Make Me Into A Shepherd

Reed dipping candles at the Rudolf Steiner school in Holywood last Saturday.
St. Comgall's Bangor Parish Church - where Reed will be playing a shepherd for this Sunday's nativity service.

Monday, December 10, 2007
Bangor

When I was in graduate school, and prone to spending my weekends too much with Walt and too little with my studies, a sense of desperate unhappiness used to steal over me as Sunday evening approached, until by 9 pm I was quite sad. I mention that now because I haven’t noticed that feeling for a very long time – at least not since I started working for myself, and Sunday stopped being the bittersweet day that marked the beginning of another stressful week. Nowadays Sunday evenings are rather delicious, in fact, since in the U.S. there is usually a Masterpiece Theatre on PBS, and here in the U.K., any number of choices like Miss Marple or one of those real estate shows I now love, like Relocation Relocation. Earlier this weekend we even got a dose of Mr. Bean and Blackadder, although a little of that goes a long way. They’re best rationed out, one every few weeks or so, instead of a whole bunch of them in a row as the comedy channel seems to do.

Hard to believe that a week ago Walt and I were completely flat out all day Monday from some kind of flu bug. Reed fetched us water whenever we needed it all day long, and fixed himself his own snacks and lunch, since I was not up to the task. I was able to eat again on Tuesday, and by later in the week was feeling quite normal again. I was glad it didn’t hit me badly until after I’d gotten home from the Advent candlelight service at church on Sunday night – shiveringly lovely, singing by candlelight some carols I knew – O come O come Emmanuel – and several that I didn’t. The choir had obviously rehearsed very long and hard as some of their pieces were quite difficult, one even based on a Gregorian chant. The flu got me later in the evening, and even though I was somewhat awake in the middle of the night when it turned out Walt was coming down with it, I wasn’t aware that the thunk I heard in the downstairs bathroom was Walt passing out!

After a week of recovery I was ready to get out and about so even though Saturday dawned with the worst weather yet – pouring rain and blowing hard – Reed and I braved the weather and took the train to Holywood to go to the Rudolf Steiner school’s annual Advent crafts festival. We called a taxi from a gas station very near the station and arrived at the school just in time for the opening carol singing and candle lighting. The rest of the day was spent making our way between the various buildings, dodging other hordes of children and their parents, trying to keep out of the puddles inbetween, waiting in line for food, and choosing a select few crafts for Reed to do. The first was dipping beeswax candles by hand. Reed loves doing that so much I might have to get him the equipment to do it at home eventually – maybe he could sell them, since he loves setting up a little market stand too. Later I helped him make a wreath out of fresh cut evergreen boughs, something else he was thrilled to create. He chose some little sprays with pink berries on them for the finishing touches – but we don’t know what shrub they were from and neither did the person who was in charge. He also enjoyed the petting zoo, where he handled a friendly snake and a tortoise, and stroked a hamster or guinea pig for a long while, while I waited outside under my umbrella. We headed home, content, later in the afternoon and once again arrived home just as darkness was falling, candles and wreath intact.

Yesterday Reed came out of Sunday School with two notes, one about the dress rehearsal this Saturday for the children’s nativity program, and another that requested “Please make me into a shepherd for our nativity service.” I’ve got to figure out what he can wear, aside from the tea towel on his head. Maybe I’ll buy an old sheet at one of the charity shops and quickly sew him a kind of long tunic. I’m not too great at this kind of thing yet but I think I can manage that at least. I wonder if Reed realizes the significance of being a shepherd in the nativity play, since he has actual experience shepherding goats and sheep in the Auvergne hills. If I was a more theatrical-oriented person I might observe that he could really bring a depth of understanding to his shepherd performance by drawing on that... but I'm not, thank goodness.

Saturday in Belfast

Thursday, December 6, 2007
Bangor

Walt and Reed took themselves out of the house last Friday so I could have most of the day at home with peace and quiet. Utter bliss, I admit. They went to the transport museum again in Cultra, this time to see the boats. When they got home they stayed for just a couple minutes before heading out again to catch the train downtown for a swim at the leisure center. I’ve had plenty of alone time while on my shopping walks, but to be at home alone is a rare pleasure no matter where I am in the world. It definitely helped restore my shaky equilibrium – knocked off balance by too much family togetherness I guess. I know that is not a problem that most families have lately, but on our year away it is indeed a hazard. Fortunately we’re not in The Shining…we’re not trapped in some remote snowbound haunted mansion, slowly losing our grip.

Quite the opposite really: today as I was walking I realized I’ve got a dawning sense of contentment, that until it appeared, I didn’t know was missing. Having realized a long held desire certainly helps – after all, I used to spend an inordinate amount of time in my former life dreaming and scheming how to spend a year in Europe, and voila, here I am. Now my concerns run to the more mundane: will I ever own a Smartcar or Mini Cooper of my very own? Will they continue producing episodes of The Hotel Inspector for t.v.? Do I want a regular chocolate orange or a dark minty chocolate orange in my stocking for Christmas? Things like that. Being here now certainly makes living in Europe again in the future completely possible, and that, believe it or not, is a huge load off my mind.

We spent Saturday in Belfast, catching the train at 10 a.m. and getting to St. George’s market around 10:45, just in time to go around sampling all the delicious things for sale. The most unusual was probably smoked dulse, a type of seaweed, and a cracker spread made from sea lettuce. But they were both delicious. We had a crepe filled with ham and cheese as well as a serving of sausage with a curry sauce for lunch, while listening to a band playing American Dixieland and Big Band type music. Walt thought that was unusual until I pointed out how many times we’ve listened to traditional Irish music at the farmer’s market at home. Afterwards we wandered downtown to the City Hall which was jampacked with people enjoying the Christmas market in Donegall Square. We caught a bus to the Queen’s University area where we walked through the winter-subdued Botanic Gardens. My favorite was the old, unrestored Tropical Ravine building, made of brick, rather dark and completely jungle-like with exotic vines and trees, with a goldfish pond below us at the bottom of it, and gothic style wooden windows rotting away from the constant moisture. We were the only ones inside, taking shelter from the brisk breeze, and I simply must visit again to note more details; it would be the perfect setting for a crime scene in a cozy murder mystery. Afterwards we went into the Student Union at Queen’s to have some hot chocolate at Clement’s cafe and admire the fabulous view of the school directly across the street. I believe it was the same Victorian architect that designed Queen’s that also designed the curvilinear glass and steel palm house at the Botanical Gardens, Sir Charles Lanyon. We caught the train home around 3:30 pm and were happily building a fire in the stove at home by dark.

Fox Sighting

Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Bangor

The neighborhood fox made an appearance the other night when we were watching, after putting out some leftover turkey bones in the yard. We turned on the outdoor light, and turned off all the indoor ones, and sat inside the patio doors to wait. He or she appeared after just a few minutes at the edge of the garden in the back, then scurried out of sight into the shadows off to the side. It circled in towards the bones, hesitated and turned back a little, then circled again and gathered courage before making a beeline for the bones, grabbing them and heading straight back into the shadows at the back of the garden, where there is a place where it can slip under the gate and into the woods. I didn't realize it would be so skinny looking - very insubstantial, long and thin and low to the ground. And definitely more nervous than sly.

After walking so much here in Bangor I can now identify the smell that will always mean Ireland for me: coal fire and wood smoke combined with salty sea air. I can add that to my personal catalog of world odors: Indian food mixed with car exhaust for London, salty sea air with evergreen for Puget Sound, freshly mown hay for the Midwest, rosemary for Provence, sea air and wood smoke for Southeast Alaska. The only smell I associate with Paris so far is roasted chestnuts, from our Christmastime visit several years ago – but when we visit in the spring I’m sure I’ll learn some new ones.

Chocolate chip cookies in the oven make for a cozy day, even though it isn’t raining today and the wind isn’t blowing much either. Chocolate chips here are not really common – we don’t have the same choices as at home – and they are really expensive besides. So instead of buying chips I bought a big bar of Green and Black’s organic baking chocolate (72%!) and chopped it up into pieces with a knife. More work, but probably akin to the original chocolate chip cookie recipe and much better tasting. I keep steering myself away from the counter where they are cooling on an old copy of The Times so as not to eat dozens of them in just one afternoon.

I’m working on a writing project that pays and has a deadline so am staying home today to get work done. Also, during the week we’ve started making a list each morning for Reed with all his scheduled things through the day. He loves to cross things off, so we put everything on there: breakfast, wash face, brush teeth, get dressed, recess, music, recess, books, math, science, recess, handwriting, lunch, more recess, more books, supper, bath, bed. One day a week we take some kind of field trip; this week it might be to the aquarium down by Strangford Lough in Portaferry, or perhaps to Carrickfergus castle. One afternoon a week we go to the swimming pool, and of course late on Monday afternoons I take Reed to Kerry McClure’s house for his violin lesson. If the weather is exceptionally fine we ditch the schedule and take Reed down to the beach, where he is supremely happy, poking about in the tidepools. Violin practice has been going much more smoothly lately than it did at first, as I’ve cut the time back from 15 or more minutes to only 5 or 10. It’s pretty exciting to see him learning to read the notes, following the music with his eyes and moving his bow to the right string. I think he is feeling a sense of accomplishment about it too. Getting to go to Kerry’s is pretty motivating too: she always has lots of scented candles lit – which Reed adores – not to mention a huge coal fire burning in the fireplace, right in front of where the kids stand to play. Getting there by train and bus is a fun adventure too – so I’m feeling much more optimistic and relaxed about the whole violin thing.

We experienced our first traditional Church of Ireland service on Sunday, with lots of readings from the Book of Common Prayer followed by communion. Reed went off to Sunday school with the other kids – he was very excited to do that – and they all came back in time for communion. You go clear up front, past the huge pipes of the organ, and kneel, and the reverend or one of the assistants (I’m not sure what you call them here, at home it’s deacons) gives you a small piece of bread and then a sip of wine from a gold chalice. Reed was given a grape. Not realizing that Walt had never done this before, I forgot to tell him to only take a sip. So… when handed the chalice full of wine, he downed the whole thing, taking two long swallows! I didn’t see this happen, as we were busy kneeling further down the line. Later on the way home when he ‘fessed up to this I couldn’t stop laughing for a very long time – imagining what the deacon who served him must’ve been thinking. It might explain why my own chalice, handed to me a minute or two later, only contained a sip – she probably thought I would swig down a whole cup too.

All I Want for Christmas...

Reed has lost 3 of his top front teeth in the last 10 days. This photo was taken after the first one fell out.

Giving Thanks for the Ulster Folk Museum

Photos:

Reed and labourer's cottages in Ballycultra Village



Rectory and church, Ballycultra









Soda farls in rectory kitchen









Modest farm at folk museum










Prosperous farm at folk museum






Friday, November 23, 2007
Bangor

Thanksgiving Round-up: I was unable to get pumpkin in any form, but did locate some organic butternut squash at the store. It turned out to be indistinguishable from pumpkin once it was baked into a pie using the traditional Libby’s recipe that I found online. Just halve the butternut the long way, bake it flesh down on a cookie sheet about an hour at 350, scoop out the insides, discard the seeds, and puree the flesh in a food processor, then follow your pie recipe. Presto! The turkey roasted up beautifully on a broiler pan with a big foil tent over it tightly sealed around the edges; the dressing that I made with two different kinds of bread along with onions, celery, wild mushrooms, sausage, bacon, and sage was yummy, the mashed potatoes made with local spuds were quite tasty; the glazed carrots – also local – were sweet and delicious as a substitute for sweet potatoes (which I really hate). Unable to find fresh frozen cranberries, I had to purchase a jar of Ocean Spray cranberry sauce. But I’ll admit, although it wasn’t my own, it was pretty good. It at least had whole fruit in it, unlike the jellied sauce that you plop out of the can. We ate dinner at 5 pm on Thursday, washing it all down with a bottle of Beaujolais Nouveau, and had the leftovers for dinner a little bit ago in front of one of my new favorite t.v. shows, Great Garden Detectives, a show that combines horticultural enthusiasm with architecture, history, and culture. Hard to resist. Cute host too. Anway, Walt wonders which he likes better: Thanksgiving day dinner, or Thanksgiving leftovers the day after. I’m definitely in favor of the leftovers the day after, since I haven’t spent all day cooking and setting the table it feels like a completely free feast.

Now we’re tucked in front of a coal fire in the stove after spending our second sunny but cool day at the Ulster Folk and Transport Museum in Cultra. If we had known how wonderful the whole thing is we would’ve paid for an annual membership when we first visited – but now we’ve been twice and will go back at least another two times. It is an entire day’s worth of almost living history that interests all 3 of us; it only takes 10 minutes to get to on the train; and during the off season we have the entire place almost all to ourselves. It is a tribute to the museum’s quality that both days we have visited, Reed has been constantly attentive and interested and happy. To have spent an entire day out as a family without a moment of fussing from any of us is a special day indeed. Plus, the ticket collector ignored us both coming and going - so our train ride was free today!

There are two main parts of the museum, the transport side and the folk side, physically separated by the A2 highway that runs between Belfast and Bangor, but over which is a great little bridge with a sidewalk for pedestrians. When you get off the train a sign points you in the direction of the museum and after going up the stairs off the train platform you walk down a secret-seeming pathway and emerge just in front of the transport museum. Our first day we entered there and paid to go to both parts. We then spent the entire morning looking at the collection of old trains and reading the exhibits about railway history. Then we went over to the folk side to find the tea room in the museum’s village to have lunch.

Ballycultra village consists mostly of original historic buildings that have been carefully deconstructed, moved, and reconstructed on site. There is also a rural area with several different farms, mills, and a school. A few of the buildings are replicas of historic buildings that couldn’t be moved – sometimes because they’re still in use. In many cases the building’s original furniture is still inside. There are labourer’s cottages, a corner shop, a bank and bank manager’s house, 3 churches, a school, a rectory, a photography studio, a picture house (cinema), a post office, pub, doctor’s office and dispensary, hardware store, dressmaker’s, printshop, courthouse and police station, and various other businesses and shops that would have existed in a market village about 100 years ago. As you visit each building you get the feeling – mostly because in most of them there is a coal or peat fire burning in the fireplace or grate and all the appropriate furnishings and equipment and merchandise - that the people have just stepped out for a moment – that if you wait just a bit they’ll return, ready to fit you for a pair of shoes, repair your bike, sell you a lantern or a spade, or help you choose the fabric for your new winter coat. The highlight of our town visit today was the Charlie Chaplin film playing in the picture house - a romp on roller skates that left Reed laughing so hard he fell off the bench.

The first time we had sausage rolls (hot sausage inside puff pastry - mmm!) and cold sandwiches and tea for lunch in the tea shop in the village; today we took a picnic lunch of peanut butter and jam sandwiches that we ate in the sunshine, sitting on a stone wall next to one of the farms. We hiked around the huge rural area - like a big farm park of woods and pastures - warmed ourselves in front of the fires in all of the houses, and then went to the tea shop in the rural manor house about 2 pm for hot chocolate, scones, and coffee. It’s a bit of an extravagance on our food budget to do that (I could take a thermos of hot tea, after all) but for these field trip days out I think it’s an essential part of the experience to go sit down and rest in the warmth, with a cup of something good to drink.

Ireland is lovely in the winter; frosty and misty in the morning when the sun is coming out, and then the low sun shines through the barely leaved trees onto the greenest pastures imaginable. In the rural area there are sheep and goats grazing in the walled and hedged pastures, chickens out foraging in the grass and under the trees, and at one farm, a large friendly sow who came loudly oinking over to greet us. After we gave her some friendly conversation and a few scritches behind the ears, she continued to follow us to each corner of the pasture to say hello yet again as we made our way around her large enclosure on our way to the next farm. She was almost as big as the pig at Les Fromentaux, but not quite, and without the huge tusks. Spoke the same language though.

I’ve been trying to figure out why being there, even on my feet all day, makes me feel rested and happy, and I think perhaps it has to do with the absence of modern annoyances that are otherwise so in my face: speeding cars, people talking on cell phones, muzak, an unnecessary overabundance of material goods for sale, large amounts of plastic, flashing electric lights and neon. (Don’t get me wrong – I’m enjoying being home this evening, with the dishwasher washing the dishes and 900 channels on the wide screen t.v. and hot running water in the bathtub – but just to go back in time temporarily is very meditative and calming.)

Next time we go back we’ll go to the transport side again, because we haven’t even seen the Titanic collection yet. It was built in Belfast so there should be quite an archive of material about it. After seeing a special on t.v. about it, Reed is ready to learn more. There is also a special Santa event in December that we might go back for; rumor has it they’ll have mulled wine available at the pub, and I definitely don’t want to miss that. We were also informed that Santa would be wearing his original costume, which was at one time green and at another time brown. Apparently Santa didn’t wear red until the Coca-Cola company put him in red – which puts an entirely new slant on tradition, doesn’t it?

Thanksgiving in a rainy climate

Photo: Bangor West train station, mid-morning



Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Bangor

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving in the United States but here in Northern Ireland it’s not a holiday at all. No one’s rushing around to the grocery store getting whipping cream, wine, turkey, and fixings. Turkeys here are for Christmas – so I’ll be making do with a farm-raised free range local turkey that’s been frozen since Easter. But I am lucky to get even that so I’m not complaining. I’ll pick it up about 5 pm from the butcher’s, and while I’m downtown I’ll check into canned pumpkin, too, and maybe some celery for the stuffing. It would be nice to have some friends or family to share the holiday with - a lovely Thanksgiving at the Litman residence in rainy Sitka, Alaska that we enjoyed a decade ago comes to mind - but since we don’t, we can at least have fun doing just the Thanksgiving foods we adore, with no obligation to put sweet potatoes on the table. So, it will be turkey with stuffing (with celery, sage, mushrooms, onions, and sausage), mashed potatoes, a green salad, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie with whipped cream. The 2007 Beaujolais Nouveau has arrived, too, so that might be a good wine to go with it, if it’s not too expensive.

We experienced church in a foreign country for the first time on Sunday. I looked online and found a couple of Presbyterian churches that were supposed to have services at 10:30 am so we headed downtown at the proper time, only to discover that actually one was at 9:45 and one was at 11;30. Meanwhile, as we arrived downtown the bells in St Comgall’s Church of Ireland were pealing beautifully, calling all to the service at 10:30. So that’s where we went. The service wasn’t the usual formal Anglican type service on this particular Sunday, as it was a “family” service, where the kids stayed instead of going off to Sunday School, and there was lots of singing and a very short talk. They called everyone who had birthdays in November up front for a treat and to be serenaded with the birthday song – so we convinced Reed to go up too. He chose his candy and started to head back down the aisle before we’d sung, so he got embarrassed when everyone was indicating that he should go back up. A while later the kids got called up again; Reed didn’t want to go at first, but then it turned out the “new member” of the church they were meeting wasn’t a person but a black and white hamster that had been abandoned in the church foyer the previous Sunday – left inside the door in his little plastic ball. So Reed couldn’t resist going back up for that.

The church occupies a large triangular patch of ground very near the main street, and is quite large with tall stained glass windows and lots of gothic arches – quite lovely. Several people were quite friendly to us afterwards, and the minister, Nigel, talked to us for several minutes. We had some tea and cookies afterwards and felt pretty at home; Walt was tentatively recruited into the choir, as well, but I managed to avoid that – knowing that Reed will need to be in bed by the time choir practice starts on a Wednesday evening. I’m not sure if I was living here permanently that I’d go to the Church of Ireland but for just a few months I think it will be a good place for us. At home our church is the Community Congregational United Church of Christ, so when I spotted a Congregational church here I thought “all right.” But then I saw commanding and forbidding scriptures posted right on the front gate and knew immediately that it was not the same kind of place as at home. Strangely enough I’ve seen more scripture posted in public view here than anywhere I’ve seen – it feels a bit in your face (we’re uncomfortable with that in the UCC) and I wonder how much of it has to do with decades of religious conflict here in the North.

A contribution to the WWOOF newsletter

WWOOFing with a 7 year old in France

My husband and I and our just-turned 7 year old son WWOOFed for two months in France this fall, thanks to 3 wonderful, family-friendly hosts. While all was not perfect at all times, we are looking forward to continuing WWOOFing next spring and summer.

The task of locating family-friendly hosts was made much simpler by the option to sort for this attribute in the WWOOF host list. We then emailed prospective hosts, telling them about our family. Several were very interested, and several others very politely let us know that 3 people at once was too much. We searched the listings carefully, knowing that accommodation in a tent wouldn’t do, and that we preferred to be not too far from town, since we wouldn’t have a car. We know that most WWOOFers are younger than we are, but hopefully our maturity was a bonus for our hosts, in that we turned up when we were supposed to, were too tired at night to get up to no good, and already had some experience with carpentry, home renovation projects, and garden maintenance.

WWOOFing as a family comes with built-in challenges, of course. A child can’t be unattended on a farm, or in a stranger’s home. An unpredictable, spoiled, or disobedient child of any age is a very bad candidate for WWOOFing with his or her parents, and I would expect parents to be honest when they assess themselves for WWOOFing suitability, and to discuss the options with their prospective hosts. I have heard of arrangements where one parent worked while the other parented a very young child, in exchange for only half-board from the hosts, and this seemed to work just fine for both.

Ask yourself: will my child eat uncomplainingly what is put in front of him? Will my child sleep in an unfamiliar bed? Will my child understand that he is supposed to entertain himself in one corner of the garden with some sticks and rocks (and not wander off) while I weed for 4 hours between breakfast and lunch? Does my child know how to pet kitties gently and let an unfamiliar dog smell him first? Does my child listen when I say you’re not allowed to chase the geese, and to stay clear of the billy goat when we’re bringing the herd in and out of the barn each day?

The WWOOF host, if they indicate that they’re willing to accept children, must also be aware that having a WWOOFing family may mean that sometimes a parent will have to interrupt his or her work to attend to a child’s needs for a snack or to help redirect the child’s play… or that a child won’t be able to stay up until 9 pm for dinner…

At our first host (a large house, not a farm), we helped in the garden and in the house. I did a lot of cooking for the household and assisted with applesauce making and laundry. My husband also did yardwork and some handyman-type tasks. This is not so different than what we do at home, and the huge garden and lawn, all walled, made a perfect place for my son to explore and play. The host even had some toys, since her grandchildren visit at times. Our host and the rest of the household were always kind to our son, and indulged him with their attention and encouraged his artwork. Some nights he managed to stay up until dinnertime, other times I fed him early and put him to bed before getting dinner for the rest of us. He learned a few French words, and a lot about French food and people.

Our second host was an extended family (with lots of friends) with a goat farm in the Auvergne. We helped feed and milk goats, make cheese, harvest vegetables, bake bread, do housework and miscellaneous tasks around the farm such as gathering kindling and weeding the herb garden, and during all of it our hosts were wonderfully welcoming to our son, even when he was suffering badly from homesickness, being more than usually shy and requiring our attention throughout the day fairly often, and needing to get to bed long before dinnertime. Having raised 3 children themselves made our hosts familiar with working around children’s needs, and we tried our best to repay their flexibility by working as hard as we could on whatever was on the schedule that day, and doing more things than we had technically been assigned. A few times I watched our hosts’ grandson, and a few times they watched our son while we ran errands or went on an outing – an unexpected treat. Our son learned to help herd the goats, got to try milking them and making the cheese, was allowed a small piece of bread dough to knead and shape himself, and then had the joy of seeing his small creation come out of the oven. While sometimes he was a royal pain, at other times he made himself useful by helping scrub the floors of the bakery. There were: eggs to gather, a creek to visit, huge pastures to roam, cats and dogs to befriend, wonderful meals to eat, and a big pile of sand in which to dig. We were all very sad to leave, after a month sharing the lives of people to whom we’d become very attached, and we were told we’d be welcome back.

Our third host had two young boys themselves, so another one in the mix hardly mattered. The hours on this market farm in Nice were more “scheduled” than at our previous host, due to having a vegetable boxes to prepare for their customers a couple times a week plus the Saturday market to prepare for. But again, our hosts were accustomed to children, and the farm was child-friendly, with lots of pathways and terraces to explore, and a big tree to climb, with a rope swing. All our son had to do was help keep an eye on the chickens – more than once he warned me when they’d strayed out of their pen – but he also decided he wanted to learn to weed. This made me nervous, since our hosts’ livelihood depended on us not damaging his onions and fennel and lettuces… but with close attention even a 7 year old can be of use in the field, at least until he’s had enough and is ready to go off and play. The days we harvested olives at a distant location from the house, we prepared a bag with activities and snacks, and brought along a pillow and blanket for him to spread out in the back of the truck when he needed a place to rest. Our son loves olive oil, so we helped him survive the long days of watching us harvest by telling him about the fresh oil we’d get to eat when it was done.

I could write a lot more about what WWOOFing has taught me, but I’ll stick to the family theme; when we told our friends and family that we were taking a year off to go to Europe for WWOOFing and housesitting, many of them asked about school for our son, not quite realizing how important it is for us as parents that our son learn about where our food comes from, how hard farmers work, the importance of organic methods of growing food, and how rich a life can be had by raising your own vegetables, dairy, and meat. In this, WWOOFing is far more educational than regular school. I feel fortunate that in just two months my child learned a few words of a foreign language, discovered a new landscape, learned about caring for animals and being safe on the farm, learned to appreciate many different foods he’d never eaten before, and is now showing an interest in other cultures. Perhaps even more importantly, he’s talking about how he wants to live someday: in a small cabin, in the country, with a few animals and a garden… I feel sure than when we continue WWOOFing next spring our great experiences will continue.