LOCAL VIEW –One Wheeled Wagon–

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At my Childcare I often see children don’t need the junk parents buy them, (likely out of guilt for abandoning their little ones to strangers like myself.) At my place the most popular toy is the common stick found on the floor of any forest, and you would not believe the ferocious arguments I have had to arbitrate about certain sticks.

Children don’t need stuff. We all know this, and have all heard a hundred times the story of a parent who buys a child an expensive present, only to see the child gets more joy from playing in the cardboard box the expensive toy came in.

Children need Mom and Dad more than any toy a trillion dollars could buy.

Lately I seem to spend more and more time attempting to put myself out of business. I try to convince parents it is better to stay at home with their children. I haven’t had much luck, for it is a terrible sort of isolation to be a stay-at-home parent. I think one reason women “went back to work” and refused to be the sort of stay-at-home Moms seen in old 1950’s sitcoms like Leave It To Beaver was because the isolation was enough to drive the most staid person mad. Suburbs were and still are a sort of vacuum.

Suburban women don’t do laundry by gathering in a chattering group to pound the clothes on a flat rock by a river; instead they go down to a machine in a spooky basement all alone. It is said, “It takes a village to raise a child”, but what happened to the village? In modern suburbs people often don’t even know their neighbors, and commute to jobs far away, and need a place to park their children for nine to twelve hours. All that time their house is an empty box, hollow and echoing, and about as far from the traditional farm homestead as you can get. Traditionally both the mother and father worked at home, and the child spent only six hours at school.

Nearly thirty years ago my wife and I decided to fight the destruction of families, but it wasn’t easy. I could have made $100.000/year in Kuwait, but made $8,000/year working in my immediate neighborhood. Even working so close to home, there were days I’d come home and see my wife was going stir-crazy. We adjusted by getting her out to work some, with me as a stay-at-home-Dad some of the time, but then we made things even more difficult. We became aware the local school’s principle was failing to control the kids, yet adopting a the-parents-are-the-problem attitude. So we made our life much harder by choosing Home Schooling. At first this was hugely draining, but then my wife became a part of a group of “Home-School-Moms,” which was in some ways the equivalent of women going to a river to pound laundry on a rock as a happy group. Unfortunately there was no place I found for men to go. For the most part my road has been a lonely one.

When we opened our Childcare ten years ago it was with the idea that there was something good in the traditional farm homestead that children needed. Children didn’t need plastic toys made by people more interested in promoting Micky Mouse than in actually helping children. Children didn’t need for-profit daycare incarceration. They needed to be out in the fresh air, and to learn the lessons nature teaches. They needed to see carrots and potatoes come from filthy dirt, and eggs come from the filthy butts of filthy chickens, and milk comes from the washed udders of manure-producing cows and goats. They needed to walk the woods and see nature is not always harmed by mankind, and a pond is not hurt if you throw a rock at it.

We were so successful it nearly killed us. We immediately won an award, and had a waiting list, and were working from six in the morning to six at night. We had no business-experience, and it took us a while to figure out how to hire a staff, and comply with the hundreds of rules and regulations politicians burden a business owner with. Surely we have bungled, and bureaucrats likely look down their noses at us in high dudgeon, but we have done our best. And parents applaud us.

But, even after ten years, I can’t applaud myself. Why? It is because at times I feel like an enabler. I am the fellow allowing parents to abdicate from the responsibility of raising their own children.

Father’s only see their kids a half-hour in the morning, and a tired three hours in the evening, and I get them all day long. Is it any wonder children often suffer the embarrassment of accidentally calling me “Dad”?

But worst is the week they first arrive. They weep. The little boy in the picture at the start of this post cried for days, and I took the picture to reassure the mother he was at last resigned to the situation, and playing with a one-wheeled-wagon.

But I am not resigned to the situation. I am the guy who had to hold the poor child in my arms as he told me, quite clearly, he wanted to be with his very-loving parents. His doting parents, among other things, had taught him some sign language before he could talk. “Please” was to tap his chest. He kept sobbing and telling me, “Mommy. Daddy. Please.Please. Please. Please…”

This part of my job utterly sucks. I have to get it across to a two-year-old that their parents are loving by going to work. And it is loving of the parents to work. However it is not loving of our society to put parents in such a situation. It simply should not be.

After a week I have usually reassured the child life is still worth living, and this reassures parents who are a third my age and, compared to me, are children as well. But I have not reassured myself. I am aware something in my situation is wrong. I can fool the child and fool the parent, but I cannot fool myself. I am an One Wheeled Wagon.

Like a tired comedian, on the road
Too long, the roar of the crowd at my jokes
Is as loud, but I’m jaded. Overload
Has me faded. The sweetest sweet chokes
The glutted. I just want to go back home.

But where is that? In my haste to depart
I burned too many bridges, and now I roam
With no idea of what tugs my compass heart.

There comes a time when wealth seems futility.
All the wealth, wives and wisdom of Solomon
Didn’t make him happy, for he could see
That in the end he was a hollow man.

My heart tugs me on, with an ache too real
And no clear-cut goal, unless it’s to kneel.


ARCTIC SEA ICE –Whaler Gales–

The modern millennial likely would not approve of the life Whaler’s lived, seeing them as back-stabbers, but Whaler’s lived in a society where if you did not produce food, clothing and shelter you would not receive food, clothing and shelter. The choice was quite simple, back then: Work your ass off, or freeze and starve in rags. It was downright Biblical, “For even when we were with you, this we commanded you, that if any would not work, neither should he eat.”

Given this choice, men and women in the times Whalers sailed were motivated to do far more than the millennial mentality allows. There were no trophies for “participating,” for life was clearly a matter of life or death. Winning was life, and losing was death, and it was left to the angels in heaven to decide whether the dead got a “participation trophy.”

Not that people back then didn’t believe that certain losers, called “martyrs”, did get a “participation trophy” of far greater value than the plastic objects handed out to modern losers. However it was because they had given the ultimate sacrifice, their own life, so that others might live. Life and living was still the focus, and there was the awareness that in order to give, and be charitable, you must have. And in order to have, you must work your ass off. You must have a life worth living in order to perform the ultimate charity, and give your life away as a martyr.

Millennials seem confused about the basic premise which states one must have something to begin with, in order to be charitable. Some millennials indeed have things completely backwards. Where, in fact, an act of charity leaves one with less materially than one started with (though one may be richer spiritually), millennials feel they should wind up with more materially, if they are charitable. They only “give” because the pay is good; a “non-profit” should be highly lucrative; a “public servant” taxes those he supposedly serves. This colossal ignorance represents a complete redefinition of the word, “charity.”

This can only have occurred because millennials were misguided. Somehow they were misled into thinking you could give without first working your ass off. Perhaps this ignorance began with the ability of governments to reap without sowing, by printing money that didn’t exist. Who knows? I wasn’t there and I refuse to take responsibility for starting it.

I will accepts a certain amount of responsibility for perpetuating the lunacy of thinking charity is profitable. After all, I am a “Child Care Professional”, which means I profit off caring for small children. It is a shameful profession, for little children have no wallets, and to make money off innocents is surely a vile exploitation. The only redeeming factor is that the pay stinks, so I don’t share the shame of those who get filthy rich being “charitable.” However far better was the old ways of the old days, when a mother charged nothing for her milk.

Some of the worst offenders are psychiatrists, who do get filthy rich by helping the troubled. Likely they are aware of the shame involved, for no other adult occupation matches their rate of suicide. However, until they crack up, they like to sit in their stultifying offices and criticize whalers sailing out in the open air. They like to raise their noses and invent fancy words that demonstrate their contempt for honest men working honest jobs. To harpoon a whale is “sadism”, and the suffering of life on the pounding sea is “masochism.”

This only demonstrates their appalling ignorance, for they can have no idea how wonderful the wildness of whaling was, and that the people involved lost fortunes as often as they made them, but chose that life because a Nantucket sleigh-ride was the opposite of stultifying.

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Even though it did not always end well.

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In any case, the daring lifestyle of Whalers took them to where whales congregate, and one such place was the edge of the arctic sea-ice.

Arctic Whalers 1 Arctic-Whalers

It is from these men we learn most about how the sea-ice has expanded and contracted in the past. Because whales like to push their limits, (because the edge of the ice hold the richest foods), and because even whales sometimes pushed their limits too far and were trapped in pockets of open water and eventually killed by expanding ice, (because whales cannot breath if they have to swim too great a distance under ice),  whalers were tempted to pursue the whales into compromising situations. Whaling ships were also trapped, and crushed, and crews only survived by hauling lifeboats south over sea-ice to land, or to open water.

Some captains, such as William Scoresby (Junior), kept amazingly scientific and accurate logs, but most captains had no idea we intellectuals-of-the-future would ever wonder what they saw, and bicker about what the sea-ice was like back then.  Their logs are far less scientific, yet we can learn much from them.

For example, in 1871 forty ships sailed north of Bering Strait in June, and proceeded to hunt whale along the coast of Alaska nearly as far as Barrow during July and early August, but then the winds shifted and the ice came crushing south and trapped all but seven of the ships. 1219 lives were on the line.

At this point I suppose certain people of the “vegan” persuasion are clapping their hands in glee. They hate the idea of men stabbing whales in the back, and if you visit their websites you discover their hatred does not frown upon wishing death upon fellow humans, if those humans feed children with meat. Nor would it trouble them much to learn that some captains had their sons and even wives aboard, so the 1219 doomed people included women and children. Certain vegan types basically loathe humanity, preferring beasts, and snicker when true saints weep.  The fact whales also were trapped by the southern surge of sea-ice wouldn’t trouble them much, as it would be well worth the glee of seeing 1219 evil “hunters”die.

Some of these people would also be glad to see so many ships destroyed. Even though they were mass-produced very cheaply in the shipyards of those times, they were worth roughly a million dollars each (in modern dollars), (though you could never build such a ship for a mere million dollars today.) (Each ship must hold a crew of 25.)  In any case, 33 lost ships represented a loss of 33 million dollars for the investors. The vegan mentality claps its hands in glee, for, though some have never made an honest dollar in their lives and dwell in a mother’s basement, they prefer to avoid their own motivations and instead accuse others of “greed”.

The problem with this idea is that, if greed alone was the motivation, many captains would have gotten out when the going was good. Having made their fortune, they would have stayed home. They were well aware of the risks involved. Why should they risk losing a fortune they’d already made? Yet some of the captains involved had made and lost fortunes more than once. This suggests something besides greed was involved. It suggests men might live for something other than profit. It suggests men might rejoice in the sheer challenge of the sea.

Not that some of the “vegan” mindset can comprehend the joy of such danger. A person who loves danger will seldom hide in his mother’s basement, (unless he understands that is a dangerous place for a man to be).

(As a daredevil who has experienced both storms at sea and living in my mother’s basement, I will testify the sea has a beauty and joy which basements utterly lack, and for that reason a basement may be more dangerous. But the basement’s chief danger involves cowardice, while the sea brings out your courage.)

It is the courage of the doomed 1219 that really stands out. They knew, as the sun sank and September chills filled the air, and the ship’s timbers moaned under the stress of the increasing sea-ice, that the sea-ice wasn’t going to miraculously open and allow them to sail to unload cargo at the home port. It wan’t going to be a happy, profitable voyage. It was going to be one of the unprofitable ones they’d heard tales about. From members of the crew. If not the captain himself. So they knew it was time to abandon ship. They lowered the lifeboats, but not to water. The lifeboats went “clunk” on hard sea-ice, and then served as sleds, as 1219 doomed people headed south for land.

1219 made it to land, and then headed southwest along the Alaskan coast, to where the sea-ice didn’t crunch against the coast. And what did they find there? They found the seven smart captains who had escaped the sea-ice. They were the seven winners, and faced a choice of what to do with the 33 losers.

Now, if the seven winners happened to be like some “vegan” I’ve known, then when faced with 33 loser “meat-eaters” in dire danger, they would not lift a finger to help. They’d likely shriek, “Die! Die! Die! For you deserve it, because you are greedy and cruel to whales!”

In actual fact the seven smart captains may have made a choice that the stock-holders far away frowned at.  They dumped the entire profits of their voyages overboard, to make room for the 1219 lives they saved.

The end of the story is that millions of dollars were lost, but not a single life. The 1219 all arrived safely in the sunny south, to bask beneath the palms of Honolulu.

Knowing this, perhaps you can understand why I am less than trustful of those who write a sort of revisionist history, describing Whalers as being wicked, sadistic, greedy men. Surely they were not perfect, but they had a class you seldom see these days.

Consider, if you will, the class displayed by the seven captains who saved 1219. Talk about charity! They could have been rich, but instead chose to be poor and save 1219 lives.

And then consider how different are seven Climate Scientists. They have been nowhere and done nothing, in reality, though they may have jet-setted to Bali and Paris, spending other people’s money to talk nonsense they could have just as well talked (with less expense)  at home. All their adventuring is in a mother’s basement, with the “mother” being the funding of a government which cannot make money, and instead must print it. It is a landscape devoid of the reality where one must actually catch a whale. And, rather than demonstrating sacrifices they themselves must make to save people, they instead utter strident cries that others should sacrifice, so they (and hypothetical future generations) can profit and do “further research”. It is an intellectual world so divorced from catching whales, from hard facts, from food, clothing and shelter, that I can only conclude it is stark madness.

It is perhaps fortunate that I wasted a winter in my mother’s basement long ago, for I know how the mind can stray from reality in such circumstances, inventing excuses for not leaving shelter, concocting elaborate blamings of others for ones own spineless reluctance to go out into the cold. But I got sick of it, and faced a stark dawn where the choice between fresh air and stultification, between sanity and insanity, was blatant. So I stepped out into the cold, and discovered something that surprised me: Life is a blast. One may not be able to sign up to crew on a whaling ship any more, but there is plenty of fresh air out there, if one only leaves the basement.

Perhaps there are now simply fewer opportunities for millennials to work meaningful jobs, where they can see they actually produce food, clothing and shelter. A lone man in a tractor can now do the farming and produce the food which once would have taken hundreds, if not thousands, of toiling farmers to produce. Robots now do the tedious toil, but should not this allow people to be poets? To study Truth? Instead many just become nasty, and disingenuous, and more prone to con-artistry than to art.

It is for this reason I distrust ideas that seem to be produced in a setting like a Mom’s basement, and have a greater trust of ideas that seem from the decks of ships at sea. I am skeptical of data from models, and more interested the raw facts from “field studies”. And this is most especially true when the maps and graphs produced by professors in cozy offices differ significantly from what is shown, (often without comment) by their interns out on the ice. Or by the floating cameras out on the ice. Or by the adventurers out on the ice. Or by the historical records of Whalers who sailed long ago, and never dreamed a society could exist that is in the state ours is in.

This at long last brings me back to the topic of sea-ice, and the fact one can compare computer-generated ideas of what the sea-ice was like, back before we had satellite pictures, with the records kept by sailors. One discovers the two views disagree. Ships were sailing where the computer-generated maps state they could not have sailed. After all, William Parry observed a sailing ship could be brought to a halt by as little as an inch of sea-ice, unless there was a strong following wind. The people back then were not aboard icebreakers that smash through six feet of ice with impunity. Therefore their reports of open water are not “modeled”, but based on actual fact.

Even the old Danish sea-ice maps, which are decent regarding where the sea-ice lay on the European side of the Pole, tend to overdo the historical amount of sea-ice on the Pacific side. The old Eskimo (Inuit) spoke of whaling every year along the same coasts the Danish maps show as being gripped by ice. One surmises the Danes were just guessing, but the Eskimo, (perhaps the most gutsy whalers of all), not only spoke from experience, but their very survival was staked on there being open water. (One reason the Inuit replaced an earlier people called the “Dorset Culture” may be because the Inuit could hunt from kayaks while the Dorset required sea-ice, which in turn suggests times of thicker ice was advantageous to an earlier people, but losing that ice (perhaps during the Medieval Warm Period) put them at a disadvantage.)

The computer models, for some reason, show more sea-ice in the past than the Danes and Inuit reported. To me it seems the modelers have been so eager to demonstrate that sea-ice is decreasing, and in a “death spiral”, that they ignored the eyewitnesses, and the models became an example of “garbage in, garbage out.”

To get around such bias I have always preferred the eyewitnesses, whether they be Eskimos, Whalers, Explorers, O-buoys, Satellite pictures, or modern adventures sailing those waters.

The modern adventurers often are full of zeal, when it comes to promoting the idea that sea-ice is in a “death spiral”,  but that never bothers me, for they can talk the talk, but they also walk they walk. Often they inadvertently share a picture worth far more than a thousand words, for they share pictures of persisting sea-ice, even while agonizing about an ice-free Pole.

I am of the opinion that the Arctic Sea was at times ice-free, or nearly ice-free, as recently as the Medieval Warm Period. Though sea-ice has increased since then, it has not done so in a steady fashion, and the reports of whalers like William Scoresby seem to suggest there was one summer, around 1817, where there was less ice up in the Arctic Sea, on the Atlantic side, than we have ever seen, during our Modern Climate Optimum.

This pits me against some computer models, and it also, (to those who have great faith in those models), makes my observations seem a sort of heresy.  I try to point out that the models do not match the historical record, but some simply refuse to hear such a possibility can even exist.

I also try to point out that a return to the relatively sea-ice-free summer conditions of the Medieval Warm Period would be good for humanity,  but this also seems like sacrilege to those who think a decrease of sea-ice signifies doom.

In the end time will tell. I just watch what happens, and rue the fact we have so few cameras this year, (for the funding of eye-witness views seems to be greatly decreased).

Because we have so few cameras I am thrilled that a group of sailors, calling themselves “Arctic Mission”, are thinking of attempting to sail several boats north as far as they can:


These are fellows following in the footsteps of the whalers of Yore, and testing the limits of the edge of the ice. I am not particularly concerned about their politics, (one fellow suggests there may be less sea-ice this year than any summer in 120,000 years), because Truth is better than politics, and these fellow will report the Truth.

A slight problem has occurred, as Truth doesn’t always involve fair weather. They were planning to have left Nome, Alaska by now, and to have headed up through Bering Strait, but rather than the summertime calms they expected, there have been gales in Bering Strait. So they are delayed.

Hmm. Is it just me, or is there some irony in the fact that in 1871 forty whaling ships made it north of Bering Strait in June, but these guys are delayed in August?

But I will not deny these fellows have guts to be attempting what they are attempting. They have not the vegan-mentality that stays at home. I’m a little worried they may get trapped up there. But they will give us eye-witness accounts of what the sea-ice is up to, and I personally value that more than any model.

In terms of weather, “Ralph” continues to storm up at the Pole, but high pressure pumped up over Siberia may be swung around to Bering Strait and give “Arctic Mission” some sunny sailing.

Subfreezing temperatures are becoming more common.

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Waters are open north of Bering Strait, but “Arctic Mission” should start meeting sea-ice at around 75° north latitude. (For some reason NRL hasn’t updated its maps for three days.)

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Our lone camera shows the thaw has resumed after a sharp freeze, south of Parry Channel. The melt-water pools briefly skimmed with ice, but now are again expanding. Much of the melting now comes from beneath, and the ice should soon break up even if a freeze occurs above the ice.

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Stay tuned (even if hurricanes to the south get more interesting.)




LOCAL VIEW –Suffer Thee The Little Bast…–

I should begin this post with a disclaimer, and state that I have never strangled a child. However I have reached an age where I have to counsel parents who are younger than my youngest child. (Second disclaimer: I have never strangled a young parent, either.)

One thing young parents seem to find very relieving is that extreme exasperation during parenting is normal. That is why Jesus used the word “suffer” in association with the word “children”. Here is an old post, (which has been fairly popular over the years), discussing the association:


It seems parents always seek authority, when their little darlings become little devils. As an authority of sorts, I hereby state it is important to learn to laugh at your own exasperation and your own inability to find an answer.

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It is only natural for parents to want to avoid suffering in the immediate present tense, even if it means they themselves won’t go to heaven.

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On the wall of a milking room at a nearby farm I saw this framed motto:

Raising children is like
Being pecked to death
By a chicken. 

What I tell parents is that they are not suppose to be a child’s friend. They are suppose to keep their child alive. For example, suppose a child sees a mushroom that looks just like candy:

You may know the mushroom is deadly, but the child “feels” you are taking candy from a baby. Therefore, if the child is in a pugnacious mood,  they kick you in the shins.  They rage. They roll about. If you have to restrain them from eating the deadly mushroom, they yell, “You are hurting me!” (if not “Call the authorities!”)

I’ve been in the Childcare business so long a child’s rage no longer really troubles me. In fact I’ve learned that yawning and looking bored in the face of their rage goes a long way to ending their tantrum, (though sometimes it merely infuriates them further, especially if they are not used to being dismissed so easily; in those cases it is like yawning in the face of an enraged Hitler.)

This morning I noticed one boy’s face was reddening, and could see he was going to have a tantrum and keep a group from starting a hike. I was just leaving, but delayed my departure, telling the member of my staff to go on ahead with the others, and I’d catch up with them later. Then I just sat with the boy, firmly telling him he wasn’t going to eat the proverbial deadly mushroom. (It wasn’t actually a fatal mushroom, in this case. It was merely that he wanted to keep playing with a toy truck, even if it meant the entire Childcare ground to a halt.)

The young tiger stood his ground, though I am three times as tall and nearly twenty times his age. I admire that in a man. I don’t want to discourage courage. However I had to get it across that sometimes we have to obey laws we don’t like. (In my case the law I dislike is the Law of Gravity.) When I said he had to put the truck away, he firmly stated, “I won’t!”

You will notice, please, that I didn’t make a request. I didn’t say, “Will you please put the truck away?” That was the “correct” approach a couple decades ago, because it was felt that unlimited freedom allowed children unlimited opportunities to grow. Rules, so-called experts thought, oppressed freedom, and therefore everything needed to phrased as a polite question: “Would you like to get out of bed and go to school?”

The result was restless, disturbed children who in some ways resembled the orphans found in a refugee camp. Having no boundaries was like having no parents. This was very odd, when the traumatized children in fact had very wealthy and very loving  parents who wanted the best and were zealously reading the “correct” books so they could do the “correct” things.

Back then such parents looked down their noses at me, because I was oppressive to my children, and even yanked them from the government-run schools in order to home-school them, taking a cut in pay to do so. Better-educated parents were sure I was ignorant and they were wise, but time then passed. They then looked at their adult children, and then looked at mine, and scratched their heads.

Now new “correct” books are being written, and they suggest limiting freedom is a “correct” thing to do, because it is felt that a playground without fences causes “insecurity”, by exposing children to the wolves of the wilderness.  So now childhood is bubble-wrapped. Some parents ban the out of doors altogether. The “experts” can’t win for losing.  In a strange way they are so busy with writing rules they miss the Law itself.

I am the Law, as an elder charged with caring for small children, and when a child tells me they will not stop playing with a truck, right after I have told them the time has come to stop playing, I allow an ominous silence to fall. (Some children recognize something dangerous is involved in such silence, and abruptly pipe up with, “I’m done,” and scamper off.) Most, however, don’t recognize that the silence is ominous.

Actually I am just waiting for the correct moment to swoop and pluck up the truck and place it on a high shelf. (You usually don’t want to swoop when the child has a firm grip, as that might bring about a tug-of-war. It is wiser to wait until they have released the truck and it is coasting.)

Of course the little child is then completely outraged. They hit the roof. How dare I snatch away a toy?! I simply respond that the “Law” says it is time to stop, and we have to obey the “Law”. (This is clever, because it avoids the entire ego-struggle of “me against you”, which some children are amazingly adept at. As soon as you state “we” have to obey, you are suggesting you are on the same side,  and you are dealing with the same “Law”, which the little one is struggling to come to terms with.)

Often the little child’s outrage involves an escalation of hostilities. I expect this,  and am untroubled that my effort seems to be making the situation worse. Usually I avoid the small kicks to my shins and the ferocious uppercuts to my thigh. Even when they connect and leave a bruise I don’t really get mad anymore. After all, I began the escalation of hostilities, by snatching away the truck. I accept the blame. I “started it”. Now I have to “finish it”.

It is the “finishing” that makes people most queasy, for they imagine it must somehow be bad to “finish” a child, as if I respond with an uppercut that leaves the child unconscious. Quite the opposite. What I do increases the child’s consciousness.

Years ago I had one superb employee who seemed to have a uncanny (and very beautiful) ability to avoid escalation. When a child hit her she would gasp, and then speak her Law, “Use words, not your hands.” Something about the tone of her voice, (and especially tone of her gasp), was amazingly effective. I stood back and shook my head in awe, 95% of the time. However 5% of the time the child would not use words, and would continue to belt her, or kick her, (or throw blocks at other students during “circle time”), and she would turn to me, with her eyes hopeless and appealing, and I knew it was time for the child to be “sent to the principle.” I had to step up and be “the heavy”. The child had “started it”, and I must “finish it.”

Of course, I had no desire to harm the child. I wanted to increase their consciousness, and one important thing for a child to be conscious of is that it is unwise to bite the hand that feeds, or, conversely, bite the hand that refuses to allow you to ingest poison mushrooms. In fact, kicking and biting and scratching and striking the very teachers who are trying to keep you safe is a sort of “poison mushroom” in and of itself. Respecting teachers is an important lesson to learn, (at least until one is an adolescent).

But long before they are adolescents, children test their limits, and a tantrum is a testing of adults. How much disrespect will the adult allow? How far can I push things before they draw the line?

I actually make it clear that the line was already drawn, and the little one has stepped over it. Until they step back, I will not stop doing what I am doing, which is to physically restrain them, and to bodily remove them from the situation they wanted to influence, to a quiet place where they can thrash and scream all they want, but it will have no influence.

This is forbidden in government-schools. For some reason (that only lawyers understand) any sort of restraint is frowned upon, and if a little child does something truly dangerous, such as wield a knife, the teachers must stand back and the government police must be called in.  However, because I am not under the jurisdiction of the government (yet) I can get physical, and simply take the knife from the little ones hands. Before a child joins our Childcare my wife diplomatically  makes it clear to parents that I will use “physical restraint” if need be, and “bodily remove” children if need be. Parents are free to find another place, if they dislike this philosophy.

In the ten years since I’ve opened this Childcare (thinking it would only be for a year or two), I’d say I’ve dealt with a hundred full-blown tantrums, and a thousand events which would have become full blown if I hadn’t nipped them in the bud, (because I know how.) My glasses have been broken on at least ten occasions. I’ve experienced uncountable bruises and have been bitten. Some of the worst bites are from parents, who fail to do what I do for their own children, yet mount a high horse and criticize what I do.

This gets old. I confess I am looking forward to getting out of the business, and taking some easier job, (such as herding rabid cats). However besides getting old, the job is getting to be old hat.  The first time my glasses were broken I think I did glare at the little child. Now I only pretend to glare. I know the ropes of a tantrum, and the ins and outs. Therefore I feel I should offer some parting advise to young parents.

First, the child’s ultimatums have no real power. No person has ever killed themselves by holding their breath. Don’t worry. Even if they manage to hold their breath so long they pass out, they will awake and find you still there, drawing the line.

Second, the line you draw is more important than whatever they think trumps you. You need to get to work, and so they must leave the piano, even if it means little Mozart’s “Opus One” must wait until age four. There will be no “Opus One” ever, if you get fired and starve, (and anyway, classical music involves huge amounts of discipline.)

Third, a child’s tantrum is not entirely an imposition. It is a chance to go on an emotional trip without the brain damage caused by hallucinogens. A slight adjustment in attitude is required, but it is possible to see a child’s tantrum as a chance to travel to colorful emotional landscapes seldom seen in the gray tedium of adult life. Usually adults have to go to a movie to shed a few tears, or a Beethoven concert to feel the tempests of emotion, but a kid’s tantrum traverses the same spheres. It is for this reason, though dealing with tantrums has gotten to be a bit old, it has never quite become “Ho Hum” for me.  There is something about the emotional journey I am reluctantly joining which reminds me of newlywed’s first fight. It may not be the honeymoon, but it is certainly not jaded, and is still on the other side of the planet from divorce.

Anyway, to get back to the tantrum I helped a boy through this morning, it went through the ordinary phases. Because psychologists like to pretend to be scientific, I suppose I should describe the phases. As I recall they were: rage-violence-rage-violence-complaint-violence-tears-rage-violence-tears-rage-rage-surprisingly sarcastic comment-tears-tears-defiance-tears-tears-silence-tears-willingness to get up and go.

I should mention I am careful to be gentle, even tender,  when I restrain a child, but they often shout, “You’re hurting me!”  The hurt is real but emotional. (When you want to pop someone in the snoot, it hurts when you are a failure.)

The child often says unloving things such as “I hate your guts”. My response tends to be, in soothing tones, “Of course you do. I took away your truck. Of course you do.”  A bit later I add some sage advise, “Use words, not your hands. Hitting teachers is against the Law. Don’t hit. Use words. Say, ‘I am very, very angry you took my truck.'”

I am very aware a lot of what I say is merely a background noise to the child, but I attempt to speak in tender tones. What I say may merely be the “Mooph-mooph-mooph”, which was all that adults said in old Charlie Brown animations, but I attempt to make my “Moophs” less snide and more compassionate than those “Moophs” were.

In terms of the Law, I don’t budge. In this case the Laws were, “‘Time to stop playing with a truck’ means thou shalt stop” and “Thou shalt not attempt to kick the principle in the groin.”  But I am flexible in terms of how long it will take the little child to become resigned to the inevitable. I say things like. “Are you ready to go, or do you need more time for a good cry?”

I was a bit surprised how quickly this particular boy got through all the peaks and valleys of his tantrum, this morning. After only fifteen minutes, when I asked, “Are you ready to go”, the same boy, who had made it plain he would rather die than obey me, instead nodded. As we walked to catch up to the others he didn’t look up at me, but felt sideways to take my hand. (Three-year-old boys are allowed to do what grown men can’t.)

We caught up with the others, and I handed the child off to the staff with the smug sense I’d done good, though I was late for my morning break. Not that my staff couldn’t have handled the tantrum, but it is harder when you have eleven other demanding children. A tantrum is best handled one on one. I figured I’d done a good deed, and, after briefly talking shop with the staff,  headed off to a coffee I felt I’d earned.

I was nearly to the bottom of the hill when I heard the sound of small feet running up behind me. I turned and was nearly tackled by the small boy. The same small person who would have rather died than obey me, a half hour earlier, now wanted to hug me good-bye.

I must admit this: Though I still want to find a new business, there are parts of this job I’ll miss, when I’m gone.

LOCAL VIEW –Efts and Other Red Things in the Rain–

A wet spring has given way to a wet summer in New England, but spring’s bone-chilling rain has become the warm stuff of summer, and is actually nice to walk about in, even for an old geezer like myself. And our Childcare focuses on the outdoors, so even if I’d like to goof about indoors I’ve trapped myself into going out. The children are rather fatalistic about the situation, and are unusually resigned to adults who don’t know enough to come in out of the rain. My chief trouble comes from identifying who gets which boots, but fortunately the kids help me out.

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The world we head out into is especially green this year. We tend to hike three miles in four hours before lunch, which may seem slow, but the children stop a lot, and also likely circle about to such a degree they cover six miles for my three (measured by the pedometer in my cell phone.)

In such lush greenery anything red tend to bring progress to a screaming halt, especially if it is edible.Eft 6 FullSizeRender

It always fascinates me how some children only nibble a few strawberries, others stuff themselves, and some are natural born gatherers, and likely would the ones a tribe would assign to drying berries or making jam for the coming winter.

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(Notice the sun has popped out. This means I am carrying an armload of raincoats, until the rain starts up again.) The rain has made the wild berries much larger than normal. Here is an especially plush one, in a child’s small hand.

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When we compared the flavor of wild berries to the enormous, plum-sized berries in the children’s lunches, I was somewhat disappointed that the consensus was that commercial berries were sweeter. This made it all the more interesting that many children seem to prefer the tart, wild ones.

I impressed upon the kids what a big job it was for their great-great-grandmothers to make even a single jar of jam, and what a treat jam was, once the season for strawberries was over. In the days before refrigeration a thick syrup of sugar was a way of preserving things, just as pickling was. (Also, if the berries were not excessively heated the remaining vitamin C in the jam prevented scurvy, during winter months.)

The kids tend to be unimpressed when I attempt to impress this sort of trivia into their brains, and hurry ahead to the next discovery, which happened to be a surprisingly red mushroom.

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These are actually the ordinary brown shelf mushrooms that grow from the sides of dead and dying trees, and sometimes are strong enough to sit upon. They only are colorful when actively growing.Eft 8 IMG_5174

They were growing with surprising speed in the wet weather, and were hues even a geezer like myself had never noticed before (usually they are more purple when growing). One may have added enough weight to cause a rotted branch to fall to the ground.

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What was interesting was that the fungus continued to grow, but made an adjustment for the fact “down” was in a new direction. (Notice the slug feasting).

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The children were not all that interested, as one fellow forging ahead had discovered an eft.

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It is hard to keep the kids from picking efts up and bringing them home in their pockets, or poking them with sticks. I try to again impress upon them that the salamander’s skin can’t take much abuse.

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Efts are the juvinile form of a Newt, which is an interesting critter for it has somehow figured out three different ways to breathe. When it is a tadpole it looks like a minnow, only its gills stick out like feathers, even as it starts to grow legs.

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Then it grows lungs, and becomes the red eft on wet forest floors. But then it returns to the water and, after a final lungfull of air, can quit breathing, as it turns green and becomes a common eastern newt.

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At this point the newts breathe through their skin, using a process called “diffusion” which requires neither lungs nor gills. I was going to add that this is also how frogs can take a deep breath in the fall and then sleep in the mud under water all winter, but the children had had enough of my non-stop scientific trivia, and, as they realized we had left the unexplored part of the forest and were on a path they recognized, went rushing ahead to what they call “The Trampoline Tree”.

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These two hemlocks nearly fell over in a storm, but were kept from falling by neighboring trees. Their roots are great fun to bounce upon.

I suppose I could lecture the kids about how bouncing might hurt the fragile roots, but the trees will not last long in their current state, and I think children get enough of a guilt trip laid on them by PBS. PBS is downright prudish about nature, as if nature will be hurt by being touched. I don’t see how a nature-lover can be a lover if he or she never touches. Isn’t being a lover a hands-on experience?

I love when rain’s warm-blooded, and the green,
Green leaves are platting in July’s soft heart;
When the gutters are all flooded, and the queen
Of midsummer night’s dreaming plays a part
In romanticizing logic. Our thought
Gets too severe when we rush, rush, rush
To ensure our garden’s harvest is a lot,
And we never pause to hear how songbirds gush
Despite falling rain, despite distant thunder
Thumping nearer, and nearer, and nearer.
Are we not made poor by the great blunder
Of wearing blinders when we could see clearer?
All winter we waited for this sweet summer day.
All too soon glory will go waltzing away.


Here is a picture of children not being obedient. I told them to wait. They are vanishing into the distance. (Actually this is a zoomed-in part of a larger picture; you can barely see them in the larger picture.)

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In a sense children are a lot like life. They refuse to follow the plan, and this can cause all sorts of different sorts of dourness to afflict us. One thing I’ve recently been noticing is the cure often isn’t words.

This is bad news for people like myself, who have invested a lot into the study of words. It is also bad news for people who don’t think talk is cheap, and make it expensive, such as psychiatrists. But again and again I’ve recently seen members of my staff, and the young parents who are my customers,  not only say a lot with a wordless gesture, but seem to solve a problem as well.

Solve a problem? Yes, because everything is stressed, and then, just by the way they roll their eyes, or give themselves a face-palm, they cause laughter to come to relieve the stress. This is bad news for the pharmaceutical industry.

I’ve been noticing this phenomenon so much that I’ve started to study it. As it is beyond words, I don’t suppose I can find the words to describe it, but sometimes poetry is within a glance. We say a person “beams” at us.  It makes me think we should observe silence from time to time, for otherwise words, whether spoken or written,  can become mere yammering. Silence is golden.

Most recently I saw this wonder within a wink. Not a word was spoken. A person just winked, and my heart was eased by a good laugh. It got me thinking, and looking backwards across the years…

…Musing backwards to days I spent drifting,
When shaving and showers were luxuries;
When shopkeepers thought I’d likely be lifting;
When hunger made appetite easy to please
And downwind of kitchens was Oh so delicious,
I couldn’t help look unworthy of trust.
One look at me made policemen suspicious.
I practiced innocent looks, or got cussed,
But one day I decided to risk arrest.
I saw a bored girl in a black limousine
And as I slouched by I gave her my best
Roguish wink. I wish you could have seen
Her sour face dawn a recalcitrant smile.
It made being a drifter completely worthwhile.

LOCAL VIEW –Gloomy June–

This is just a quick post to explain why I haven’t posted in so long.

A.) When I find time to write, I have felt attracted to a longer post, which is taking its sweet time to reach a publishable state.

B.) Considering my wife puts up with me, I figured I should put up a screen-house she has wanted for years, (and not the cheap and flimsy version I’ve bought her, from stores, that blows down in a thunderstorms. I thought it would take me only a couple days, but hammers seem to have gotten a lot heavier, and miss the nails a lot more than they used to, but….the project is done, (except for a lot of trim work and painting.)

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Once I clean up my stuff , we can actually sit outside and not be swarmed by mosquitoes and black-flies.

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But there is one small problem. The weather is horrible. The high temperature today was 47° (8° C) with a thick, cold mist driving in from the northeast. Below 50 degrees mosquitoes and black-flies aren’t even active. So my new porch is useless, and a miserable place to sit.

3.) It has been a remarkably wet and cold spring here. The leaves have finally come out, and we have had a few sunny spells and even a single hot day, but then things revert to early April’s weather.  I know it is June because the day gets light at five, but three hours later cars still have their headlights on.

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But teachers haven’t had to deal with unruly children in sweltering classrooms, which is a problem, because they had planned for unruly children in sweltering classrooms, and thought it clever to schedule outside activities.

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At our Childcare we went outside anyway. Something about a boy’s biorhythms simply know it’s June, and they were wild. I had a hard time keeping up with them on a hike. (It was interesting to watch a eight-year-old who had flown up from Texas heat, romping with the rest; I thought he’d be cold, and eventually he was, but mostly he amazed me by joining right in with the laughter and the rambling through wet underbrush.)

Considering how high the sun is, it is uncanny the noon didn’t warm at all today. It’s worth saving a map of the June nor’easter for future reference (and for arguments with Global Warming Alarmists.)

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4.) This sort of weather always makes me introspective. It was actually good therapy to be building a screen house, keeping from withdrawing too deeply, especially because June 6 always makes me introspective as well, thinking of the man I knew who was on Omaha Beach and took a bullet to his heart, but amazingly survived, and of the many who didn’t.  Last year I worked two weeks on my introspections:


This year is no different. Before plunging into summer I withdraw into the past, and walk corridors of history. Hopefully a good post will come from it. Or perhaps at least a half-decent sonnet:

Few things are more dismal than drizzle in June
With the wind from the cold North Atlantic.
The music is dripping; no bird sings a tune;
And wet leaves whip silhouettes frantic.
It’s a cold day, yet I strive to thank it.
A driving mist drenches; nothing is dry.
I put wood in my wood stove, and crank it,
And count my blessings, or at least try
But it is distressing a purple sky’s
Pressing the uplift of June into mud.
Water is stinging my upturning eyes.
This weather’s not stirring my blood
But I’ll sing a sonnet. Old men are wise;
They know black but highlights brightening skies.

Indeed the future looks brighter. Next week I may gripe about the heat!

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LOCAL VIEW –Moody Monday–

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Sometimes the weekend is too short. I’m not ready for the sheer inanity of my fellow man when Monday rolls around.

I’ve been in an on-line discussion with someone about sea-ice. It has been frustrating because he or she will not talk about the things my eyes can see and that I can point to, but instead resorts to invisible things sensed by satellites, such as “mass-balance.” Finally I gave up trying to show what eyes can see, and basically stated, “Be that way, if you want.” I thought that would be the end of it, but this morning I got this lovely note:

“Caleb, you should be aware by know that the Heartland institute support whatever fake science industry pays them to support. This includes lobbying and generating doubt against regulations on CO2 emissions, ozone-destroying chemicals, second-hand-smoke, endangered species etc. They are part of the paid anti-science forces in the US. You are truly living in a conservative bubble if you are not aware of this. And Fred Singer’s past? For-hire fake scientist…shameful stuff.
I know this won’t be published, I just hope you read this and reflect a bit what kind of forces you are dealing with and endorse.”

Great. I haven’t even had my first coffee.

Anyway, I am reflecting on what kind of forces I am dealing with (if not endorsing.) It made me pout a bit. After all, I am only pointing out what my eyes can see, and discover I am a bad-guy, part of “anti-science forces”. Me!  And I’m such a nice old fossil.

Then, when driving the little children to kindergarten, I discover this lovely object has been parked at the entrance of the high school.

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I think the point of this is to stress the gravity of reckless driving to the high school seniors, who tend to go wild at the time of graduation. However, as is often the case with alarmists focusing on worst-case-scenarios, it immediately backfired. Someone was gawking at the appalling wreck, and promptly went off the road, not fifty yards away.

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Sometimes human efforts look particularly lame and ineffectual, and I want to stop the world and get off. Funny how often this happens on Mondays.

Take my cheeks in Your palms and raise my eyes
To Your hills, for my vision’s gone heavy.
(Too much talk of itches with hearts so dry
They make thirst.)
                          Faith that has never been steady
Knows most about the worst, yet it yammers
On insistent, (Professor of Dullsville),
As my tired heart slowly hammers
A cage for itself.
                                   Even the seagulls will
Rise from their dumps and let beauty soar
But I need Your help; It would be so easy
For You.
                  You open Springtime’s golden store
Of lemon green, make trees lacy and breezy,
And dab dark pines in honey. One glance kills
All woe, so raise my eyes to Your hills.

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