Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright.

This week, what used to be called the “ladies section” of the newspaper, which has now has turned into the “mommy bloggers” cadre was alive with reviews and comments about the Tiger Mother theory of parenting.  Espoused by a Chinese-American law professor, the methodology seems to rely heavily on the practice of musical instruments and demanding perfection in all things by small children.  I will admit that I only read the reviews, and have no interest in the actual book, if only because my effort at parenting is finished, with the outcome managing for himself, with any wounds I may have inflicted.

Whenever parenting techniques are mentioned, I am naturally thrown back to my own childhood memories, which were recently enhanced by the arrival of a treasure trove of photos, drawings and words from my mother.  Having just turned 80, Mom is lightening her physical burden by dividing the snapshot collection, historically kept  in an undifferentiated pile in a plain wood box, parceling them out to me and my siblings.

The photos were ones that I had seen many times before and therefore they did not trigger any new memories, only reawakened the little storage compartments in my brain where those scenes were stored.   The pictures confirm my general impression that my childhood was full of positive experiences.  I especially like the one of me intently gripping a baseball bat, ready to swing.  Unlike today’s emphasis on organized teams and proper uniforms, this picture has me in a dress, in my neighbor’s fenced  yard.  The other one I love is a rare shot of me in band class, holding my trombone like a lover, which given how long my lips pressed against the mouthpiece, I suppose it was. 

Although I was a straight-A student throughout grade school, I did not go on to become a great scholar in college.  I did not become a famous musician or baseball player.  I have no memory of either parent ever telling me to do my homework or practice longer, or even try harder.  It seems I was self-motivated, though I know that my father succeeded in conveying his high expectations for excellence to his children through more subtle and not altogether nice methods.  Because he was a high school teacher of English, as opposed to my artistically focused mother, his praise was what was important to us children in the academic realm.  Unfortunately, he rarely expressed approval directly, and we divided between those who worked for his cryptic affirmations and those who rejected his right to judge.

There was plenty of contention in our home, concentrated between my parents, but their frustration spilled out on us children as loud commands to do this and that, in a fruitless effort to maintain the household in an organized state.  Five children make a constant mess and that is just a fact.  As a result of overcrowding, we sought other people’s homes to while away the free hours, and also spent a lot of time outdoors.  This gave us every opportunity for adventure and new experiences, which formed the bulk of my learning. 

The idea that parents should force their children into long hours of study and practice as a matter of discipline seems absolutely wrong to me.  Although I am still upset that I couldn’t get my son to memorize the multiplication table, I know that my formative childhood experiences were not in a classroom.  They were when we kids explored the world on our own, without parental supervision, daring ourselves to go somewhere we hadn’t been before.

Gelato, Palio, and Groupon

    Last year I went to Italy with my 79 year old mother.   The outlook for this vacation was grim the moment we arrived in Lucca,  because traipsing up and down the cobblestone streets it was clear to me that she really couldn’t walk too well anymore.  I guess this is a moment that happens to any daughter confronting an aging parent, but at first it really angered me.
    “Why did you let yourself gain so much weight, why haven’t you kept up with exercise?,” I said to myself, and to her, in slightly less direct language.  But what I really meant was, “When did you get old?”
    But once I resigned myself to the limits of her impaired mobility, I was able to concentrate on where we actually were, instead of all the possible places we could have gotten to, had we the infinite energy I always imagine I have.  I still forced her up  third floor walk-up hotel rooms, and through the long halled museums and into each nave of every cathedral, but she got to lie down when I perambulated the streets of Sienna and take the train rather than the hike at Cinque Terre.

    I know my mom was mostly miserable on this trip and she swears she will never travel to Europe again, but we did have at least one pleasure in common, our daily gelato.  I know you can get gelato in the US, but in Italy there seems to be a gelato stand on every corner and they all seemed to offer a wonderful product.  This was the only moment each day for which Mom found a smile that wasn’t a grimace.  Sorry Mom!  I should say that when she went home, months later she actually visited a doctor and got a diagnosis that wasn’t the fault of her sloth, and could be mitigated with the right stretching exercises.
    Meanwhile, I looked at the art and architecture, especially taken with the splendor of the churches and the towns, and art so devoted to religion.  What amazes me about Europe is how much of the structure of the Renaissance and Baroque era is still there and how unified society seemed to be in the old, old days.  Surely, the pervasiveness of religion must have been stultifying in some ways, but compared to the cacophony of modern civilization, the symmetry of society seems retrospectively attractive.

    We spent several days in Siena, and I witnessed one of the pep rallies for the Palio, the horse race that would take place in the bricked square later in the summer.  Hundreds of townspeople gathered in the square to take part in and witness a ceremony of trumpets and flag tossing and singing of songs was both stirring and touching.  Of course, many Oregonians engaged in similar behavior for the recent Ducks football championship. But the fact that in Siena the tradition stretches back to the Middle Ages, gave the scene a little more majesty.

    Our society today, seems to find very little to agree upon and yet as we engage in conflict we fear its incendiary nature.  The shooting of Arizona Congresswoman, Gabrielle Giffords, is the most shocking evidence of the animosity hanging in the air.  The fact is,  we are united more by the products we share, than by any central truth.  Is it possible that while commercial speech aims to join us together in pursuit of a common expenditure, such as Groupon does, political speech is focused on splitting us down the middle?  An old friend called me to talk to someone she was sure would share her views on recent political events, but we ended up disagreeing on taxes and government, differences I never knew were there.  Sometimes, I wonder if it would have been better in Siena in the 1500's.   Then I remember the Montagues and Capulets and realize it has always been this way.

Stopping By The Woods

    One of the evils of city living is that it is hard to leave.  Even when traffic and time are not impediments, everything beyond the borders of streets and houses seems far away.  Thus, I go to the country much less than I mean to.
    But Sunday was sunny and cold and I knew there was snow galore in the mountains, so Rob and I went to the Wind River area of hills in Washington to cross country ski for me, and snowshoe for him.

Although the traffic tie ups around Mt. Hood had been making the news, there were very few visitors to this land of gentle hills that border the Indian Heaven wilderness area.  Perhaps that was because the road was icy and curvy the last ten miles.

    Skiing in the sun through the woods is about as close to bliss as I can get.

Maybe it is because I get so light starved in the winter, or go through the day, tense with the damp chill of this rainy climate, but the chance to synchronize my arms and legs in big graceful strides and the soft shush of each step almost puts me to sleep with calm.  The right music on the Ipod didn’t hurt my mood either