VACATION?

Back before I became a "Child Care Professional" I was a "Child Care Amateur." What is a "Child Care Amateur?" It is another word for "A Parent."

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As a parent I, of course, received no pay for caring for my children. Nor did I earn any sort of vacation from caring.

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To be honest, what many call "a vacation" involved a doubling of the time I spent caring. No longer could I count on school teachers to help me, because teacher's were taking a well-earned rest. What a "vacation" meant was I cared for my children every hour they were awake.

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Even a parent who earns two weeks vacation a year knows that children are "on vacation" far more than two weeks a year. However I was self-employed, and tended to work 52 weeks a year. I was faced with a conflict between time-for-the-kids and time-for-the-job.

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It was exhausting, and at one point I was tempted to take a job in Kuwait. The temptation was that I might make $100,000.00 in six months. As I toyed with the idea, the temptation whispered to me that the money would make up for the fact I was basically abandoning my wife and children. It stated abandonment was not really abandonment, because I'd have pots of money and could make up for the abandonment "later."

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However back in the the 1980's I lived with Navajo and Zuni who used to leave their homes and communities to make huge wages walking I-beams 80 stories above city streets, far from their home villages, (home villages where not a single house was even two stories tall.) When, after six months, these men returned home with fabulous paychecks they were treated with the respect a wealthy philanthropist gets. They stated it didn't feel all that good, because they would rather have been treated like a Dad.

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Remembering these men, I decided against making $100,000 in six months. To be honest, I didn't even make $100,000 in six years, because decided I really ought care for the lives that my wife and I created, and, as things worked out, this involved Home-schooling.

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Often, rather than going to work, I found myself teaching reading, writing and arithmetic. I had to be done by noon, (because I still had to hustle up some work and "bring home the bacon,") however, (judging from test scores,) my children received a good education.

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I had to work locally, but I could drive a battered pick-up truck that cost $500.00, while my friends drove far finer vehicles that cost $25,000.00. My wardrobe was jeans and t-shirts, while their wardrobe cost thousands. They had far more status than I did. However they spent most of every weekday away from their children, as I enjoyed something money can't buy: Being a parent.

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But vacations were not part of my life. Even before I had any farm animals, I was in some ways like a farmer who must milk and feed animals 365 days a year.

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This is not to say I didn't need breaks. I did. However the breaks tended to be things that fit into my week. Things like watching a sunrise, going to listen to a local concert, spending an afternoon blueberry-picking or fishing or skating or swimming, or even an entire day skiing or at a beach. And also little breaks, time spent simply contemplating this thing we call life, (contemplation which some call yoga, and others call philosophy, and others call art and poetry and music, and others call prayer.)

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My breaks took hours, rather than two-weeks, but they were enough.

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When I look back across time, I doubt our forefathers had the ideas we have, concerning vacations, (or even Saturdays.) They worked, as farmers, in a manner that burned an average of 4000 calories per day, yet managed to be more serene than us. With less "time-to-relax," they were more relaxed.

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This concept was driven home to me last week when I watch how deranged things became, locally, when school let out for spring break. Some parents whisked their children off to places like Disney world, while others had to work and had to ask others, (such as my wife and I,) to keep their children all day, (rather than merely before school and after school.)

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I then noticed something I've noticed before: Often children seem to expect that, because it is vacation, they should have some sort of sensational experience. In a sense they demand a Disney world.

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I disappoint them, in that respect. Instead I attempt to teach them about the simple breaks. Watching a sunrise. Listening to birds. Going for a hike. Or, (and this was Grace's idea,) simply making and flying a kite.

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It may not be Disney world, but its surprising how swiftly they forget all about Disney world.

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Caleb

The Fence Post Rock

This is a flash-back to March 26, when we were seizing a window-of-opportunity, and enlarging our playground in a frantic rush.

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The very first post hole involved three large rocks, but the second involved a boulder. There was no way to relocate the hole, (which is often an option, and is a reason that fences in New Hampshire are not always the straightest.)

Therefore I had to smash the rock, using a heavy sledge hammer and my heaviest crow bar.

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As I worked, the after-school crowd came spilling from the school bus, and of course they all had to see what I was up to. Immediately they wanted to try to swing the sledge hammer and pound at the boulder, although in some cases they could barely hoist the weight. I did not need to use any Tom Sawyer tactics; youth simply likes the prospect of breaking things, and not being scolded for it.

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I had to take various safety precautions, such as making the youth that swung the hammer wear goggles, while all other youths stood far back. Everyone, boys and girls, got to swing at least once. A few little chips flaked off the boulder, but the stone seem largely unimpressed, until a rather slender youth basically dropped the sledge onto surface of the stone.

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It seemed to be a final straw. I noted a hairline crack, and by hammering the crow-bar into the crack it enlarged, and the boulder became two stones. Other cracks followed, and soon the boulder was out of the hole, as the rubble which appears in the picture.

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So much sweat is involved in digging post-holes in New England, that it is helpful to have a daughter who has a strong boyfriend to give you a hand. (Second picture.)

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I was in a hurry to finish the job, because as long as you have holes in the ground you run the risk a small child will find them irresistible, and jump into them. The third picture shows we were digging the final holes even before the snow was entirely gone. This meant the holes filled with water even as we dug them. It was a struggle, because the holes had to be two feet deep. We were basically digging a row of small wells.

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Even though a new fence is erected for safety's sake, having a row of wells at a child-care center in not safe. The danger is as follows:

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A small child estimates the depth of a puddle by the circumference of it's circle. Even as you talk to a three-year-old's parent, the two-and-half foot tall child is liable to walk to the circle of water and, assuming the water is two inches deep, jump into a post hole that is two feet deep.

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To avoid this sort of situation, which can be embarrassing, I highly recommend that all fences be completed, at all child-care centers in New England, before small children arrive on Monday morning.

Snow Peas

We don't have any true permafrost in Southern New Hampshire, but the earth can start to freeze as early as mid-October, and remain frozen as late as early-May, on the north slopes of hills. Therefore we should get credit for having semi-permafrost, at the very least.

As long as the semi-permafrost lasts, water cannot drain downwards into the subsoil, and instead pools and ponds at the surface, turning the soil into ooze and mire. This is known as "mud season," and few speak the words "mud season" with any sort of affection.

The semi-permafrost can last some time, because on the worst years the earth can freeze down to a depth of four feet. Usually this occurs on winters when the ground is bare. Even the softest sod on the most deeply turfed pasture feels like iron underfoot.

This past winter was an exception to the rule. After our terrible ice-storm in December we had a brief respite, in the form of a thaw, with temperatures up in the sixties. This was followed by a blast of arctic air filled with powder snow, which blanketed the earth in a way which kept the soil from freezing. The average temperatures were more than six degrees below normal in January, and the powder snow swirled in the wind, but the the soil never froze more than four inches deep, due to the insulating properties of the fluffy snow.

After the winter we went through, we needed a break, and the break was that we hardly had any "mud season" at all. The semi-permafrost melted away swiftly, and we were work the earth earlier than usual.

(I'm not sure this is a blessing, due to the word "work," in the phrase "work the earth.")

One of the first tasks I faced was digging post-holes, so we could expand our playground. This is one of my least favorite jobs, though fences go hand in hand with farming. In fact the very first task I was given, when I first came to this farm in 1968, was to dig a post-hole. About a foot down I met my very first rock. As I recall, I vowed to avoid post-holes for the rest of my life.

Now it is something like 12,757 rocks later, and the new playground fence is up, and I can get on to the side of farming I enjoy, which is planting seeds. The first seeds planted around here are snow peas, which are usually planted on Patriots Day.

Often it snows as you plant peas, but this year the day dawned a warming sun, and temperatures soared to fifty. I was feeling optimistic, until the wind shifted to the east. By afternoon the temperatures back down towards forty, and the blue sky had turned a steely grey. Right at dusk, as I was finishing up, I heard the patter of sleet.

It seems a tradition that it must snow on snow peas. Perhaps we need to rename them. Rather than calling them "snow peas" we ought dub them "thaw peas."

I am often working at dusk, because having children as observers tend to slow down the work during the day. (Answering questions, and involving youth, is a lot of fun, and I am reaching an age where I don't much mind working slowly.)

Caleb

BACK TO SCHOOL

One thing I have learned, overseeing children, is that it is important to "respect your elders." Especially the elder who is me.

Not that I did it very much when I myself was young, but now that I'm older it seems wise, and statements which seemed wise when I was eighteen, such as, "Don't trust anyone over thirty," seem unwise.

For the most part most youth have learned to (at least pretend to) respect me, now that I'm in the role of a gruff old farmer. On a farm, if you don't listen to the farmer, you tend to get butted by his goats or attacked by his rooster, and therefore, even if some youths were disobedient at first, they soon learned to listen, and perhaps even respect.

I can't explain why this happens. The very same same youth who refuse to learn from a teacher who has a Master's Degree in education will learn from a goat or rooster, though that goat or rooster has never been to college.

Most youth do learn, if given the chance. However some youths qualify as exceptions.

Some of the exceptions are law-makers up in Concord. Because many are two-thirds my age, or even half my age, they qualify as "youth," in my book. However they seem to be slightly power-crazed, and lately have started issuing decrees which seem downright disrespectful to me.

One new law proclaims that teachers can no longer tape or thumbtack crayon drawings, and samples of especially neat handwriting, and "A+" math papers, onto the walls of classrooms. Why? Because these whippersnapper lawmakers have decided that such papers represent a "fire hazard."

Curious, I inquired whether there ever has been a case where such papers caught on fire and resulted in a conflagration at a school. As far as I could learn, such a blaze had never, ever happened. However, because it might happen, the law was passed.

There ought to be a law against passing such laws, because other things might happen. A little child might have their feelings hurt, if their work isn't praised and displayed. Their artistic talent might be crushed. Society might be deprived of hundreds of great artworks, all because some whippersnapper law-maker in Concord was in the mood to bully first-grade classrooms.

Of course, the whippersnapper law-makers up in Concord have never made any effort to come to me and listen to a grumpy elder. Instead they issued a decree that I needed six hours of "additional education," in order to keep being "a-grouchy-old-farmer-who-shows-kids-a-thing-or-two-about-farming-after-school."

This made me more grouchy than ever. I never took kindly to being forced to sit in classrooms, even forty years ago, and that never included Saturdays. However whippersnappers in Concord were now forcing me to give up a Saturday. A Saturday in the spring! When the soil has thawed earlier than usual, and the pea and spinach seeds are just itching to be planted!

Last Friday a young girl was rejoicing that school was out for the weekend, and I muttered it was out for her, but I had to go to school on a Saturday. The girl became deeply concerned, and asked me why I was suffering such an awful fate. I said that law-makers up in Concord didn't feel I was smart enough, and that I needed to learn more. The sweet lass was indignant, and actually patted my back, telling me that of course I was smart enough. I was the best grouchy old farmer she'd ever met.

However, after going to the NHAEYC Spring Conference, and attending four ninety-minute- lectures, I have discovered that perhaps an old dog can learn new tricks.

For one thing, I have learned I'm not actually a grouchy old farmer. I'm actually something called a "Male Child Care Professional. "

I also learned that 97% of all Child Care Professionals are women. (I might have enjoyed school a lot more, forty years ago, if 97% of my classmates had been women.) I had a very interesting Saturday; much more interesting than I expected.

I didn't always get my first or second choices, when it came to fitting into crowded lecture halls. In one case I got my third choice, which was a lecture entitled, "Where are the men?" That hall was nearly empty. It held two male teachers, and four students; (two gals and a young guy and me.)

One of the teachers was a male Child Care Professional with a masters degree, and after thirty years his salary had only risen to $30,000/year. (This is one reason few men want to enter the field.)

The other teacher also had a master's degree, but soon after starting work at a child care center he had been "kicked upstairs," and became an administrator. This a second reason few men are in the field; for one reason or another they are kicked up, or out.

A third reason is that some parents fear men may be perverts, if men chose to care for children. Apparently some parents feel there is something "queer" about such men, especially because the press has made headlines of all sorts of priests, psychiatrists, boyscout troop-leaders, middle-school guidance-counselors, social workers, and teachers who have broken the trust with children. This has made things very hard for decent people, even though decent people vastly outnumber the perverted people. (Both Grace and I had to go through an intense background check, before we opened our center. I had to go through the check even though I'd already gone through a extensive check, to be a substitute teacher at the high school.)

After discussing males-in-childcare at great length, I learned once again I definitely am not a grouchy-farmer-who-shows-kids-a-few-things-about-farming-after-school. Rather I am something called a "male role model," and also something called a "rarity."

All I can say is that I had no idea that grouchy old farmers had become so rare. In my grandfather's youth over half of all American households were run by grouchy farmers, and their grouchy wives. Rather than a "rarity," I think I'm actually an "anachronism." (If not, then at least I'm trying very hard to be one.)

It turned out I was, as a man involved in child-care, something of a campus sensation. As a rarity I was noticed by 97% of my classmates, which I did not at all mind. However I had to chuckle, for there is nothing new about what I'm doing. To care for kids on a farm is not radical. It likely is as old as Adam and Eve, (for, after they were thrown from the Garden of Eden, they likely were grouchy, and likely farmed.) (After all, what else would they know how to do, if they had lived their whole lives in a garden?)

Because I was already in a mood to chuckle, I felt especially privileged to meet Jeff Johnson, who is a Male Child Care Provider, and therefore is a "rarity" like me. However he is also, in my opinion, an excellent humorist and writer.

For some time, before I attended the various lectures last Saturday, I was trying to find Jeff's childcare website (at http://explorationsearlylearning.com/index.htm ) but didn't have a link, and therefore, after googling here and googling there, the first thing I found was a short story he wrote called "The Dinosaur In The Basement," ( http://www.explorationsearlylearning.com/articles/The%20Dinosaur%20in%20the%20Basement.pdf )

I'm glad I first met him as a writer and humorist, because he seemed on my level. If I had known he was actually something called a Male Child Care Professional, I would have been utterly in awe, and too shy to email him, and wouldn't have received his encouraging response.

However now my schooling is complete, and I confess I'm glad I've met my obligations to whippersnappers up in Concord, and can go back to being a grouchy, old farmer. I can only take being a Male Child Care Professional for so long. For one thing, I have peas and spinach to plant, and Male Child Care Professionals, as far as I know, don't descend to the dirt. Only to the diapers.

Caleb

NHAEYC Spring Conference

We spent the day at the Spring Conference in Nashua NH. The keynote speaker was Jeff Johnson of Explorations Early Learning in Iowa. Jeff was right on target with his perspective that children are being robbed of their childhood by pressure to advance academically by bureaucrats who don't understand what children truly need. Combine this with the overuse of electronics at their fingertips, AND the push of the media for children to develop provocative, sassy attitudes, and you have a very unhealthy foundation for life. Children need to play and use their imaginations and run outside in the woods and fields for so many vital reasons. Another sad thing was to realize how many children do not have the opportunities to be in natural environments. They just don't have woods around them, or fields or ponds. We know how blessed we are, and this was a great reminder!
The good news is that many people are talking about ways to improve these situations. They are learning how to protect each child's need to have a healthy, creative childhood connected to nature. Making these changes will cause extremely positive results in their lives. We're so glad to be a part of the return to sanity and we have plenty to say about it, but it'll have to wait for another day.

~* Grace

A new beginning ~

It is a new beginning for us at Ebenezer Farm. We have lots of things to write about. Ebenezer Farm truly is a wonder-filled world! Just today we took the preschoolers out for a hike to the flood control reservoir, to see what we could see. It was a lovely warm Spring day - yay! We spent the whole day outside - except for the much needed rest hour. Here's the list of today's major finds: 3 huge blue herons which soared overhead and curved around landing onto stumps in the water; 2 handsome male mallards following one tired female; 1 kingfisher swooping down into the water to grab something out - a fish probably; a hawk (not sure what kind); 1 pileated woodpecker, frightened away by the crunching leaves under 5 preschooler's feet; one muskrat chiseled stick; one garter snake; a couple of redwinged blackbirds; many chickadees, crows and tufted titmice. Oh, it was a wonder-filled adventurous morning for us. Check back soon, there's something new everyday!

~* Grace