Schoolless

Will work for food

Nadia and I were dragging our feet returning home from a walk along the stony beach of Boblo Island. The boys ran ahead with my friend Mary, and I fell even further behind than my daughter, as I scanned the ground for the perfect letter-shaped stones to spell a message to our island neighbors.

I heard Nadia yell for her brother, but he was too far ahead to hear her over the hum of the waves. I ran up to her, but before I could say anything, she put her finger on her mouth: "ssshh.... snake!..."

No, it wasn't the one pictured above. That's a rattlesnake. Yes, they have them on Boblo. But for this experience, I was again caught without my camera. Nadia and I gave up trying to call the boys back, and gave our full attention to the snake. He was probably a common garter snake, with a beautiful, velvety black on its back, and two yellow stripes along the sides. His head and neck were about the size of my thumb, and bright orangey-yellow. He was less than two feet long.

We watched as he deliberately made his way up the stony beach. He swayed his head side to side, and every so often flickered his tongue, using his unique snake organs to sense some prey that we knew from his behavior had to be there. We looked around, but couldn't see anything obvious. We saw a few small hollows in the ground that we thought might have harbored some insects, but the snake slithered right over them, and continued doggedly on his way. In twenty minutes, he traversed about seven feet of beach, sensing his way with patience, and assurance. He did not seem bothered by our presence.

When he crested the ridge of rocks, there was a small mossy area, and Nadia observed that some of the moss was slightly disturbed in a couple of spots. The snake made his way to this opening, and plunged his head under the moss. We held our breaths. The snake emerged.

"Froggy!" yelled Nadia, hid her head in my shirt, and burst into tears.
"Sweetie, you knew he was hunting!"
"But I thought it was going to be an insect"
"Oh, honey, you don't have to watch this if you don't want to, but the snake has to eat"

In the end, she elected to run and join the boys. I determined to see the spectacle through to the end. I squatted in an awkward position on the stony bank, and watched, transfixed, a scene that I had only read about in books. The snake's head, as I said, was roughly the size of my thumb. The frog, or toad, most likely, was the size of a small chicken egg. The snake clasped its head in his jaws, as it pulled it out of the burrow. Though the frog twitched somewhat, it put up surprisingly little struggle. I don't know if this particular type of snake used any kind of venom, or if the prey simply asphyxiated.

I expected I don't know what. That the snake's jaws would open like the gates of hell, and swallow the toad in one giant gulp? In fact, the bulk of the toad passed through the snake's gullet extremely slowly, and the effort the predator had to make to earn his meal was palpable. He paused frequently, uncoiled and contracted his body drawing the meal in very gradually. It did not pass through the snake's body as a big, round lump, but rather was formed into an elongated thickening as the snake worked to engulf it. There was also surprisingly little gore. However, there was an element of the macabre, as the snake finished drawing in the body of the toad, and rested a spell with the grotesque handlebar mustache of frog legs sticking out of its mouth.

Although the snake was the predator, it occurred to me how extremely vulnerable he was at a moment like this. Whatever ability he had to move with a large prey slipping slowly though his throat was further impeded by the prey's large limbs getting in the way of escape from a potential larger predator.

I further wondered whether, if such a predator came along, would it be getting two meals for the price of one. The toad, after all, was still very much in evidence as a separate entity. When would the prey cease to have an identity of its own, and become fully a part of the snake?

Where oh where could our little cat be?

We observed that cats become less and less fastidious with their bathroom habits as they advance in age. Whether it's forgetfulness, lack of bladder control, inability to scale the litterbox wall, or unwillingness to share it with younger cats, we've noted that when cats get to the age of 16 or 17 years, our house starts to smell like we have cats.
And we don't like it.
Our current matron cat is 17-year-old Phoebe. She has steadfastly refused to utilize the litterbox, even though we prepared a special one, just for her, in an unused bathroom on the second floor of our house, next to the room where she likes to hang out. She ostentatiously avoided any contact with the litterbox, and deposited her droppings along its outer perimeter.
Since she was so uncooperative, we decided that we would no longer bend over backwards to suit her whims, and we unceremoniously evicted her and the other cats from the top floor of the house altogether. I expanded the litterbox accommodations in the basement, and Chris installed a latching door at the top of the stairs to the second floor. We instructed the kids to keep the door latched at all times.
Naturally, the day we were leaving for vacation, someone went up to the attic for some camping gear, and forgot to latch the door. So our planned timely departure was delayed, as we frantically ran around the house looking for cats. We found the two younger ones right away. But there was no sign of Phoebe. We couldn't leave the door open while we were gone for two weeks, or we would have to re-enter the house with gas masks on. And, for obvious reasons, we couldn't close the door until we located the missing cat. 
Do your cats have their secret hiding places?
Phoebe is a master at this, and has a number of hiding spots that we have not yet discovered. We checked all the known ones upstairs: the far corner of the closet under the eaves, the depths of the drawer with the front missing in an old built-in cabinet, the old duct-hole that connects the bathroom to a walk-in closet.  We checked all the spots we knew of on the first floor too. No sign of Phoebe.
Next, we tried the basement. But where is there to hide? A utilitarian laundry room, and a large playroom full of legos, dolls and stuffed animals.
Wait... did someone say stuffed animals?...

Bowling for evolution

Cruising down route 23 along the scenic Lake Huron coastline, we came upon this arresting sight:

"Jesus-themed bowling alley! COOL!!"

Chris and I apparently both had the same thought.

Alas...

To top off our disappointment, the theme-park was closed, so we could not personally examine the anointed heart of the brontosaurus.

Not-so-minimalist

As someone who has never gone on a self-supported bike tour, I harbor perhaps a somewhat distorted image of such an endeavor. I imagine a lone figure against the dusky horizon, with panniers holding only the barest of necessities: tent, sleeping bag, change of clothes, some cooking utensils. Spare, self-sufficient, autonomous, economical.
Add a spouse and two school-age kids, and the picture changes radically.

Two, count'em, two BikeFriday Family Tandems being readied in our garage.

I have done car camping with my family. We have all the stuff. Regardless of the duration of the particular camping trip, you just throw all the stuff into the car, and go. It doesn't matter that we're only going for two nights. The car always looks like we're going on a cross-country road trip. But we don't care, because the car doesn't care.
We have read about and admired families that travel together by bike. Ironically, even though (or is it because?) we own a bike shop, we have never tried this ourselves.
So now that our youngest child is seven, we had this idea that we would go on a camping vacation by bike. A short little trip, just to get our feet wet: bike the I&M Canal to Starved Rock, camp a couple of nights and come back. You wouldn't think we need much for a trip like this; just the essentials.
Unfortunately, most of our car-camping equipment is unsuitable for towing in a bike trailer, and our planned 4-day trip has resulted in a mountain of equipment that had to be bought, begged, found and borrowed.
I have a feeling that with all the stuff we need, our bike tours will be no different that our trips by car: even if we're only going overnight, we'll look like we're ready to go around the world.
Maybe one day, we will.

Sunset Junque

Up for a day trip?

Just two hours from Chicago, Sunset Junque offers great fodder for anyone's sense of silliness, as well as genuine treasure-hunting opportunities. Architectural salvage, kitchy garden ornaments, lots of rusty metal objects and plain old junk abound.

Whenever our family travels to Michigan, we never miss the opportunity for a little detour to see what the proprietor of Sunset Junque has in store for us. Last weekend, I dragged my friend Mary over there. Well, "dragged" isn't really the right word. She actually went quite willingly. We had driven to New Buffalo to stay at her brother's cottage and enjoy the beach for the day. Since the beach isn't very enjoyable in 50 degree weather with light drizzle, we opted for a little road trip up the coast to the town of Glenn.

The poor lady named Josie manning the establishment was frozen stiff, trying to warm up by the light bulb, the only available heat source in the decrepit and musty shed that serves as Sunset Junque's main office. She wanted nothing more than to go home and curl up with a nice, stiff drink. She demonstrated remarkable patience as Mary and I perused the wares, took our time comparing the various types of aged terra-cotta finials and cast metal garden animals, and the kids ran around using old, rusty farm implements as swords (eeek...). In the end, she gave us generous discounts on two garden bunnies, a flying pig, a pair of those finials, and some miscellaneous metal railing. I'm sure it was with great relief that she bid us adieu as she pushed the gate shut behind us, and went home to enjoy a good book and her hot toddy.

Should you decide to take a trip to Sunset Junque this season, you may want to round out your day with a nice country meal, at Kalico Kitchen, just a few miles north on the Blue Star Highway. Chicken fried steak, cooked greens, corn bread & a tall glass of iced tea. Mmm...

Some sights from our recent travels

Leaping bravely into adventure:

Oh! Thats' why they call them the Smokies!...

NO!!!! Not more SNOW!!!!

Oh, well. Might as well have fun with it.

Huge leaves.

Tiny worlds.

Waterfalls.

Exploring.

Conquering.

Giddy. Up.

Homeschoolers' (mine and my friend's) accounts of horseback riding.

Ever stand next to an animal whose head is half as big as your whole body? I have. Three days ago, I rode a horse for the first time. His name was Samson. A white forehead to nose, a yellow mane, and yellow shins. The rest was light brown. This morning, I rode him again. Before we left, the tour guide of the second trip showed us a cool dismount. He grabbed on to the two sides of the saddle, quickly flipped his legs in front of him, then up and down behind him, and jumped off next to the horse. Wish I could do that.
So, in short, I had fun! -Peter S.

I think horses are really great animals. I go to a stable in Florida,and it's tons of fun.I sometimes ride a horse named Ellie, and sometimes I ride a horse named Jack. My friend and I both help out, by working at the stable. What we do is muck the stalls, sweep the barn, and sometimes help the riders find what they're looking for. Now while we were on our trip in Tennessee, we rode at a place called Davy Crockett riding stables. I loved riding on the horse I got to ride, Ginger. And I also loved riding Ginger on the nature trails. Luckily, we got to ride two times, each time for an hour. It was a very fun experience. The guides where pretty good at leading us. They also showed us how to turn your horse and stop it. I hope I get the opportunity to come back to the Smoky Mountains. But anyway, that is the end of my story. I hope you enjoyed it!!! -Anna S.

First I had Traveler. He was a bad boy. He was hurting others. He almost made Anna fall off her horse, and he kept taking breaks to eat. He was a very pretty horse, he had the most colors, but I wasn't comfortable on him. So next time I went to ride I got  Flame. He's named Flame, because he's fast, he likes to trot a lot. When you get off your horse, you feel tiny... -Nadia S.

I rode a horse named Champ. He was one of the biggest horses. Horseback riding was pretty fun, because we went on different trails and I got to ride by myself without someone holding the reins. I've never ridden a big horse before, only ponies, where they lead you around. -Luke S.

See y'all later!

The. Best. Ribs. Ever.

Our annual trip to Florida would not be complete without a meal at Jack's BBQ in Nashville.

We stumbled onto Jack's quite by accident while on the way to Florida several years ago. We made a note in our road atlas, so we would not forget. Then we replaced our road atlas. We did not remember the name of the place. Just the incomparable flavor and texture of their ribs. The turnip greens. The cornbread...

We had several arguments about the probable location of Jack's, Chris maintaining that it was, in fact, near Nashville, me insisting on Atlanta. During our subsequent travels, we searched for Jack's in vain. We sampled offerings from other BBQ joints, and walked away vaguely disappointed.

Then, last year, a miracle happened.

We were stuck on I24 outside of Nashville for an hour and a half. Traffic was not moving. It took us that long just to get to an exit, which we took, for lack of anything better to do. Going was pretty good for about five minutes, and then traffic on this side road also slowed to a dead crawl. It was getting dark. We had no knowledge of the area. We had no detailed map. We were stuck again.

How long were we on this road to hell? Twelve, fifteen, eighteen miles? Hard to say. In the end we came to a stop light where all traffic abruptly and mysteriously vanished. The only explanation for the previous slow down seemed to be a large, black, rather aged dog, that insisted on sniffing each car thoroughly before allowing it to pass. After the olfactory examination, it was smooth sailing.

We found ourselves on an empty, poorly lit road, and followed a sign that promised to take us back to the interstate. We had no choice but to believe. And just as we were starting to lose all hope of ever finding the interstate, a place to eat or a decent motel, the most amazing thing happened.

We turned the corner, and were greeted by this perky neon, well remembered from years ago:

The happy, winged pig takes off from a great height...

... and down, down...

... down he goes!

You simply cannot feel bad about consuming a pig that meets its maker with such gleeful abandon! It may be that these pigs are fully aware that the pit virtuosos at Jack's will turn them into culinary delights of the highest order.

What greater reward for giving one's life, than to be consumed with relish by  appreciative diners.

We now have Jack's in our atlas, our glove compartment, in our computer, and, of course, in our hearts!

Crabby at the beach

Oh, not me. I was feeling great. Are you kidding? I was lolling around in the sun-warmed sand on what must be one of Florida's most spectacular beaches at Fort DeSoto Park. The joy of wearing a bathing suit in the middle of January was more than enough to make up for the sand in my sandwich, and the luke warm tea, in which ice was a fleeting dream of the past. The sand, by the way, was glorious. Milky white, with the slightly powdery consistency of finely milled salt.

I decided to go exploring. In retrospect, bringing my sandals along turned out to be a wise choice. I crested the little dunes and walked away from the gulf side, winding my way through the dense thicket toward a small inland bay, hoping to catch a glimpse of some egrets or other wading birds. As I neared the bay, I noticed that the soft sand started to give way to slightly squishy slime, and the surface was pocked with innumerable holes.

As my shadow poked over one of the small dunes, I noticed a sudden flurry of movement, that stopped me in my tracks nearly hyperventilating, because it resembled the scurrying of cockroaches running from the kitchen light. I moved again. Thousands of small brown shapes ducked. And again. The crusty little bodies moved without fail. I am embarrassed to admit I was too scared to go it alone. I went to fetch my family. By the time I returned with them, I already figured out that the holes I noticed belonged to the thousands of little crabs that like to hang out on the beach. They don't seem to stray far from their little hidey-holes, and as soon as they perceive movement, they duck. Unlike cockroaches, these little guys were really more afraid of me than the other way around, and I became more comfortable walking by them when I realized they would unfailingly disappear underground whenever I came near.

The four of us squatted nearly motionless, barely breathing, waiting for the crabs to appear. They were incredibly hard to see. Gingerly, they would feel their way out of the holes, and move around almost imperceptibly. We'd think they were not coming out, and one of us would make the slightest of moves, and suddenly we'd see a whole sea of them duck for cover.

Eventually, the kids wandered off, followed by dad, and I continued on my way into the little bay in pursuit of birds. I wondered if they perhaps eat these crabs, and, if so, how were they able to catch them? I walked into the shallow water, pleasantly warm after the bracing temperature of the gulf. I idly picked up some pretty spiral shells, but tossed them back into the water, since they still contained their inhabitants.

I briefly studied a small, lifeless crab resting on the sandy bottom, feeling vague regret that the only one that would let me get this close was already dead.

It was then that I spotted a really beautiful shell. It was the kind you often find only fragments of on Florida beaches, their inner spirals exposed. This one was intact.

Surely, it must still be in use, I thought, as I picked it up, hoping to at least catch a glimpse of the lucky homeowner. But what looked back at me was no mollusk.

I gently returned the shell to its former spot and ran to collect my family. The kids, Chris, and even my mom followed, while I assumed an enigmatic expression and evaded their questions: "You'll see..."

But when we got to the shallow bay... it was gone.
"What was it, mom?"
"It was a hermit crab..."

I walked around dejectedly, hanging my head half in regret, and half in hopes of finding the creature again, so I could share it with my kids. After a few minutes of this, everyone was ready to give up. They started back over the dunes. That's when I spotted it again; about eight feet from where I originally saw it, now on dry land.

After we got our fill of his lumbering grace, we agreed to put him back in the water. We thought he could protect himself from the birds, but we wanted to shelter him from the other humans. However, Mr. Crab was clearly done bathing for the day. This was our last glimpse of him as we were walking away:

aaaack!

Four days on the road and this is the first stop with access to the internet! More stuff coming. I promise. Cool road trip stuff.