A peaceful day

Mornin' folks!

I told you yesterday that this was going to be a lazy weekend...and it is. Which is why I'm saying 'mornin'' at 10.45am to you girlies, coz I've not seen either my husband or my daughter yet to say it to in person!

I'm heading out to the deck soon to set up camp for the day. There is a lovely teak recliner out there with my name on it...hopefully not rainforest teak...but teak all the same. Beautiful grey and mellow wood, teak. Even better, it is on my recliner and that is on my deck, by my pool, and I'm going to be on it just as soon as I finish talking to you. It's even crawling distance from the coffee machine.

I'll be reading these:

The one on the left is my serious read for bookclub...which is on Tuesday night at our place and I'm hosting.

It is not an easy read. The Glass Canoe is a Miles Franklin Award winning novel by Australian author, David Ireland about a man who spends his life at the pub, seeing the world through his beer glass - his glass canoe.

Down the back of the Southern Cross kids were shooting butterflies. Occasionally pellets tinkled harmlessly off the tinted glass windows of the saloon bar or made little dints in cars in the car park.

They never shot at the big neon sign riding high above the pub. It was a proud sign: THE SOUTHERN CROSS. They had a natural reverence for neon.

Butterflies flew free. They dazzled the eye and the mind with their freedom. Flight was something we could never know.

At night when the butterflies had gone to bed and there were no moving targets to hit, they'd pot fireflies. We don't get fireflies down the back of the Southern Cross; fireflies were street light globes. Somebody put little shields round the globes to keep out rocks from shanghais or the human arm, but BBs or slugs couldn't be kept out. Sometimes the street was in darkness for a mile in both directions. They were sodium lights. Perhaps that was the difference.

On hot days we jumped fully clothed into our bottomless beer glasses and pushed off from the shore without a backward look.

A delicious love story, with recipes

Jerry Pinkney talks about his new wordless picture book, The Lion and the Mouse, an adaptation of Aesop's fable of the same name. Pinkney is the 2010 recipient of the Randolph Caldecott Medal awarded annually to the artist of the most distinguished American picture book for children.



I'll be toddling into Readings for my copy of this one when next I'm in Melbourne. I know Jemimah is probably a bit old, but her mummy's not!!

Sigh, I wonder how long I can justify buying picture books for. They're just so beautiful, aren't they?!!

Have a good weekend, guys. We'll be hanging out at home. Pool, deck, garden, bbq, good books, good food, good coffee. You get the idea. What about you?

The best bit of A Peaceful Day is not what I write, it's what you contribute to the discussion. I love that. I love my little community of followers.

Get that? I Love You! Yes, You!

Sometimes I wonder about you though, especially if you don't have a blog of your own. Who are you? What do you think? Do you agree with me, or do you have thoughts of your own?

On impulse this morning I added The BlogFrog to my sidebar. I like the idea of an open forum on my blog where we can talk together, and where all of you can add your bit. I like the idea of us all having a place to gather together. Maybe it is a bit arrogant of me the think that you might want to gather here, but if that is so, the experiment will be a short lived one and I'll remove the BlogFrog and crawl away to lick my wounds and hide in shame and embarrassment. Hopefully that won't happen though - my fragile ego wouldn't cope too well!!

So. Now all we can all get together.

It's all very high tech, and I haven't as yet managed to set up a header, but that'll come...or maybe it won't. We'll see. Come and join me. It's easy to do and I'm feeling lonely.

A Peaceful Community

I've kicked off the discussion with a question on what books you would recommend to a transitioning reader, but you might want to know my opinion on the best of Aussie kids' literature (yep, I have an opinion on that), or on reading twaddle (yep I'll talk about that one) or on what to have for dinner (can't help with that one, but I can't wait to read your suggestions.) Simply click on the A Peaceful Community link to start your own discussion or to comment on somebody else's (like mine, since it is the only one so far.)

I do hope this works, coz I think it'll be great. Come and join me. Please!!

Jemimah has learned to read. Woo Hoo! She is now what called variously, an 'emerging reader', a 'transitioning reader', a 'growing reader' and ' an in-between reader'. What ever she is labeled as, she is now ready for 'real books'.

Once, when Arnold Lobel was asked why so many characters in his easy-to-read books were neurotic, he said they didn't start out that way, but when you say the same thing over and over again in such brief command sentences, you tend to get neurotic very quickly. I suspect that if children read the same things over and over again that they tend to go the same way. You see, few stories especially written for emerging readers are particularly noteworthy for their literary excellence. They are not written to be masterpieces in most cases, either. Rather, the value of these books lies in their ability to make accessible the richer reading that lies ahead.

It is that time now for Jemimah. She's ready to read books of substance.


And now I must treadee treadee softlee, because the books that we present to a child transitioning to chapter books are highly important. This is often when a child becomes a 'reader' for life. We can make or break them right here.

The books must be interesting, not too long, and broken into shortish chapters that while forming part of the whole story, are episodic and stand alone unto themselves. Ideally they will contain plenty of action, considerable humour, and a little suspense. Any adults will be on the outskirts of the story, protecting but not interfering. Like all books written for children, these stories should be written to them and not down to them. Kids of all ages hate being patronised. They hate twaddle.

Books for growing readers need to look good too - especially for older kids, or reluctant readers who do not want their books to look like books for youngsters. They need to look like teenagers' books. Yep - even for eight year olds. They need clear, largish type with lots of white space and wide margins. They can't be too long, or the reader will despair of ever reaching the end. They should have quite short sentences too, since often a number of these words will be spelled out letter by letter, and it is easy to forget the beginning of the sentence by the time you reach the end otherwise. Illustrations are valuable for giving hints about the story's content, but also allowing a short reprieve from a difficult page. Line drawings are fine. These kids are no longer looking for a picture book -Come on, mum - they've outgrown those!!

It is important to consider that often all these children will have read until now will be formulaic phonics readers. Ugh! These books are mostly 'about nothing'! If you choose to teach your children to read using phonics, do attempt to get them away from these twaddly books as soon as possible, and don't forget to keep reading literature aloud to them in the mean time. This is the only way that they will know that reading can be fun - that it is worth persevering in the struggle to decipher those dreadful squiggles that swim around the pages like tadpoles in Grandpa's dam. This is critically important if your child is struggling to read and is taking longer to master the skill than his peers.

Older books of quality for emerging Aussie readers seem rare. Which made my recent discovery of Joan Phipson's It Happened One Summer (1957) all the more pleasing. Even more exciting is the fact that Jemimah adored it, and that is much more important than what I think of it, after all.

It is the story of young English girl's first Christmas in Australia, spent on her uncle's sheep station. Jennifer has a lot to learn. Life is new and strange, but she settles in well, and two gifts under the tree (as it were) help her to feel very much at home. The book is interesting, and Jennifer's life is exciting and active, but it is the approaching bushfire that makes the book very exciting indeed...

Jemimah loved reading this book over the same period that the book is set. Jennifer's Australia was hot, dusty and dry. So is Jemimah's. She swam. So did we. We liked that, especially over Christmas when our heads are packed full of the snow and ice and sleigh bells of the Northern Hemisphere festive season.

The book was a good choice for my young reader for many reasons. It is relevant. It is attractive with appealing line drawings by Margaret Horder that help illustrate the print. It is a good length, and is written in a clear style. The words are not too small. The characters are likable, and more importantly, believable. There is plenty of sustaining excitement throughout the book, and then you reach that climax. Oh my! Finally, everyone lives happily ever after. You want that in a book for kids.

It Happened One Summer is a great read for emerging Aussie readers - both boys and girls. Look out for it.

There's something that I need to be aware of at this time as I select books for Jemimah, and I want to share it with you as well:

Don't push too hard. Allow your child to consolidate their skills before moving them on to harder and harder titles. Easy books help with reading fluency too, and helps him learn that reading can be fun. The world begins to open up. Remember Ruth Beechick's five word rule:

To determine whether a book is too hard, count off a section of 100 words and ask the child to read it to you. If he is unable to read more than five of the words, the book is on his frustration level...If the child misses from three to five words on your 100 word sample, you may consider the book to be on his instruction level. It is just right. Never assume that the harder a book is, the more a child can learn from it. A book that stretches and challenges, but does not frustrate, is the best choice for teaching.

Ruth Beechick, A Home Start in Reading.

I assume that the intellectual labour of deciphering the written word debilitated and memory of the subject matter.

Oh dear.

Do continue to encourage your transitioning readers - whatever their ages - by continuing to read aloud to them. For some time after they have learned to read they still need to listen to stories and be read to. Only in this way will they absorb the feeling of the fine rich language of the best of children's literature. Only in this way will they experience the voice of the storyteller - the expression, the tone, the subtle nuance. Only this way will the learn to love reading because in this way reading comes alive. And only this way will their reading experiences be shared experiences. Warm, comforting and happy. The things golden childhood memories are made of.

Reading to your children is just the best. I realise that one day Jemimah may choose to exert her newly acquired reading independence and want to read alone, but I hope it doesn't come too soon, because if it does I shall be a very sad mummy indeed.

Why do I save my ugliest for the ones I love the most?

Sometimes when I look at myself yelling at Jemimah I barely recognise the woman I see. My face. My body language. Even my voice is different. Who is this horrible fearsome creature that has been unleashed upon the most vulnerable of all, my own daughter?

Why is it that I work so hard to build for her a golden childhood only to leave her with a memories like this that she will carry right through her life?

I feel so ashamed, but I just can't stop.

I comfort myself that it happens rarely, but that's not good enough, is it? It needs to happen never.

I'm pondering these questions right now, not because I've been yelling, but because I haven't. We've been on summer holidays of one type or another since the middle of November - first from school but at home, then over Christmas at my parents' and recently although back at school, we've been in Melbourne and operating on 'modified holiday time' spending all of each day at the swimming pool and much of the afternoon outside.

On Sunday we return home. Holidays will be over, and real life will intervene. Life with stresses, life with too much to do. Life with cooking and washing and extracurricular activities and work as well as school. Life with the possibility of being overwhelmed and losing control. Life where yelling is all too likely to happen.

And so I'm pondering. I'm thinking about life. I'm thinking about keeping it like it is when we're in holiday mode. In keeping it a peaceful life all year round.

That's what I want.

Now.

Before she's all grown up and its too late.

The song of the cicada is the sound of summer - a high pitched squawking drumming sound that gets into your head and stays there. Sometimes you go outside to their voice and then they all stop, together, and you wonder why. Was it you? Why would they stop this time and not the last time that you opened that same door? It's a mystery. A mystery of Cicadadom.

Remember as kids how exciting it was to find their cast off shell exoskeletons still clinging tenaciously to the tree truck with their sharp little claws and how you would fasten them into your hair or onto the front of your jumper to frighten some kid littler than you? Remember finding one in the process of moulting and trapping it in an icecream container to watch the process to its end, watching the crumpled wings straighten and dry and harden? Remember looking through their gossamer wings? Remember discovering one newly emerged from its hole underground and watching it making the long journey to the heights of a suitable tree where it would hook its strong legs under the bark and stay perched awaiting the splitting of its skin and its final metamorphosis ?

Catching cicadas during summer is practically a right of passage through childhood.

So where are they? As I go outside my door today into the heat of a Melbourne summer I hear...well apart from the traffic...nothing. Later the crickets will sing, but their song is not the same. Not at all.

How can Jemimah go through childhood if she never catches a cicada? It's just not Australian. It's just not on.

I shall need to find one.

Somewhere.

What about where you live? If we come and visit you will we hear the cicadas sing? We're free this weekend. Can we borrow one of your icecream containers, or do we need to bring our own?

I was thinking over these things one day whilst a party of children were engaged in uproarious laughter over a quite new book. I had looked at the book. I thought its language very poor, and thought that it described both preposterously mischievous children and equally stupid parents. That ought to be a bad book for a nursery, I thought, and yet how the children were enjoying it. So I considered the matter again, and came to the conclusion that they were quite right to enjoy it, and that I should be very silly to interfere. Do I like frivolous literature myself? Most of us do. And it is very good for most of us too, provided it does not suffice for all our reading. This book was the children's frivolous literature. They had the choice of other sorts, and being reasonably brought-up children they used their choice wisely and gained by the very variety of what they read. So I think we need not be too severe on the mere cheerful foolish book. We need not too rigorously exclude the slangy child and the imp.

But there is another sort of book-child I would never invite to play with mine. I call him the poseurand I think Little Lord Fauntleroy about gives an idea of what I mean. I think he is everything a child ought not to be. He is heir to a title, he converts his grandfather, he patronises the tenantry, he is always getting into attitudes, especially his legs—his influence, I am convinced, is largely due to his clothes. I would banish him and his like most mercilessly.

Mrs. Crump, Living Books for the Nursery PRArticle Volume 14, no. 12, December 1903, pgs. 944-953

• A Little Bush Maid by Mary Grant Bruce, our school read-aloud;
• her current read, Horse Crazy, The Complete Adventures of Bonnie and Sam by Alison Lester;
• one or two of Anna Fienberg's Tashi books;
• her Bible;
• Rudyard Kipling's Rewards and Fairies;
• Further Doings of Milly -Molly-Mandy by Joyce Lankester Brisley;
• Nurse Lugton's Curtain by Virginia Woolf; and
• The Potato People by Pamela Allen.

One wet day there was an almighty crash on the noisier road. Grade A accident, lights flashing, ambulances, tow trucks, sirens, foam, police on Hondas, in Minis, Toranas...A family car pulled up and the man got out and watched, then came back to the car thinking he'd have to keep his kids inside the car against their will.
He was wrong. They watched calmly for a few minutes. One said, "How long does it go on?"
His father said, "What do you mean?"
"Can we stay for the rest of the programme?"
The other kid was bored.
"I seen that show last week. Can't we change channels?"
The father was stumped.
"Channels? Look, son, this is happening. Now. You can't change channels. There's no channel to change."
"Switch off the set then. I want something to eat instead. Where's the next Kentucky?"

The Glass Canoe, David Ireland, 1976

As for Norah's education, that was of the kind best defined as a minus quantity.

"I won't have her bothered with books too early," Mr. Linton had said when nurse hinted, on Norah's eight birthday, that it was time she began the rudiments of learning. "Time enough yet–we don't want to make a bookworm of her!"

Whereat nurse smiled demurely, knowing that that was the last thing to be afraid of in connexion with her child. But she worried in her responsible old soul all the same; and when a wet day or the occasional absence of Mr. Linton left Norah without occupation, she induced her to begin a few elementary lessons. The child was quick enough, and soon learned to read fairly well and to write laboriously; but there nurse's teaching from books ended.

Of other and practical teaching, however, she had a greater store. Mr. Linton had a strong leaning towards the old-fashioned virtues, and it was at a word from him that Norah had gone to the kitchen and asked Mrs. Brown to teach her to cook. Mrs. Brown–fat, good-natured and adoring–was all acquiescence, and by the time Norah was eleven she knew more of cooking and general housekeeping than many girls grown up and fancying themselves ready to undertake houses of their own. Moreover, she could sew rather well, though she frankly detested the accomplishment. The one form of work she cared for was knitting, and it was her boast that her father wore only the socks she manufactured for him.

Little Bush Maid, Mary Grant Bruce 1910

• That education should be made more interesting for children by abolishing rote learning and other boring routines and substituting them for a more lively approach.
• That booklearning is fine for those who want it, but for those whose talents lie in other directions excessive education at school is unnecessary.
• That children should be treated as individuals and that their talents should be explored, in contrast to the "children should be seen and not heard approach' so common in society at that time.

Sarah Prince says,"Bruce had a great love of children and they, in turn, loved her. Both before and after the release of the first Billabong books, she devoted a great deal of time to the creation of various children's pages and stories, replying in person, to each child whose letter she received. Unlike many older people, Mary never criticised contemporary youth, but had an open mind on the subject, stressing the good in them. She was a firm believer in "the potentialities of the youth of the present generation"."

Although I suspect that Charlotte Mason as a school teacher may have been a little less dismissive of organised education than her Antipodean contemporary, I think that the two women would have found many points of agreement in their pedagogological approaches. I wonder whether either knew of the other? Miss Mason, I feel would have been fully in accord with the idea of Norah's education beginning at 8 or later and of 'other and practical teaching' both indoors and outdoors. She would also have agreed with Bruce's idea of individualising education to the child, and the idea of spending much of every day outside. She would have agreed that there was plenty of time later for book learning too.

Norah the bush maid's free and easy Charlotte Masonesque life on an Australian sheep station in Northern Victoria certainly remains compulsory reading for today's Australian child a century after its publication in 1910. It's sexist, sure; classist; definitely; and racist, without a doubt, but today's young lady could do worse than to emulate strong, feisty Norah who demonstrates consistently good morals and virtues; other races including the Chinese as well as Australia's Aborigines make regular appearances as well meaning and well loved characters, even if their treatment would not be acceptable today, and while Norah and her family belong to a distinctly English upper middle class, at least the treatment of their staff was kind to the extent that they were almost treated as friends.

Norah and her friends live an idealised, stereotypical way of rural Australian life that is all but gone today. Together the children have horse races, crack stockwhips, fight bush fires, fish in the billabongs, encounter swagmen, hermits and tramps, eat marvellous English tucker, keep chickens and wallabies and dogs and horses and guinea pigs and kangaroos and even a turloise (so called because Norah could never remember if he were a turtle or a tortoise) as well as honeyeaters, Queensland finches, blackbirds, doves and pigeons. And canaries. And a parrot called Fudge and a cocky called Caesar. Phew.

I rather believe that it is an obligation of Aussie parents to ensure that your little Australians do not pass into adulthood without dreaming of a life full of horse riding, stock whips, fishing, games and family togetherness. A life without at least the first few of the Billabong books is unimaginable!! For one thing, your family's vocabulary would be forever without such delightful expressions as You tellee fine large crammee. So dly up! and You duffer! and That's ripping! and what about Well, you are a brick!

Jemimah and I are reading A Little Bush Maid in AO3. It is available online from Gutenberg and plenty of other sources, or you can buy a print version from Amazon or Readings. If she continues to enjoys the story of Norah and friends and reads one book a year, there are enough Billabong books to last her until she's 22. It took Mary Grant Bruce 32 years to write the 14 books that make up the series.

Alas not even Norah can avoid education forever...

Norah, do you know, I have something to tell you?"

"What?" Norah's dullness was gone. There was something unusual in her father's tone.

"I'm afraid you won't think it the best news," he said, smiling at her eager face. "But it had to come some day, I suppose. I couldn't keep you a baby always. There's a tutor coming to make a learned lady of my little bush maid."

"Daddy!" There were worlds of horror in the tone.

"Oh, don't!" said her father. "You make me feel a criminal of the deepest dye. What can I do with you, you ignorant small child? I can't let you grow up altogether a bush duffer, dear." His voice was almost apologetic. "I can assure you it might have been worse. Your Aunt Eva has been harrowing my very soul to make me send you to a boarding school. Think of that now!"

"Boarding school!" said Norah faintly. "Daddy, you wouldn't?"

"No–not at present, certainly," said her father. "But I had to agree to something–and, really, I knew it was time. You're twelve, you know, Norah. Be reasonable."

"Oh, all right," said Norah, swallowing her disgust. "If you say it's got to be, it has to be, that's all, Daddy. My goodness, how I will hate it! Have I got to learn heaps of things?"

"Loads," said her father, nodding; "Latin, and French, and drawing, and geography, and how to talk grammar, and any number of things I never knew. Then you can teach the tutor things–riding, and cooking, and knitting, and the care of tame wallabies, and any number of things he never dreamed of. He's a town young man, Norah, and horribly ignorant of all useful arts."

"I'll turn him over to Billy after school," said Norah laughing. "Is he nice, Dad?"

“Well,” said Hilary briskly, “what are we going to do?”…

...He thought back over his own childhood, wondering how he had then filled wet afternoons, but could only think of painting and jig-saws and meccano and picture-books, all occupations that presupposed a tended child that had received many presents. Then he remembered something else and suggested, “Shall I tell you a story?”

“Oh, yes,” said Jean emphatically. Hilary asked jealously, “Who else tells you stories?” “Sometimes Sister Clothilde tells us about the little saints,” Jean explained. “I love stories.” His face was shining with expectant delight.

“I don’t know any stories about little saints,” said Hilary, trying hard to remember what he himself had enjoyed when he was five. I have a horrible feeling it was Winnie-the-Pooh, he thought, but I’m damned if I’m going to introduce any child to that type of whimsicality. He started to wonder how far a parent could be justified in refusing to allow his child pictures or writings that he as an adult must condemn on aesthetic grounds – and was recalled by Jean pulling gently at his sleeve and urging, “Please do begin.”

With sudden relief Hilary remembered little Red Riding Hood. “Once upon a time,” he began, “there was a little girl – “and as he told the story he and the boy looked into each other’s eyes, both of them absorbed in the story and in each other.

Jean was an admirable child to tell stories to. He was obviously and palpably enthralled. His big eyes widened at each apprehension, at the climax his hand reached out blindly to clutch Hilary’s sleeve, and even when the story was finished he still sat motionless, staring thoughtfully at Hilary.

“What did you think of the story?” Hilary asked.
“Monsieur,” said Jean, “did the little girl’s father love her?”
“Oh, yes,” said Hilary with assurance.
“And her mother?”
“Certainly,” said Hilary.
“Then why,” said Jean, his forehead wrinkled, “Did they let her go and meet the wolf?”

Marghanita Laski in Little Boy Lost, 1950

I was at University when the board game Trivial Pursuit was released. I didn't like it. I was lousy at orange Sport, I was dreadful at pink Entertainment, and I was useless at yellow History. Goodness, I was a science boffin. My general knowledge was limited to the green Science pieces of pie. Full stop.

At the end of Uni, in common with many young Australians, I made a "Grand Tour' of Europe. Starting in Denmark, I travelled through Scandinavia, Great Britain, Continental Europe and Morocco in Northern Africa. I had a wonderful time. On my return home I was pleasantly surprised to discover that I was now considerably better at Trivial Pursuit. Suddenly I had two topics of special interest - green Science and blue Geography. I was also considerably improved in yellow History and brown Literature. My year of travel had done for me what years of secondary school had failed to do: it had taught me European geography. That knowledge stuck too. For me geography had disappeared and the memories of a wonderful holiday had taken their place. I will never forget it.

Next weekend I will be reading Hans Christian Andersen's tale, The Metal Pig to Jemimah. It was written in 1842, and it begins like this:

In the city of Florence, not far from the Piazza del Granduca, runs a little street called Porta Rosa. In this street, just in front of the market-place where vegetables are sold, stands a pig, made of brass and curiously formed. The bright color has been changed by age to dark green; but clear, fresh water pours from the snout, which shines as if it had been polished, and so indeed it has, for hundreds of poor people and children seize it in their hands as they place their mouths close to the mouth of the animal, to drink. It is quite a picture to see a half-naked boy clasping the well-formed creature by the head, as he presses his rosy lips against its jaws. Every one who visits Florence can very quickly find the place; he has only to ask the first beggar he meets for the Metal Pig, and he will be told where it is.

Early one morning

Early one morning, just as the sun was rising
I heard a maid sing in the valley below
"Oh don't deceive me, Oh never leave me,
How could you use, a poor maiden so?"
Remember the vows that you made to me truly
Remember how tenderly you nestled close to me
Gay is the garland, fresh are the roses
I've culled from the garden to bind over thee.

Here I now wander alone as I wonder
Why did you leave me to sigh and complain
I ask of the roses, why should I be forsaken,
Why must I here in sorrow remain?

Through yonder grove, by the spring that is running
There you and I have so merrily played,
Kissing and courting and gently sporting
Oh, my innocent heart you've betrayed

How could you slight so a pretty girl who loves you
A pretty girl who loves you so dearly and warm?
Though love's folly is surely but a fancy,
Still it should prove to me sweeter than your scorn.

Soon you will meet with another pretty maiden
Some pretty maiden, you'll court her for a while;
Thus ever ranging, turning and changing
Always seeking for a girl that is new.

Thus sang the maiden, her sorrows bewailing
Thus sang the poor maid in the valley below
"Oh don't deceive me, Oh never leave me,
How could you use, a poor maiden so?"

Somewhere near the beginning of each new homeschool year I like to reread two books - For The Children's Sake by Susan Schaeffer Macaulay, and When You Rise Up by R. C. Sproul Jr. These two little books remind me why I teach my daughter. They remind me of my goals, and they remind me how to reach them. They remind me of how I want our homeschooling day to look, and they remind me that I am doing the right thing. They encourage me to keep going...for another year at least.

This year I began with For The Children's Sake. I'm a Swimming Mum this week. That's like an Aussie Soccer Mom, only each morning you'll find me sitting by the local swimming pool as Jemimah does her daily swimming lessons instead of ferrying children to soccer practice. Anyhow, I digress. I've been reading as I wait. That's what I was trying to say. I wonder if that's why my reading has been more of the dip in here and there version than a full reread but regardless of why, I find myself doing just that. Maybe it is all the 'dipping in the pool'? (Oh I am so drôle tonight!!! Giggle.)

Susan is an inspiring writer, and each time I read this book I come away with a fresh idea. Today was no different. She was talking about adults reading living books to children and she says this:

Perhaps she reads a short portion from Pilgrim's Progress. She must, of course, be a person who wants to understand and enjoy this herself...

Some people were incredulous. "It's not possible," they responded. "Children just aren't up to that."

But they are - if the door is opened. There is only one problem that I can see. The adult, whether teacher or parent, has to be able to enjoy and understand what he or she is reading with the children.

Poor people had to wear homespun on Sunday and Royal and Almanzo wore fullcloth. But Father and Mother and the girls were very fine in clothes that Mother had made of store boughten cloth, woven by machines.

Image from here

Hilary was a fast reader and dreaded nothing more than to be stranded without print. He would read anything sooner than nothing, fragments of sporting news torn up in a lavatory, a motor journal on a hotel table, an out-of-date evening paper picked up on a bus. He would covetously eye the books held by strangers in trains, forcing them into conversation until he could offer his own read book in exchange for something new. But if, by ill-luck, he was reduced to reading nothing but haphazard chance finds that offered his mind only the bare fact of being print, he would become dreary, unhappy, uneasy, like a gourmet who suffers from indigestion after eating bad food.

Little Boy Lost, Marghanita Laski

A young Doctor Jemimah

There is a little danger in these days of much educational effort that children's play should be crowded out, or, what is from our present point of view the same thing, should be prescribed for and arranged until there is no more freedom of choice about play than that about work. We do not say a word against the educational value of games. We know that many things are learned in the playing-fields... but organised games are not play in the sense we have in view. Boys and girls must have time to invent episodes, carry on adventures, live heroic lives, lay sieges and carry forts, even if the fortress be an old armchair; and in these affairs the elders must neither meddle nor make. They must be content to know that they do not understand, and, what is more, that they carry with them a chill breath of reality which sweeps away illusions. Think what it must mean to a general in command of his forces to be told by some intruder into the play-world to tie his shoe-strings! There is an idea afloat that children require to be taught to play––to play at being little fishes and lambs and butterflies. No doubt they enjoy these games which are made for them, but there is a serious danger. In this matter the child who goes too much on crutches never learns to walk; he who is most played with by his elders has little power of inventing plays for himself; and so he misses that education
which comes to him when allowed to go his own way and act,

"As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitation."

Charlotte Mason, School Education, pp36,37

AussieHomeschool has asked us to write a list of our top 10 posts of 2009. It sounds like a bit of fun, and it let me have a bit of a reminisce over the past year, so I decided give it a burl. Here are my top 10 of 09.

But first, what makes a top post? Is it the ones that you liked the best based on the number of comments or the number of views according to my stats, or it it the posts that I liked writing best? Well, I really don't know, so my final list is actually a bit of both. I hope you enjoy a look back into the year that was 2009.

Back in January I wrote about a typical homeschooling day in our peaceful home. It was fun to write, and gives you a bit of a glimpse into what you'd see if you visited on a hot summer's schoolday:

1.Beat the heat

In February I reviewed Australian author Geraldine Brooks book, Nine Parts of Desire, subtitled The Hidden World of Islamic Women. The book is her attempt to understand the women behind the veils, and the often contradictory religious and cultural forces that shape their identities as women. In this post I tell a little about our family's trip to Yemen in 2007 and take the opportunity to show you some photographs, as well as challenge you to search your own heart to see what in your beliefs, attitudes and actions toward Muslims is accurate or biased, compassionate and loving or fearful and angry. This post is one of the most visited of all my posts.

2.A desire to better understand

I loved the ego trip of telling you all the interesting things I could think of about myself back in February too.

3.25 random things about me!

February was the month I hosted the Charlotte Mason Blog Carnival. Here it is in case you missed it. Lots of interesting links here as well.

4.Charlotte Mason Blog Carnival

In March I wrote a post called Charlotte and Geography, which my dear friend, Richele, tells me is my best post ever. I wonder if you'll agree? You'll find some Aussie living geography books here too.

5.Charlotte and Geography

I admitted my fetish for Pilgrim's Progress in March. Here's everything you ever wanted to know about choosing a version of this Christian Classic, and probably lots you didn't:

6.Negotiating a trail through

There are 31 comments on the post I wrote in June walking you through MEP, the free online maths curriculum developed by the CIMT - Centre for Innovation in Mathematics Teaching - at the University of Plymouth in the United Kingdom. Lots of you are now using MEP based on my post. You can read it here:

7.MEP 101

I also told you all about our trip to Bhutan in June, but I'm running out of space in my 10, so you'll just have to go searching if you want to see those.

I had a bit of a lighthearted dig at superhuman homeschooling mums during the middle part of the year. There is a Part I and a Part II, so I'm going to list these two together, okay?

8a.My confession
8b.Not supermums, just mums

In November I wrote about keeping it real while you're blogging. Would your real-life friends know you from your blog? What happens when cyberspace and reality collide?

9.In real life

And so there is space for just one more. It's a recent one, this one, and its about Bad Books. The comments are as interesting as the post I reckon. Be sure to have a read of those while you're there.

10.Bad Books

And that's them. My favourite posts of 2009. According to me. What do you think? Do you agree with me? Is your favourite post there? Are you any that you didn't enjoy so much? Perhaps if you all told me your fave we could come up with the number one post for 09. That would be interesting...to me anyhow.

If you've enjoyed reading about my favourite posts maybe you'd like to prepare a list of your own and submit it to AussieHomeschool for us all to read. Don't forget to tell me about it as well though will you? That way I can link to them here as well!

And now on with 2010.

Susan's top posts are here...only she can't count to 10!
Amy's top 10 is here!

...well mine anyhow!!

You can't imagine how happy I am to be typing this right now. My modem crashed and burned during the week and I've had no Internet access for days. That means no YouTube, no Google and no Blogger. No FaceBook, No Twitter. My life has had no meaning. I have been adrift in a cyberspaceless abyss. I have been devoid of distraction, left to educate my daughter alone with no online support, no videos, no dictionary, no translation, no atlas. Most terrifying of all I haven't been able to talk to you. I love my blogging pals!! I've taken to biting my nails, twirling my hair and binge eating. I have developed a series of worrying tics.

I've missed you all so much!!!!!!!

My darling husband seeing my distress swooped into the rescue this afternoon. He looked so handsome in his sexy blue suit; red satin boxer shorts flapping alluringly over his trousers. Tucked under his arm was a new modem. I have never been so in need of a superhero before...and to think that I am actually married to him!!

Anyhow, to cut a long story short, I'm back on the air!! Have you missed me? Did you even notice that I was missing?

I have some great posts saved to Word which I shall upload and post very soon - just as soon as I check my facts on the Internet. I'll be catching up with all of your blogs too - as soon as I have a chance. I haven't seen many of you since Christmas. I can't wait to discover what Santa brought you and what you resolved to do at New Year and how many of those same resolutions you've broken already. I resolved to read through the Bible in a year. That's going well...I've had nothing else to distract me after all!!

Right now, though, I have a date.

With my superhero.

Bye.

La valise

J'ai mis dans ma valise
Trois ou quatre chemises
Mon foulard, ma casquette
Une paire de baskets
Mon anorak et mon béret
Mon maillot et mon bonnet
Et des chaussettes rouges et jaunes à petits pois {2x}

J'ai mis dans ma valise
Ma belle jupe grise
Ma trousse
de toilette
Une paire de serviettes
La laisse et le collier du chien
La photo de Sébastien
Et des chaussettes rouges et jaunes à petits pois {2x}

J'ai mis dans ma valise
Mon écharpe cerise
Mes balles et ma raquette
Mes patins à roulettes
Mon magnétophone à cassettes
Des bateaux et ma mallette
Et des chaussettes rouges et jaunes à petits pois {2x}

J'ai mis dans ma valise
Ma perruque qui frise
Mes pastilles pour la gorge
Un bout de sucre d'orge
Mon dictionnaire français-anglais
Et ma ceinture dorée
Un kilo de poires pour la soif
Un bouquin et une coiffe
Ma télévision portative
Et un tee-shirt vert olive
Mon stylo mon aide-mémoire
Mon col roulé et mon mouchoir
Un parapluie si il pleuvait
Et la crème pour bronzer
Des cachets pour le mal de tête
Des bonbons et mes lunettes
Un peu de papier pour écrire
Un pyjama pour dormir
Une paire de chaussures à crampons
Et deux ou trois pantalons
Du mouron pour mon canari
Et un gros pull-over gris
Et des chaussettes rouges et jaunes à petits pois

So it's official - my princess is in AO3! Yep, today we dive head first into a new year of homeschool. Somehow I feel somewhat unprepared - excited but disorganised. Totally un-me, that, but everything will fit into its place I'm sure of that.

In Victoria she is in Grade 2. She is AO3 and is doing MEP 3b maths. It is a delightful year. There are wonderful literature choices including Alice in Wonderland; Swallows and Amazons; A Little Princess; Kinsley's Heroes and At the Back of the North Wind. Our Aussie selection includes A Little Bush Maid, The Flyaway Highway, and Seven Little Australians. Hurray!

We will begin running writing by learning the letter joins. Jemimah is thrilled. Apparently it is worth starting school again for this alone.

We jump into General Science. We meet Marco Polo and join him on his travels, mapping his adventures as we go. Aussie animals get a gurnsey, as do World History and an overview of the History of the Reformed Presbyterian Church. We will begin Christiana's Story, after finishing Pilgrim's Progress last year, and continue with our scroll. I wish I could show you this masterpiece. It is now several metres long, and includes a drawing of each encounter met by Christian on his journey to the Celestial City. This year we will add the new challenges that Christian's wife and children face as they make their way to the heavenly city in his footsteps.

We have a new nature notebook, and new watercolour paints for dry brush painting. We also begin sewing (if mum can manage it!! Keeping a step ahead of the student is always a huge challenge for this craft-challenged teacher!)

We continue reading through the Old Testament, starting with Balaam, and will study Paul's letter to the Romans in some depth. We will learn more memory passages, more Psalms, more folk songs, focusing on those of Mediaeval England to tie in with our focus on Medieval music. We study the art of Emily Kngwarreye, Michelangelo and Albrecht Durer.

We continue with French, reading lots of stories as well as learning French folksongs, Psalms and memory verses. We begin some written work as well.

Finally this year we will have quality time together as a family. We will do 'tea', read poems, go on rambles through the countryside and work on our relationships with each other and with our Creator. Hopefully we will kindle in Jemimah a lifetime love of learning and of fine literature. We'll cook together, eat tgether and laugh together.

Ah yes, it's going to be a wonderful year. Thank you to all of you for being there with us as we continue our journey.

Gee-up horsey!!