The Autodidact

She was a scrawny, skinny little girl with white-blonde hair in need of a good brushing. I met her one summer afternoon when our church van pulled into the Kentucky holler where her house was. She ran out of the house with a bunch of other children, all blonde, all curious to see us city folks. We had come to clean up and repair and paint her house, and it was in sore need of more than that, but we only had a week to do the most basic work. Some of us worked on the roof, some repaired the steps up into the house;  a few floorboards needed replacing and I was on the paint crew. Poverty has a distinct smell. It's hard to describe: sewage, mold, unwashed bodies, mixed in with despair and hopelessness. I had never smelled anything like it before, but I knew instantly that it was the smell of poverty. It hung around and in the house on on its inhabitants. It got in my nose and my clothes and hung on me for a time after my week was over. But the little girl, for her tangled unwashed ha

     About 7 months ago, we decided that our three teenagers needed their own rooms. With only 4 bedrooms, though, we had to get creative. The 18 year-old and the 13 year-old have their own bedrooms upstairs, and the 16 year-old has a man cave in the basement. That left one room for the younger 4 kids. Thankfully, I have several sets of bunk beds!      I like to go in their room and just sit with them while they play. Sometimes, I'm with just the baby, playing dollies or horses, or reading to her before bedtime. Or, other times, I am with the 4 year-old playing soldiers or pirates. The 8 year-old likes to do hair and organize the room and the 10 year-old likes to draw or read or play with his 4 year-old brother. Sometimes they are all together. Sometimes it's quiet, but sometimes it gets rowdy: pillow fights and toys thrown at the whirling ceiling fan to see where they land, and bunk beds turned into sailing ships or forts.  At night, they like to listen to Greek myths on a ta

Yesterday my littlest boy turned five. He had breakfast with dad, opened his presents and spent the entire day happily playing with them. Of course, he had to take a break to allow his sisters to give him kisses. He was so excited about his birthday cake because it was decorated by his 10 year old brother. It was complete with a castle, a fire-breathing dragon, and a hero on horseback fighting the dragon. The only casualty was when the dragon caught fire. Happy Birthday Nathanael! You are such a fun kid.

     Since I injured my back a few months ago, I have relied on my kids a lot for help with housework and grocery shopping. I normally shop alone, undisturbed and undistracted, enjoying a bit of freedom. But starting about 6 weeks ago, when I was finally able to even go to the store, the little ones have tagged along. It's really become the highlight of my week: they load up the cart, unload it at the cash register, bag up the groceries and load up the car and unload it at home. They chatter and ask questions and work happily and diligently, for which they are rewarded with a big snack at home. We talk and laugh, they look at all the food in the cart with joy, we have fun. Without fail, someone stops me and comments on how sweet and well behaved my children are and I simply thank them, not wanting to spoil the moment by revealing they are not always so well-mannered.      But the more this happens, the more I wonder: why are people stopping me in the store and praising my kids? I

Last night, my husband's cousin came by to bring an old manual camera for my oldest daughter to play around with. You remember those, right? The ones you have to put film in. Not only does my daughter like to take pictures, but she wants to learn how to make all those adjustments herself in order to appreciate all that a digital camera does automatically. After our visitor left, my husband went into his workshop and brought up his dad's camera, and old Nikkon, for my daughter to look at. He opened the wooden case, and the entire downstairs was flooded with the smell of his dad's cigars, and I was immediately transported in back in time. The day was cold and a heavy snow began falling late morning and into the afternoon. I was two weeks away from giving birth to our third child and enjoying a quiet afternoon, snug and safe in my home, unaware of the horror playing out in another part of town. The phone rang. "Good," I thought. "the kids are still asleep and

I've been taking my kids for walks for years now, and I never tire of it. We've walked through neighborhoods and parks and stopped at numerous playgrounds. I listen to them talk as I take in the fresh air and scenery. "Mommy, can I have a doughnut for dessert after lunch?"  "Mom, I want to be an engineer or an artist or a photographer when I grow up."  "Mommy, look at these cool acorns!" "Mama, wait for me!" Their words and questions, mingle with the breezes and sounds of birds and cars and lawnmowers. They collect sticks and leaves, feathers and nuts and pine cones: treasures, all. I'm always refreshed after these outings; it's really hard to get frustrated or feel overwhelmed during these walks. No one ever comes back to the house grumpy. They flock around me, run ahead, wait for me to catch up.  I reach my hand out, and without fail, a small hand slips into mine. Today was such a day, one of many, but too few left.