Overheard at Walmart

It's been quite a while since I've overheard anything at Walmart that was worth repeating. Of course, that could be because I put off going there until it's an absolute necessity, and then while there I rush from aisle to aisle, snatching what I need off the shelves in a desperate rush to get out.

However, a little girl made my recent trip there worthwhile. She and her mother rounded the end of the aisle, making their way toward me. The little girl was chattering; the mother was nodding and making "um-hmm" kinds of sounds as she scanned the shelves, not really paying her daughter any attention.

LITTLE GIRL: Yada yada yada . . . And my ear was really hurting. Really hurting. It was an emotional pain.

MOM: (beginning to laugh as the little girl's words finally get her attention) Oh, really? And what is emotional pain?

LITTLE GIRL: It's a special kind of pain. And it hurts really bad. I don't like it when my ear has emotional pain.

Boy, me neither.

Booking It--Encouragement

How can you encourage a non-reading child to read? What about a teen-ager? Would you require books to be read in the hopes that they would enjoy them once they got into them, or offer incentives, or just suggest interesting books? If you do offer incentives and suggestions and that doesn’t work, would you then require a certain amount of reading? At what point do you just accept that your child is a non-reader?

In the book Gifted Hands by brilliant surgeon Ben Carson, one of the things that turned his life around was his mother’s requirement that he and his brother read books and write book reports for her. That approach worked with him, but I have been afraid to try it. My children don’t need to “turn their lives around,” but they would gain so much from reading and I think they would enjoy it so much if they would just stop telling themselves, “I just don’t like to read.”

Boy, what a question. I know when my children were young, I read books and articles that recommended letting them see how important reading is to you by reading in front of them, making reading material readily available in your household, reading aloud to them, talking about books you've enjoyed, etc. I did all of those things. Probably to excess. I wanted my kids to be readers.

My success rate? 1 out of 3.

My oldest is a reader. He reads for pleasure, and he reads for knowledge. We discuss books and recommend books to each other. There is no doubt that reading is an important part of his life. My daughter reads only rarely and my youngest son not at all.

I don't think that my efforts were in vain, however, even if I didn't have a 100% success rate. The books that I read aloud to my children gave us some wonderful shared memories. They'll see or hear something and say, "Oh, Mom, that's like what we read in . . ." Or "Mom, do you remember that book you read us about so-and-so? . . ." And they still laugh at me for the time I couldn't finish reading Sounder to them because I was crying too hard. My oldest son said, "Here, Mom, give the book to me" and finished reading the last chapter.

I know that you can encourage reading in children, but I don't think there are any guaranteed methods for turning your children into readers. I really do believe it is at least partly born in a child. My reading was encouraged by my parents and my aunt who read to me and by teachers and librarians who recognized and encouraged my love of reading, but I truly believe I would have been a reader anyway. I need to read. However, my brother, who NEVER read a book in his life that he wasn't made to (and even then, he probably read the blurb and only enough of the book to fake a book report) has a daughter who is a voracious reader.

Of course, that's a neat thing, because she and I get to talk books.

So, what do you do? The best you can.

Bouncing off Bushes

This past Sunday was our anniversary, and to celebrate we went away for the weekend to Eureka Springs. We stayed in a small log cabin and watched the deer roaming all around the area. We walked the steep streets of the town, checking out quaint little shops and even quainter people. We walked through the supposedly-haunted Crescent Hotel on Saturday night, but we weren't accosted by any supernatural beings. We lingered over a wonderful anniversary meal, and strolled again, looking at the Christmas lights and the Living Windows displays in some of the shops downtown. It's nice to get away from the everyday, to relax, and to spend uninterrupted time together.

But we couldn't go to Eureka Springs without visiting the site of one of our funny family stories. We hadn't visited the town since our children were small. When we were there back then, we took the kids out to see Christ of the Ozarks, a seven-story-tall statue of Jesus, high up on a mountain. Our daughter was only four or five I guess, and she'd climbed up the hill, near the statue, and then had turned and started back down as I watched from below. Things went fine at first, but then, as she came downhill she began to pick up speed. I mean a lot of speed. Before she knew it, she was flying down the hill, totally out of control, her steps covering huge amounts of ground, her eyes big as saucers. She was terrified.

And I was laughing hysterically. I realize this is not a "good mom" kind of thing, but it's the truth. I laughed so hard I grew weak. I positioned myself to catch her, but at the last minute she somehow changed course, bounced off a bush and then into me, knocking us both down. My husband witnessed it all. In his defense, he was too far away to help us. In my defense, he was laughing too.

For some reason, this story amuses me a lot more than it does my daughter.

Angels or Demons

Did you hear about the Pamela Root/Southwestern Airlines controversy? Root boarded a flight in Amarillo with her two-year-old son Adam, who proceeded to yell, scream, and wail so long and so loudly that passengers could not even hear the safety announcements. It was so bad that the pilot finally returned to the gate and had a flight attendant ask the mother and son to deboard the plane.

If I were Root, I would have been terribly embarassed. But was she? No. Of course not. She was "appalled" and "angry" that the airlines would do that to her. She demanded an apology. And a free flight. And reimbursement for diapers and a portable crib she had to buy for an overnight stay at her parents'. Not once did she acknowledge the rights of the other passengers to a calm, quiet flight. Not once did she feel the need to apologize to the other passengers for her son's uncontrollable behavior and/or the subsequent flight delay.

I agree with Amy Alkon, a columnist for the Los Angeles Times:

"Parents like Root and others who selfishly force the rest of us to pay the cost of their choices in life aren't just bothering us; they're stealing from us. Most people don't see it this way because what they're stealing isn't a thing we can grab on to, like a wallet. They're stealing our attention, our time and our peace of mind.

"More and more, we're all victims of these many small muggings every day. [ . . . ] These little acts of social thuggery are inconsequential in and of themselves, but they add up--wearing away at our patience and good nature and making our daily lives feel like one big wrestling smackdown."

When I was a child and we went out in public--to eat, to shop, to watch a movie, whatever--my parents made it clear to us that good behavior was expected. We didn't yell and run around in restaurants. We didn't talk loudly in movies. We quietly stayed with our parents while they shopped, and if we didn't do these things we suffered the consequences and quickly got ourselves back in line. Dad's refrain was something along the lines of "These people didn't come here to be disturbed by you." In other words, we were taught to be aware of others and to show them respect. Consequently, we learned to respect others and ourselves.

My husband and I raised our children the same way. When they were babies, if one started to cry while we were in a restaurant, one of us would take him or her out. The other would watch the other children and finish eating; then we'd switch places. It wasn't fun, but it was our crying child and our responsibility. The other diners didn't deserve to have their meal ruined by a wailing baby, so we did the right thing. When the children got older, we shifted some of the responsibility to them. We explained how we expected them to behave in advance. We explained why. We explained the consequences of misbehavior, and we also told them that how they acted would affect how likely they were to be rewarded with future fun outings. The rules were the same if we were eating at McDonalds or a nice restaurant. Our children were not perfect, but they learned quickly, and I remember several instances of older couples stopping by our table and commenting on how nice it was to see children behave so well in public.

I understand and appreciate the sentiment. When our children were small, my husband and I didn't get many nice evenings out, and if we did, the last thing we wanted to hear was a crying baby or a screaming toddler.

Respect. What a concept.

Tyler Parten Memorial Fund

The donations to this foundation will be used to carry on Tyler's passion and heart to work with children and share his gift of music all over the world. His family will be using the money to send soldiers harmonicas, and other items Tyler used, to reach the children of Afghanistan, in addition to supporting missionaries and teachers in regions near to his heart, such as Africa and Morocco.

A tax-deductable foundation in Tyler Parten's name has been created to carry out his love and passion for children across the world. Donations can be made payable to the 1st Lt Tyler Parten Memorial Fund and mailed to C/O ARCF 1400 West Markham, Suite 206, Little, Rock, AR 72201.

1st Lt. Tyler E. Parten, 24, of Arkansas

The Department of Defense announced the death of a soldier who was supporting Operation Enduring Freedom. 1st Lt. Tyler E. Parten, 24, of Arkansas, died Sept. 10 in Konar province, Afghanistan, of wounds sustained when insurgents attacked his unit using rocket-propelled grenades and small arms fire. He was assigned to the 3rd Squadron, 61st Cavalry Regiment, 4th Brigade Combat Team, 4th Infantry Division, Fort Carson, Colo.

Booking It--15 Children's Books

Here are the rules: Don't take too long to think about it. Fifteen children's books you've read/remember being read to you that will always stick with you. First fifteen you can recall in no more than 15 minutes.

Strawberry Girl

Winnie the Pooh

The Trixie Belden series

The Nancy Drew series

Charlotte's Web

Little House series

Any book by Beverly Cleary

Curious George

The Hundred Dresses

Aesop's Fables

Caddie Woodlawn

The Witch of Blackbird Pond

Hatchet

Sarah, Plain and Tall

I don't know the name of it, but it was a Little Golden Book about a pig named George who ate so many doughnuts he exploded.

Overheard

Conversation overheard while we were out having lunch last Sunday:

Little Girl: " . . . and my stomach was hurting really bad, and it felt like I was gonna throw up, and I did throw up. Right on Mama's dress . . . "

Older Lady: What did Mama say?

Little Girl: "She didn't like it very much . . ."

I can sympathize. My youngest child threw up right on top of my head in the checkout line at Sam's, once. I didn't like it very much either.

Sunday Funnies

Those Were the Days

My husband stopped by to visit our neighbor the other afternoon, and his little girl, now in first grade, ran up to give him a hug.

“Hey!” he said. “What are you learning in school now?”

She sighed really big, wrinkled her nose, and complained: “Double digits!”

It is fruit . . .

Last weekend, we went out to eat at one of our favorite restaurants. At the table next to us sat a young boy, about four or five years old, with his parents and his grandmother. The little boy was enjoying his dessert when he stopped with a bite of apple cobbler mid-air and said, “You know, grandma, I could eat this stuff for breakfast.”

Sounds good to me.

Sympathy for Mom

My friend Amy wrote a post on her blog the other day about having THE TALK with her young daughter, and it reminded me of a story I just have to share. It’s sort of related to sex. And it is about a child. Close enough.

Although he doesn’t have any now, my husband has raised cattle at various times in the past. One day, he had a cow that was having trouble calving. This didn’t happen often, but when it did he’d call Uncle Dub, who thought it was great fun to come help pull a calf.

Well, Uncle Dub was duly called but it would be a while before he could make it. So, my husband did what farmers have done for centuries—he put the wife and kids to work.

My job was to use my body to hold the cow up against the wall while my husband tied a rope around the calf and then pulled it out. Oh, and I was supposed to try to comfort the cow while he’s doing this. Now, I’m not quite an Amazon woman. I mean, five foot four inches pretty much sums me up, but I was giving it my best shot. The two older kids were helping my husband pull. It looked a lot like a one-sided tug of war game with the other end of the rope in a pretty weird place. Our youngest son just stood over in the corner of the barn, watching.

Finally, out came the slippery, bloody calf, alive and well. It was a pretty exciting moment for all of us.

Slowly, my youngest son walked up to me, big-eyed, and asked, “Momma, did they have to do that to you?”

Sunday Funnies

Renaming

I love the way families have special words, usually coined by the children. We call a billfold a bofield thanks to our oldest son. He also gave us smell-good for cologne, as in “Dad, can I wear some of your smell-good?” Our daughter renamed the elbow the bowain. And, yes, we do still use these words, but we try not to do it in public.

Right now, I’m reading Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, and she shares a couple of her family’s special words:

In a few months we’d be drunk on the scent of Lizzie Webb’s mock oranges and lilacs, but the show begins modestly in April with her tiny Lenten roses, white–petaled snowdrops, and the wildish little daffodils called jonquils that have naturalized all over the grassy slopes. As Lily and I walked single file up the path to the greenhouse, I noticed these were up, poking their snub, yellow-tipped noses through a fringe of leaves.

“Oh, Mama,” Lily cried, “look what’s about to bloom—the tranquils.”

There went the last of the needles of ice around my heart, and I understood I’d be doomed to calling the jonquils tranquils for the rest of my days. Lily is my youngest. Maybe you know how these things go. In our family, those pink birds with the long necks are called flingmos because of how their real name was cutely jumbled by my brother’s youngest child—and that was, yikes, twenty years ago.

Ah, the joy of children and language.

This Is Not a Political Statement . . .

Jenna Bush's response to reporter Ann Curry's question about what the American public should know about her father: “That he’s incredibly open-minded, that he’s smart, incredibly smart.”

Read the statement above and then take a good long look at the picture.

Okay, no matter your political leanings, you just have to admit this is funny!

More Eavesdropping

Earlier, I wrote a post about Eavesdropping at Walmart. Here are two more overheard conversations:

One day, I was standing in line at the photo lab. The line was pretty long, and the young man in front of me finally made it to the counter. He then began—in Spanish—to explain what he wanted to the elderly woman manning the register. The woman waited until he paused, then said very loudly, as if he were hearing impaired rather than speaking a different language, “Sir, you need to leave now and come back with somebody who can talk.”

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Just a day or two ago, I’d made my weekly grocery run and was piling items on the conveyor belt, all the voices around me melting into a low, easily-ignorable hum. As I stood, ready to slide my debit card, a distinct, little-girl voice rose above the rest. “It’s time for you to be quiet now, grandpa,” she said.

I guess she’d had enough of him for one day.

Genre Troubles

Our adult Sunday School class finished up a series on the parables last Sunday with the parable of the Wise and Foolish Builders, and I can never think of this Bible passage without remembering an incident from my childhood.

One Sunday when I was four- or five-years-old, our Sunday School teacher gave us an assignment. During the coming week, we were to ask our parents to help us to learn one of the parables, and then, next Sunday, we’d each share our parable with the class.

I went home and told my Mom about the assignment, but she never helped me learn a parable.

The next Sunday, the teacher went around the room asking each child to share his or her parable. When it was my turn, I told the teacher I didn’t have one. The teacher was surprised but kindly moved on to the next child.

After class, my Mom asked me how I did telling my parable. “I didn’t have one to share,” I replied.

Stunned, my Mom said, “Of course you did. Don’t you remember? We talked about the wise man building his house on the rock, and the foolish man building his house on the sand? And then the foolish man’s house fell down?”

“Oh, Mom,” I said, with the full disdain of childhood. “Of course I remembertalking about that. But that’s a song, not a parable.”

Probably not the first or last time I embarrassed my mother.



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Michael Crichton, author of Jurassic Park and creator of the TV show ER, died on Tuesday at age 66.

His first novel, The Andromeda Strain, was published in 1969 while he was still attending Harvard Medical School.

Not the Way Momma Did It

When my oldest son Travis was about two or three years old, his favorite book was Richard Scarry’s Best Word Book Ever, basically a dictionary with lots of wonderful pictures. He’d go get the book, pull me to a chair, then sit in my lap and flip through it, pointing out which definition I was to read next. Over and over again. Day after day. He’d laugh delightedly; I longed desperately for narrative, even the Little Golden Book kind.

Over time the game morphed. Now, I was supposed to flip through the book and point to a picture, and since he’d memorized all the words and their definitions, he would “read” them to me, word for word, in any order.

Gradually we moved on from Richard Scarry and picture books, and as the kids got older I read them books like Charlotte’s Web, Ramona the Pest, and Amos Fortune, Free Man. We read Bridge to Terabithia, The Witch of Blackbird Pond, and Sounder. They loved Shel Silverstein’s Where the Sidewalk Ends and all of Gary Paulsen’s Hatchet series. And of course I read them the Chronicles of Narnia. And yes, I even did the voices.

Partial payback for all that time spent reading aloud came a few weeks ago. Travis told me he’d finally gotten to see the new film version of Prince Caspian, but said he’d had trouble getting into the movie.

Why? "The Reepicheep voice was all wrong," he told me. "It didn’t sound at all like the way you did it."

Speaking of Cars . . .

Back when I was driving what we fondly called the Cruise Liner, an old blue Bonneville chosen because the back seat was big enough to hold two child seats and a strap-in infant carrier, I had one of those moments. If you’re a parent, you know what I mean.

It was a beautiful spring day, and I had just been to buy groceries with a four-year-old, a two-year-old, and an infant. I was completely worn down by the effort required to select groceries (on a tight budget) and push a buggy while managing three small children. As I was driving home, all three of the children were crying at the top of their lungs, and I really wanted to.

Just at that moment, a convertible passed me, top down. It was full of smiling girls singing along with the radio, hair blowing in the wind, not a care in the world.

I looked over at them and thought, “I’d pay a hundred dollars to be in that car right now.”

Romans, Cowboys, and Rude People

After the Christianity and Literature Conference in Shawnee, Oklahoma, last weekend, my husband and I drove on to Oklahoma City to spend the night and see a few sights. (Terry’s not much interested in literature, but there was a huge horse sale going on in Shawnee that kept him entertained.) After checking into our hotel room, we headed straight for the Oklahoma City Museum of Art to view their current exhibit “Roman Art from the Louvre.” We saw full length marble statues—of Caligula and Trajan, busts of Marcus Aurelius and Tiberius, reliefs, mosaics, and lintels. We saw jewelry, funeral urns, and an intricately carved sarcophagus. I think the mosaics were my favorite. The colors are still so beautiful, and I can’t imagine the skill and patience it takes to turn all those little-bitty puzzle pieces into a huge work of art. The statues were really fascinating, the hair painstakingly detailed, the togas draping so fluidly I wanted to reach out and touch them. As beautiful as they were, though, after going to Italy a couple of years ago and seeing the work of Michelangelo, even I could tell these sculptures weren’t anywhere close. I admired these, but when I stood in front of Michelangelo’s David, I cried.

We left the museum and walked the few blocks to view the Oklahoma City National Memorial, a tribute to both the victims and survivors of the April 19, 1995 bombing. The memorial is beautiful and moving, with the Gates of Time at each end framing the moment of disaster, its empty chair for each victim facing the Reflecting Pool, an incongruously peaceful space to contemplate an act of terrorism. As I stood there, thinking about what had happened in this place, I found it almost impossible to believe that one human being could, with full intent, do this to another, and I thought of the lines from Robert Burns’ poem, “From Man was made to Mourn: A Dirge, 1785”:

“Man's inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn!”

The next day, we visited the National Cowboy & Western Heritage Museum. I never imagined there were that many types of barbed wire! You think I’m kidding, but there was a whole room devoted to it—drawers and drawers of it, categorized by number of strands, size of strands, number of barbs, size of barbs, types of barbs. Who knew? There were firearms displays, rodeo exhibits, saddles and tack, a Western Frontier section with Native American artifacts, military paraphernalia, and the tools of hunters and trackers. There was a Cowgirl photo exhibit, a Western Performers gallery with dime novels, movie posters, and a larger-than-life statue of John Wayne. They had paintings and sculpture by Frederick Remington, Charles Russell, Albert Bierstadt, and William R. Leigh. And, right before we left, we walked through a reconstructed circa 1900 Western cattle town, complete with its own saloon, school, church, newspaper, and blacksmith’s shop. So in the space of twenty four hours, we toured ancient Rome and the Old West. Not bad for a mini-vacation.

Okay, I’ve talked about Romans and Cowboys. Now we get to rude people. To me, viewing a work of art is a lot like reading a great piece of literature. You have to be able to concentrate, to focus, to enter that world, to get the most out of the experience. I think most people would agree. The Museum of Art was quite crowded, but most people viewed a work, read the placard, and moved on as quickly as they could to let the next person also have the pleasure. If they talked at all, it was in a quiet whisper in the ear of the person next to them. But a few patrons just didn’t get it. One young man seemed to be delivering a lecture to his girlfriend in front of every statue or lintel. I couldn’t tell whether or not she was enjoying it, but it was clear that the rest of the people there were not.

At the Western Museum, one couple blithely viewed the exhibits while their children ran, whooped, and hollered in the next room. (I really appreciated it when the security guard tracked the parents down and told them to control their children.) This same family traipsed all over the grounds, perfectly assured that the “Keep off the Grass” signs were not intended for them. An older woman, convinced alike that the “Turn Off Cell Phones” sign didn’t apply to her, let hers ring repeatedly throughout the Museum, interminably fumbling in her purse to press a button to stop the ringing each time, but never actually TURNING THE PHONE OFF. One couple discussed everything they saw, loudly and at length, as if they had each gallery to themselves.

I simply cannot understand this type of behavior. If the sign asks me to turn off my phone, I do it right then. If it says to stay off the grass, I obey. I always try to be aware of others and make sure I don’t unnecessarily block something they are also trying to view. If my husband and I talk, we whisper quietly. When our children were young, we took them to museums and other arts events, but always with the admonitions: “Stay right here beside me!” and “Be very quiet. Other people do not want to hear you.” These warnings worked because our children knew the consequences of not heeding—and it wasn’t just an endlessly repeated refrain of “Now, Momma told you . . .” There were physical consequences for misbehavior, something which has amazing results: You can take your children out in public and they actually behave. What a radical idea.

My Vote Goes To . . .

I don’t usually post twice in one day, but I could not help myself. Like many Americans, last night I watched coverage of the RNC, mostly to find out just who Sarah Palin is. As she spoke of tax cuts, and job experience, and her dreams for our country, my heart was stolen . . . by her seven-year-old daughter Piper. Sitting in the VIP box with the rest of the Palin family, little Piper’s confident smile contrasted with the hesitant and self-conscious smiles of her older siblings. Ever alert to protocol, she mouthed “Do we stand up now?” when the Palin family was acknowledged from the stage. During her mother’s speech, several times the camera panned to show her quite competently holding her four-month-old baby brother Trig. But when it captured her licking her hand and smoothing down the baby’s hair, well, it was all over for me. My vote goes to Piper Palin for Best Big Sister.