As a child, I was fortunate to be raised near my grandparents. My mom’s parent’s, Stan and Ann, were amazing people. They lived only a couple miles away from us, although not walking distance as a winding, redwood tree lined highway separated our homes. My grandparents had one bin of toys my entire childhood that we could play with as well as a deck of “Old Maid” cards. The cards were kept in a drawer next to the kitchen table along with several decks of playing cards, collected from casinos on their beloved trips to Reno. Most of my childhood, they lived in a retirement community that was also a campground. I loved being at their house. I loved cooking with my grandma, I loved watching “Jeopardy” with my grandpa. I loved making mud pies and learning addition by playing blackjack at their table. One of the best parts of being with them though was their stories. My grandpa would sit outside with me, in front of their house, plants everywhere, telling me stories that formed my understanding of who they were besides being my grandma and grandpa. I would go on walks with my “Grams” and she would stop and catch up with everyone she knew, Ted, Francie, Violet and June. The joy of being with my grandma only amplified by also hearing the stories of her community.
In addition to being amazing people, my grandparent’s both came from amazing people. Several times each year, we would pile into my mom’s station wagon and head back to the town they both grew up in. As we would make the left turn, down the lane to my great aunt and uncle’s house, my grandparents would barely be able to contain their excitement. There would be hugging and laughing and hand holding, and my favorite…conversation. Almost instantly, I was swept from the adventure of being on the road with my grandparent’s, to the magic of being at my aunt and uncle’s house. It was like a wonderland to me, a child who grew up in a neighborhood. Pastures and fruit trees, kittens and animals, grass so thick under your feet, it didn’t even leave a dent where you had walked.
Once a year there was a family reunion, my grandpa coming from a large family, made for a robust turnout! There was always fruit punch for the kids to drink that stained our smiles like red lipstick. And everywhere you looked, at some level, we shared the bonds of familial connection. Although I loved the family reunions, for me the best hadn’t even happened yet. After the reunion we would head back to my aunt and uncle’s house for swimming (now as a parent I see the absolute genius of wearing us kids out) where we would spend the night. We would change into our pajamas and sleep on the floor of the living room floor adjacent to the kitchen, where the adults would sit at the table and chat. I still to this day can’t find the words to describe the feelings of wonder, contentment, safety and joy of falling asleep listening to them tell and retell stories. Their history. Their narration of life to that point.
My kids love stories too. Each of them. One of their favorite things is sitting around our kitchen table with us, their aunts and uncles, their grandmas, old friends- to listen to stories. It is how they get to know us other than how they see us now. The older they get, they begin to tell their stories too. Like a passing of the torch between generations, they begin to recount memories that hold some thing for them too. Oral histories are something that are a wonderful tool for learning. Besides getting a snapshot view of life throughout a window of time, they learn about being a gracious winner or feeling confident even in defeat. They learn about the value of laughing at themselves, they learn about empathy and loss. Birth and hope. Telling stories is like seeing life off of a page, in all of it’s glorious dimensions. There have been days where I have earmarked math pages or journal topics but am instead met with an opportunity for my kids to see a family member, and not with anything other than the intention of a visit. And never once have I regretted passing off a worksheet for the chance to get to know each other a little better. To get to love each other a little more.
Sometimes people ask me how to limit interruptions during the “school day”. To that, I have no idea. Interruptions are only negative when we perceive them to be. I have treasured the times we have had family in town during the “school” week. There is no better interruption than the weaving of histories under my roof. Someday my kids will reflect on the magic of falling asleep to the melody of familiar voices laughing together. I will continue retelling the stories of my grandparents so their history lives on, it’s one of the ways we keep those loved ones a part of our daily lives.
So go ahead, tell your “once upon a time” fruit punch optional.
They Homeschool 