Homeschool PE at the Beach and Just Enough Snow

Oliver and I went for a very long walk today in Santa Monica. It was a blustery day and incredibly beautiful. He actually skateboarded while I walked briskly, and I called it Home-school Physical Education. My sister, who lives in St. Louis, texted me the question how is the homeschool thing going? The meaty stuff?

I told her great. I told her that we would be doing another unit of history when we got home and then some English Language Arts. The more I do this, though, the more I realize that it might be the best way to educate, even to live. I wake up every morning in some bit of existential distress. What's it all about? I think. How do we keep on keeping on? There's so much suffering. I'm getting old. What if Sophie lives forever? What if I do? What if I don't? What if the world melts? What if the Republicans win in 2016? How will I afford college for Henry? Who's going to take care of this world? How do we go on? Why are we so lame? You know the drill. After working with Oliver, though, and learning myself, going on these outings, opening my eyes to the very real goodness that is my life, the existential angst recedes. I move outward, see blue.

On the way home, we faced the mountains, covered in snow. I decided that was all the snow I needed to see at just the right distance.

#IloveLosAngeles

Roses and Thorns

So, I'm finally feeling a bit better. I'm either a giant baby or this virus took hold of my central nervous system and turned me into a sniveling, coughing, whimpering, depressed and irritable old woman. I feel now like I'm one of those cut-back roses, all thorns with no sign of flower. I did rest, though; in fact, I watched all thirteen episodes of the new Netflix series' House of Cards. It was awesome although it made me feel like I should get up and take a shower. Kevin Spacey and Robin Wright play just about the most icy, venal couple on the planet. Speaking of planets, it's pretty cold here in Los Angeles at about fifty-five degrees, but it feels like another planet when I see what some of ya'll are dealing with on the east coast. Even though I'm sick, I'm glad I'm not you if you live in Boston or Connecticut or even New York. Call me cruel when I say that snow is pretty, but it's not that pretty. I guess you can get back to me during fire season or when The Big One hits. 

Snow Day

Amden, Switzerland, 2007

I'm surprising the boys this morning and not waking them up for school. It's raining here in Los Angeles and since we never have snow days, I'm calling one. We need a mental health day -- I think chocolate chip cookie-making is in order, perhaps a viewing of True Grit, and pajamas all day.

And maybe we'll listen to this:

Snow in Los Angeles

We don't get snow in Los Angeles, although last year Burbank saw some and both of my boys have undying hope that it'll happen here. You can see snow on a clear day, on the mountain tops that surround this palm-swayed city, and that's the way I like it. We always satisfy the snow-urge, at least for one night, by going to The Grove, a sort of Disneyland-esque outdoor mall down the street from our house that goes wild at Christmas. Mock us if you'd like, but when it snows at the Grove, it's awesome.

Faintly falling, falling faintly

It's hard not to believe one is living on an entirely different planet when I open my door to a blue sky, blazing sun and eighty degrees this December afternoon. My son called me into the living room before he left for school to show me footage of the sports dome in Minnesota caving in from the recent obliterating snowstorm. Many of the blogs I visit and read have photos of trees encased in ice, children bundled up in boots with rosy cheeks and pots of chunky soups simmering on stoves. My son Oliver's cheeks are rosy, too, but mainly because he played a quarter-final soccer game this weekend in downtown Los Angeles where the temperature probably spiked at 85 degrees. Yesterday, we finished decorating our Christmas tree, not beside a crackling fire but with the door wide open because The Husband and I are not going to turn on the air-conditioner in mid-December, damnnit! I am not too bothered by the lack of holiday appropriate weather because I actually despise snow and cold weather. And while it's a bit irritating to still be wearing a tee-shirt with no sweater when you're out and about, getting ready for the two-week Christmas vacation, I comfort myself with one of my favorite passages in Irish literature.

A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, on the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.


--  from James Joyce's The Dead


You can watch a clip from John Huston's equally mesmerizing movie by clicking HERE (embedding the video is blocked). I highly recommend watching the whole four minutes or so, particularly the end.

High Hopes

On the way to soccer practice this week, Oliver said,

I just know it's going to snow this year in Los Angeles.