Licked

Maybe because we all looked like Professor Quirrell or because I felt like Professor Snape, we sat through the first three Harry Potter movies Monday. It was the only way to keep all four of us distracted and still long enough to kill all the bugs. The other suggestion was to take everyone scuba diving. At some point the creepy crawlies would simply be crushed by the pressure. I chose the less expensive option:

1 1/2 cups Olive Oil
80 drops Tea Tree Oil
60 drops Eucalyptus Oil
40 drops Thyme Oil


Nasty little buggers.

-- Oliver Wood (Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone)

Simple Pleasures

Elle and her friend D twirl around on the backyard swing



Grice prepares to unwrap the biggest chocolate bar they've ever been allowed to eat



Elle keeps busy while Grice picks out some produce at the local farm stand


Manifest plainness,
Embrace simplicity,
Reduce selfishness,
Have few desires.

-- Lao-tzu

Pick, pick, pick

If God knows how many hairs on our heads, surely he knows how many hairs I pulled off my daughter's yesterday, because I lost count after the first several dozen. All the websites instruct you to comb through wet, conditioned hair to allow the nits (a.k.a. louse eggs) to slide off BUT THEY LIE. These things do not slide off and after listening to Elle shriek a few times and finally flat out cry, we switched to the less painful removal process of yanking each affected hair out by the roots. She fell asleep in my lap, poor infested little darling.

I planned to keep her home again today to do a second round, but was assured by more than one parent that it is not worth having her miss school since the other kids are loaded as well, you are not protecting them nor protecting her, so after washing out the conditioner that she slept in under a shower cap to smother any live critters with citronella soap and coating her again with more conditioner mixed with a few drops of Tea Tree Oil, I pulled her hair tightly into two pigtails, ran through the cautions about hugging, sharing hats and hairbrushes, instructed her to politely and discreetly disobey her teacher's instructions to "lie like logs" on the carpeted floor at storytime, and sent her off.

Now it's Grice's turn.

Sarabelle and I have clean heads and we plan on keeping it that way. I purchased a bottle of disinfectant touted by the manufacturers as being the appointed producer of antiseptics, air fresheners, polishes, cleaners, and laundry products for Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II to sanitize all hair brushes and combs. The awful, ultra clean sickroom smell of the stuff fills our house and I wonder if this is what her royal highness smells like up close.

The next few weeks will entail a routine of combing Tea Tree-conditioned hair at least twice weekly to break the cycle and lots of laundry, although burning all garments and bedding in a large bonfire still holds major appeal, and I'll bet if we were to dance naked around the fire all the neighbors would keep their buggy little kids away.

Jorge sends his sympathies but we all agree it is much better that our dear, obsessive compulsive cleaner is on the other side of the planet.


Pleasant it is, when over a great sea the winds trouble the waters, to gaze from shore upon another's great tribulation: not because any man's troubles are a delectable joy, but because to perceive what ills you are free from yourself is pleasant.

-- Lucretius

The Monkey Wrench

Now that Jorge has been out to visit the island, he has, once again, decided that it is just too valuable to sell. It's already priced too low and hasn't had any real interest. We're not giving it away. Even if the polar icecaps melt and it's underwater in a few years, even if a hurricane comes and wipes us out, even if the red tide never goes away. It's just a magical place and is now officially off the market.

The green house, which has very little chance of selling due to the current market in Southwest Florida, is still available, however.


They change their clime, not their disposition, who run across the sea.

-- Horace

Heebie Jeebies

Some people have wondered what it was that set us off on our homeschooling journey. Initially I had no altruistic or lofty goals, those came much later. Mostly, it was because it was easier than the alternative; easier to keep them in one place than registering, unregistering, and re-registering during our unsettled period; easier than traveling back and forth two times a day in a boat I wasn't very skilled at operating in questionable weather; easier than getting up too early in the morning; easier than preparing uniforms and lunches and participating in giftwrap and bake sales. Way easier.

My number one reason for educating my children at home, however, was to avoid this.

During our recent conversion to public education, we had been fairly lucky in avoiding this particular plague.

Until today.

Elle has had an itchy head for the past few weeks. Never saw anything. No nits, no bugs, no bites, no redness, no flakes. Nada. Nothing.

Then today, after moisturizing her scalp all night with coconut oil in an attempt to relieve a possibly dry scalp, and a discussion with the Sunday Market's soap crafter about the most beneficial bar for itchy skin, and the purchase of Neutrogena T-Gel shampoo and a special comb just to be sure, we found what appears to be
our first nit.

Go ahead, scratch your head in sympathy. It is feeling pretty crawly up there right about now, isn't it? Guess who she's been sleeping with all week since Dad left?

Giving credit where credit is due, the teacher/dad of one of the girl's friends did not snatch his daughter and run screaming in the other direction when I sought his expert opinion today. He said lice are a part of living in the tropics and no big deal. They have gone several rounds with the nasty little buggers in his home.

Tomorrow the kids will stay home and we will douse ourselves in highly toxic pesticide.

Or shave our heads.

Or both.


I consider your conduct unethical and lousy.

-- Peter Arno

Yee Haw 2

The search for used cowboy shirts proved fruitless (thank you, Becky, for your offer), but I did manage to pick up some cheapo bandanas and the costume above (purely for its shock value.) My kids, besides being discriminating, are also apparently unflappable. Instead of being horrified that I would suggest wearing such a ridiculous outfit, my desired reaction -- I only planned on maybe getting some use out of the hat and vest -- they actually argued about who would put it on first.

Sarabelle won.



Here are (clockwise from top left) our friend, K.; Sarabelle; Khan the Kelpie; and Sheriff Elle, on K's ranch, wearing their actual party clothes, heading out to the dance.



The dance was great fun, and yes, there was quite a large turnout. The corrugated metal hall had been decorated to perfection by Grade 6 and 7 students with hay bales, cattle horns, and a wide variety of native foliage. The Stumbling Mountain Goats took over after all the classes had performed their various reels and had everybody on their feet, including this reluctant dancer (but only when we were treated to a cover of The Soggy Bottom Boys' big hit, from one of our all-time favorite movies and soundtrack.)




And so, my fellow Americans, ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.

-- John Fitzgerald Kennedy

The Phone Call You Do Not Want to Hear from Across the Globe

Jorge is on the phone with his plans for the day and to wish us, all tucked in, a goodnight.

J: ...so then I'll probably go by the insurance office...

(From somewhere on our side of the line): BANG!BANG!BANG!BANG!BANG!

Me: What the f*** was that?! Hold on a minute... Holy s***! I think someone's banging on the front door...!


Now, "front door" here is a misnomer. We don't have one. Instead there are two sets of sliding glass doors that pass for a main entrance, added when the original porch was enclosed. This means that anyone coming up to the house can see pretty much everything, including the pajama-clad, unarmed (except for her telephone) woman, coming to investigate. A long silence ensues as I remember that I did not close the front gate, realize I did not leave the porch light on, and never forget for one second that neither set of sliders lock. I have to walk right up to the slider to reach the outside light switch.

Click

Nothing. No one on the porch. A few more exterior lights click on to cover the vast expanse of yard and...

BANG!BANG!BANG!BANG!BANG!

Me (into the phone): Oh my God! It's doing it again! What the f*** is it?!

More silence as I stand frozen to the spot wondering if someone is banging on the children's window. I step into the hall when it occurs to me that I have not turned on the hall light for soft illumination as intended, but in haste flipped the switch to their bedroom instead. The girls are brightly on display in front of the pitch black windows.

Sarabelle is rolled under her cot wrapped in her green blanket, looking like a giant caterpillar and Grice is immobile with the blankets over her head, doing a pretty good imitation of an empty bed.

S (weakly): Mom...?!

Me: Shhh.

BANG!BANG!BANG!BANG!BANG!

Me: (into the phone while the kids shriek in the background): It's inside the house.

Long pause while I muster the courage to check the back door.

Me: It's...it's... Oh, it's the washing machine. The load is unbalanced.

Loads of nervous giggles follow as we assure J we're okay.

J: Jeez, hon, you scared me! It sounded like the end of The Blair Witch Project!


Yes, we recently watched that movie again with Sarabelle and Grice, to demonstrate the simplicity and creativity of the low-budget horror blockbuster. My extended silences, panicky narration, and frequent use of expletives obviously brought that to Jorge's mind.

I went in to settle the girls back down, which took awhile with all that adrenaline pumping, as they relayed their earlier terrified conversation to me.

S: What if it's a murderer?!

G: What if it's someone trying to escape from a murderer?!

S: And they're all bloody! And the murderer is right behind them!

G: Or it's the murderer in disguise pretending to be hurt so we let him in...!

---

Things to Do

-- Get dowels cut to jam sliders shut
-- Leave porch light on day and night
-- Secure gate every evening
-- Remember sound washing machine makes
-- Never watch scary movies before J leaves on a trip


The lunatic, the lover, and the poet,
Are of imagination all compact:
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold,
That is, the madman; the lover, all is frantic,
Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt:
The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And, as imagination bodies forth
The form of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.
Such tricks hath strong imagination,
That, if it would but apprehend some joy,
It comprehends some bringer of that joy;
Or in the night, imagining some fear,
How easy is a bush suppos'd a bear!

-- William Shakespeare (A Midsummer-Night's Dream)

GWTW

Da DAAA da daaaaaaa
Da DAAA da daaa...

Quit it, it's so annoying. Do you have to do that every time?

Why, yes I do. I just can't help it, it's so stirring.

Sarabelle had to do a multimedia presentation comparing and contrasting life as a thirteen year old today with someone in her family's experience Way Back When. Because Sarabelle has that innate tendency to go against the flow -- much like I did when for International Day at school I chose to showcase my predominently English roots instead of my weaker Irish lineage, particularly since 75% of the class seemed to suddenly be as Irish as Paddy's pig, and taught the class as part of my multimedia show to sing "God Save the Queen," nearly causing our poor pastor, whose father had been dragged through the streets behind a horse for being a suspected IRA sympathiser, to have a coronary -- she decided to do her paternal grandmother instead of one of her parents like everybody else was doing.

Now, without blatantly giving away Gabby's age, I will only say that two of the greatest movies of all time came out the year she turned thirteen, Gone With the Wind and The Wizard of Oz. Don't bother doing the math. This necessitated a trip to the video stores in town to search for DVD versions and then a mini film festival when we got home.

We have cassette versions of both these movies at home and have watched them numerous times, but not until viewing them with the captioning on did I realize how much we had missed, especially Gone With the Wind. I had the opportunity to view it on its big screen, remixed and remastered, re-release a few years back, but even my ear, attuned as it is to a southern accent, or even Hollywood's version of a southern accent, lost about 20% of the rapid fire dialogue. And what fabulous dialogue it is, not even counting the hundreds of famous lines. With a running time of 238 minutes (and for those of you still not doing the math, that's two minutes short of FOUR HOURS), all of us, including Elle, sat in complete and utter silence.

At least until that famous score kicked in and I was shushed for humming along.

Da DAAA da daaaaaa...


She's just a pale-faced, mealy-mouthed ninny and I hate her!

-- Scarlett O'Hara

Yee Haw

Who knew my children were so discriminating?

Tomorrow night is the primary school's Bush Dance (which, by the way, does not mean we will be circling a fire holding spears and wearing grass skirts), a licensed function (which, by the way, does mean there will be alcohol served and pretty much guarantees a good turn out) with a live band and a cowboy theme.

My kids, used to the large trunk full of odd clothing and accessories that has enabled us to never (to the best of my short-term impaired memory) purchase a single Halloween costume or any outfit for their countless theatrical presentations, are coming undone with the simple request to dress like a cowboy, seeing as how the Costume Box was one of the items we deemed necessary to leave behind.

Apparently authenticity is the key.

---

No, I will not buy you a pair cowboy boots. No, I will not buy you an Akubra hat either. We live in an area of cattle ranches. These people are cowboys. Do you see what they wear? They're barefoot and they have on regular clothes. How about you wear your overalls?

That's a farmer, Mom.

Okay, how about you wear your camouflage shirt underneath your overalls?

That's a redneck, Mom!

What if we black out one of your teeth?

That's a hillbilly, Mom!!

Well, The Stumbling Mountain Goats are a hillbilly band...

MOM!

Okay, I got it. Think Brokeback Mountain, right?

Forget it. I'm not going.

---

So today's challenge, find a thrift shop and a couple of cheap, second-hand, plaid, button-down, long-sleeved cowboy shirts. The kinds Elle insists have "handcuffs" (which means, I think, pearly, snap fasteners at the end of the sleeves.) Come to think of it, handcuffs might be a fun accessory. We could do Frank and Jesse James...


Sacred cows make the tastiest hamburger.

-- Abbie Hoffman

So close and yet so far

Jorge flew out last night.

Hon, I'm flying on September 12th...

Yeah, I know, just after midnight, but It's still 9/11 back in the States...

Not that I'm a complete paranoid, but those other guys, the liquids-on-the-planes guys, were definitely cooking something up and what more perfect opportunity to rub our faces in it than to pull another major terrorist act on the anniversary of the first, right?

So we dropped him at the international terminal (Really, terminal and depart, such funereal terms the airline industry chooses. Instead, why not Happy Travel Building and Time to Fly? They need to think about that.) carrying only a small backpack with a change of clothes and his briefcase. He was wearing flip-flops and had left behind his braided iron slave bracelet and belt to avoid the removing of shoes and metal detector delays (Please step over here, sir...) that are routine when he flies.

There was a brief mention of September 11 here yesterday and the Australian Broadcasting Corporation (ABC) ran the documentary The Falling Man, which we watched, transfixed, last week.

Maybe I am fascinated with the images from that day because we were the minority of people who missed it all. The girls and I were in New Jersey and had gone to visit a local museum just after a call from my mother making sure we were not going into Manhattan and telling us to check out the TV, where a quick look showed one burning tower. Terrible accident, we thought and called my brother, working near Times Square, to ask if he could see it. He had not heard the news but headed up to his rooftop to watch. We arrived at the museum a few minutes later and after paying our admission to the woman who sobbed, "Terrible, isn't it?" figuring she must have known someone involved in the accident or was an overly sensitive person, proceeded to spend several hours alone enjoying all the exhibits. Not until my (ex) sister-in-law came back grey-faced from a chat with her museum co-workers did we learn what the rest of the world already knew. We saw the smoke across the river, but not until we attempted a U-turn in a driveway which turned out to be the municipal airport and were stopped by soldiers brandishing automatic weapons did we begin to believe it could be true. For the rest of the week we sat stunned, glued to the television.


Oh, say, can you see by the dawn's early light
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
Oh, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

-- Francis Scott Key

Croc One

From yesterday's Cairns Post. Caption reads: Goodbye: Croc Hunter Steve Irwin waves to onlookers as he leaves Port Douglas marina on his fateful last adventure to Batt Reef Friday. Picture: Paul Hanley



And from today, after Jorge and I did the banking, picked up his airline ticket, and had lunch in Port, Croc One back at the dock with flowers in the foreground. Picture: Me.



Here are the tears of things; mortality touches the heart.

-- Virgil


Crikey!

-- Steve Irwin

Dunk

My excuse? Busy studying. Okay, so truth be told, there is a little more to it than just buying your agency and sales licenses. There are seventeen modules to complete. I am now one multiple-choice and four short-answer questions away from having completed five of the modules.

In the meantime, we traveled down to Mission Beach last weekend for a trip out to Dunk Island, which recently reopened after being ravaged by Cyclone Larry. The kids skipped school Friday and then again on Monday when we decided to extend our stay because the weather forecast was for one more day of perfection. You can see the depth of my committment to their institutional education. We snorkled and sailed and shell hunted in the impossibly blue water. We fished and went horseback riding. And ate. We played tennis and squash and Grice even discovered her passion, ping pong.

Grice also earned the title "The Girl From Snowy River" when the horse she was scheduled to ride (not the one below) suddenly reared up, not once, but twice, and Grice remained calmly planted in the saddle. It seems the poor horses were left to fend for themselves when the island was evacuated before the storm and they're still understandably skittish.


He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat—
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.

-- Andrew Barton "Banjo" Paterson