Every family outing can become a lesson

Last year, Gege’s classmate set off with his family on a roundtheworld sailing trip. Until he returned, he’d get homeschooled. by his parents.

On difficult days, the boys would sometimes mention that they too wanted to be homeschooled. Not possible, I told them, and reminded them of how much they liked their teacher and their math and science lessons, and the fun they had with their friends.

Deep into sheltering in place, when they griped about finishing an assignment, I brought up their wish. “Your dream came true!” I said. They gave me a look — silly mama. In truth, when I traveled to teach and go on a book tour, I yearned for the boys; I missed them fiercely even when they were downstairs with the babysitter while I worked in my office.

Be careful what you wish for though, so the saying goes.

“Why are you so grumpy in the afternoon?” Didi asked on a rough day. “And in the morning, too?”

I hugged him, apologizing. At times, they’ve been just as frustrated with the uncertainty. How the summer will shape up, and what schools will look like in the upcoming academic year, remain a mystery.

For now, to keep everyone’s schedules in order, we dragged out an old art easel from the garage. We plan for the day, by the hour, listing subjects, Zoom calls, and which parent will be in charge at what time. As a joke — for the hours after lunch, when the assigned curriculum runs out — my husband once wrote: “Despair.”

This week, as we approach the end of third grade, I’ve been reflecting upon what we’ve learned since midMarch. The school provided ample assignments on fractions, local history, persuasive essays and figurative language, for which we are grateful.

Some of my favorite lessons, though, arrive while on our daily walks, which the boys have come to accept, if not exactly embrace.

On a walk around a reservoir, Gege pointed at the bushes. He’d heard a rustling, and to our surprise, we discovered two snakes hypnotically writhing together.

“They’re fighting!” I warned passersby. Almost immediately, I wondered if the reptiles might have been engaged in ... another springtime pursuit.

“Do you think they might have been mating?” I asked the boys as we walked on.

“They were fighting,” Didi said. “If they were mating, their heads would have come together.” “To kiss?” I asked. “Their bodies were coming together and apart,” Gege said. “They were fighting.”

On another day, talk turned to the other end of life, when we noticed a giant stalk of poison hemlock, with its telltale, sinister purple bruising on the stem.

That led to a long conversation about Socrates, his execution by drinking hemlock tea, and just versus unjust punishment. “Who was Socrates?” Gege asked. “He was a teacher, who questioned things,” I said, reaching for halfremembered bits of history, trying to explain at a level they’d understand. “Who taught his students to ask questions rather than giving them all the answers.”

“Why did he drink the tea if he knew it was poisonous?” Gege asked.

“He had no choice,” I said. “It was a punishment. An unjust punishment.”

“What’s an unjust punishment?” Didi asked. “Was slavery legal?” I asked him. They nodded. “But was it unjust?” I asked. “Was it unfair?” Yes, they agreed. “Because something is legal doesn’t mean it’s just,” I said. It occurred to me then that I was employing the Socratic method to talk about Socrates himself. “The government didn’t like that he asked questions. Don’t worry. We have freedom of speech in America.”

Weighty matters to discuss before 10 a.m., but mortality has been on all our minds during the pandemic — and never more so than when we ended up in a local cemetery.

Though we try to go hiking on offpeak hours, one morning, when we reached the trailhead, crowds had already descended. We drove on, in search of an alternative, and discovered the open gates of a cemetery.

A handful of others had the same idea, all of us keeping a wide berth on the tranquil paths. Our family studied the gravestones, looking for the oldest birth dates we could find, and doing the math to calculate the age of death, noting those very young, very old, and those uncomfortably close to our ages.

Didi surveyed the calm green expanse of the cemetery, ringed by oakstudded hills. “There’s plenty of room for coronavirus,” he said, his tone matteroffact. He and his brother are growing up fast, faster than I would have wished.

In the next moment, they darted ahead — boys still boys, for a while yet.