Chelsea Dyreng

October 16, 2015 · 8:00 am

Teaching Kids To Love Books

I feel that sometimes I am a lost soul on the spectrum of good parenting, but I know how to do at least one thing right: I know how to get children to love books.

You see, I don’t just want my kids to be taught that they ought to read. I want it to be part of their very heart and soul. I want to inject their DNA with poetry. I want them to need words as much as they need water. I want ABCs and XYZs flowing along side their white and red platelets in their blood. Or should I say read platelets.

Ha! I am so funny.

In my previous life (before kids) I was a librarian. And before that I was a reader. And even before that I was a lover of stories, as I think all children are at the very beginning. Your task, as your child’s very own book whisperer, is to coax that natural love of stories into a love of books, and guide the love of books into a love of reading, and snowball that love of reading into a love of knowledge. And isn’t that what we want our children to have?

Here are some things you can do to whisper the love of books into your children’s souls.

1. Start “reading” early.

SONY DSC

Okay, at the beginning it isn’t “reading” at all. Just take five minutes before you put them to bed, find a colorful board book, and point and turn the pages. That is it. No Ivanhoe, no Sherlock Holmes, no Shakespeare. Just your voice, your finger and a picture. Then, after they go to sleep, leave the board book in their crib so they have something to look at when they wake up. This is like “review homework” for infants. When they wake, they will look at the pictures and remember your voice and your warmth. Seriously. And this is the first step to becoming a book whisperer. Also, do not underestimate the power of nursery rhymes. True, the words don’t make sense, but they can feel the beat. This folds into the wrinkles of their developing brain the rhythm of language and the cadence of words. Which is important when your children are going to grow up as smart as yours will be.

2. Provide lots of books

Cover your home with bookcases.

Have books spilling out on to the coffee table and in stacks on side tables and piled near every child’s bed. With books scattered all over creation like this, somebody is bound to be curious. At the very least they will see how important books are to you.

3. Read books to your child every night, even after they start reading on their own.

The only thing better than curling up with a good book is curling up with a good child and a good book. Hold on to this ritual as long as possible. When you do this kids associate books with warmth, love and safety. Even though I think I have spent 75% of my life reading to kids, I sadly do not have a photo of me doing it . . . so you’ll have to settle for this tranquil scene instead:

4. When you go to the library, check out LOTS of books.

Twenty books for one child is a good start.

Load ’em up and read them all. Library fines are overrated. I have paid enough library fines over the years that I am pretty sure I pay the salary of at least one part-time librarian, but it is still worth it. It all goes to a good cause. Consider it your quarterly donation to public literacy.

5. When your children are in school, go to the library for them.

Find books you know they would like but that they might not get for themselves. Especially non-fiction. Then lay out the books in an eye-pleasing way to greet them when they come home, as if they are walking into their very own customized bookstore. If your kids don’t squeal with delight when they come home, you can have your money back. How could a child not squeal, when, after a long hard day at school they come home to this:

Your kids will grab books and park themselves all over the house and everything will get really quiet.

6. Show them YOU love to read by reading.

Share with them the books you are reading and tell them what makes that book interesting to you. Mention to them what your bookclub is reading. And if you really want to get on their good side, read some of their favorite books. My kids love it when I take book recommendations from them. After all, every parent should know who Percy Jackson is. When they see you sharing books with them they are more likely to pass this love of books on to their younger siblings. Soon you will have a whole house full of book whisperers.

7. Leave books in strategic locations

Especially books they *think* they are not interested in. They might just pick it up on a whim. Good locations: breakfast table, coffee table, on their pillows, and in the back seat of the car (where they are trapped with nothing else to do).

8. Make book-giving traditions
(Shhhh! These beautiful new books are for a soon-to-be nine-year-old!)

Birthdays are obvious times when you can give books, but I always try to give my kids a new book when we are going on plane trips, too (which we do a lot of). It becomes a quiet travel companion that does not require batteries or cords and when they are finished they can trade with their siblings.

9. Ask children what books they’ve been reading lately.

It is a great way to start a conversation with a child you don’t know well or whom you haven’t seen for a while. It is also a good way to find out what is on their mind, and to find something in common. I have already decided that I am going to be the “Book-Giving” Grandma for my grandkids, which will be really cool because by then books will be antiques. (“Wow, Grandma! It has real pages!” “Yes, my dear, made of real paper. And look how easily they turn!” “Oh, thank you, Grandma!”)

There are your nine steps to becoming a book whisperer. I could probably think of ten, but I am tired and I have a good book whispering to me from my nightstand. I’ll leave you with these last words:

When my children were small, I would often read with my eldest daughter tucked in by my side, the boy draped like a panther half across my shoulders and half across the back of the sofa, a tiny daughter on either knee, and the baby in my lap. If we happened to be on one of our cycles through “Treasure Island,” Robert Louis Stevenson’s swashbuckling classic, my husband would come to listen, too, and stretch out on the floor in his suit and tie and shush the children when they started to act out the exciting bits.

This is from a beautifully written Wall Street Journal article entitled “The Great Gift of Reading Outloud.” I love the picture it puts in my mind. I recently heard an elementary school principal say that if your kids can learn to read, they can learn how to do anything else. For sure, it is the gateway to knowledge. But not just knowledge, it is a refuge, a friend, and a connection to those who loved you first.

You may have tangible wealth untold; caskets of jewels and coffers of gold. Richer than I you can never be. I had a mother who read to me.

—Strickland Gillian

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Filed under Parenting

Tagged as booklovers, books, kids, literacy, reading

September 25, 2015 · 4:51 pm

Cenote Tutorial

My book has been sent to press!

While I wait for it to be printed I wanted to give those who were interested some background info on cenotes.

Even though my book is based on a fictional culture in a fictional village, I still had to do a lot of research. Even the most fantastic fiction has to have a foundation in truth. I had already read a lot about the Maya culture and about the Yucatan, but after I had completed several drafts I realized I would not be able improve my novel anymore unless I had a chance to go to Mexico and learn some things for myself. So I packed my bags, left my husband and four small children (this was pre-Levi) and went.

For fun, and to keep me safe from bandits I brought along this person:

My sister and I standing on top of a pyramid in Ek Balam

We stayed with my aunt who has a winter home in Merida, Mexico.

This is my aunt. (That is not her winter home.)

My main objective on this trip was learn more about the Maya culture and and to visit the cenotes.

Yes, the word “cenote” is hard to pronounce or describe. Spellcheck doesn’t even recognize it. But when you consider that the original Maya word for cenote is dzonote, I think the word isn’t that hard after all, don’t you?

Dzonote means “well” as in “water well.” Basically, a cenote is a sinkhole that exposes the ground water, and the Yucatan is filled with them. Some are “mature” cenotes like the one in my book, others are “young” cenotes or “old” cenotes depending on whether or not they have collapsed yet and if there is any water left in them. Here is a diagram to give you an idea of what I mean:

image source

Cenotes were significant to the ancient Maya people because it was the only place to get fresh water during the dry season. You might say cenotes were kinda important. Vital, actually. Because of this, cenotes also played a huge role in rituals and sacrifices, and many ceremonial artifacts–including human bones–have been discovered in cenotes. All of this plays into my book.

Zaci Cenote

This is the entrance to Zaci cenote.

You take these spooky steps into what you think will be cave.

But then it opens up into a huge pool, surrounded by a stone walkway. We would have gone swimming there but we were there on a Sunday, so alas, we did not. But it was beautiful. Nice that they have a rope across the pool in case you start to drown. 🙂

Loltun Cave

Since cenotes expose the groundwater, many cenotes are connected to each other underground. Sometimes they even have passages to the ocean, if they are near the coast. The Loltun Cave is a cave that connects several cenotes. These are “old” cenotes, so they are no longer filled with water (although they do get a lot of water in them during the rainy season, our guide told us. But then, he also told us that the reason why Mexican men have very little facial hair is because when they are infants their mamas take boiling-hot cloths and lay them on the places they want hair never to grow, so I cannot verify if the man is trustworthy.) If you ever go to Merida, you don’t want to miss this place. This cave was GIGANTIC and breathtaking. I would show you the photos of the inside but they are all too dark. This is the exit:

Those long rope-looking things are roots of banyan trees. Banyan trees love water and they often grow near cenotes with their roots “dripping” down to the surface of the water.

Sacred Cenote

This is one of the most famous cenotes, probably because it is in Chichen Itza, one of the biggest tourist stops in the Yucatan. On the day we were there they had it roped off so I couldn’t get a good angle with my camera. Too many tourists had been falling in, I suppose. Imagine trying to get someone out a cenote. Wow, that would be tricky. Someone should write a book about that.

Dzul-Ha Cenote at the Sotuta de Peon Hacienda

Finally, toward the end of our trip we got to actually swim in a cenote. The Dzul-Ha cenote is totally hidden underground. It was part of the Sotuta Hacienda and they had convenient outdoor stalls where you could change into your bathing suit (under the bright blue sky!) and then you go down the stairs into this cave where the cenote awaits, refreshing and cool. I am sure my sister is thrilled that the only photo I have of this cenote is of her. I was too busy swimming to care about posing in my bathing suit for ya’ll.

If you want to see some truly wondrous photographs of cenotes you should check these out:

http://www.melandramzi.com/activities-in-riviera-maya/cenotes/

http://galleonadventures.com/cenote-mexico-explore-riviera-maya-cenote-trail/

I hope that gives you a little more insight into what my book is about. Stay tuned!

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Filed under writing

Tagged as cenotes, mexico, writing research

September 15, 2015 · 3:02 am

To The Person Who Gave Me This Cup

It was very hot that day, hottest day of the summer, and I was in as good a place as anyone to judge since I was in my jeans and a t-shirt mowing the lawn in the middle of the day, sweating like a racehorse. My lawn has no flat place so I am always either going up or going down. It is a hill-of-a-yard to mow, if you know what I mean.

When you walked up my driveway in your sunglasses and sundress I had the desire to quickly disappear into my house to powder my nose or change my shirt, but you were too close to for a graceful escape, and had I tried to run I would have only looked like a criminal guilty of something worse than just looking like a sweaty farmer.

Forgive me for my initial judgmental thoughts. I thought perhaps you were coming to tell me that my dog was in your yard or I was mowing during your party (you did look party-worthy with your breezy clothes and carrying that frosty cup). I cut the engine on the motor and wiped the sweat off my forehead and greeted you with as much refinement as I could muster. You said nothing, or at least, if you did, I don’t remember what it was, because you handed me the cup–the cold, cold cup–filled with water and little floating icebergs, and all thoughts vanished from my mind. I couldn’t have been more happy if you had given me a jar of Nutella and a spoon. You turned and sauntered away as if rescuing neighbors on the verge of heat stroke was normal for you. I walked in slow circles around my lawn mower, sipping the water that was as cold and clear as an Alaskan cruise, before putting down the cup and pulling the cord to finish the job. Though I returned the cup to you later, filled with grape tomatoes from my garden, I’m sure it did not give you the satisfaction that it gave me.

To the person who left this in my garage:

My husband was out of town, my children were at lessons, my van was dead. You picked up my kids, brought them home, and with this contraption you cleaned the van’s battery, jump-started it, followed me to Auto Zone, waited while I got a new battery, and didn’t leave until my car started on its own.

Why don’t you wear a cape?

I promise I will bring it back to you, and I’ve already made muffins for you (but they got eaten) and then I made cupcakes (they got eaten, too; I live with wolves). But you are a health-nut so you probably wouldn’t have appreciated them anyway, which is okay, since I’ve never been widely known for my baking. So I wanted to do something for you that I am known for.

Thank you, kind sir.

To the person who left this on my piano bench:

It was a rehearsal, and I was the pianist for 30+ children. I have never been a pianist for a public group before. I usually direct choirs, not accompany them. I was truly a fish out of water, but still enjoying myself since I am a fish that loves to try new things. I hit many wrong notes, but was doing surprisingly well when measured against my past. It was cold in the room, though, and playing piano when your fingers are cold is a lot like trying to speak Spanish when you’re eating ice cream. I rubbed my hands together. I sat on them. I put them under my arms. I thought to myself, next week I’ll bring gloves. Of course, I forgot.

At the following week’s rehearsal you dropped this in my lap. It was hot. It was a homemade rice bag, fresh out of the church microwave. It fit in my hand perfectly.

I love you.

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Tagged as gratitude, random acts of kindness

September 7, 2015 · 9:07 pm

The Godsend: The Gift of a Second Marriage

Photo by Bill VandeMerwe

Today, eight years ago, my mother eloped. Goodness knows she would have never let me do such a thing.

My five siblings, their spouses, and her 24 grandchildren were not invited to the wedding. Neither were any of the groom’s seven children, their spouses or his grandchildren. It was just the two of them, in the temple, married for time.

The two had been introduced to each other by a family member. Their first date had a stunning backdrop: a huge reservoir in Wyoming, surrounded by rugged, snow-capped mountains. He was there on his boat, and she was to meet him at the dock at a predesignated time. From the lake, he could see my mother’s little red car drive across the dam. He gunned the engines towards the dock and trolled up to the platform just as she walked up.

From where she was standing she could see that he was tall, robust, and handsome.

“You must be Terry,” she said.

“You must be Patsy,” he said.

“Are you a good guy?” she said.

“Depends on who is keeping score,” he said. He helped her into the boat and off they went.

My mother had been a widow for four years. She moved to a new home in town, she dated, and she even served a mission to South Africa. And although she filled up her time with worthwhile things and was surrounded by good people who loved her, including forests of relatives, that didn’t take a way the fact that she went home to an empty house every evening, slept in a bed by herself, and woke up staring at an empty pillow. She had no one to make plans with, no one to share meals with and no one with whom she could anticipate the future. Sundays were the hardest. For my mother, this was like never waking from a bad dream.

Being single is hard at any age. And being an older single person comes with its own unique challenges. By that time people have lived pretty full lives. They’ve collected a lot of memories, children, and survived a variety challenges. It is different than two young 20-year-olds falling in love and building a life together. When you are older, lives have already been built. Change is not just hard, it is titanic. It is hard to find someone with whom you can relate and who will be willing to merge your lives together.

So when Terry came along, he road into my mother’s life like Zorro, saving the day. He owned horses (a passion of my mother’s), he was a crack-shot with a gun (I know some of you out there might not find this attractive, but we westerners do) and he could fix anything. My mother and Terry found they had much in common. They both had seven children. They both had the same beliefs. They both liked popcorn.

They were married by fall.

Surely it took adjustments for them as they settled into being married to a new person. I know it did. And their most stressful adjustment was probably us adjusting to them. When a new person comes into a very old family, the transition can be tricky, and it goes much further than do we call him by his name or do we call him “Dad.” There is an unspoken resistance by the adult children that is painful and takes work to subdue.

Am I being disloyal to my father if I accept this new man in his place? Will Mom love him more than she loved Dad? Can we still tell stories about my dad? Or do we have to stop talking when Terry enters the room? All we have left of my dad are the memories. If we can’t speak of him, and sing his songs, will my dad be forgotten? Oh the pain!

In an ironic twist, Terry’s name rhymes with Jerry, the name of my father. And to twist it even further, my dad was also good with horses, a gun and could fix anything. My children would always see this newcomer as their grandfather. Who is this man to come in and take the place of my father? Not only that, but to elope with my mom like they were a couple of rebellious teenagers!

But I will admit the truth, that after observing the loneliness of my mother, and despite my fears, which I knew were 95% selfish, I was happy to welcome Terry into the family. But Terry still had to show us what he was made of. There were a lot of eyes watching him.

Was he a good guy?

My mother loves perfume. My father’s favorite scent on her was Beautiful, and my mom wore it all the time, even after my dad passed away. Terry, however, is allergic to Beautiful, and most of my mother’s other perfumes. But knowing that this was something important to her, he went to the fragrance counter at the department story and wheezed and choked through a half dozen bottles of perfume until he found one that didn’t make his eyes water. This he bought for her, and this is what she wears.

On Memorial Day he and my mother went to visit cemeteries. First they went to the cemetery where his wife is buried. Then they went to the cemetery over the mountain, where my father is buried. My father’s headstone was covered with dead grass. Terry got down on one knee and cleaned it off. He noticed that the headstone had started to sink and was crooked, so later he brought a crowbar and pried it up, shook in some fill, giving it an new foundation. What kind of man does these things? A darn good one.

From the very beginning Terry made it clear that he was not a replacement. He was a bonus. And that is what we call him: Bonus Dad.

Ultimately, if an adult child wants peace and tranquility and if they desire to continue to have a relationship with their parent, they must humbly admit defeat: My dad is not coming back, my mom is alone, and God has sent us this gift. If our hearts only had room enough for a certain amount of people that would be a very sad thing. Fortunately, hearts can stretch. Infinitely.

Just before she met Terry, when my mother came home from her mission from South Africa, she sat on my couch and told me she felt as if she were at “rock bottom.” That is a scary thing for a child, even an adult child, to hear from their parent. But since she married Terry I have watched her become a phoenix. They have served two missions together, built a house together, they ride horses, they go out on four wheelers, they eat popcorn for dinner . . . sometimes just popcorn. They are more like teenagers than teenagers. He is my mother’s elixir of life, she is his foxy lady. You can live a long time with that combination.

Terry and I have a joke. He always tells me “I love you” and I say “Thanks.” I cannot return the sentiment. I just cannot. The words do not come out of my mouth. I know I do love him (did you hear that, Terry?), but I can’t say it. And I won’t for a long time. I need to keep him waiting. Because the longer he has to wait for my “I love you” the longer he will have to stick around. And I want him to stick around as long as he possibly can.

Happy Anniversary, Mom and Terry. I am happy for you, and I am proud of you.

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Filed under Family History

Tagged as Family, love, marriage, second marriages, widowers, widows

August 27, 2015 · 2:55 am

What Every Mother Needs

When I was a little girl I used to love to creep into my parent’s bedroom when my mother was busy and open up her lingerie drawer.

Inside were all kinds of beautiful, silky fabrics, but what was most wonderful was the smell. My mother would stash fancy soaps among her delicates and it made the contents of the drawer smell like whispering flowers. Then I would peek over the dresser at the mirrored tray that held the exquisitely shaped bottles filled with gold, pink, and amber-colored liquids. On the bottles were printed names like Sand & Sable, Youth-Dew, and Beautiful. I remember watching my mother dab a little perfume on her wrists, neck and behind her ears. I loved hugging my mother and getting a whiff of some blossomy, botanical scent. She always smelled fresh and flowery, like an angel holding a bouquet. Sometimes I would secretly squirt some on myself when she wasn’t looking, so that I could smell like her.

Fast forward twenty-five years. I am a mother of five, and my clothes are constantly covered in some sort of human slime. I spend my most of my time cleaning up after dogs and children, three of whom are male. Do I need to elaborate?

Sometimes I feel as if my day is just a series of cleaning up different varieties of poop. My room frequently smells like a recently changed diaper. My laundry room smells of mildewed rags, and my garage smells of the cat litter box. And then there is the van, a graveyard of dirty socks and half-eaten bananas. Much of my life as a mom is spent battling one odor after another.

I know I am not alone in this, since as mothers, we (meaning our clothes, our hair and our bodies) are literally the catch-all for every type of unmentionable fluid in a variety of viscosities. Our bodies are loved, battered, climbed on, lunged at, and we are our children’s most favorite pillow, punching bag, pacifier, dish towel and jungle gym. Sometimes it feels like our bodies aren’t even our own. But such is our glorious plight: we are not frigid, far-off, oxygen-deprived planets. We are mini Mother Earths . . . giving, nourishing, replenishing, and also getting polluted upon by all the little inhabitants that depend on us for survival.

One day I went to help in the nursery at our church. I believe I was pregnant at the time. I was with two other women and we started talking about smells. Good smells, bad smells, intentional smells, cover-up smells. We discussed the scents of different types of gum and finally we concluded with the memories of our mothers’ perfume. Instantly I found myself as a seven-year-old again, opening my mother’s drawer and inhaling.

It was then that I realized I hadn’t worn perfume since college. I didn’t even own perfume. And for good reason. What was the point? After you have kids it seems like such an extravagance, and all for nothing. Who is going to smell you? Who is going to appreciate it? No one really cares. Your husband will love you no matter what you smell like . . . right?

I chewed on this thought for a couple days.

After thinking it through, I went to my husband and made a proclamation.

“I’m going to buy something completely frivolous,” I said.

“What is that?” He asked.

“I am going to buy a bottle of perfume,” I said. I let the thought soak for a moment. Then I added, “Expensive perfume.”

Interestingly, my announcement went unchallenged.

And I knew exactly what fragrance I wanted. I had breathed it in on a friend several years earlier and when I asked her what it was she said, “Poeme.” Could there be a more peaceful, blissful name?

So I went to the fragrance counter in a glittery department store and asked for a small . . . no . . . a medium sized bottle. The woman rang up the price. I gulped. I could buy a lot of things with the amount of money it cost. Several days worth of groceries. Four huge bags of dog food. Three boxes of diapers. I have always prided myself on being a practical person. Scott calls me his “low-maintenance beauty queen.” What was I doing, spending all of this money on something that had no purpose? How had I become so materialistic?

I swiped my card. The woman behind the counter put the golden perfume box in a glossy bag and included some free samples of cosmetics. I took the bag from the store, clutching it to my chest wondering if I had just exchanged the family farm for fool’s gold.

That was over two years ago.

I am on my second bottle now. I wear it almost every day. Sometimes I catch a whiff of it on my daughters, which makes me smile, and I have my own ways of knowing that my husband does not regret my purchase, which makes me smile even more. But mostly it is for me, to help me–as the cleaner of children and dogs and toilets and garages–to feel at the very least human, and at the very most a beautiful one.

Every mother needs something that makes her feel human. When your world is in constant chaos, when every day is just a repeat of the last, when you wonder if you have accomplished anything of worth, and when your efforts in civilizing the next generation are shredded like cheese in a grater, you need to have something within your control. You might not be able to control the wild little primates around you, but you can still lift yourself up to some level of refinement, with the hope that eventually the primates will evolve and follow your example.

For me, this means splurging on a bottle of perfume that is slightly more expensive than I can afford. But for you it might be different. It could be as simple as a shower. Or a fluffy towel that is only yours. Or trimming your nails. Or getting a haircut. Or having time to run in the morning. But you must have something, even if it is just making your bed in the morning, so that you can prove you are a lady and not a mountain man. Because sooner or later in your day–it will happen, you know it will–all hell will break loose, and when that happens you can take a deep breath and say, “at least I made my bed this morning,” or “at least I exercised,” or “I know things are crazy right now, but I smell darn good.”

I have a good friend from college. We worked together during the summer at an outdoor camp. We rode horses, we climbed trees, we slept in tipis, we canoed, we dug latrines, we cleaned outhouses. We went days without showering, and we slept the whole summer under the stars. Now she has kids of her own. Once she called me out of the blue and we caught up on each other’s lives. “You’ll never believe this, Chelsea,” she said, “but now, I wear pearls.”

I can believe it.

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Tagged as motherhood, what every woman wants

August 23, 2015 · 1:44 am

The Last Hurrah

School starts tomorrow. That means we are back to a schedule. Back to lessons. Back to hanging out in the dreaded Great Van of Happiness after school. But before the summer is all swallowed up in regimented learning, Scott and I wanted to take our kids on one last camping trip. A trip they would never forget. An adventure to end all other adventures. The mother of all excursions. Something . . . epic.

This is what we came up with.

Day One: Swim at Stone Mountain

There are a lot of waterfalls that come off of this huge mountain. Most of which have signs on them that say: “If you swim here you will probably die.” In fact, there is a special place in one of the parking lots labeled “Ambulance Parking Only.” We went to one of the “safer” waterfalls. This one just had a sign that said “Danger, slippery rocks.” And yes, they were slippery. Wonderfully slippery!

It was beautiful and magical.

It was the perfect place to stage a kiss. If you are into that sort of thing. (Well how do you think we got five kids?)

When we were done we grabbed our towels and drove across the border to our favorite campsite in Virginia. It was raining when we set up our camp, but no one gets wet who camps with Scott Dyreng. We spent a toasty night in our hammocks getting our rest because the next day we would be biking. Seventeen miles.

Day Two: Bike down the Virginia Creeper Trail

Welcome to Damascus, headquarters of one of the coolest bike trails in the country. They even have a shuttle service to get you up the mountain, because yes, all seventeen miles is downhill.

I count going down this trail as one of my top ten favorite experiences of the past decade. Golly Mister, that’s a lot of bikes.

We crossed about 20 bridges left over from when this trail was a railroad.
We saw wildlife, like these black snakes, sunning themselves.

And there were waterfalls all along the way.

This is Levi, chillin’ in his chariot.

We even brought our dog.

As you can see, my assassination attempts have failed. Not only does he live, but he is pampered.

Of course, we had a couple of crashes, and we documented each crash for posterity. Luckily all the crashes occurred in mud so they were all in slow motion.

We carried the evidence of our journey on our backs the rest of the day.

When we finished it was back to base camp for watermelon, Mountain House dinners, popcorn over the fire, and a good night sleep.

Day Three: Hike Grayson Highlands, VA

The next morning we got up, had a gigantic breakfast (including donuts brought by some morning visitors!) and headed out on the final leg of our epic trip. We were on the hunt for Grayson Highland’s famous wild ponies.

All along the path we found these:

And these: And these:

The hills were filled with berries and cows, but no ponies. So we split our group and sent scouts ahead to see if they could find them.

We knew the ponies would be discovered sooner or later.

As the great optimist Scott Kelly says, “Where there is this much manure, there’s gotta be a pony!”

In the meantime we picked berries.

And did berry experiments. We made berry honey, mashed berry jam, and exploding berry and peanut butter sandwiches. Mmmm . . .to die for.

There was even time to take naps in the shade.

In the end we didn’t find the ponies. . . the ponies found us!

As you can see, they are pretty tame wild ponies (except for the one that bit Danny’s shoulder).

What do you do when you are surrounded by tame ponies?

You take pony selfies!

And then it was time to start heading back. Back to schedules, back to lessons, back to school.

We will miss you, Virginia. Until we meet again.

We drove back home Saturday night. By Sunday morning I already had a dream of our next adventure.

We went skydiving.

In the Bahamas.

Scotty, are you game?

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August 4, 2015 · 2:20 pm

Blue Ribbon Bathrooms: Getting Kids To Really Clean The Bathroom

When a parent says “clean the bathroom” they have something very specific in mind. They want to see smooth counters, a sparkling mirror, hair-free floors and a pristine toilet. When a child hears “clean the bathroom” they have a vague impression that they are supposed to take the cleaner and spray as much as they can, and then take a rag and wipe as much as they can, and when their arm feels like it is about to fall off then they are done and it is time to play.

Let’s just say that for children, cleaning the bathroom is not intuitive.

Over the years I have had many informal training sessions with my kids, teaching them how to keep the mirror streak-free and how to keep the counter from getting sticky and to always remember that little forgotten ledge at the back of the toilet. But even after all this, when I told the kids to “clean the bathroom” it never seemed to meet my hopeful expectations. Sometimes the bathroom looked worse after they had “cleaned” it than before.

I have realistic expectations, I know they are children and that they shouldn’t be expected to clean as well as an adult. And that I should keep my standards low.

. . . or should I?

In my heart I had a hunch that they could do a really good job on the bathrooms if they wanted to, and if they had a clear understanding of what “clean” really meant. Plus I wanted the child, whatever her age was, to feel success for whatever level of cleanliness she achieved. And if she went the extra mile I wanted her work to be rewarded. So this summer I introduced the idea of Blue Ribbon Bathrooms. This is based on the concept of Good, Better, Best. This way they can see that there are different levels of clean, and all levels are rewarded respectively.

There are three parts to the Blue Ribbon Bathroom plan:

I assigned each child a bathroom for the entire summer. This was important, since this would be her bathroom to take care of. The better she cleaned her bathroom the first week, the easier it would be for her to clean the next week and so on.
Naomi gets the half-bath since she is younger.
I made a list of what I felt like was a Good cleaning job, a Better cleaning job and a Best cleaning job, laminated it and stuck it on the wall in each bathroom.
The full, readable version is printed at the end of the post.
Then I gave them incentives to match their results. The first incentive was that they got a “ribbon” on the door to show the world what level of cleanliness their bathroom had obtained.
I couldn’t find ribbons at the store with toilets on them so I had to resort to my own trusty pen, paper and scissors.

The second incentive was that they got stickers that could be traded into cash at the end of the summer. A Blue Ribbon bathroom would receive 20 stickers, a Red Ribbon bathroom got 10 and a Yellow Ribbon bathroom got 5. (These stickers were part of a much larger incentive program that also included getting stickers for instrument practicing, book reading, and other chores that lasted the entire summer. Each sticker, at the end of the summer, could be traded in for 10 cents each. But you could use other incentives, too.) The third incentive was the most important: if they cleaned their bathroom well, than the next time they had to clean it it wouldn’t be so hard. The better they cleaned, the less they would have to clean in the long run. This was what I really wanted to teach them.

Even if the kids settle for doing a yellow or red ribbon bathroom, I am still happy. This system has worked great this summer (although not perfectly) and so far it has been the best way to help them understand the difference between a dirty bathroom, a clean bathroom and a spotless bathroom.

Best of all, when a bathroom has really been cleaned, from the faucet all the way to the folded triangle in the toilet paper, and the Blue Ribbon has been placed on their door, I can see the pride that they are feeling, knowing that they went beyond Good or Better but they did their very Best.

Here are the requirements:

Yellow Ribbon Bathroom

Counter cleaned
Mirror cleaned
Toilet cleaned

Red Ribbon Bathroom

Counter cleaned
Mirror cleaned
Toilet cleaned
Toilet bowl scrubbed
Trash taken out
Toilet paper refilled

Blue Ribbon Bathroom

Counter cleaned
Mirror cleaned
Toilet cleaned
Toilet bowl scrubbed
Trash taken out
Toilet paper refilled
Rugs shaken out
Floor swept
Floor washed
Cupboards washed (if needed)
Tub cleaned of soap scum and hairs
Cleaned behind door
Toilet paper folded in a triangle

3 Comments

Filed under Parenting

Tagged as bathroom, Blue Ribbon, cleaning, teaching children to clean

July 18, 2015 · 10:11 pm

The Checkerboard Table

I don’t often get inspiration from bars.

This idea came from a bar in Wyoming that my mother took me to. (We don’t drink, by the way. We were there for the food. More specifically, the peanut butter pie.)

We ate at big varnished tables, painted with checkerboards.

It has been three years now, but ever since that day I knew that my humble kitchen table had a destiny to fulfill.

And now the time had come.

First we stripped and sanded the table.

This is my lovely assistant, Olivia. She is good with math and precision, so I had her draw the lines.

I am good with paint brushes so I colored it in.

Jellybean the cat, who insisted on jumping on the table every chance she got, was eventually banished from the garage.

Olivia administered the first coat of stain.

I was a little nervous about how it would all turn out in the end. I was worried that it didn’t look perfect. “Of course it doesn’t,” said Olivia. “It looks rustic.” Come to think of it, bar tables in Wyoming are generally pretty rustic.

After five coats of stain and four coats of polyurethane and 48 hours of drying time, I had the table I had dreamed of.
And now we were ready to play!

The game, as intense as it seems in the photos, was never finished. Too many of the playing pieces disappeared.

Thanks to my mom for the inspiration and Olivia for the hard work. I envision many happy games and meals and conversations around my new table. Now I just need that recipe for peanut butter pie . . .

4 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

July 15, 2015 · 9:15 am

The Method To Our Madness

This is our secret weapon.

It is the only way anything gets done in our house.

It is in the kitchen, by the breakfast table, so it gets seen constantly.

And it provides the perfect place to put assignments,

reminders,

threats,

and encouragement.

If you do not have one of these go get one. Now. Run. (Buy a pack of colored chalk while you are at it.)

Never underestimate the power of a good chalkboard in the right place.

5 Comments

Filed under Parenting

Tagged as chalkboards, job charts, organization

July 8, 2015 · 12:09 pm

My Top Ten Favorite Biographies

1. Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand

What made this book excellent for me was not that Louis Zamperini survived through what seemed like a conveyer belt of continuous suffering, but his unexpected Miracle in the last chapter. Sadly, the movie adaptation only dealt with the suffering and ended with a strange, artificial climax of Zamperini lifting a railroad tie above his head. The Great Miracle–the the reason the book filled me with wonder and hope as I closed the last page and held it to my beating heart–was omitted. That is why the movie was a disappointment and the book was absolutely brilliant. If you saw the hopeless movie don’t let that stop you from reading the book . . . which is full of Hope.

2. Long Walk to Freedom by Nelson Mandela

I decided to read this book when I learned that my mom was going to serve a mission in South Africa, almost a decade ago, and I still remember what a great impression Mandela’s story left on me. Apartheid in South Africa was a world of which I was completely ignorant, and I was grateful to learn more about him, his country, and his hopeful persistence. I wrote this quote down to remember: “No one is born hating another person because of the color of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite.”

3. The Wright Brothers by David McCullough

When the Wright Brothers came to North Carolina with their wood, muslin and dreams, the people of Kitty Hawk first thought the brothers were just a couple of “poor nuts.” When they weren’t working on their flying machine they stood on the beach, their arms outstretched, mimicking the wing movements of birds. In the end the Ohio boys won the respect of the Outer Banks natives who said that Wilbur and Orville were “two of the workingest boys; they had their whole heart and soul in what they were doing.” For these two brothers, flying was not an impossibility, but merely a puzzle to be solved. Although neither married, they were devoted family men, and they never worked or flew on Sundays, making even large crowds wait until Monday. They were never haughty or belittling to other inventors of the time that had failed before them. This is not the first biography I’ve read on these two men, and it won’t be the last.

4. Black Elk Speaks by John G. Neihardt

By the late 1880’s, it was clear to Native Americans, who were being squeezed into reservations, that success in defending themselves against the waves of white men was all but hopeless. But in 1890, one last united effort to reclaim their lands and dignity was kindled by a mystical dance called the “ghost dance.” The purpose of this dance was to plead to their ancestors for help and to summon them fight against the white men. The story of the Ghost Dance movement is described by Black Elk, a healer and a survivor of the Battle of Little Big Horn and the Wounded Knee Massacre, and dictated by him through an interpreter to John G. Neihardt. This book was recommended to me as a teenager by a Native American friend (Thanks, Dan) to help me understand the Native American way of shaman and visions, and the great faith they had in their ancestors.

5. Galileo’s Daughter by Dava Sobel

I thought that I knew something about Galileo before I read this book, but I found out after reading this that I knew as much about Galileo as the Catholics at that time knew about the universe. (Very little.) This is a book of correspondence between Galileo and his devoted and loving daughter, Maria Celeste. Few, if any of Galileo’s letters to her survive (she was a nun, so many of her personal belongings were destroyed), but he carefully saved many of hers. Through these letters we learn how she patiently supports her father as he tries in vain to convince the world that the sun, not the earth, is the center of the universe. She continues to minister to him, through letters, as he enters and undergoes the trial of his life. Notwithstanding his perilous position as potential heretic, Galileo always had great respect for the religious beliefs of his church and wanted to show others that Catholics were not being ignorant or stupid, but steadfast. Although Galileo was at odds with the church, but he was never at odds with his Maker. As Sobel wrote, Galileo felt that “To imagine an infinite universe was merely to grant almighty God His proper due.”

6. Mountains Beyond Mountains by Tracy Kidder

From this book I learned about the power that one determined physician can have when he uses his talents to serve the poorest people on the earth. It is also a book that makes you extremely uncomfortable, because your conscience jabs you and whispers things like “what more can you do for those that are suffering?” As Tracy Kidder, Dr. Paul Farmer’s biographer said “ . . . I can imagine Farmer saying he doesn’t care if no one else is willing to follow their example. He’s still going to make these hikes, he’d insist, because if you say that seven hours is too long to walk for two families of patients, you’re saying that their lives matter less than some others’, and the idea that some lives matter less is the root of all that’s wrong with the world.”

7. Seabiscuit by Laura Hillenbrand images

When you get tired of reading biographies about people, read this biography (zoography?) about a horse. This read was excellent. Hillenbrand is not only a thorough biographer but also a great storyteller. And, incidentally, the Seabiscuit movie, unlike Unbroken, is wonderful.

8. Endurance by Alfred Lansing

The odds were against Shackleton and his crew from the beginning. The odds usually are when you are planning an expedition to Antarctica, and this triumphant story was all but hidden from the world’s headlines since most of the attention was on the Great War in Europe. Only later did Shackleton’s amazing adventure story get the attention it deserved. I’ve read this book twice and loved it both times. My favorite part is when they cross the open ocean to South Georgia in a small lifeboat, relying on a sextant and the stars. Soooo exciting.

9. Joseph Smith: Rough Stone Rolling by Richard Bushman

This honest biography of Joseph Smith depicts his successes, his failures, and the parts of his history most church historians like to skip, like his role in early polygamy. I enjoyed this open and candid perspective written by a firm believer in the faith, who demonstrates that we do not need to be ashamed of the history of the Prophet, and that only by understanding history as it really was that we can gain insights into Joseph’s character, purpose and his vision for the eternal destinies of his people.

10. I Am Malala by Malala Yousafzai

The Moonlight Bookreader’s Guild (the book club I am a part of) read this when it first came out and we loved every word. There is something about the courage of a young girl that sparks a fire in the hearts of older women. We either hope we could be as gracefully brave or we pray our daughters can. The earth can never have enough Malalas.

Chelsea Dyreng

Teaching Kids To Love Books

Cenote Tutorial

To The Person Who Gave Me This Cup

The Godsend: The Gift of a Second Marriage

What Every Mother Needs

The Last Hurrah

Blue Ribbon Bathrooms: Getting Kids To Really Clean The Bathroom

The Checkerboard Table

The Method To Our Madness

My Top Ten Favorite Biographies

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