Rocks in My Attic

You know how hot an attic can get on a summer day.

We tried to plan the emptying of our attic so that the temperature up there was bearable. We picked a day that was forecast to be cool and rainy. Wouldn't you know? -- it never rained. The sun came out. The air turned sultry, heavy, damp, very warm. Still no rain.

It wasn't too bad. The attic wasn't an oven, but we didn't want to linger either. Sweat rolled down faces and trickled down skin beneath shirts, as we lugged one box after another. I handed things to my husband, who handed them to Josh, who set them on the upstairs landing. Two more sets of similar arrangements carried our stuff to the garage, into a rental truck, and finally to storage.

We were in the middle of it all, in the steamy air. I handed a box to my husband and announced it's contents, just like I had done for all the others.

"Rocks. They're heavy."

"What?" He looked at me like I must be joking.

"Rocks. For Ben."

"WHAT?"

I nodded.

"No way. You mean we're moving rocks?"

Yes, way. I explained. "Ben wants to keep them. There's another box of 'em here, too."

My dear husband, having been father and superintendent for a very creative homeschool, was used to odd things happening in our household. He learned to never throw anything away. It might look like trash, but you never know -- it could be a science experiment. This time, it took him a minute to adjust. But after staring at me and blinking, he did. Then he cheerfully shrugged and hauled the rocks with me.

A couple of weeks ago, I had called Ben to ask him if we should get rid of the rocks.

His response: "Mom, I can't even believe you are asking me that." Okay. I just smiled.

In the elementary grades, we decided to embark on a geology unit study. We studied all the types of rocks and minerals, their crystal formations and characteristics, and how they were created. We drew rocks, read about rocks, looked at pictures of rocks. But by this time, I had grown wiser. I knew that my hands-on learner would only engage by experiencing rocks in a three-dimensional way. I used an old pair of jeans to make "rock bags" and bought small hammers, chisels, and plastic goggles at the hardware store. We started going outdoors to find rocks. Ben was in a state of bliss with his little hammer and chisel and bag. He never tired of going up one more hill or around one more corner just to see what he could find. For weeks, we went out for rocks every day we could.

Some interesting things happened which spurred us on and made it all the more intriguing. A lake at a nearby state park was drained; Indian arrowheads were there. We discovered a piece of a geode in the lake bottom. Friends who lived twenty minutes away found fossils of prehistoric sea creatures in their creek bed. At their invitation, we came to find our own and carry them home. We found black obsidian on one of our hunts -- shiny, polished smooth as glass. Ben called it black gold. You can imagine the excitement.

I also started picking up sheets of rock and mineral specimens: tiny samples of rocks and minerals glued to a sheet of thin cardbord with each name printed below the corresponding specimen. I found polished stones in gift stores and museums. I added these to our growing collection. Soon Ben and Josh could name by sight an impressive list of rocks, minerals, and gems. They knew their characteristics, their unique properties, how they were used, and how they might be identified in the ground. Josh enjoyed all of this, but for Ben this was a passionate pursuit. He treasured our rocks. He often talked about how he could not wait to see real gems.

That's why we arranged to see the Gems and Minerals Collection at the Carnegie Museum of Natural History in Pittsburg. When we walked into the gems and minerals room, Ben could barely contain his excitement. There were the very gems he had only seen pictures of and had envisioned. There they were, in living reality, sparkling under the lights in their glass boxes. This was really a dream come true. The Carnegie collection is stunning, no doubt about that. Any student of geology would be impressed with the vast array and the sheer volume, size, and beauty of the specimens on display. But Ben was enthralled, transfixed, suspended in wonder.

He said, "I will never forget this day."

Years later, he still remembers the delight and the wonder of discovery. A friend recently told me that Ben, now a college student, picks up rocks when he is out for a walk and carries them back with him.

I remember, too. That's why I have rocks in my attic.

A Different Way to Learn

My second son, Ben, was not built for the traditional classroom. He'd be the first to agree with this. Bright, inquisitive, and chatty, he was usually in motion. Sitting still was painful. He was the extreme version of a hands-on learner. Simply put, he needed to learn in a different way. This was hard for me to understand at first. His bent for learning and his interests were a mystery that would take me years to unwrap.

From the time he could walk, he had a fascination for machines and for building things. Recently, I was cleaning out the attic and found a cardboard box covered with wrapping paper. A pair of eyes was drawn on the lid, accompanied by the words, "Scientist's Treasure Chest." Inside the box, I found bits of wire and string, ear phones, magnets, pieces of small gadgets, a gyroscope, iron nails, and so forth. Ben had plans to build things from whatever he collected. I remember him trying to persuade us to keep a broken washer and dryer, so that he could take them apart. He wasn't sure what he'd do with the parts, but he knew they'd come in handy.

A sympathetic relative gave him a child's camera when he was six years old. The yellow plastic machine was his delight. He took pictures of everything. We have photos for posterity of the food we ate, Lego men in various postures, toy cars and trucks, our cat, and Mom with a mop. He also tried some investigative journalism. He took snapshots of people who looked interesting or suspicious, just in case. More than once, I realized too late that the little yellow camera was working in a restaurant, at the library, or on the street. From time to time, we studied light and optics and worked with lenses, but mostly the camera was a machine, and that was what fascinated him.

When we took our trip west for Joshua's birds, it was natural for Ben to become our trip photographer. This month-long odyssey across the country served as his hands-on unit study in geography and photography. We used a lot of maps and studied all the aspects of geography at each location. Ben learned to take clear, interesting photos of the scenery. Once we were home, he wrote a paper about the trip. But that wasn't all.

By the end of our month-long odyssey, Ben had become an amateur photographer with a deep appreciation for natural beauty. That fall, he used some money from his great-grandmother to purchase professional equipment. He began taking photos in earnest. Each year in high school, he designed and completed his own photography course. He studied books by his favorite photographers and steadily improved in competence and skill. When we moved to the Poconos, he discovered new spots where he could experiment with his camera in nearby ravines and woods. His pictures of local waterfalls are still a family favorite.

For his high school graduation present, he planned a trip for outdoor photography to Olympic National Park. The detail in his arrangements was remarkable. He knew the light before he arrived -- the best time of day for a photo, the chances of clear or cloudy skies, the best angle for the sun, the average temperature and wind speed, the colors of the terrain, the quality of the air, the direction his camera should aim in, the spots he wanted to shoot, any special equipment he would need. He knew this for every single shot. His photos speak eloquently of his discipline and focus.

He had taught himself everything that he needed to know. He had worked hard, long hours to achieve professional results and to have an experience that many of us only dream about.

Just for the joy of it all.

A Great Learning Adventure

When Joshua was in the fourth grade, we studied birds for a month. We learned how birds fly, how their feathers are designed, how they migrate, what they eat, their physical structure, and bird behavior. We bought birdseed and established a feeder in our backyard near a large window. Every morning for a month, we watched the feeder and identified our visitors with a tiny paperback Golden Guide Book of Birds. Cardinals, blue jays, finches, sparrows, juncos -- they were all there. We became very attached to them.

One day when we were buying seed, I noticed a pamphlet about Cornell University's Project Feederwatch. The idea behind it was to connect scientists studying bird populations with people who fed birds in their backyards. If we signed up for the program, Cornell would send us the forms for recording the species at our feeders. The scientists would use our information to track changes in migration, diseases, and population. Here was serious work and we could be part of it. We mailed our application that afternoon. For the next nine years, we watched our feeders in the fall, winter, and early spring.

Thus began our love affair with birds. Over the years, we collected bird guides, birding books, and birding equipment. Joshua studied the books until he knew the birds so well that he only needed a glance at a guide to confirm his identification. We became experts on bird behavior, habits, and schedules. We could recognize their songs. On cold mornings, we huddled by the windows, watching and counting and sipping coffee. It was our little place, our very own, where we met feathered friends from faraway places. We added to this our birding walks, especially in the spring and fall, when we might catch a rare bird in migration.

Our hobby drew us to Cape May, New Jersey, a birding hot spot, the summer Josh was twelve. For a week, we sunned ourselves on the beach and ambled along trails near the ocean in hopes of a glimpse of a new species. Our bird list had grown long by then, and it was becoming clear that we would have to travel to see new ones.

For his eighteenth birthday present, Joshua planned a month-long trip across the country for birding. He research led him to plot a path across the upper Midwest to the Pacific Ocean: Rocky Mountain National Park, Snake River, Crater Lake, the Redwoods, the Oregon Coast, Columbia River Gorge, Yellowstone. His plans were specific to the smallest details. He kept lists of birds for each stop in our journey and exactly where they might be seen. He memorized the bird guides so that he didn't need to look in them to identify a species. In this way, he would recognize the bird instantly when he saw it.

There were many moments from that trip which I will never forget, but one is especially meaningful. In the Bear River Bird Refuge in Utah, Joshua and I slipped out in the early morning to see the birds. There were so many that we couldn't identify them all. We just did our best. As our car rolled slowly down the narrow lanes in the refuge, the birds rose in waves from fields and water. Thousands of them. At one point, we turned a corner and surprised a gathering of white cranes. As they rose gracefully from their resting places, they looked like clouds rising, loveliness in slow motion. I stopped and stared, unable to drive further. My mind could not quite take it in, the sheer numbers of them.

The great learning adventure we had undertaken together through the years had made this possible -- this beauty, this experience, this depth of sharing. It unfolded before me again, the map of our life , and I saw it as I had not seen it before.

How We Began to Make Changes

Once we started using textbooks, we noticed that the same concepts, information, and skills were repeated each year. At least half of the text was devoted to a review of what had already been taught. Some new lessons were added, usually in the second half of the year. New information was offered in small bits. Joshua called it, "A little of this and a little of that." When I mentioned this to a friend of mine who is a teacher, she explained that, yes, this is the spiraling method: everything is reviewed continuously; then small amounts of new material are added to this review, a little bit each time.

Josh saw no reason why he should complete work pages about things he already knew. After he had seen something once, he remembered it. He didn't want to study it again. He hated these lessons. This left us with a dilemma. How could we keep school fresh and interesting? In our third year, we invented our own unit study method. With a textbook that was two grades ahead, we used each chapter as a springboard for a topic which we could study for a month. We added library books, board games, experiment or activity kits, art projects, and field trips. This worked so well for us that we continued to learn this way whenever we could. As we dived into our unit studies, learning became our joy again. The boys' delight energized me. Making plans for the things we would do and the books we would read became an enjoyable pursuit.

After this, I could even ask the boys what they wanted to study for science or history and get thoughtful answers. I would make a note of their wishes, find corresponding chapters in a good textbook, and build unit studies around those chapters. I could use my list of learning objectives from Hewitt to check off what we accomplished. This let me know if there were "holes" in our learning. There almost never were any. We found that learning has its own natural order which leads to a well-rounded set of skills and concepts. One topic naturally leads to another, then another, and another. Essential skills are acquired in the great adventure when they are needed.

We started with unit studies in science and history, and I still think those are the subjects that adapt most readily to this way of learning. Although we first used unit studies for history and science, we readily and naturally began to apply our new method to other subjects. Soon we were deep in unit studies for math, English, geography, art, music, even health. Sometimes these subjects were all combined in under one idea, like Egypt or oceans. We discovered that we learned more efficiently and effectively when we focused on a particular topic for several weeks. After a couple of years, our lessons had exceeded the expectations for every subject in the elementary grades. We expanded our studies to include additional topics not covered in our textbooks: ancient history, archeology, architecture, classical literature, exploration, oceanography, ornithology, engineering, astronomy, and chemistry. Supper time arrived in the evenings and no one wanted to stop. I had to insist on a short break every summer, so that I could set things up for the new year, but I did it in the face of loud protests and pleading. They never wanted school to end.

It was marvelous. That's the only word I can think of.

How did school become the fantastic world that we navigated with such happiness? It's simple, really. We began learning in a way that was sensible to us -- exploring things we were curious about and teaching ourselves. In the process, we stretched ourselves and gained new skills. It was learning that was as natural as breathing.

First Vision

The first vision is almost always the truest.

Joy. Real learning. Depth rather than breadth. These were the things that pulled us onto the path of our great learning adventure.

But, as I just explained to you, there were times when I lost my way.

The problem was, what we were doing didn't look anything like a proper school. The anxieties were numerous and looming. Would our son learn what he "needed to know" ? Would he fit into the mainstream, or would this experience mean that he was forever excluded because he was too different? What about testing? Was he up to grade level in each subject area? Had we covered each subject area? Would he be able to do well on achievement tests? Should I teach to the test? Should I teach him how to take a test? The worry was overwhelming.

After those first months, I ordered a complete curriculum that was created for private schools. The instructions in the lessons amazed me with their attention to detail. Nothing was left out. . . Say: "Circle the correct answer." Let the students circle the answer. Check to see if the answer is correct. If it isn't, say: "Look at the picture at the top of your page. What is the man doing?" Have the students circle the answer that matches what is happening in the picture. Say: "Look at the next problem." Read the problem aloud . . . There was no room for error. I imagined marks on the page that told me when to breathe. Next, I bought test prep books. We completed a six-week course to prepare for the annual achievement test. I studied the questions he missed. I decided that we should look more like a real school. A room in our house was filled with desks, workbooks, references, and a globe. My son began doing all his lessons at a second-hand wooden desk. We always started right on time. Thus, everyone was reassured.

But something wasn't right. The sparkle in my son's eyes was gone. There were many days when we were both in tears. He did not even want to hear me speak the name of his curriculum aloud. As I tell you this, it seems obvious, doesn't it? We had exchanged joy and adventure for something else. I am ashamed to tell you that I didn't understand what the problem was for at least two years. Even when I saw it, I was afraid to do things differently. My heart aches when I remember it. I wish I could scoop up my brown-eyed boy and tell him that there was never anything wrong, after all, we were just learning the hard way.

What I know now is that a curriculum written for private schools is designed for the classroom, not the individual student. It is designed to enable one teacher to control, instruct, assess, grade, and present to their parents a classroom of students. A standard is created. The students must march in step to meet that standard together. Tests are given to measure performance in a way that is efficient to grade. Students complete extra work pages, regardless of whether they need to, because it keeps them quiet in their seats and ensures that the entire class has learned the lessons. The average student rules the day. Those who are ahead must wait. Those who are behind must somehow catch up. Almost everything is designed with the goal of moving the group along easily measurable objectives that can be clearly assessed and reported. It's a big job, and the teacher needs all the help the curriculum can provide.

This is not to say, of course, that there are not wonderful teachers in classrooms. I have known a number of them. There's nothing wrong with desks and globes. Assessment help us evaluate our progress. My point here is that I failed to recognize that the home school is not a classroom. We needed a fresh agenda to motivate us to learn. Materials created for the classroom shouldn't be used without adjustments. Often it's best to exchange these materials for great books and curriculum which has been designed for the home school or for self-instruction.

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Here's an exercise you can try. Find one of the school books your student does not particularly like using. Try to read the book comfortably and continuously for forty-five minutes, which is the usual classroom period. Does it hold your attention? Is it enjoyable? Does it leave you wanting to learn more about the subject? If it doesn't, then either adjustments should be made or something different should be used. Next, do this with a book, any book, that your student loves. How does this book affect you? Finally, do this with all of the books your student uses. Make a list of the books that were not enjoyable to read. Now you have a general shopping list. Although you don't know the exact books you will buy, you do at least know what you need.

What was the most enjoyable thing you did with your kids over the past year?

What Mattered Most

My son Joshua worked a long time on the card he designed for his poem, Black Jack. The results were delightfully funny, and he knew it. This was his idea of a joke. He laughed as he delivered it. Of course, I laughed in a different way when I received it.

The joy and exuberance of it, the elements of play and delight, are what hold me. The lesson of the card is that joy matters. It's the wellspring of creativity, the best and highest motivation for learning.

Learning can be hard work. It often is. But it can also be our joy.

Slowly, over the years, my children taught me this. Joshua's love of nature, even its unsavory aspects, led us to strange activities. The first of these was our "insect zoo". He captured insects, put them into clear containers, fed and observed them. We studied large pictures of bugs, learned about their body parts, and examined how they functioned. During this time, I had recurring nightmares of large bugs crawling toward me and over me with heightened details. I was relieved when this stage passed. But for my son, it was a glory. I still have photos of him, his face beaming, with his arm around his zoo specimens. Years later, when he became a National Merit Scholar, Joshua was asked to give a speech at his graduation ceremony. He talked about how homeschooling allowed him to pursue the things that delighted him. He used the insect zoo as his example, and he thanked me for allowing him to do it. His words were, "This is homeschooling at its best."

The perspective I now have of nearly two decades is a great advantage. There are many things that were foggy to me when I was slogging through the daily effort of homeschooling which are now clear. Beyond any doubt, our best work was done when there was joy. It's that simple. Nothing we did, and I mean nothing, mattered more.

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Take a few minutes to think about what is enjoyable in your home school. Is there anything that delights, that brings fresh joy? This is important, but few homeschoolers think of it. The reason for paying attention to this is that the joy shows you something that is ideal, something that you should emphasize, protect, even repeat in other subject areas. What is working well? Why?

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What does your home school do best?

Our Story

I still have my oldest son's first poem, written carefully on a card he designed.

Black Jack

was slack.

All he did

was wish

and fish.

The card is decorated with colored paper cutouts of his own drawings of a fish, some water, the sun, and on the inside, an elaborate drawing of a smiling Black Jack fishing on a dock and wearing overalls and a dunce's cap. The back of the card is the kicker. It's dressed up with more colored paper cutouts: a cloud with "Jesus" inscribed, a glue bottle, and an Easter egg. This end page tells us about the author, that he believes in Jesus and Easter, and that he glued the card together himself.

I can't throw the card away. It gets tucked into drawers or obscured by other paper clutter and then re-discovered about once a year. It makes me laugh, the kind of laugh that is full of tenderness, an ache in my throat. I see the little boy who made it. What I remember most are his eyes: the sparkle in their dark brown depths, the droll humor at the corners, the inquisitiveness leaping out of them. He was full of joy and that joy was the adventure of learning new things.

I think now that I got lost in those eyes. I was pulled into following where the joy led us, and I never found my way back to a school house. As soon as he mastered phonics, which took a few short weeks, we plunged into Narnia with Lucy, Edmund, Peter, and Susan. As we followed their footsteps, the map of a completely new life unfolded before us. C.S. Lewis taught us to read. Great Americans inspired us to dig into history. Scientists urged upon us the wonder of discovery. The world became our playground.

Those first weeks turned to months, then years, and finally ended with college. Along the way, we found gladness, challenge, heartache, and triumph. I wouldn't trade any of it. What I know now is that this strange and humble undertaking, this task of teaching ourselves, was a gift. This is the story of how it happened and what we learned from it.