Liam's amazing brain!

Liam: (who had never learned multiplication formally at all) Mom, ask me what anything times anything is.

Me: Uh, okay. What's four times four?

Liam: (pauses for about 15 seconds) 16. (not asking, telling) Ask me something else.

Me: Okay. What's four times eight?

Liam: (again, taking a few moments ~ computing) 32.

And on and on.

So, I ask him how he knows that. Then, he starts to explain his method, which I couldn't repeat to you at all. Whatever's going on up there in his mental computer, I don't get it, but it's his process that he perfected. It's his own.

I told him the process by which I learned to multiply (a room full of 32-plus bored, unhappy children reciting in a dissonant monotone the times table, as dutifully memorized by most of the kids, the rest of the kids improvising by hanging back a little during the recitation to get a clue as to what the number ought to be~~how empowering). Of course, memorizing the times table in that way discouraged anybody considering what these numbers actually meant. All the wonder and joy that I have since discovered about the way numbers work together, all the amazing patterns, well, I didn't get to ponder all that in the school setting. Liam, coming to this through his own method, has the freedom to consider what all these numbers actually mean and their relationships to each other, to make discoveries.

I wanted to pass on to Liam some cool ideas and tricks about multiplication, but he asked me not to. He'd rather make these discoveries himself. I'm positively delighted for him.

My Perspective of Dexter Harold Zintz (1923 - 2006)

I wrote this about my father in September 2006, but I wanted to put it here because, well, I'm thinking of him and I guess I want this piece to be preserved. (You can click on the images to view them in more detail). ~~~~~ My dad died this week. He actually died twice: once instantaneously in my mother's loving, helpless arms last Saturday (it was so quick, he hadn't even had the chance to tell her he was feeling a little funny!), and then again on Tuesday when all four of us--my brother, my sister, my mom, and I--were in alignment about ending life support and snipping the thin tether that bound him to his wrecked, oxygen-deprived body. His name was Dexter Zintz, and he was 83 years old. He was hale and hearty and the most loving man I had ever met. He was strong and active and extremely intelligent (always was). He was fiercely devoted to his family and would put himself to any kind of trouble (without a peep of complaint) if he thought it would pave the way for us or his friends (or even our friends). He was strikingly handsome and had an amazingly beautiful, smoky singing voice that only my family and I got to know about because he was so humble; he only sang to and later with us. He was politically progressive and that made him fun for me to talk to. Although he hated when people spoke unkindly about others, he had many choice words for our current administration. He was my political kindred spirit and he told me how proud he was of me when I'd go to Washington for antiwar marches and my Women in Black demos. Consistent with this, Dad was a true patriot, and he cherished the time that he had spent serving on board the USS Ocklawaha from 1942 to 1945; he was 21 years old when he enlisted, and--brilliant young man that he was--he learned to shoot the stars and was assigned to the ship as its navigator. He once told me that he got special permission to sleep outside under the stars in fair weather as long as he could clear all evidence by daybreak so the ship's commander wouldn't find out. He loved his country, and he hated to see where it has been heading lately. He was an artist, as is my mom, and together they established one of the first studio greeting card companies. It was called Saya Studio; she did the artwork, he did the silk screening. They thrived in that field for about 14 years, but a bad business decision lost them their business. They thought they might have to declare bankruptcy (a total disgrace in those days), but they managed to work together to pay everything off and not lose their house. Furthermore, they also ensured that we kids felt safe and secure during those worrisome, precarious times. Although he could have been anything he wanted to be career-wise, he chose to forego his career in order to support my mom in pursuit of hers. He offered to take care of things at home to allow her to climb the ladder to vice presidency and director of advertising for a corporation. That was back in the 60s when a woman's place was still in the home, not the boardroom. When she retired early, he continued to work as a silk-screener well into his 70s in order to allow my mom to enjoy a freer lifestyle. (Truth is, I was skeptical that he was harboring grumbly feelings about this somewhere inside him, but he told me in all sincerity that anything he could do to ensure Mom's and our happiness gave him happiness. Anyone else I might have looked at sideways, but I knew he really meant it.) What's more, he supported my very different-from-his parenting style. He was intensely practical and logical and had a strongly analytical mind (which made him a master at the card game bridge). He had his ways of doing things, and he had barely a sliver of tolerance for folks who did things differently than the way he thought they should be done (well, he wasn't perfect, you know). Nevertheless, he had to be biting his tongue a lot when I told him about my home-educating Liam. Or, when I would gently and diplomatically insinuate myself in their rare conflicts to protect Liam from Dad's sometimes silly insistence in people doing things his way. I know he supported me, even though I don't think he was absolutely convinced that my educational philosophy would "work." He never argued with me or told me I was ruining my child. Within the last year we, in fact, had a conversation on the phone and he confessed to me that although he understood the concept theoretically and it made sense, he still did not think it was possible for someone to learn to read and calculate without having the information rammed down his throat. He told me during that conversation, "You were right, Marji; I was wrong." He was proud of the way I had given Liam the trust, time, space, and freedom to acquire those and many other skills in his own time and his own way. He loved Liam and his other grandkids, Lauren, Ali, and Jessie, fiercely. I wish you could have met him; I wish you could have known him. He was THE best hugger in the whole world (not that I've hugged everyone in the whole world or anything like that, but I can't imagine that anyone could engulf another person in love more sweetly and warmly). He had the warmest smile, the quietest nature, the sweetest disposition, and the biggest heart. He had respect for and gave his time to folks no one else might have given the time of day to. We buried him yesterday, but I still feel that he is with me and always will be. He's that kind of guy; he would never ditch his wife and kids. Please, if you read this, please share your stories of him if you knew him. I would love to learn more about him through the eyes of the other people whose lives he had touched.

Searching for a fire...

5oSo, I'm sitting there working when I hear the village's volunteer fire department siren sound, which I hear frequently throughout a typical day, even though it's a real small village and there are rarely any fires. This is a little different, though, because 1) I smell smoke, and 2) the fire chief's car just went screaming down the street by my house. Then, another fire car (not a fire truck, mind you). I listen to hear if the vehicles are stopping close by, but I can't tell.

So, off come my headphones and out we go to look for the fire. It is a long walk on a gorgeous spring day, the smell of wood smoke in the air, not unpleasant or noxious, a slight haze, filtered sunlight, and all manner of wood and plant life bent on picking up where they left off at the end of the growing season last year. Even though this is a bustling little agricultural village only about 50 or 60 miles northwest of New York City, sometimes during the day all you can hear are birds and crickets and bees and mosquitoes, and, of course, the odd bark of a dog or more rarely the crow of a rooster. You can go maybe three or five minutes without hearing any cars or airplanes. The main street is not all that far, but the traffic din seldom makes it into my window, only a little ways away.

Anyway, we walk leisurely but purposefully in search of a fire, discussing the possibilities of what we might find, pointing out and naming plants and birds, and each of us remembering and telling tidbits of anecdotes that may be connected or may not be. We see and smell the smoke, but not its source. We walk as far, I suppose, as is practical, all the way up the dead end street to the crest of the highest hill in the village overlooking the vast sea of Black Dirt that is this region's claim to fame (well that, and being the home of the 16- or 17-time Grammy winner for the polka genre!), but still, nothing. No fire.

So, we wind our way back and have lunch. A completely uneventful episode, yet so filled with fun, beauty, and wonder!

Simple pleasures!!

Wheeeee

Liam and Michael are joyfully spending their day today playing WarioWare on the Wii. Reading, problem-solving, hand-eye coordination, joke-making, laughing, time-space orientation, and doing quick mathematical calculations are just some of the benefits! Not to mention all the physical movement that this particular game system requires. Very cool.

S-i-n-g-i-n-g

Liam: (After lying on the bed, petting the cat for a while) Mom, you spell "sing" s-i-n-g, right?
Me: Yep.
Liam: So, you would spell "singing" s-i-n-g-i-n-g?
Me: Yep.
Liam: (laughs)

Simple pleasures.