If you don't know, Geoff has been working a lot. He works all day, late at night, weekends. He works holidays and birthdays. He works when he's sick. Heck, he even works when he's healthy. On nights when he's home by 9 p.m., we say, "He's home early!" If he takes a few hours off on a Saturday, we celebrate the "break." There was a big work meeting on Friday. Geoff rushed out the door around 7:30 in the morning, so he wouldn't be late. Later, he called me. Geoff said it was a *Come to Jesus* meeting; they want everyone to work harder for another month. No more slacking off etc, etc... Huge Deadline. Team Effort. Blah, blah, blah.
What can I say? I guess I mean, what can I print and still retain your respect?
Both Alex and Max turned in book reports yesterday. Alex read a book about World War II and a Japanese family living in Hawaii. It was his first formal, typed up, formatted school report. He did very well. He was asked to include illustrations, which was probably his favorite part. Max had to include a project with his book report. He read his first grade level, long words and paragraphs book ever. It was about Balto, the dog that saved Nome, Alaska, and inspired The Iditarod. He was really taken with Alaska, the wilderness and adventure. He made a diorama of a snow drifted wilderness, with a map showing the route taken by the sled dogs. Good work from both boys. I am recalling the relief and satisfaction of having a school project completed and turned in.
William is jumping in to some algebra now, and he's also studying communicable diseases and cell function. William reads a lot. He reads about many subjects and from many sources. I think I should get him writing some more. He has very good discussions with me and he understands his course material. Writing practice will help him recognize his comprehension skills and improve his ability to communicate what he knows.
Me? I woke up with wanderlust. I could drive to Pasadena and sit with Grandmother, play some Scrabble, take her to dinner. I could take the children up to the mountains, a trip I used to make often and happily. We could hike around, stop at feed stores, visit goats and hope for a snowstorm. We could turn our backs on school and chores, pack the Green Goose and head out on the big highway. We could stop at diners and museums, campgrounds with interpretive centers and hands-on activities. I may go to our old neighborhood, the one before the Treehouse, and we could buy conchas, look for chicks, visit thrift shops and maybe drive by El Rancho to sneak a peak at our old home, see how much the trees have grown. Melancholy sigh. There can't be much satisfaction in grocery shopping and filling the car with gas, but I fear that is about all I will accomplish today. Why do I like to run away, to open a map and trace the contours of country roads? And on every trip I reach a point where the only place I want to be is back where I started.
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