Now we are attempting to wrestle word power into the intensely pictorial Walker mind. My blessed little ones and big ones challenge the grace of God in my soul as they resist my attempts at injecting vocab and verbal acumen into their lives. We have only one life to live and in this one, I have been retarded in my ability to pass on to my children the verbal ability that my dad passed onto me.
We spent hours in the car, spelling at eachother. He did the spelling and I did the listening. I spell like that, to them and they all look at me with glassy eyed ambivalence. The printer's daughter and the speller's daughter and the architect's daughter and the printer's grandson are illiterate. Eli Whitney's cotton gin and the Printing press have allowed us to learn and to spell.
Any and all ideas are welcome.
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