I’m sure we’re all very sorry to hear the site of Brian Stouder’s upcoming vacation is now a muddy bog. But we’re more amused by his reaction:
We’ll see how this plays out; our plans are for after the 4th of July. If nothing else, I definitely wanna see that Paul Bunyan restaurant.
The cry of the Midwestern Clark Griswold: Carry on regardless! It’s just a flesh wound!
The weather here’s been no picnic, but a fraction of the misery of Wisconsin’s — or even Indiana’s. A big storm system smashed through here Sunday night, but gave the east side the slip, mostly. A few limbs down, nothing worse. It’s pouring at the moment, which lately feels like par for the course. At least it’s not 94 degrees, like yesterday.
When we kick off with the weather around these parts, it means we are tapioca on topics. The end of the school year happens in 3-2-1, and as usual, it blots out the household sun. I’m looking forward to sleeping past 7 a.m., not looking forward to swinging the maternal whip of get-off-the-couch-and-go-outside-it’s-a-beautiful-day. So far I’ve resisted the pull of the upwardly mobile summer — enrichment camps and lessons in lifetime sports. I’m a firm believer in down time as a restorative, and all those camps and lessons can quickly feel like a different form of school. She has to learn to swim, and I’d like her to learn to sail, but so far I haven’t packed her off to High-Q Acres for pre-algebra training. If she refuses to get off the couch this summer, the next one might be a different story, however.
One thing I’m trying this year: A summer reading list. Part of the commodification of the tween years has been a veritable explosion in targeted literature — chick lit for 12-year-olds. It’s enough to keep a kid occupied for months, but I aim to shove it aside from time to time. I had my Nancy Drew, she has her Beacon Street Girls, but I had a “suggested summer reading” list, handed out at the end of the school year. It was strongly implied that there might be a quiz in September (there never was), but it was enough to make me pick up “Animal Farm,” “Johnny Tremain” and a few other classics of the children’s/young adult room at the library. I’m making my own list, and welcome suggestions for an 11-year-old reading at the outer edge of her age range. So far I’ve got some Jack London on there, and thought about “Little Women,” but was amazed to rediscover what a brick it was. Five hundred pages of antique language and exhaustive period detail can bog down even a bright reader of the modern age. I tried to recall when I read it, and the dread set in — I’d read a Reader’s Digest condensed version! Illustrated! What a fraud I am. It’s still on the bubble; I may reread it myself. “Tom Sawyer” is on the list, too.
Off to do some chores. Back in a bit.