Friday the 13th and other fables

Scariest quote of the day--from Mrs. Bug, the 3rd grade teacher next classroom over, to her class, "Follow me like a snake."

If there is one thing that I never ever ever want to follow me, it's a snake. Not a little one, not a harmless one, not a garter snake, not a rubber snake, not a 3rd grade snake (if it made it to 3rd grade then it's way smarter than any snake has a right to be).

When queried, Mrs. Bug made it clear that snakes were manageable but 3rd grade amoebas were to be avoided at all costs. Apparently amoebas clump, have no shape, and will drive our computer teacher insane.

In my class we subscribe to the train theory of children in lines--there's no cutting and the cars have to stay on the same track. The computer teacher likes our class.

Yes, trains can be noisy and disputes have broken out over who gets to be the caboose. Still, trains have not coiled around any teachers recently or used needle sharp teeth to sink poisonous venom into anyone's veins.

In other non-news, it is indeed Friday and, 13th or not, the weekend is upon us and life is good. Soccer, dog agility, garden ponds, garage cleanup, and new reading material from the Paperback Exchange are in our immediate future.

Siberia or Bust

It's enough to make you cry. Or cuss. Loudly and viciously.

Teenagers: boys, to be precise. Calm down, not all of them. I had two of the critters myself and they were polite, controlled, and (once I'd left all the parenting to my sweetie) a delight.

Still, after reading Jenn's take over at Breed'em and Weep about surly teenagers and thinking it a must-read, I received my own teenage encounter.

Simply put, two teenagers intentionally rammed my garbage cans and sent them flying.

I'm currently wondering why anyone who would be so impulsive, and stupid enough to do it in a cul-de-sac, in broad daylight, with an easily-identified personalized license plate should even have a drivers license.

It's possible that I could just continue to fume. Unfortunately for them, the garbage can was new, cost a small fortune, and now has an unusable wheel.

The nice me is letting the neighbors know what happened and the culprits can replace my trash can and apologize. If they choose not to cowboy up, then I'll file a report with RPD and they (and their parents) can deal with the crime report.

The evil me thinks that revenge is both fun and appropriate and plans to firmly plant a screwdriver in the sidewalls of all four Xterra tires.

But you didn't hear that from me.

Guilty Confessions of the Panic Queen

Tiger lilies are a family tradition. My dad acquired some from the moist places in Tehama County and my family has been growing them every since.

We expect them to bloom riotously for the Fourth of July and throughout the worst of summer's heat. There's nothing more beautiful than their brilliant orange backlit by the sun or their leaves outlined by a morning dew.

We grew up picking the little black bulblets (not bigger than your smallest fingernail) off between the leaves even before they were ripe enough to germinate yet more little tigers. They were irresistable to any child and we weren't especially obedient anyway. Think of us as a force of nature used by tiger lilies to spread throughout the garden, because every fence and wall had its own row of tiger lilies by the time we finished picking and throwing them at each other.

We grew up and bought our own homes and watch our own children filch the bulblets now. I began with a bareroot tiger lily, but eventually propagated some little plants from the original Tehama stock and had enough to enjoy each summer.

Tiger lilies seem to like Oregon much better than Nevada I found when I visited my sister. Operating on the principal that you can never have enough tiger lilies and perhaps somewhat jealous of the bounty Pooh was able to grow, I went hog-wild on my visit last year and not only picked the biggest and best bulblets off her plants, but also scoured the ground underneath for any that had fallen off and might root and give her even more (obviously undeserved) lilies. I was able to get away with this by noting that I'd take some and then Grammy could use the rest for her brand-new and very bare garden.

When I returned home, I decided to jumpstart the bulbs before I planted them. So I tucked them into little plastic pouches after misting them well and settled back to watch them sprout. Sprout they did! Rapidly and well--little white hairroots extending out more quickly than I had expected.

Guilt set in quickly as the little roots began to create a tangled mass that I wasn't sure would live once I sent them out into my irregularly watered garden. I began to wish that I had just planted the bulblets and let nature germinate them instead. Grammy got the least tangled messes to put into her richly fertile new soil. I kept the remaining ugly remnants.

I began scratching out little shallow hollows for them near fences and behind tall plants, searching for the perfect mixture of sun and shade with regular moisture. All the best spots were taken and I still had more little plants that needed to find a home. So the not-so-perfect spaces, the ones with too much shade or not enough water, began to receive the homeless little bulbs. Still more tangled little webs of bulbs and rootlets were left. Finally anywhere that didn't already have something growing got a handful tenderly tucked away.

I watered and watched and watered and watched. Nothing. Not one teesy tiny leaf appeared anywhere in the yard. Week after week passed. Weeks stretched into months and the seasons changed. This was not good.

I've germinated seeds before and planted apparently healthy seedlings never to see them again. I was afraid I was experiencing a massive tiger lily die-off after being such a frenzied seed collector. My visions of tiger lilies in every nook and cranny of my yard took on an ominous hue. Month after month went by and still no trace of the buried evidence sprouted.

Fortunately, winter arrives each year and frost kills 99.5% of my garden down to bare soil. I'm allowed to happily forget my mistakes and my plans for springtime begin to evolve.

Spring is back though. The early birds--my crocus, baby daffodils and iris--have bloomed. Tulips and hyacinths have made their appearance. My herbaceous perennials, each marked only by one single stem that I leave during fall cleanup, are beginning to unfold in promise of future peonies or delphineums or phlox.

As I've cruised through the yard, I've begun to see little green pointed commas showing themselves in groups along fences and walls, in sunny and in shady areas. Good heavens! The tiger lily babies not only survived, they are flourishing everywhere. I'm finding them in places I don't even remember planting them.

Maybe I wasn't such a horrible gardener after all. Maybe tiger lilies are tougher than I gave them credit for. I think I was just lucky this time. I'm hoping for some great lily photos in about three months.

Easter Sunday

Part of the fun is wondering what flowers (if any) will be blooming and available to arrange in my favorite blue Roseville basket vase. Our daffodils and hyacinths peaked early and are now drying on their stalks, but the tulips, violas, sweet violets and grape hyacinths are all happy to donate their blooms along with the cherry blossoms. And anything looks wonderful in that particular vase...

I do miss the ranunculus and coral bells that would reliably bloom for Easter bouquets in California. But spring arrives a month earlier there. The Roseville basket would be stuffed with Dutch iris and azaleas, with sword fern poking through everywhere, when I was a kid. Going out in the morning, gathering flowers and then arranging them was the best part of Easter Sunday.

Better than a new Easter dress or large chocolate bunnies. Better than dyeing eggs or having an egg hunt. Better even than the harmonies of new Easter hymns that the children's choir would debut.

I'm totally grateful for the sunny days and mild temperatures we received for Easter weekend here, especially since I keep hearing about winter coats and wool tights being worn with Easter finery farther east. Brrrrr.

We've had our share of neighborhood Easter egg hunts that ended with families scurrying home to avoid the icy pellets driven by crisp winds and I'm not in any hurry to repeat those conditions. This weekend seemed like it should be early May instead of April, weatherwise!

Here's hoping that you had a wonderful holiday, filled with family, flowers and chocolate bunny ears!

Pansy Pensees

No, it's not a new variety of pansy that's appearing in the nurseries right about now. That's Pansy "Pon-say", not "Pen-sees", for all you non-Francais speakers out there and it means Pansy Thoughts which is how the pansy got its name in the first place--from their thoughtful little faces. Just thought you'd want to know. I have tons of those fairly useless little thoughts just circulating around in my memory banks. For those purists out there, I do kinda sorta know how to get the accent on the first "e" and the little squiggle on the "c" in Francais, but in the interests of getting this posted in a timely manner I'm going to ignore the fact that I should really look up the "ask-key" codes. I've been photographing and enjoying my little Easter gifts from the kindergarten class and those photos are leading to some stream-of-consciousness writing with sentences tipping rapidly towards run-on land. So on to The Point.

The point just being that in the Language of Flowers (which fortunately do not need accents or squiggles and hence no guilt feelings about the ask-key codes) the pansies mean "thoughts of you". And aren't you glad you stuck around for that little gem?!

So...wishing your thoughts are positive and productive and sweet this day.

Wodney Wat

The teachers were laughing as hard as the kids (maybe harder) when our guest reader read us Hooway for Wodney the Wat. Have you guessed that Rodney has a little speech problem? Poor little wodent.

During wecess, Wodney gets to be Simon during Simon Says. My favorite part is when he tells the kids to Read the Sign. There's a Mean Girl new to his class, a bullying know-it-all who doesn't know-it-all about Wodney and, you guessed it! she begins attacking the weeds.

Wodney becomes the hero to his classmates as he gains some much-needed self confidence and learns that there is a silver lining to every cloud.

Little Miss Capybara is last seen obediently trotting away after he tells his peers that "Rodney says, Go Rest."

With Lynn Munsinger's illustrations and the absurdity of Amelia Bedelia and a happy ending, Helen Lester's little gem rates ***** kindergarten stars!

If you haven't checked out Jenn's latest and best post EVER--you absolutely have have have to click my link and go over to Breed'Em and Weep and read "ATTN: Teenage Boys"!!!

The Giving Tree

We had a guest reader in afternoon kindergarten today. She brought one of the Shel Silverstein books, The Giving Tree. He is one of my favorite children's authors, but I always have mixed feelings about The Giving Tree.

It's a story about a tree who loves a little boy. The boy enjoys climbing her branches, eating her apples, and sleeping in her cool shade. The boy grows up, as boys will, and returns less and less often. So far it sounds a lot like Puff and Little Jackie Paper, right?

The boy is never happy on his return visits to his childhood friend and always seems to need something--he's a bit of a user.

The tree is always happy to help him, sharing her apples to for him to sell, her branches to use as lumber for his house, and even her trunk so he can build a boat to sail during his mid-life crisis. All she has left is an old stump--yet, even so, she is happy to have helped.

It winds up aptly enough with the boy too toothless to eat apples, too stiff to climb and too tired to go adventuring. At that point, all he needs is a place to sit and rest. Voila! The stump is gladly shared.

Is it just me? Did I totally lose the metaphor behind this? Is this supposed to be a sweet story about unselfish love and devotion? 'Cause I sure don't see it that way.

I have no problem with her sharing an renewable resource with him. Millions of us give to charity as well we should. Helping the less fortunate is nothing less than right and proper. Turning to a friend when we need a helping hand is fine.

The sacrifice of her branches for his house is incredibly generous. I don't know how many of us would make a sacrifice that would permanently impact our well-being. But doesn't it seem to make him a heartless user? Why doesn't he have some sentimental feelings towards the branches that cradled him during his youthful days of play? And the illustrations make it clear that he doesn't merely prune a few to construct his home; he takes them all, leaving behind a trunk that makes the slash-and-burn ethic of farmers in the rainforest look pretty harmless.

Besides, what's keeping him from going out and getting a job and earning the money for a house? Slacker.

Then Mr. Mid-life Crisis comes and actually accepts her trunk so he can look for happiness. She's left bereft. Hey, I can't even comment on this one; it's just beyond belief to me. My jaw just flaps in the breeze. At this point, it's obvious that he's not ever going to be happy anyway.

Okay... maybe that is the point. He takes, takes, takes and never once gives and is never happy. Whereas the tree is a giver and both happy and content. Rotten moral.

I think the tree undervalues herself. Doesn't she deserve some love? Is it right to make sacrifice after sacrifice? Can't she recognize the grown kid is a leech? Does that make her an enabler?

I'm going on record here--the boy could have used a little tough love as he grew. Something along the lines of the Whomping Willow would be overkill, but not by much.

I envision a story where the boy learned to work hard instead of whining, lived in a nice brick structure with his family and brought his children back to the tree to climb and play and nap after a nice snack of healthy fresh organic apples. Nature benefits, the boy matures, his children get to experience a part of his childhood, the world prospers: a full circle of appreciation and enjoyment.

I don't know. Maybe it's thoughts of Earth Day creeping up on me. Maybe it's just because it's my job to get my kindergartners ready for the challenges of first grade no matter how adorable they are. Who knows?

I'll take Where the Sidewalk Ends instead, anytime, anywhere.