Caught in the Web

Caught in the Web

Where’s Papa going with that ax?  So begins one of the most beloved books of children’s literature, Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White. An essayist for the New Yorker magazine, White enjoyed writing about farm life and personalities. While successful, he worried that he would never be a great writer. After he married and moved to a farm in Maine, White was carrying a bucket of slops to the pigs when he was inspired. He said, "I had been watching a large spider in the backhouse, and what with one thing and another, the idea came to me." This story idea would become his masterpiece. 

 

Charlotte’s Web has often been adapted many times for the big screen. Parents and kids flock to theaters or buy DVDs to enjoy Hollywood’s version of this famous story. The special effects awe them. The music swells their emotions. The actors move them to laughter and tears.  Wilbur the pig is adorable.

Wilbur’s story will be shown in the movie, but many of the words that make this book so magical may be lost.  E. B. White weaves his story with words. He pulls the reader into the world of the barn just as Charlotte pulls a fly into her web.

The barn was very large. It was very old.  It smelled of hay and it smelled of manure.  It smelled of the perspiration of tired horses and the wonderful sweet breath of patient cows.  It has sort of peaceful smell—as though nothing bad could ever happen again in the world.

For Fern and her brother Avery, summer is a time of wonder, when there are plenty of things for a child to eat and drink and suck and chew.  Dandelion stems are full of milk, clover heads are loaded with nectar, the Frigidaire is full of ice-cold drinks.  Everywhere you look is life, even the little ball of spit on the weed stalk, if you poke it apart, has a green worm in it. 

Each animal in the barn cellar has a distinct personality. The gander is brave and strong, but he worries about the rat: [Templeton] had no morals, no conscience, no scruples, no consideration, no decency, no milk of rodent kindness, no compunctions, no higher feeling, no friendliness, no anything.  

The music of White’s words echo. Even the description of Wilbur’s dinner is like a melody: skim milk, wheat middlings, leftover pancakes, half a doughnut, the rind of a summer squash, two pieces of stale toast, a third of a gingersnap, a fish tail, one orange peel, several noodles from a noodle soup, the scum off a cup of cocoa, an ancient jelly roll, a strip of paper from the lining of the garbage pail, and a spoonful of raspberry jello.   

Charlotte wove words into her web in order to save Wilbur’s life. She wrote that Wilbur was Terrific  and Radiant. But the word that saved his life was “Humble.” E. B. White wrote, "All I hope to say in books, all that I ever hope to say, is that I love the world.”  

Before you take your children see a film version of Charlotte’s Web, spend some time sharing the quiet wonder of the book. Let them hear the words that convey the magic. Let them enjoy the sights and smells that Wilbur knows, this lovely world, these precious days… Help them to be caught in the web of reading and come to know the glory of everything.

          (All words in italics are quotes from Charlotte’s Web. Quotes from E.B. White are in quotation marks.)

Opportunity Knocks -- Who Will Answer?

  

 When I was growing up, my family moved just about every ten minutes.  Maybe it wasn’t quite that often, but I did attend nine schools by fourth grade. We moved all over the country. Sometimes my brother Joseph and I were sent ahead to make sure we didn’t miss one minute of school, living with relatives, while my parents packed up the old house and got settled in the new. 

All this moving could have shattered a little kid’s psyche, but somehow my parents managed to make it seem a grand adventure. It wasn’t a new house; it was a new world to explore. It wasn’t a new school; it was new friends to be made. Joe and I took it all in our stride and did have those grand adventures. 

In Mississippi, we witnessed the growing struggle for civil rights. We toured the very first nuclear submarines in Connecticut. We ran the stony beaches of Maine bundled up against the wind and huddling around a dancing fire. We surveyed the world from the top of the Space Needle in Seattle. We rowed a clam boat on the Great South Bay.

We had adventures. We had opportunities. We had fun. Perhaps without planning or meaning to, our parents provided us with an eye-opening view into the greater world. Not only did we see places, we met people. We met the hardy lobstermen in Maine. We played with the children of the brave navy crew who went down on the ill-fated submarine Thresher, and the children of the maids in Biloxi who marched to gain their promised but long-delayed rights. We lived with an uncle who was an inventor and a grandmother who told us stories of even more wonderful worlds than the one we lived in.  




Malcolm Gladwell’s book, Outliers, tells the stories of many amazing men and women who succeeded beyond their wildest dreams. You’ll recognize their names -- Bill Gates, the Beatles, Michael Jordan, Cleopatra and many more. Super-talented folks, you might think.  

These people are gifted, but Gladwell, after studying statistics, history, and trends, found that it wasn’t just talent or brains which helped this group prosper. It was opportunity. Every one of them had an unusual opportunity which afforded them the time, funding, or education they needed to succeed. Most importantly, they all had someone who helped them --sometimes a parent, sometimes a mentor, sometimes a coach. They seized the opportunity offered them and thrived.  

Parents can give opportunities to their own children, and the children of others. Show your children the world. Be open and excited about what they might find. Volunteer as a camp counselor, a scout leader, a coach, a storyteller, or a Sunday school teacher. Offer opportunities. Make being alive a grand adventure.  Opportunity is always knocking. Let’s help our children open the door.

My Baby had a baby!

Our joy multiplied! Almost 33 years ago, our daughter was born. Last week, she had her first baby. When we held him in our arms, we felt the infant we held so long ago. When we looked into his eyes, we saw her love reflected. When we watched her hold him, we remembered how we cuddled her. When she sang to him, we heard the echos of our songs. He will be well-loved, as we loved her.
 God bless you little boy. God bless you Mommy and Daddy. God bless all of our children and their children. Our joy multiplied. 

Memorial

Memorial

I remember how Papa

Walked over the hill,

His face bright and shining

His voice, calm and still.

He told me he loved me

And kissed me goodbye,

And marched off to war

To do battle and die.

I remember how Mama

Stood watching him go,

And whispered a prayer

And let her tears flow.

She pulled me up close

And took hold of my hand,

And we turned and walked slowly

Across the hot sand.

I’ve never forgotten

What happened that day,

And I’ll always remember

The wind and the spray

And Papa who kissed me

And answered the call,

And Mama who loved me

And stood straight and tall.

And now the years flow

My own children live free

And I tell them of Papa

And Mama and me.

I will help them remember

Those who went and who stayed,

And the blessings they gave us

And the price that they paid.

By Lisa Marie Scotto

How Does Your Garden Grow?

How Does Your Garden Grow?

I come from a long line of gardeners and every summer, I plant my favorite vegetables and flowers in a small patch in my yard. I get a lot of pleasure from my zucchinis; tomatoes, eggplant, asparagus and herbs, but I also get a lot of work.

Gardening is more than browsing seed catalogs and harvesting fresh veggies.  First the earth must be turned and fertilized. Then, the beds must be prepared and the seedlings planted. Seedlings must be watered and watched for pests. Rabbits and groundhogs consider gardens fast food markets. Slugs and other crawling things are always waiting to invade. But it is weeds that really wear me out.

Weeds get my goat.  I spend many an hour pulling them and I have been known to, let’s say, lecture them -- oh, all right, shout at them. What right do they have to grow in my carefully tended garden? Why are you taking water and nourishment from my plants? This is my dirt. Go find somewhere else to grow!  I work hard at it and do a pretty good job of keeping them out. The perimeter of my garden, the showy part, is spotless, or should I say, weedless.  It’s the interior that gives the greater challenge.

In the spring, it’s sometimes hard to tell the weeds from the seedlings. As the plants grow, it gets harder and harder to reach in among the greenery and pull out the sneaky weeds that are camouflaged within. It is especially hard around asparagus. 

After harvesting the spring growth of asparagus, the plants must be allowed to grow the beautiful ferns that will feed the roots during the summer. Asparagus is a great crop, plant the roots and harvest sprouts for about fifteen years.  But letting the ferns grow while trying to keep the weeds out is tricky business. It’s a jungle in there. So I put on my armor, my long sleeves, long pants and hat, and crawl on in.

Some people, notably those who do not take weeds as a personal affront (and those who do not want to be recruited to help weed), have suggested that I just let the weeds grow up with the asparagus. Keep the outside weedless and forget about the sweaty labor of crawling under the ferns. The flowers surrounding the garden look lovely, and the immediate inner garden looks great. Why fuss?

Well, I fuss and I crawl right in. I get ferns in my hair and fern dust on my face but I also reap a great asparagus harvest every April, May and June.

So what does all this have to do with parenting? Children are like a garden. We plant them, we tend them, and we watch them grow. And they are hard work.  Keeping the outside of a child, the showy part, looking good is difficult enough. Changing diapers, clipping fingernails and washing behind ears are tough.

I see a lot of kids with the latest hairdos, fashionable clothes and trendy sneakers. These kids look like beautiful flowers. But what’s going on in the inside of these pretty blossoms? What weeds are creeping in to strangle their roots? What values are your children learning?  Where are they getting these values? Are the weeds of popular culture, TV, movies and videos taking over the good soil? Are they keeping your child from getting the full nourishment needed? What are you doing to keep the weeds out?  What values are you putting in?

So tend your children the way I tend my garden. Keep the outside looking good, but don’t neglect the inside. Crawl in and pull out the weeds. Decide what values you want your children to have, teach them, and work hard to give them room to grow.  It might be messy work, but you’ll reap a wonderful harvest. 

         

A Mother's Hands

A Mother’s Hands

Have you heard about the new rejuvenating treatments for hands? Now brown spots, bulging veins and wrinkled fingers can be restored to their youthful appearance so that they won’t give your age away. Makes sense in a world of Botox and face lifts.  

I have noticed a change in my hands. More and more when I look at them, I see my mother’s hands. This doesn’t make me worry about aging though; I wonder if I will be worthy of such hands.

I remember my mother’s hands. I see them changing my baby brother’s diapers as he wiggled. I see them tickling his elbows and knees. I see them washing a mountain of dishes after feeding six hungry children. I see those hands washing faces, scrubbing knees, and brushing hair. I see them folded in prayer.  

I feel my mother’s hands too. I feel them patting my back when I choked on the penny I had so foolishly swallowed. I feel them soothing my arms and legs with cool water as I burned with fever. I remember the pull as she smoothed my unmanageable hair into the pony tails I’d begged for.  

Those hands held me close. They soothed my feelings and healed my hurts. They lovingly corrected my errors, taught me life lessons, and washed my socks. A mother’s hands teach her children about the world and love is their primary lesson.

I hope that my hands continue this legacy.

As I age, I wonder if I will see my grandmother’s hands. Her hands packed up meager belongings and immigrated to a new world. Her fingers embroidered beautiful tablecloths and handkerchiefs as she struggled to learn English and keep house for her brothers. Her hands made a home for her children in America. They worked long hours cooking in her husband’s restaurant and, when he became ill, those same hands worked in a chocolate factory, hour after hour, banging the frames to knock out the molded candy.  

I remember those hands cutting up zucchini and garlic, chopping carrots and celery, kneading the pizza dough and throwing it joyfully into the air, then expertly catching it. I watched them rolling the pasta-stick shaping each delicate piece. Her hands folded mountains of clothes, crocheted mittens and slippers, massaged aching muscles and pulled dandelions to cook for a special treat. Once, when I lay very sick, those hands spent hours chopping ice with a hammer to cool my throbbing throat.  

Of course I had two grandmothers. My father’s mother sewed beautiful clothes with her hands. She dreamed of sewing my wedding dress, but her hands fell still too soon. I still see those hands though, brushing the crumbs from the table, washing the greens in the sink, passing the pasta, weeding the garden, illustrating a story.
 

When I think of these things, aging hands seem a blessing. I wonder if other parts of me will come to resemble my mother. Will I develop eyes that see only good in others? Will my ears strain to hear the joy in the hearts of my children? Will my feet hurry to help and my arms yearn to carry the hurts away and surround those hurting with love?  Will my heart grow more tender and full?

My mother’s hands held my children too, and my children’s children now. They still comfort and caress. They still hold me close. 

They don’t look old to me.