​    “As your new leader,” Papa Grunt said, “I say
this is our new cave!”
     “I like the kitchen,” said Mama Grunt.
     “I can’t wait to start decorating,” said Aunt Grunt.
     “I always say a change of scenery keeps you from
getting old,” said Granny Grunt.
                                            from: Little Grunt and the Big Egg
                                     written and illustrated by Tomie Depaola
                                                              Holiday House, 1990
 
       If you’ve been reading this blog for a while, you already know how I feel about Halloween. But just in case, here’s the bottom line: I don’t like getting scared and I project that onto kids, especially little kids. But that’s just me.
       But in recognition of this “scary time of year” I’ll let you know that my husband and I finally went to Mammoth Cave (see Celebrating the Wilderness 10/25/16, if you want) after passing this gorgeous natural phenomenon for years on trips back and forth from Florida vacations. It was *not* scary!
       About the scariest thing about the caves was the tour guide telling us we might see bats. We did not, but I wish we had.
       What we *did* see more than made up for that little disappointment. A ten-minute tram ride away from the visitor's center, and we were at the entrance. The walk through the cave was short, three quarters of a mile, including 280 stairs, some up, some down and a few hairpin turns..
       Of course, the floor was rock. The walls of course were also rock and so was the ceiling. Although we were deep underground, the park had installed rope lighting all along our route. The color was surprising. All was muted, but greens, blues, reds, showed through the dimly lit tans and grays.
       We squeezed through narrow pathways and suddenly, around yet another corner, surprise! We found ourselves in a room large enough to hold at least 50 people, seated in rows of benches. Our guide explained underground life, like eyeless fish. They don’t need eyes in their lightless and low energy environment. And little brown bats that eat up to 600 mosquitoes in an hour.
       Then another slightly slippery skid toward the exit where we found stalactites hanging from a ceiling almost too high to see and stalagmites growing up to meet them. A hidden beauty only found underground.
       Back on the surface, I emerged changed. Even on a tour of 50 people, I felt absolute quiet. I experienced an incomparable solitude, and a great appreciation for sunlight.
       Mammoth Cave was formed in Mississippian-age limestone rock. The cave is 379 feet (118 m) deep, and contains at least five levels of passages. Mammoth Cave is not called “mammoth” because of our 3/4 mile hike. It includes over 400 linear miles of explored trails.,
       Caves are only scary if we’re afraid of what we can’t see. Dark is only scary until we are brave enough to explore why.
 
                                          I’m reading Before We Were Yours
                                                                 by Lisa Wingate
                                                                   Ballantine, 2017
                                                               tragic and riveting
 
                                                                   --stay curious!

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.
                           from Casey at the Bat: A Ballad of the Republic
                                   Sung in the Year 1888
                     copiously and faithfully illustrated by Christopher Bing
                                   Handprint Books, 2000 (Caldecott Honor)
 
        Tonight is the first game of the World Series. It starts at 8:09 pm in Los Angeles, so those of us in the eastern time zone might consider an afternoon nap. (8:09 might be my local time, but if not, start time here is 11:09 pm). Anyway, The Los Angeles Dodgers will face the Huston Astros in the best of seven games. My Indians set a record this year, 22 wins in a row, and went to the playoffs. Even though they don’t get to play in the Series this year, they played well. I’ll bask in that record and last year’s almost triumph.
       I used to really like baseball. I even went to a few games at the old Indian’s stadium with an old boyfriend. But that was then. Now the season stretches out almost to Thanksgiving. It used to be over by the time Indian Summer ended, mid-October in Northeast Ohio.
       It’s a math problem. When the leagues started expanding in 1961, adding more teams in more cities, all the teams still had to play each other. Dividing the two leagues into divisions helped organize these contests, but a final expansion to 30 teams in 1998, and their realignment, has made for increasingly complicated scheduling. The season is 162 games long. It’s been that way since 1961. Teams play 76 contests within their division, 66 against non-division league teams and 20 interleague games. The schedule has stayed at 162 games, but days off figure into the equation, and so the season is longer.
       Me, I still like to watch TV. That way I get all the talk about how the game is played. I can see close up all the wind-ups, the fly-pops, and where the second-baseman spits. And I can share my popcorn with my cat. My priorities have changed, clearly.
       I’ve lost touch with who the players are or where they play. I’ve lost touch with the spirit of the game. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. I spend more time planting daffodil bulbs and watching for the Harvest Moon and raking leaves. Yes, I *do* like to rake leaves.
       Tonight, my husband will put the game on TV. I’ll probably poke my head up from the novel I’m reading (The Rules of Magic by Alice Hoffman). I’ll catch a major play, maybe a grand slam or a heart-breaking strike out.
       Then, later, I’ll look over to see that my husband has fallen asleep in an awkward position. I’ll wake him gently and catch the highlights on NPR in the morning. They really do a good job on the re-cap.   
 
                                                                --stay curious!           

​

       The Court Jester strummed on his lute for a little while. “They are all wise men,” he said [to the King], so they must all be right. If they are all right, then the moon must be just as large and as far away as each person thinks it is. The thing to do is find out how big the Princess Lenore thinks it is, and how far away.”    
      “I never thought of that,” said the King.
                                                              from: Many Moons
                                                     written by James Thurber
                                              new illustrations by Marc Simont
                                          Harcourt, Inc., 1945 (text) 1990 (illus)
      
       Once again, “perspective” pops to the front of my brain. How big, is the moon, or anything else for that matter. I know the house I grew up in is lots smaller now than it was then. The ride across town to Grandma’s took forever. That sundae I ate yesterday couldn't have been that big. You get what I mean.
       The next new moon will appear as a tiny sliver in just a few days, on October 19. But a couple of weeks ago, a huge, orange, harvest moon rose above the treeline. It was magnificent. I remembered the first time I saw a harvest moon and laughed out loud.
       I was driving home from my mom and dad’s house with my daughters, who were quite young.
       “What’s that?” said one daughter in a loud voice.
       “Yeah, what is that?” said the other.
       I dared to take my eyes off the freeway and search the night sky. It took only about a millisecond to see what they were pointing to. It was a dome on the horizon. It was golden and glowing and getting bigger.
       “I don’t know,” I said as calmly as I could. I was thinking UFO, aliens, abduction. But we watched it climb higher and higher. Soon, it became crystal clear. It was “just” the moon. The gorgeous, mysterious, inspiring moon.
       How does the moon work? It really does not change shape. That’s a function of the Earth’s orbit. The moon affects tides, but I’m not sure about all that gravity. The science is still out on whether full moons affect when a pregnant woman goes into laboror if full moons affect behavior. Vampires and werewolves need full moons. The very word “lunatic” comes from Latin "luna.." And how about "moonstruck"?
       Many authors have written about the moon. Here’s a short list of my favorites:
Frank Asch. Happy Birthday, Moon
Margaret Wise Brown. Goodnight Moon
Eric Carle. Papa, Please Get the Moon for Me
Kevin Henkes. Kitten’s First Full Moon
James Thurber. Many Moons
Jane Yolen. Owl Moon
       These stories don’t explain moon science. They help kids (and grown-ups) connect to the fascinating pull of the moon we share as fellow travelers in this mysterious universe we call home.
       
                                                                   --stay curious!

      This is a story about Thelonius Monk and his music. There were no wrong notes on his piano had no wrong notes, oh no. This is a story about the lovely music of Mister Monk. He played not one wrong note, not one. His piano had none, not one. He played the music of freedom. Jazz is the music of freedom. This is a picture about his music. Oh so mysterious Thelonius, mysterious Thelonius, mysterious Thelonius, oh so. This is a story about his music.
                                                    from: Mysterious Thelonius
                                    written and illustrated by Chris Raschka
                                                           Orchard Books, 1997
       Jazz is mysterious. I used to think it was either love it or hate it. That was before. When I tried to listen. I’ve since learned a little about jazz. It washes over you, if you let it.
       I grew up on classical music. My piano lessons included some easy Mozart, Saint-Saens’s “Swan” from Carnival of the Animals, and selections from the three “Bs” as my elementary piano book called Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms. I also learned some Broadway tunes. My dad sometimes sang along and sometimes brought out his banjo and strummed along to “On the Street Where You Live” from My Fair Lady. Mom liked “Chim Chim Cher-ee” from Mary Poppins. She didn’t sing along.
        My favorite was Chopin. Still is. I never really got the hang of playing his music, but I love to listen to it.
        When we were young, Daddy brought home a hi-fi. It was stereo, of course. He also brought a couple of 45’s. Perry Como’s “Round and Round,,” “Catch a Falling Star,” and an Alvin and the Chipmunks album. Boy! did we play and play and play those records.
        Being a teenager meant Rotten Roll, Mom’s term. My sister and I had transistor radios. Mine was pink. We were allowed to bring them along on car rides, if we kept the volume down.
       But I loved Simon and Garfunkel. I spent my baby-sitting money on their albums that I played on that same hi-fi. I’d sit at my desk in my room and play those songs till I knew all of them by heart. Really. I even wrote out the lyrics in a notebook.
       My experience taught me to be an active listener. I’d anticipate where the melody was going and how it would get there. I looked for patterns in the rhythms. I even studied Music Theory.  
       But none of that prepared me for jazz. Jazz is improvisational. Jazz sings its own melodies. Jazz builds its own rhythms. 
       Thelonius Monk would have been 100 years old today. He is the second most-recorded jazz composer after Duke Ellington. Monk influenced Dizzy Gillespie, Charlie Parker, and Miles Davis.
       Jazz, a slang term from 1860, means pep or energy. But, kick off your shoes, fix a cold drink (alcoholic or not), find a soft seat, and let the sounds wash over you. No activity required!
 
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eXKIEJ0ez98
​Thelonious Monk - Underground (HD FULL ALBUM)                                                                                               --stay curious!
                         
 

​One light, one sun
One sun lighting everyone.
One world turning
One world turning everyone.

One world, one home
One world home for everyone.
One dream, one song
One song heard by everyone.
 
One love, one heart
One heart warming everyone.
One hope, one joy
One love filling everyone.

One light, one sun
One sun, lighting everyone.
One light warming everyone.
                        from: One Light, One Sun
                        by Raffi
                        illustrated by Eugenie Fernandes
                        Knopf Books for Young Readers, 1988
Listen to Raffi sing it here:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_4o-DaUyZ9g
 
       Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi was born on October 2, 1869. His name is synonymous with non-violence. His followers called him Mahatma, or “the great-souled one.” 
       In Ohio, the first week in October is Nonviolence Week, to coincide with Gandhi’s birthday. I marched in the kick-off parade and listened to the speeches at the rally immediately after. Tonight the Simeon Booker Award for courage will be awarded to Ken Nwadike, Jr., advocate and director of Hugs Project, Inc. A panel-led discussion on tolerance in America will follow.  Look here for more (a little) information about Nwadike and the work he does: https://powerofthearts.org/ohio-nonviolence-week-simeon-booker-award-for-courage/
       When I woke up yesterday, on Gandhi’s birthday, I was astonished and horrified to learn of another mass killing, this time in Las Vegas. The awful fact of it is beyond anything I can imagine.
. . .
 
       As horrible as they are, assassinations of world leaders are nothing new. The list is long:
            Julius Caesar in 44 B.C.E. ending the Roman Empire                         Achduke Ferdinand of Austria-Hungary started WWI
            Gandhi, himself in 1948
            Then the 1960s
            and the near-misses after that
But those killings, earthshaking as they were, focused on a particular person who held a particular ideology or stood for particular principles.
       My little brother played bad guys and good guys with guns. All the little boys did. I did, too. We knew it was violent. We knew it was pretend. He shot to kill (for pretend). That still disturbs me.
       And now. . .
      
       I learned the Six Principles of Non-Violence at the rally last Sunday.
         Nonviolence is a way of life for courageous people.
         Nonviolence seeks to win friendship and understanding.
         Nonviolence seeks to defeat injustice not people.
         Nonviolence hopes that suffering can educate and transform.
         Nonviolence chooses love instead of hate.
         Nonviolence believes that the universe is on the side of justice.
       Putting those principles into action is hard, but it is crucial.
​       One good feeling will generate many more. One good action will generate many more.
 
Let there be peace on Earth and let it begin with me.
 
                                                                                                                                    --stay curious!