Living books, yes. Talking books, no.

Anyone who homeschools is familiar with the concept of "living" books, books that offer a lively and enjoyable read about historical events, people, or places. They are an alternative to the dry textbooks most of us had in school, the ones with such sparse detail as to make the chapters little more than concise summaries of what should have been full-length reports on the greatest events in history. Living books spring from the educational philosophy of Englishwoman Charlotte Mason. Miss Mason firmly believed that by reading substantial and beautiful books on all subjects from history to poetry, children would learn the facts they needed but in the context of rich language and imagery.

Stark contrast to something I'm seeing more and more of, much to my dismay. "Noisy books," I call them. They are usually severely abridged stories from, say, the Winnie the Pooh books by Milne, or some offshoot pablum from the latest Disney movie. (Think "Bugs Life" or "Shrek".) The story lines are simplistic, the illustrations garish, and to top it all off, the books sport a righthand margin that extends beyond the page edge by about two inches. This margin, made of hard plastic, features several large and colorful pushbuttons and a small speaker.

The idea is that as the child goes through the book, they are expected to push a button that relates to something on a given page. Example, you see a cow, you push the "cow" button to hear, "MOOOOOO." Or Dora the Explorer says, "C'mon Diego, let's go!"

What IS the point of this? Whatever happened to letting children read, using their own voices or imagining what someone or something might sound like?

These noisy books have taken the last vestage of an uncomplicated childhood and made it "interactive."

Have we fallen so far as a culture that we can no longer trust our children's minds to work as the minds of children have worked for thousands of years? Must everything come pre-scripted, pre-packaged, so that the only voices they hear are those of some anonymous electronic device?

Children will always find a way to make noise. They don't need books to do it for them.

My friend Erin

This shoutout wouldn't be long enough or loud enough if it took up every bit of space on the world wide web and deafened the collective hearing of a small country. It's for my friend Erin who lives in the Rio Grande Valley and homeschools her four fabulous children -- a son, a daughter, and gorgeous wiggly twin boys. Because I love her so much, I sent her oldest son a book for Christmas about catapults and how to build them. I'm still waiting for large livestock and all manner of watercraft to come flying my way. They live on a lake and her boy spends much time in and around water.

What's so great about Erin?

She lives her faith like she means it, as if Christ is due to return tomorrow and she doesn't want to be lacking her credentials. She began homeschooling long before it was cool and didn't care that it wasn't.

She has been my faithful, loyal counselor and advisor more times than I can count, leading me through everything from pregnancies and childbirth, to how to start teaching my own children, to tips for taming a three-year-old boy. She has loved me with the ferocity of blood kin and in turn I regard her as such.

We haven't been face to face in more than 15 years but our friendship is one of the strongest links in my life chain. Someday, we muse, someday we'll be in the same room again and when we are we'll pick up right where we left off, because miles disappear where kindred spirits are concerned.

Erin, if you ever read this I want you to know, sincerely and from the depths of my heart: YOU ROCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
(What's more, anyone else who reads this will know it, too.)

Wanted: Words to match wits

One of my children has a brilliant mind but something akin to autism keeps it from shining through much of the time. At the tender age of 8 she can read material geared anywhere from mid-middle school to books and magazines intended for adults and understand and recall what she's read. She performs mathematical calculations effortlessly, working nearly two grades ahead of her peers, she "sees shapes from all sides" in her head, a talent that is making her first forays into geometry a breeze, and her gift for sculpting wire and tape and string into the most fantastic animals (usually cats) leaves us baffled.

All this and more are featured in her "thought bubbles" -- her words for "ideas" -- but for reasons that frustrate her and confound us she struggles to voice them. She speaks, but the content of her language is incomplete and peppered with original and creative descriptions for things. She uses words she knows in ever-evolving combinations to explain or describe each new experience.

The other day after a less-than-stellar ballet class she remarked, "My feet lost their thoughts and didn't know what to do."

Or my favorite, spoken on a very sunny day: "The hot is getting into my eyes."

She's getting help for whatever the glitch is that makes processing language trickier than it ought to be, but meanwhile we marvel at her abilities even as we continue our search to help her express them.

It's not enough to walk on the moon

The latest issue of Smithsonian Magazine reports the results of a recent survey in which 2000 high school juniors and seniors were asked to list their Top Ten Famous Americans excluding U.S. presidents and first ladies.

Tbe results reflect the push to make history as taught in public schools more multicultural. The top three famous Americans were Martin Luther King, Jr., Rosa Parks and Harriet Tubman. All fine Americans and worthy of honor to be sure.

Others on the list in no particular order included Ben Franklin, Oprah Winfrey(!), Albert Einstein (dead last at No. 10), Thomas Edison, Marilyn Monroe, Amelia Earhart, and Susan B. Anthony.

I was relieved to see no overpaid sports figures but a little sad that Neil Armstrong didn't make the cut.

Being the first human to set foot on a celestial body outside the Earth is, in my opinion, notoriously heroic and worthy of recognition in every generation.

After all, it was one giant step for all mankind. Wasn't it?

Was her hand really that small?

One of my daughters celebrated her sixth birthday today and while I was sitting at the table looking back through her baby book a small flat piece of dried clay fell out of a pocket.

My daughter was six months old when I pressed her chubby little hand into that clay. I remember it took several tries before I achieved a clear, deep impression.

Seeing that little hand from so long ago in contrast to the young girl standing next to me made me cry.

I have been with this child every single day of her life, save one or two, and I cannot fathom how she managed to grow so much so fast.

Where is the baby to whom this handprint belongs? I know she existed because I have boxes and boxes of unscrapbooked photos to prove it. I have eyewitnesses. (The midwife who delivered her even called today to wish her a happy birthday.)

How many precious hours and days did I take her for granted, thinking that "tomorrow" would come 'round and the baby would still be a baby and I could enjoy that babyness then. Not today, there's too much to do.

I made a conscious effort after my first child left babyhood behind much too soon to keep better track of the next one -- more pictures, more scrapbooks, more journal entries, more video. As if any of that captures a child and suspends them in time.

Six years have passed, and while I remember with melancholy her very first steps as if she took them yesterday, I rejoice at the beautiful girl who now dances through the house in her ballet costume with fairy wings attached.

Thank you, Father.