Shari Della Penna
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"Small acts of kindness can change and humanise our world."
   Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks 1948-2020
   ​Chief Rabbi of Great Britain, 1991-2020
                         Author, Advocate, Advisor

Brand New Pencils, Brand New Books

8/30/2016

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      So Henry packed pencils scissors, cayons, paper, glue, an apple, and a photo of his mom and dad (in case he got lonely).
      “Now I’m ready!” said Henry.
                                                 from: Look Our Kindergarten, Here I Come!
                                                    written and illustrated by Nancy Carlson
                                           Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers, 1999
        
        
I was the Kindergarten kid who cried. Not every day, and not loud, wracking sobs. But I missed being home with my mom and little brother. I was sad at school.
       Then my teacher, Miss Kimack (accent on the second syllable), introduced us to music. We’d sit in a circle on the floor and copy-clap rhythms she clapped for us. I excelled at clapping. She told me in front of the whole class.
       And in first grade, we brought in school supplies. Nothing smells better than a new box of Crayolas, except that minty smell of white paste. It came in a jar with its own built-in little brush stuck to the lid.
       We had a special art teacher who visited our class once a week and encouraged us to draw, paint and model clay. I made a duck. All our projects were dried and the next week we painted them. I painted mine white. No feet, no orange bill, not even dots for the eyes. Just white. It was kinda abstract, even though I didn’t know the term, yet. When I brought my duck home, proud as punch I was, my mom asked me what I had made. When I told her “a duck” she smiled. The conversation was repeated when my sister saw it, and then again when my dad came home from work. I didn’t think my family appreciated that duck, but it sat around in a place of honor as a paperweight for many years.    
      Third grade brought with it a finger painting incident that I’d rather not go into right now. It required a call to the custodian and a trip to the nurse’s office.
      School was not all art and recess, though. Real learning went on, except for arithmetic, which was always really hard. I learned how to spell arithmetic way before I learned to do it well. Social Studies was interesting and Science was mostly fun, but my favorite time was Language Arts, especially reading.       
      Now my grandkids are going off to their first days. They all like school and each one is smarter than anything. They will bring home their own versions of ducks, some more abstract than others. All will hold places of honor. That’s how I raised my girls. They know how to appreciate the important things.
      The last time I remember seeing my duck, the color had faded to a pale grayish yellow. My mom offered it to me as I was getting ready to go off to college, but I was ready to let go. She was too.
                                                                                                                                                      --stay curious!
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Bread...The Stuff of Life

8/23/2016

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“This is not just bread,” he cried. “Its (sic) meat and potatoes! It’s strudel and pie! It’s breakfast, lunch and dinner all at once! It’s apples and raisins, vodka and noodles, every taste you ever wanted to taste, all in each wonderful bite.”
                                                                   from: 
Bembelman’s Bakery

                                                                     written by Melinda Green
                                                                 illustrated by Barbara Seuling
                                                                Parents’ Magazine Press, 1978
      About a year ago I told you about my pumpkin muffin fiasco at the County Fair. The time frame I used was “a while ago.” I just did the math (twice) because those muffins were judged, or more likely tossed (no cream cheese frosting Class 70, rule #8) 21 years ago! That’s a long time to be bummed about something.  
      I have regained my courage. Sorta. The Fair is rolling around again and I’m entering challah. For those who might not be very familiar, challah is a rich yeast bread that includes eggs in the dough. After the second rising, the dough is formed into three long strands and braided, then left to rise again before it is baked. Challah is the bread served in traditional Jewish homes on the Sabbath.
      Last week I picked up my rules booklet and found my category (Yeast Bread, Other). I filled out my registration form and took my $1.00 entry fee and $1.00 postage fee to the Fair office. After explaining that my braided loaf included eggs, I wisely asked the woman collecting the money if she thought I had chosen the correct category. She checked with the authorities sorting registration forms in the next room, and assured me that I had indeed. So far, so good.
      I got out my kitchen timer. I timed how long it took from proofing the yeast to the final second of the 10-minute kneading session. I got out my kitchen scale and weighed each of the three pieces that would become the braided strands. I timed each of the risings, added the baking time and cooling time and travel time. It’s a seven minute walk from my house to the Arts & Crafts Building in the fairgrounds.
      Everything took a loooonnng time. I will have to get up at 4:00 am. But, I have a competitive streak. And a desire to prove that I can bake, even though some people say I’m not a very good cook.
     One more practice week to go. The braid needs more practice than the bread! Ribbon or not, I’ll end up with a freezer full of delicious challah. That could count as a win.
     Next Wednesday, I will go to the Fair by myself to look for a blue ribbon on the challah that reminds me of my gram’s silver lady-braid, my own chestnut memory-braid and my granddaughter's golden girl-braid..
      In the off-chance that I don’t find the blue ribbon or the red one or the white one or the honorable mention green one, I probably should plan on what to enter in 2037. That’s only 21 years from now!
                                                                                                                                                       --stay curious!
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Hooray for Honeybees

8/16/2016

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       “Don’t touch the honey!” called Honey Bee. “I had to visit two million flowers to make that honey. I need it to get me through the winter.”
       “I am going to make you something much better than honey,” said Ant.          
       “What could be better than honey?” asked Honey Bee.
       “You’ll see,” said Ant.
                                   from: Ant and Honey Bee: A Pair of Friends in Winter
                                                                            by Megan McDonald
                                                                  illustrated by
G. Brian Karas
                                                                                Candlewick, 2013

      This coming Saturday, August 20, 2016, is National Honeybee Day. You might want to celebrate when you, consider this:
A single honey bee collects about 1/12 of a teaspoon of honey in her lifetime.
To make one pound of honey, bees fly 50,000 miles.
The record harvest for one colony is 404 pounds, by the Aebis Family in 1974.
Honey bees directly pollinate the flowers of 1/3 of all fruits and vegetables.
Beekeeping dates back at least 4,500 years.
Honey bees are kept or managed in all 50 states.
Beekeepers produce about 30% of the honey we consume in the U.S.
       Facts above and the information that follows are from http://www.nationalhoneybeeday.com/beefactstrivia.html
Three types of bees live in a hive:
  • The QUEEN develops in 16 days, from egg to emergence. She lives from 1-4 years.
  • WORKERS are all female. A strong hive is home to between 40,000 and 60,000 bees. Workers have many jobs: Any of them sound familiar?  
          tend the queen,
          feed larvae
          feed drones
          produce heat
          collect pollen and nectar
          collect water
          clean
          perform guard duty
A worker lives for 6-8 weeks in the summer, working until her wings give out. In winter, when she is not as active, she will live for 4-6 months.
  • The sole responsibility of the DRONES is fertilization. They leave the hive for 2-3 hours each day.  I wonder what they do all that time? If the workers stopped feeding them, the drones would die of starvation.
 
     According to the USDA, in 2014, Americans consumed an average of 0.9 pound of honey per person, up from 0.5 pound in 1990. Much of the increased honey consumption is imported honey.   
http://www.ers.usda.gov/data-products/chart-gallery/detail.aspx?chartId=59552
So we’re eating more honey, but producing less. Hmmm.
     I don’t feel sorry for the poor workers, working until their wings fall off. They were made for that. I don’t envy the drones their freedom, either. THEY were made for THAT, too.
     But, I do have a better appreciation now for those golden jars neatly lined up on the shelf at the local farmer’s market. I will stir a little honey into my oatmeal all week. Celebrations are good.
 
                                                                   --stay curious!

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Picnic Anyone?

8/9/2016

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Every Teddy Bear who's been good
Is sure of a treat today.
There's lots of marvelous things to eat
And wonderful games to play.
 
Beneath the trees where nobody sees
They'll hide and seek as long as they please
'Cause that's the way the
Teddy Bears have their picnic.
                                from:
The Teddy Bear’s Picnic
                                by Jimmy Kennedy and illustrated by Michael Hague
                                Holt, 1992.


    Picnics are not my favorite way to eat a meal. Camping is not my favorite way to spend time. It’s all the prep and planning and dragging and dragging back and unpacking that gets me. But, I like the being outside part.
     I don’t mind bugs. I like them. Once, I ordered a pint of ladybugs to release in my garden.  They didn’t know they were supposed to stay in my yard to control an aphid infestation. Another time I bought praying mantis eggs. I wish they had hatched. Now I'm content to watch the bugs that choose to live near me.
    It’s the bugs crawling in my food that I mind. Food tastes better eaten inside.
    When I was about seven or eight, my dad announced he had made arrangements with a co-worker to borrow a pop-up camping trailer. We were going on a new adventure: an overnight in the woods. The next weekend. I think my sister didn’t want to go the most, but I had serious reservations, too.
     Packing was an ordeal. I had to choose clothes that would keep me warm enough but not take up too much room. Plenty of underwear. We even brought our own toilet tissue! And of course all of our food. We’d be having three picnics a day!
    The first meal was lunch. I'm sure it was something like peanut butter sandwiches and apples.
     Dinner was more rustic. My little brother and I were sent out to fetch wood. We learned the difference between tinder and kindling and made a good haul for our campfire. I don’t remember the menu, probably hotdogs. 
     Dad brought the Coleman stove so he could cook our breakfast.       The pop-up didn’t go up as easily as my dad was lead to believe, but it did go up. Although he and my mom assured us that it was sturdy, I chose not to believe that and took a looong time falling asleep. I don’t remember all the sleeping arrangements, but I bunked up on the top with my mom.
    I didn’t like being on the top bunk, but morning finally came and brought a beautiful sunrise. We camped until it was time to un-pop the pop-up, re-pack all our stuff, and head for home.
     August is National Picnic Month. I’m not celebrating.
                                                                                                                                                      --stay curious!


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The Heart of a Champion

8/2/2016

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 "I see in you someone who is destined for great things. You’ll find your way, if you’re true to yourself.”
                      from: 
Brambleheart: A Story About Finding Treasure and                                          the Unexpected Magic of Friendship
                      written and illustrated by Henry Cole
                      Kathrine Tegen Books, 2016 
     
      As I thought about this week’s post, I tried hard to think of something I consider myself to excel in or be outstanding at. Not grammar with that sentence!
      I was not very successful with my piano lessons, although I gained a great appreciation for the instrument and a real love of Chopin, especially his preludes, waltzes and other dances, the simple ones and the complex.
       Although I can usually spit back a phone number and I add and subtract my checkbook in my head (mostly), numbers are not my thing.
       My daughters are both good cooks. I told my older daughter she must have a tongue in her brain that helps her think of ingredients that go well together. I don’t have that, but I can follow a recipe.
       Common sense is not my forte, either. I do a lot of forehead slapping, you know, when all of a sudden some logical, elusive answer becomes crystal clear. I have lots of ideas, though.
       I am not a champion athlete. You might remember I taught myself to roller skate with belts and pillows. And that ice-skating fiasco.
       This week, lots of eyes will be on Rio de Janeiro. Kids, really, are participating for their chances of a lifetime to excel, to perform, to compete.  Athletes, it’s said, love speed: objective, measurable, quantifiable times and distances and weights. Thousands of practice hours culminate in one race, one jump, one lap, one journey to the end of one balance beam, one barbell lift.
       Did you know that table tennis is an Olympic sport? Go to https://www.olympic.org/sports for the complete list.
       But what about those who come in fourth? No medal. No beautiful bouquet. No lucrative contract with Nike, UnderArmour, SpecialK.      
       Gym was always my worst subject. In seventh or eighth grade we were supposed to master lots of equipment. Lucky for me I had friends in the class. Friends who really made themselves useful by holding my hand on the balance beam, giving me a boost over the pummel horse and pushing me over the uneven parallel bars, more than once, to perform my “routine.” If you think it was a hoot, you’re right! Even I was laughing, making it more impossible. My teacher was generous. She gave a D because I showed up. I didn’t chicken out or complain.
       Maybe I’m a little bit of a champion after all.
       Maybe all those athletes who come in fourth, fifth or even finish are champions, too.
       Maybe we all are.
                                                                   --stay curious!
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         I'm a children's writer and poet intent on observing the world and nurturing those I find in my small space .

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