Working on a Bridge

Did you see the covered bridge that went downstream when hurricane Irene slammed Vermont? The Bartonsville covered bridge used to stand a mile downstream from where I live. Every Tuesday on our way to Classical Conversations we would drive through it. My husband and I exchanged our first kiss on this bridge, and we have taken it back on every crossing since. It was near and dear to our hearts (the bridge, that is), and the people of Bartonsville village are working hard to raise funds to build another. But will we end up with an historic bridge rebuilt with recovered original materials, a new covered bridge bearing the date 2013, or a two-lane cement bridge?

I am learning something about my roles as mother and tutor as I watch my community wrestle with this one. It touches on a comment I keep hearing from the parents with whom I work: “I recognize the value of these tough assignments, but how can we manage when our circumstances make it nearly impossible to achieve excellence?” These parents aren’t whining about the workload; they are juggling challenges in the home that seem to conflict with the goals of the program. Parents, and the people of Bartonsville, have three choices: to work for nothing less than the best, to accept a more modest goal, or to settle for just enough.

The latter option, I assure you, is repugnant to residents of our hamlet who do not want a cement bridge! In a similar vein, most homeschool families are choosing to do more than the bare minimum. Most, but not all! Occasionally I meet parents who have set their sights too low, with the result that their child cannot read with understanding or do more than basic math. These families need the pungent counsel of someone who will speak the truth in love, pressing home the need to do hard things! While most parents who join the Classical Conversations community accept the challenge, there do remain a few who never intended to take on such a workload. By dropping some of the classes they struggle to the end of the year, benefiting to some degree from the program but not allowing it to shape them. The bridge crosses the chasm but it is merely functional, not exceptional.

On the other hand are families with very high standards indeed, who guide their children to achieve excellence in all they touch. Gifted children and gifted parents raise the bar for the rest of us, laying an example of what can be accomplished by hard work and talent. We all have been amazed at what we can perform, when we didn’t know, as Milo learned after he rescued princesses Rhyme and Reason from the Mountains of Ignorance, that it was impossible. Maybe it is possible for a master craftsman to pull enough wood from the twisted remains to splice together solid beams for an authentic repair of the bridge.

However, everyone eventually meets a wall too high to scale. Either an assignment hits us where we are unequipped or unusual circumstances clog our schedule. In these cases we have to modify the goal. We are learning to create goals of small increments until we are able to move to a new level. Let’s take a lesson from the average cross country athlete, whose ongoing goal is to beat his own best time. When a child struggles to write a persuasive essay, allow her to work with a smaller goal. Perhaps she can leave off an introduction and conclusion for now, or give two reasons instead the classic three. If a week is choked with unexpected events, a parent can drop one writing assignment and focus on another. One good paper turned in is better than two attempted and two failed. A modified covered bridge is still a beautiful testimony to craftsmanship and hard work.

Called to deliver our children across the gap from infancy to adulthood, we contemplate the contrast between our blueprint and the materials we can gather. It is odd that the program which taught me to reach high also teaches me how to settle on a nearer target in order to become the person who can score on a distant goal. We prepare this generation for a lifetime of learning and decision-making by holding them to high standards, while recognizing that humility sometimes calls us to work hard for a lesser goal. The truth is, a true rebuild of the historic bridge with authentic materials may be a goal out of reach. We won’t even consider that cheap, ordinary, ugly cement bridge. We may have to settle for a new covered bridge, strong and beautiful though perhaps not the work of an old master of the art. Let us all work hard and wisely to craft a beautiful, solid crossing for our children.

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Bridge to Understanding

Whenever I have found myself standing next to a postcard rack I always looked for the Bartonsville covered bridge. I rarely found it, but I invariably walked away secretly satisfied. Vermont postcards and calendars focus on more famous and picturesque bridges, and that is just fine with me. It fits. She wasn’t one of the glamor girls, one of Vermont’s iconic bridges who show up in advertisements, town websites, tourist brochures. She had no pretensions. She was a working bridge, just serving the purpose for which she was made.

I had to laugh at the snarky comments posted on Susan Hammond’s video of the bridge being swept away. Ignoring their cruelty, I realized the writers had no clue what it meant to have something precious in their own community. I loved our bridge for three lessons she taught me: the legacy of our forebears, our heart’s need for beauty, and the value of faithful service.

In some ways the bridge was a work of art; the designer and builder are both known to us. The structural design was Ithiel Town’s lattice truss. Sanford Granger built this bridge with horsepower and ingenuity. I don’t know who paid for it but they got the job done without relying on some government agency to do it for them. It was strong and built out of natural resources with ordinary men, for Town designed his truss to be simple enough for local teams to build it out of local materials. Granger’s team of laborers and the townsmen who made the project possible left something important that outlasted themselves. I can imagine them standing on the broken abutment with hats off in a silent tribute. I feel connected to these men and their wives who settled in these valleys and labored to create a better world for the next generation. Their example encourages me to pass down the best of our national and Vermont history to my children so they are inspired to go and do the same.

Isn’t it a bit foreign to our way of thinking for our infrastructure to be something beautiful as well as strong? The Bartonsville bridge taught me something about beauty. We could easily solve the river crossing with a cement and steel bridge, like the one that replaced the stone arch bridge at the mouth of the Cold River after the Alstead flood, or that ugly thing that stands in place of the Arch Bridge in Bellows Falls. And if we had to leave it to voters, considering our heavy property tax burden, we would have to yield to common sense and slap such a bridge in our gap. But those of us who walk to and commute through the covered bridge can never look at function in the same way again. Function can be wed to beauty. She taught us that our hearts need it. She was just so beautiful! We loved her perfect geometry, the warm tones of weathered wood, the pretty views of the river framed by her diamond windows—why, she even smelled good, of the engine oil dripped onto floorboards. She taught our children about the play of light and shadow, of silhouettes and shafts of light. I have pictures of them scampering through the tunnel, black shapes of joy against the golden light at the end of the tunnel.

Besides what I learned from her about what man can accomplish, and that beauty matters, the third thing she taught us is that faithful service beats glamor any day. She wasn’t for show; she was for real. She got us over the river. Not only that but it was in a way that humanized us, for we often had to pause to let someone cross over first, followed by a lift of the hand to acknowledge our transaction of courtesy. Without occasionally looking a driver in the eye we—and they—are just boxes of glass and steel on wheels. These gentle engagements with my neighbors connected us.

My heart pangs to see her picture now that she is gone. Just by coincidence, the Vermont covered bridge calendar this year features her in June. How cool is that? From now on I will look over those postcard racks for her picture to see an old friend who has taught me so much.

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Pondering the Nature of the Soul

The voice begins at unexpected intervals. Yesterday it interrupted my driving. “You’re not that good, really. You can pretend to be a tutor, but you know you’re faking. And what about your housekeeping? Or canning? The beans are rotting in the garden. You’re wasting your time…”

Whoo! What an ugly noise it makes, enough to make my innards quiver. My confidence deflates like a pot of fresh greens brought to a steam. If I am not careful my thoughts can lie there, green and slimy. Is there anyone who has not heard this foul muttering? Rather than roll over to have our hearts consumed by these vultures, let’s scare them off with the flash of reflected truth. The redeemed soul is alive, growing, and sustained by God.

A machine as any mechanical device that helps us do work. Its value comes from its capacity to perform something of benefit. Have you ever noticed the way those critical voices assume you are the sum of your performance? The car mechanic who removes the worn ball-joint from my car has found it unfit for its task and he throws it away as useless. When a plastic container cracks in the freezer the housekeeper throws it out. This principle applied to humans leads the naive to conclude if he fails he is worthless.

A similar kind of reasoning is to excuse poor behavior entirely on external causes. The London riots, some say, are the natural result of the poverty of the youth, as if their output can be no other given the input. We are predictable machines controlled by outside forces, if you believe it. I don’t. What machine has a will or intelligence or compassion? Only the human soul is capable of self-control, a gift undervalued in our day. When assailed by the fog of self-doubt, remember we are alive to God in Christ Jesus and that didn’t come as a result of our performance!

The nasty voices perceive human nature as something stuck in a permanent position. This spirit of condemnation says, “This person has failed and will never change.” Classifying souls with the same criteria as objects, we forget that where there is life, there is growth. A broken object is not going to change for the better (though it might disintegrate.) It can’t heal itself and it can’t improve. While we are right to make a decision to chuck that broken spatula, we misapply this principle to souls made in the image of the living God. Life is never still! The teen who appears to be permanently molded to resist work suddenly finds a passion that fires him through a long day of activity. Weren’t we silly to worry?

We are amazing creations, constantly converting our experience into wisdom, our understanding into new action. That condemning voice whispers from cruel naiveté when it insinuates our weakness is all we will ever be. Living creatures grow. We are living plants in the house of the Lord, where we will flourish.

“Nothing can help you,” the voice says. “You can’t help being what you are.” In this it is the most mistaken! Any child of God can laugh it to silence. We are certainly not alone! Where our enemy thinks of us as a tool that can be handled, defined by our weakness, and utterly helpless, the truth sings to our hearts that God loves us deeply and intimately. If He is a vine, we are His branches. If we are corn growing in a field, He is the rain and sun that sustain us. Our roots cling tenaciously to the earth; our life has a hidden source beyond appearances. The mysterious activity of the Holy Spirit to will and to work out in us God’s pleasure is incomprehensible to our critics. For His name’s sake He moves us to repentance and bursts of growth that have no other explanation. We can do all things through Christ who strengthens us.

Who is this corruption that speaks such lies into our hearts? Surely these voices are aligned with the accuser of the brethren. When we hear the lying voices let’s override them with the sound of the truth: the redeemed soul is alive and growing and sustained by our loving Lord. It is more than it seems. At every opportunity let’s remind our children, students, and friends that we are safe in His clasp and that from the curl of His hand we can laugh at the voices until they falter and fade in the music of our joy.

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View from My Bicycle

I have just returned from a long bike ride. Long for me; it was 14 miles, about 3 miles of which was straight uphill, though not all at once. For a lady who has been sedentary for 17 years of homeschooling, this is pretty astounding.

Last summer I fitted out my old bike. Now get this—my Raleigh was a Christmas present in 1976 when I was 16. I named it Skye, after the island in Scotland. In those days of androgyny I asked for a boy’s bike. It had the usual ram’s head racing handlebars and thin road tires. Last summer I pulled my bike out of its dusty corner in the barn and took it to Barney, the local bike repair man, who changed out my racing handlebars for touring ones. After new tires, brakes, and a seat I found myself riding pretty comfortably. I worked up to 8 mile rides, often stopping for milk to take home. Now advance to the present: I don’t aim to race, I don’t live within a mile of pavement, and I don’t clear the bar the way I used to when I stand. I have to stretch to get over the bar and onto the pedals. This faithful companion of mine no longer fits me. However, I am not letting its imperfections become an excuse to stop my progress!

This year I have taken my riding to a higher level, especially after a Borders-closing-sale book on biking brought me to a whole new world of technique and fitness. Ride Your Way Lean: The Ultimate Plan for Burning Fat and Getting Fit on a Bike, by Selena Yeager teaches beginners how to build up muscle and endurance. I aim to be on my bike six days a week, usually for an hour.

Of all the exercise I have ever tried biking is by far my favorite. In my saddle I feel 18 again, young and full of energy. I am energized; activity begets energy. No matter how sluggish I feel going out, within a mile I am alert and limber, enjoying the control I feel over my destiny. Seretonin kicks in and I feel happy. Instead of being locked behind safety glass and molded sheet metal I am out in real life experiencing the wind along my arms and face, the sun on my skin, the variations of the road beneath my seat. Perennial gardens, wildflowers, and chipmunks on the stonewall catch my attention. Ah, this is living.

I always ride early during these hot summer days, but the sun is rising noticeably later every day and I will soon run out of morning light. When I leave at 6 a.m. I can be back before the family needs me, but by fall equinox it will be dark then. Inevitably exercise time will have to move to mid-afternoon, and I will expect all my kids to put aside their studies—or Facebook—and move for an hour. Though I will miss the pleasures of riding on a summer morning before the rest of the world is up, I’ll be thrilled to build exercise habits with my children.

What benefits do I have from all this riding? I have built up muscle and lost inches, I lost ten pounds, I have more energy, and I get the breaks I need from a very busy homelife. I eat differently and don’t crave carbs anymore. Hurray! I gladly give up the guilt I feel while stuck in a vicious cycle.

My new cycle gives a far better ride.

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He wants to be a…what?!

The son who wears button-down shirts with graph paper motifs knew he wanted to be an inventor when he was four years old, and he is on a course to be a Research and Development engineer.

The daughter who cheerfully cut a tick’s head out of my husband’s neck with a scalpel is heading off to nursing school this fall.

Barnaby, my 16yo son, has not staked his claim on any one dream. He is distracted and not particularly interested in declaring his major. However, while waiting to figure it out, he has decided he wants to be a jerk. If he can’t be a soda-jerk (the town soda fountain already has all the jerks it needs) he’ll do the next best thing–he’ll work at the local diner.

Chester’s Country Girl Diner was vacant for a while and we missed it.  This winter it was purchased by a Maryland family with local ties and it has been open for breakfast and lunch for over a week now.  One afternoon this week we came in for a milk shake. As he sat there he listened to the Forties music and then turned to me with a grin to say, “This is my kind of place!” We introduced ourselves and then thrust our boy on ’em. They don’t know what they are in for. He was created to entertain people.  He knows how work, too!

A family just starting out on a venture like this isn’t in a position to offer work for a significant number of youths in a small town, but he is volunteering his time, so it’s all good.  After he has learned the ropes and the college kids go back to school he may be able to earn money for college. Foliage and ski season traffic will keep them hopping and he will have the opportunity to learn hard work, especially since he’ll have to juggle his studies around a work schedule.

I hope he gets that vision for his future that eludes him now, but in the meantime we will enjoy his adventures and come along for the ride. Vanilla milkshake, anyone?

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Mock Trial is Over

Well!

We met for Mock Trial this morning, and what an amazing event it was.  The Challenge B tutor from Connecticut and I from Vermont brought our two classes together for a combined performance at the courthouse in Northampton, Massachusetts. The “Old Courtroom” was just the right size for us, and I would like to meet there again next year. The acoustics were painful–hard to hear because of echoes—but next year we’ll arrange to have amplification.

All the students were dressed fit to kill and it was obvious they knew their parts. One young lady from Connecticut wowed us with her Opening Statement, which was persuasive and memorized. Outstanding. They each knew what they needed to ask, and they handled themselves very well. One very able young man froze like a deer in the spotlights during cross exam and I could tell afterwards that he felt like a failure. That was absolutely not the case; he was doing very well at attorney, and he carried off his role as witness with wit and confidence so no one doubted for a minute his remarkable ability. Another fellow, in giving the prosecution’s closing statement, described energetically, if not gruesomely, the actions of the defendant, and we got the impression he was enjoying himself throughly. Our bailiff, who was also a prosecuting attny, handled himself with increasing assurance until we felt he was an intimidating part of the court himself. The girl who played both Barbara Barrett and a defense attorney aggressively conducted her cross exam and won remarks afterwards.

My Sam was a believable medical examiner who rattled off facts and medical terms as if he has been doing it for years.  The jurors and judge commented about it later. During cross exam he asked good questions just the way the judge (afterwards) told us it should be done: “You didn’t do such and so, did you.”  He helped his prosecution witness tell her story in a logical, careful way.  It is scary to be a witness, and it really helps to have the attorney feed questions to which you know the answers. I am proud of him.

It went surprisingly fast, and then the lawyer who played judge and the two law student jurors gave us lots and lots of tips.  This was really for the benefit of the tutors, for these young men and women will not likely do another mock trial.  Rose and I learned by these comments how many things we did well and what things we omitted to tell the kids (oops!).  Our guests were very gracious and eager to give us the benefit of their expertise.  Their highest praise was to tell them with some amazement that these junior high students did better than some first year law students.  I am stoked to prepare my next team for Mock Trial.

We had a very satisfying day.

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I, IV, V, I

Teen Challenge sang for us in church today, reminding me as they do every year of the joy I felt as a new Christian.  Maybe they came to First Congregational feeling out of place, but during Sunday School Robbo stood and said what we all felt: “You come with testimonies of rescue from drug and alcohol abuse, but I just want you to know there are hundreds of stories in this room.  Just like you, we owe everything to Jesus.” They learn over 400 Scripture verses before they graduate.  I want to make sure we review and teach some key verses this summer.

This evening the eight of us went out for soft serve ice cream, and when we left we were a noisy bunch, full of beans.  As we drove home through the newly plowed corn field, we noticed six Canada geese stepping through the furrows.  Immediately someone started the goose theme from Aristocats. Robbo and I joined the six kids as we improvised on the basic rift. I called out the chords–I, IV, I, V, IV, I, V7–as we went, knowing full well they didn’t really know what I meant.  They ignored me. When we got home and burst out of the van laughing and singing “Time to Say Goodbye” operatically, I called them to the piano and banged out the chords, teaching.  Then I quizzed them, noticing that Barnaby always nailed it. How about if I teach them some basic ear training? I also want to pull out hymnals at each supper and teach part singing. I would love to send that rare morsel, a tenor, into the world. Let’s learn some music over the next few months.

This summer I want to emphasize service to one another in Jesus’ name, performed in gratitude and obedience.  Maybe it will begin as obedience to Robbo and me, but I hope to cultivate a sense of serving the Lord, and not man, in all they do.  With me so busy with my Classical Conversations responsibilities, I have left important housekeeping and financial tasks undone, and these kids have been allowed to entertain themselves instead of filling in the gaps.  It will do us all good to work hard in service to the family and others now that lessons are winding down. I know I will feel much better if the clutter disappears! One area I will tackle is learning how to make good conversation at the dinner table. No more fluff!  No more blather!  Even if they do inherit Grandpa’s gift for blarney they can channel it in more edifying directions. The art of conversation is a service to others worth learning well.

So, the school year ends and our routine changes. But we’ll still be learning our lessons. And we’ll do it the classical way: drill the grammar, make the connections, and then apply it in wisdom. As do all of God’s mothers, I will have no greater joy than to see my children walking in the truth.

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Andrew Kern Interview

Andrew Kern of  Circe Institute and Lost Tools of Writing is the seasoned miner on the hill who points out the vein to follow as I dig gold that will buy me a character of virtue. Intensely desiring to become a classical tutor through and through, convinced of the value of leading students by questioning and wise guidance to discover Truth in all their studies, I have been able to find food for thought from this fellow and his apprentices. I love the way he thinks–not just the kinds of things he says, but the freedom he demonstrates in leadership as his well-trained mind navigates complex thoughts and doesn’t lose hold of the essentials.  Rational and warm, brainy and passionate, exhorting and comforting, he models for me the character of a wise parent and tutor. He is my hero.

In this interview at a homeschool convention in March 2011 he explains why he asks questions of virtue when he studies literature, rather than dissecting it in dispassionate analysis. He sketches out the five kinds of questions we can ask when we have to write, lines of thought we already take when we encounter new ideas. But toward the end, Mary Jo Tate asks him for the one thing which he, in his opinion, thinks is the most important message for homeschoolers to know. His answer delighted me, for it is this very thing the lack of which troubles my days and nights! All hard working teacher-mothers should hear this.

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Reverberation

Today Molly played for the last time with a fine group of young musicians, the Green Mountain Youth Symphony. When we signed her up for a year of orchestra we did not realize extraordinary caliber of its conductor, Bob Blais.  What a fantastic experience. They played some works of Vermont composers, who were in the audience, and four film scores: Gladiator, Narnia, Lord of the Rings, and Harry Potter–Half-Blood Prince. Don’t dismiss these as fluffy pop; they were challenging pieces, and it was just hard to believe this was not an adult, professional ensemble.

My favorite part was the sudden caesura in the LOTR score. The echo in the old hall (the Barre Opera House) sounded like a dying gasp, an ethereal cry.  Hauntingly beautiful.

This experience will reverberate in my heart as I treasure this blessing from God for my daughter’s last year of homeschool.

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Quicker than a blink

On Friday I was frantic.  After working with my kids on their papers in the morning, I had just a few hours to get a handout booklet prepared for an upcoming SAT Essay writing workshop (they had to be turned in that afternoon) and songs lined up for 3 singing sessions at Women’s Retreat. I was able to get a reprieve on the handouts (which required me to write the whole syllabus, and I wasn’t ready for that!) so I turned to the music.

Music in our church can stir up strong feelings, so I had to be careful. I was looking for a mix of Scripture songs, hymns I could do with guitar, and two Getty/Townend songs . “In Christ Alone” and “How Deep the Father’s Love” particularly tied in with the speaker’s theme. But I needed some more songs; I didn’t have enough material.

I suddenly thought to pray. Now, at times I have had to wait patiently for answers to prayer, asking God to make it clear when He answered, afraid I would miss His leading.  I didn’t have any time to spare this day, however!  It was prayer under pressure.

I prayed for guidance. Before I opened my eyes, I became aware of the tune that had been playing in my mind, “O Church Arise”.  As clear an answer as if He had put it right before me! I quickly worked it up.

Saturday we had a few hours for recreation time, during which I took my Getty book and learned a few more songs.  As I ran through “O Church Arise”, Katharine joined me and we made beautiful harmony.   Julie came and sat nearby to enjoy the sound. Marcia came and looked over our shoulder.

Over the course of the next half hour several women joined us till I had an enthusiastic choir. My goal was to prepare a core who would know the song when I introduced it for the afternoon session, but when Marcia suggested we sing it on Sunday morning we readily agreed.  I finessed their performance a little, having them back off from a full, all-out sound, and when they did, oh!  The sound pealed sweet and clear. They sounded like Girl Scouts–young and fresh and sweet.

The entire group sang it through twice, and the next day we did indeed sing for the church, where the congregation sat in profound stillness till we finished. Many commented on its impact. I can’t get over how beautiful the women sounded.

So, from that hurried prayer came an idea that grew beyond anything I had planned. He answered me quicker than I could blink and gave more than I could ask or think. Isn’t God good?

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