to learn twaddle!
Charlotte Mason Home Education pp 224-226
I find this ability compelling.
Now I have often spoken of Jemimah's ability to memorise. She is easily able to learn long passages of Scripture of a chapter or more, and, more amusingly, can recite ad verbatim much of the Classical Kids CDs that we listen to for composer study, funny Canadian accents and all. But these are not Tintern Abbey. Tintern Abbey is L..O..N..G . (If you don't know Wordsworth's poem, here it is - look at the length.)
Well, her theories on health and evolution aside, I have rarely found Miss Mason to be wrong. Certainly not on her area of expertise - education.
Just over two weeks ago, I decided to put Miss Mason's experience to the test. I am aware that our ability to memorise diminishes as we grow older - the Grammar Stage of the Classical Educationalists - that time when they cram their kids full of facts - only lasts until the age of 8 or 9 because that is when they do it best. At seven, I decided that for Jemimah the time was ripe.
Instead of Tintern Abbey we chose an Australian classic poem, Banjo Paterson's The Man from Snowy River.
The Man From Snowy River, by A.B. (Banjo) Paterson
There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around That the colt from old Regret had got away, And had joined the wild bush horses - he was worth a thousand pound, So all the cracks had gathered to the fray. All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far Had mustered at the homestead overnight, For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are, And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.
There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup, The old man with his hair as white as snow; But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up - He would go wherever horse and man could go. And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand, No better horseman ever held the reins; For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand - He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.
And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast; He was something like a racehorse undersized, With a touch of Timor pony - three parts thoroughbred at least - And such as are by mountain horsemen prized. He was hard and tough and wiry - just the sort that won't say die - There was courage in his quick impatient tread; And he bore the badge of gameness in his quick and fiery eye, And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.
But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay, And the old man said, "That horse will never do For a long and tiring gallop - lad, you'd better stop away, These hills are far too rough for such as you." So he waited, sad and wistful - only Clancy stood his friend - "I think we ought to let him come," he said; "I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end, For both his horse and he are mountain bred.
"He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side, Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough; Where a horse's hooves strike firelight from the flintstones every stride, The man that holds his own is good enough. And the Snowy river riders on the mountains make their home, Where the river runs those giant hills between; I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam, But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen."
So he went: they found the horses by the big mimosa clump, They raced away towards the mountain's brow, And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump, No use to try for fancy riding now. And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right. Ride boldly lad, and never fear the spills, For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight, If once they gain the shelter of those hills."
So Clancy rode to wheel them - he was racing on the wing Where the best and boldest riders take their place, And he raced his stock-horse past them and he made the ranges ring With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face. Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash, But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view, And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash, And off into the mountain scrub they flew.
Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black, Resounded to the thunder of their tread, And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead. And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way, Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide; And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day, NO man can hold them down the other side."
When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull - It well might make the boldest hold their breath; The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full Of wombat holes, and any slip was death. But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head, And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer, And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed, While the others stood and watched in very fear.
He sent the flint-stones flying, but the pony kept his feet, He cleared the fallen timber in his stride, And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat - It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride. Through the stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground, Down the hillside at a racing pace he went; And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound At the bottom of that terrible descent.
He was right among the horses as they climbed the farther hill, And the watchers on the mountain, standing mute, Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely; he was right among them still, As he raced across the clearing in pursuit. Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met In the ranges - but a final glimpse reveals On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet, With the man from Snowy River at their heels.
And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam; He followed like a bloodhound on their track, Till they halted, cowed and beaten; then he turned their heads for home, And alone and unassisted brought them back. But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot, He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur; But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot, For never yet was mountain horse a cur.
And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise Their torn and rugged battlements on high, Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze At midnight in the cold and frosty sky, And where around the Overflow the reed-beds sweep and sway To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide, The Man from Snowy River is a household word today, And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.
A.B. "Banjo" Paterson
If anything, The Man from Snowy River is longer than Tintern Abbey, but there is more of a story. We decided to give it a try.
Every day I've been reading her the poem while she plays. Sometimes it doesn't even look like she's listening. Some afternoons I've put our iPod recording of the poem read by David Tredinnick on while she follows along through the pages of this book illustrated by Freya Blackwood.
And the verdict thus far? After 2 1/2 weeks - 13 school days - Jemimah knows to 'So he went'. That's 5/13 verses. I'm pretty impressed. Well, to tell you the truth, I'm gobsmacked. Miss Mason was right again. We'll keep going with the poem until the end of term or so, another threeish weeks. I'll report back with our progress then, if you're interested.
The opening lines of this poem are amongst the best known words in Australian literature, and The Man gained popularity for another generation of Aussies when it was used in the Opening Ceremony of the Sydney Olympic Games in 2000. Who will forget that solitary horserider galloping into the arena and cracking his stockwhip to 'Let the Games begin'?
This is an ideal poem for memorising. Its grippingly exciting story coupled with a wonderful galloping rhythm make it wonderful to read out loud, and easier to remember. It is also a bit of Australiana that is oft quoted and oftener talked about. The opening lines are part of our family's vernacular - when somebody rises late after the rest of us are up and about they will often be greeted with "Ah, there was movement at the station"!
If Miss Mason's method of memorisation really works - as indeed it appears to - then this poem will be a wonderful one to know... It is a true blue Aussie Classic.
Oh, I do like this sort of pretty frivolity - Hiki at Jollygoo did it for her - Thanks Hiki!
If you click on the image below you'll see Jemimah's shiritori set, and then visit Hiki's beautiful blog, Jollygoo to see what a shiritori set actually is...
I think I'm on a bit of a nostalgia kick this week. I promise that I 'm working on something a little more substantial - it'll be up shortly...
Thanks for indulging me.
Little Boy Lost by Johnny Ashcroft was a smash-hit when it was first released in 1960 at the time young Stephen really was lost. It went on to become the third-biggest selling single in Australia's record history, topped by The Pub with No Beer and Tie Me Kangaroo Down Sport.
At the height of the song's popularity, the nation was shocked by the kidnapping and murder of young Graeme Throne. To spare Graeme's family further distress, Johnny Ashcroft and EMI records withdrew the song from the air and from general circulation.
Hmmm I don't know if Sarah Dyer's new book, The Girl with the Bird's-Nest Hair will help or hinder. You can probably hear the yells that sometimes emanate from Jemimah's bathroom at hair brushing time from as far away as Sydney!! Surely I don't pull that much - do I?
Regardless of its help in solving one of the loudest problems in the process of daily life, I just love the look of this book. Look at the fantastic illustrations...
Unfortunately the time is coming that I will no longer be able to justify the purchase of children's picture books. I'm going to take a good look at this one though. It just appeals, somehow.
That’s one small step for man; that’s one giant leap for mankind. Neil Armstrong 21st July 1969
For those of you old enough, where were you when you first saw this piece of television footage?
My parents had bought a brand-new portable television - the height of sophistication - to watch the amazing sight of first moon landing by the three-man crew of Apollo 11. For some reason, although Neil Armstrong became the first human to walk on the moon at 12:56pm AEST on July 21, 1969, in my memory my brother and I were in our jarmies and dressing gowns, so maybe there was a fuller coverage of the landing in the evening. The fact that my Dad wasn't at work leads me to assume that that was in fact the case, although maybe people took the day off? The plan was that Dad and Mum were to watch the new tele and my brother and I were to stay in the family room watching the big one. Of course that pie in the sky optimism didn't eventuate. The little portable was big enough for us all.
The grainy picture didn't phase us one bit. The first moon langing will remain in my memory as one of the most amazing days of my youth. What about you? Do tell...
If you're not old enough, maybe you could tell instead what the significance of this day is for you. That would ensure that you don't feel left out - we are an all inclusive, non-ageist blog here at A Peaceful Day.
We're currently studying the moon in our astronomy course, Exploring Creation with Astronomy by Jeannie Fulbright. I'd like to say the exemplary timing was deliberate planning on my part, but that would be fibbing, I'm afraid. Still, it is a perfect opportunity for us to spend some time today at as close to 12:56pm as possible talking about this amazing event in history. We'll be watching the video too.
Um yep, that would be me. In fact, to be perfectly honest, I actually had to google 'denim jumper' to see what one was. For the rest of you Aussies, it's a pinafore...
I have a dreadful confession to make though: I do own Birkenstocks. Four pairs.
(One pair is in Melbourne...)
I have a feeling that that might be bad.
My daughter has some too:
I think that might be 'worser'.
My uniform is jeans, tee shirts and my birkies in summer, jeans, polo neck jumpers and my high black boots in winter. (You Americans might have to google.)
So, for those who have met me 'in the flesh', do I look like a homeschooler?
What about you? What's your uniform? I'd love to know!!
Recently I attended a state homeschooling convention. At least half the women there were wearing denim jumpers and had lots of children with them. If I decide to homeschool, will I need to buy a denim jumper and triple my family size?
Well, it depends. Some homeschoolers like to be non-conformists. In order to identify yourself as a non-conformist, you will need to wear the right kind of denim jumper, never cut your hair again, and have a larger than average family. All the boys will need to wear slacks and dress shirts whenever you're out in public, and the girls will need to wear denim jumpers or pretty flowered dresses. Of course, if you don't care about being a non-conformist, this doesn't apply to you; you're free to dress however you choose.
What things do you regret not learning during your own education? What were your 'gaps'? There always are some, of course, just as there will be gaps in what we are able to teach our children. I suppose, too, that they'll be sorry about theirs, the same way that I'm sorry about mine.
I studied the sciences at school. It is what bright kids did. If you were clever you did science - if you were not so academic you settled for arts. I regret that choice now. Now I wish I knew more about music and fine arts, gardening and the clouds, history and literature. I wish I'd studied accounting so I could be more help in my husband's business, and I wish I had kept up my French and Latin and Ancient Greek. I wish I knew more about computers too, but I suspect my age is more to blame there than my alma mater...
It is little surprise then, that I have settled on a liberal arts education for Jemimah...and it is no wonder that I am loving it.
Learning more about music and the lives of our wonderful classical composers has been a particular pleasure for me during these past terms, and I hope that my enjoyment and enthusiasm for the subject has inspired my daughter as well. Of course I have studied my favourites first: Beethoven, Mozart, Bach and Tchaikovsky. Wagner with his warbling women can wait. Some of the Russians we might never get around to...
Our composer study is simple. Using the advice of the Ambleside Online ladies and my own existing CD collection we put together a selection of the best of each composer's music and...surprise, surprise...then we play it. Lots. Over and over and over. For a whole term. Sometimes we discuss what we're listening to, but mostly not. We just enjoy it - much as the composer expected us to.
I wrote more about this in a post last year - you can read it here, because in this post I'm trying to get to Vivaldi and the girls. But still there's more introduction, so lets continue...
Once a week we spend a lesson looking at the composer's life, but they're a complex lot, musicians - tormented tragic souls, a lot of them. Look at Beethoven with his dark moods and bad temper, his battle with deafness and his greater battle with himself. There is Tchaikovsky with his questionable sexuality, his disastrous marriage, and his strange association with the wealthy widow Nadezhda von Meck. And then of course there is Mozart - decidedly odd. As an adult I find a lot of this stuff fascinating and yet sad at the same time - a sort of sordid soap opera. It's not the sort of thing that Jemimah needs to know about.
The Classical Kids CDs do a fantastic job in sanitising composers' lives for a younger audience. Admittedly as I've listened to a few more of these CDs I've found the storylines a little weak and occasionally disturbing - Elizabeth's interaction with her mother in Mr Bach Comes to Call is insolent and rude, and I wish Jemimah didn't hear it. Similarly, when Katarina breaks the valuable Stradivarius in Vivaldi's Ring of Mystery, and subsequently loses it, I do wish she would at least admit it to Father Vivaldi when she has her 'heart-to-heart' with him later. But I digress, yet again. On the whole these CDs have introduced the lives of the composers to our family in a lively, engaging and most importantly memorable manner and I recommend them highly.
When we began our study of Vivaldi this term I was initially a little disappointed in the Classical Kids offering, Vivaldi's Ring of Mystery. It seemed to me that this particular CD was more fiction than fact - a highly engaging story about Vivaldi's life as tutor of orphan girls at the Ospedale della Pietà in Venice during Carnevale, but telling very little of the man himself. Just who was il Prete Rosso, "The Red Priest"?
Well it didn't take much googling to discover that little more is known about Vivaldi's early life than what he imparts to Katarina during their cozy chat. I also realised quickly that his work with the girls in the orphanage was really quite fascinating.
Vivaldi worked as violin teacher, musical director, procurer of musical instruments and in-house composer at the Ospedale della Pietà for most of his career. The Ospedale was a home for abandoned and unwanted babies, often the children of prostitutes, who left their babies on the institution's doorstep soon after birth. The boys were trained in stone cutting, weaving and shoe making and would leave the orphanage at 16 equipped for their future with a trade. The girls, unless they married or joined the church as nuns, stayed there for the rest of their lives. About one in ten of the girls showed musical promise, and it was Vivaldi's job to train those girls to sing and play instruments during services at La Pietà. Vivaldi wrote many of his works for this female musical establishment, including his well known Gloria, and evidence suggests that all the vocal parts were sung by women, including the tenor and bass.
I'm not the only one to find this portion of Vivaldi's life compelling. Author, Pat Lowery Collins, was so intrigued she wrote a book, Hidden Voices - The Orphan Musicians of Venice to acquaint her readers with the composer and his music. In the book three girls on the verge of adulthood, Anetta, Rosalba and Luisa tell their own stories of life in the Venice of the early 18th century.
Isn't to be loved what we all want in the end? - Rosalba
As orphans sequestered in the safety of the orphanages, the three girls are easily seduced by the romantic fantasy of life outside its walls. But has life inside equipped them with the skills to survive the dangers of the Venice of the early 1700s? Will true love be what they expect?
Sadly the choices the three girls make prevent me from being able to read this book to my seven year old daughter. They won't stop me reading it myself. The novel is beautifully written and fleshes out what for me was a tantalising glimpse of Vivaldi's life briefly seen through the Classical Kids eyes. It is being marketed for young adults. If you are happy with your teen reading about poor non-Biblical lifestyle choices and their consequences, including rape, then I would recommend it as an excellent living book on this fascinating subject. If not then give it a miss. I must say, I do wonder about the lack of Christian training in girls raised in a religious institution, even in licentious Venice.
I've not yet read much of the book. I only bought it on Thursday, but so far I'm enjoying it, probably because of my initial interest in the subject. You can read the first chapter here.
During five days in November 2005 Schola Pietatis Antonio Vivaldi, an all-female ensemble of singers and players from Oxford in England travelled to La Pietà in an to recreate the sound of Vivaldi's choir. The choir of 18 past and present members of Oxford Girls' Choir, together with seven older ladies, replicated Vivaldi's choir in size, age and vocal range, the lowest voices singing down to bottom F on the bass stave. The YouTube video that begins this post is the girls singing Gloria as Vivaldi wrote it. In it you can hear the beautiful singing and you can see La Pietà. Now I can show this to Jemimah! This really makes Vivaldi's life and music come to life!
The girls made a documentary of their trip. You can watch the first 10 minutes below. Sadly the rest of the film is not year available online, but the clip shows more of the Ospedale, and well as giving some valuable information about Vivaldi's life. I found it fascinating. So did Jemimah, and fortunately the short comment about the lasciviousness of the times was lost on her.
You can see it here:
I hope you enjoy our study of this fascinating man as much as we have - both my daughter and her mother! You're certain to love his hauntingly beautiful music.
We're in Melbourne until Sunday. I'm away from my computer, my photo uploading programmes and my email. Blogging on a laptop with dial-up is not that much fun, I can tell you!!
On the other hand we're close to Brunswick Street, where we're heading for breakfast shortly. Brunswick Street Bookstore is there... We'll be going to Readings in Lygon Steet too. We're excited to be catching up with another CM family to tour the new Pompeii exhibition, A Day in Pompeii, at the Melbourne Museum tomorrow morning, and we've already eaten pizza at the wonderful Sicillian restaurant, Cafe Bedda - Bedduzza!
I may not be blogging much in the next couple of days, but we will be having fun and learning lots. Ah, the joys and freedom of homeschooling!
I leave you with this stunning image of Melbourne's skyline and promise to twitter to let you know what we're doing. See you later!
I'm placing an order for some of these stunning tea towels today. They're kinda expensive for wiping dishes on at AUS$20.00 each, but all so incredibly gorgeous...
The drawings are the work of fistula patients at the Addis Ababa Fistula Hospital, and despite the fact that some of the artists had never even held a pencil before, they've done a beautiful job. The colours represent those on the Ethiopian flag along with the blue of the Hamlin Fistula logo, and the squares remind us of the patients' shawls. They're really quite classy...as far as tea towels go.
If you want to join me in purchasing one of these works of art you can get them on the Fund's website. If you need to know why you should spend $20.00 on a tea towel, read my earlier post here. Do make time to watch the video.
For the first time, a nation for a continent and a continent for a nation. Barton campaign slogan.
And so the best educated homeschool mum is...drum roll... HomeGrownKids for being the only one to correctly identify Saturday's mystery man! Round of applause ringing out now!!
He was Edmund Barton, Australia's first Prime Minister. Here are a couple more pics:
Sir Edmund Barton by J.H. Chinner National Library of Australia
Of course Australians are not the only ones unable to recognise our first Prime Minister; Mama Squirrel blogs here that only 41% of Canadians can recognise a photo of theirs as well!
On the other hand, how many of us would recognise this handsome fellow?
...a secondhand book shop. One I hadn't yet plundered.
Oh my! This was no cluttered old shop. It was beautiful! It even had a coffee shop. If only we had scratch and sniff computer screens - the fragrance of fresh brewed espresso mingled with old books was just sublime. Can you just close your eyes and imagine?
Now Bushland Stories was exciting enough, but here was a room full of Australian Children's classics - shelves of them. Overseas AO type classics too. My eyes were boggling. There were titles here that I'd only dreamed of seeing in real life. There was May Gibbs, Peg Maltby, Ivan Southall, Colin Thiele, Ida Rentoul Outhwaite and even a Vojtěch Kubašta pop-up book.
See the book with the grey cover? That's May Gibbs' Nuttybub and Nittersing sitting there. In full view. Never did I think I'd see this anywhere - except Dromkeen maybe.
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