Unschooling My Way to a Love of Classic Poetry

I’ve long held that I don’t think “classic” literature is any better than newer literature. I think stories and reading are wonderful things, but I also believe strongly that which of these are good or not is a subjective matter, to be decided by individuals not experts.

I wanted to like the classics when I was young. I had visions of myself curled up in a comfy chair, reading Jane Eyre, and being able to tell people, modestly of course, what my latest reading material was. Amongst the much more traditional homeschoolers I was surrounded by, learning Latin and reading only books older than 50 years was a big trend, and I kind of wanted to include myself in that. I tried, but I just couldn’t do it. I picked up various classics at various times, hoping that this one would finally be the not-boring one, but I never found one that I didn’t have to struggle through.

Finally I gave up, deciding that the classics obviously weren’t for me, and furthermore that the snobbery surrounding reading choices was counterproductive and harmful to readers of all ages. I moved on, and enjoyed years of reading modern historical novels and fantasy fiction.

There was one area, though, where I did find myself enjoying old writing.

My mother, sister, and I developed a ritual of sorts, not one we practiced every day, but a frequent

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees. 

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas...

occurrence: we’d curl up together on my bed in the evening, along with a stack of poetry books, and take turns reading aloud to each other. My mother’s favourite was The Owl-Critic by James Thomas Fields; Emilie liked The Owl and the Pussycat by Edward Lear; and I was a big fan of The Lady of Shalott and The Eagle by Tennyson, the Introduction to the Songs of Innocence by William Blake, and Walking Through Woods On a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost. Though we all had favourites, together we read countless classic poems by dozens of different writers. We all enjoyed poetry, but it became a special passion of mine.

For a homeschool talent show, I once recited The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes. I loved the melodrama of it and, inspired by the rendition of that poem in one of the Anne of Green Gables movies, I decided to memorize it myself. The audience was impressed, and although I was somewhat pleased by that, the real joy I took in the process were the hours spent alone, quietly reading and practicing. It was relaxing and joyful, an activity that filled me with contentment.

I still believe strongly that there’s nothing inherently better about classic writing, whether it’s in the form of fiction or poetry, but I did eventually find some classics that I was happy to make part of my own life. I’m not sure if children outside of school are more likely to be drawn to classics or not, but I do think that not having to read them means that learners won’t be turned off from them en masse.

When everything is treated as valuable, no matter when or by whom it was written, then classic works become just another potentially interesting option. I could never get into anything by Jane Austen, but I sure did enjoy exploring the works of countless famous poets from the last few centuries. Had I been forced to read those works, to analyse and tear them apart, my experience would probably have been a lot less joyful. Instead, my exploration was done freely and enthusiastically, guided by my interests and whims and determination. In short, it was fun.

That’s the way learning should be in childhood, whether it includes anything classic or not!

Rain: a poem

It’s been raining all day.
the Sky
(tired of dripping sweat,
Burning pavement,
Crackling grass,
Sprawling out-
Heat.)
Opens arms wide to drench the ground
(my face, eyes turned up to the sky, feet in puddles, a thousand rivers running over—
down, curving, trickling, dripping—
my skin)
For the first time in days, the temperature drops.

A Trip to Gaspe

Since I got home, I have been busy!  So this post has been written, in short increments, over multiple days.  But it's now finally finished!

On Tuesday the 18th, we left.  Late.  I think we got out of the house at 3:00 in the afternoon, or close to it!  But, once we actually got on the road, we were cheerful.  The three of us enjoy traveling together.

Yeah.  No explanation needed (we didn't start off well rested, okay?).

We've developed a habit, while traveling, of writing short poetry.  We'll be driving along, merrily talking, when suddenly Emi or I will see something that sparks inspiration, and will quickly drop out of the conversation, shush the others, and start scribbling in our notebooks...

Tree farms pass
some old,
overgrown with
Nature.
a woman waters her
Green Farmhouse
while guitars play
wistfully,
from the stereo.

We drove through the Quebec countryside for the rest of the afternoon, on into evening, at which point we were getting painfully close to the coast, close to the gulf of the Saint Lawrence river, that salt water, rocky shored, beautiful place.

Out of the mist
Soft mountains rolling
Toward the sea

~

lights fall,
glassy,
as we breath deeply:
searching for the Ocean.

We started looking for a motel around 9:00 or so, I think.  I know it was fully dark, and had been so for a little while.  We could smell the sea.  Just a bit, but it was there: that special tang on the breeze.  We found a motel surprisingly soon, considering the usual difficulty we have (my mother and sister are highly allergic to synthetic scents, of which most motels use plenty!).

I sit on a worn comforter
Banged up old motel
And listen to my sister's laugh ringing
Joyous
Through the open window.

We left (much too) bright and early the next day.

After not much driving at all, we reached the coast.

Finally
low tides rocks stretching-
Home.
salt water on my feet and face:
Doubly blessed.

We spent a loooong time on that beach.  I headed straight out to the furthest rock uncovered by the tide, wading through shallow pools of ice cold water to get there, dipped my finger into a retreating wave and tasted the salt.  Then I just stood there, soaking in the sounds and scents and sights of the sea.  I have to admit to even getting a bit teary.  It was like revisiting a second home for the first time in 9 years.  I missed it so much.

We found these amazing water centipede like things.  We watched them in fascination for a while, and even rescued one from a tide pool that had gotten dangerously low for the poor critter!

Doesn't (s)he have a cute face??

Seaglass.

Just a little ways down the road, we stopped again.  This time the beach was home to statues, which stretched out into the water, walking inwards from the sea, up onto land, and then stretching off along the side.

Emi liked the statues.  And she made the same face as some of them.

We stayed for a loooong time on that beach, as well.

But finally, we had to keep going.

There are two ways to get to Gaspe: one, is by going around the coast.  The second, and most popular route with Gaspesians, is going through the mountains, through Murdockville.  Now, the latter is NOT my favorite way.  It may be faster, but it's along high, winding roads, the shoulder washed out in places from the rain, and an extremely narrow shoulder at the best of places.  Plus, if you do happen to have an accident and go off the side of the road, you have a nice 200 foot drop!  Woo hoo!  So, being kind to her daughter, my mother agreed to go by the coast.

Looking out the car window
Eyes flicking lazily.
Suddenly-
A waterfall!
Tumbling down the rocks
Gone in an instant.

We saw so many waterfalls!  As long as it was safe too, we'd pull over every time we saw one, so I could take pictures.

I loved how we'd be driving along, then when we'd go around a curve or get to the top of a hill, we'd suddenly see a village, nestled between the mountains on one side and the water on the other.

There are dozens such villages scattered along the coast.

Finally, we arrived in Gaspe, surprised to find that, out of the motels that were open (many aren't open this early in the tourist season), most were full or nearly full!!  But, though it was a bit pricier than we'd hoped, we ended up staying in a very nice motel in the dead center of Gaspe proper.  These photos were taken around Gaspe on Thursday, our first full day there:

It's probably not a surprise that the second place we went (after the cemetery, where many relatives are buried) was to my great-grandmothers house.

My great aunt's trailer...

The birch grove in front of my great grandmother's house that I always loved playing in as a child...

The house.

 The barn/shed...

On the trip to Gaspe, I saw so many crows!  Flying past our car, swooping in front of us, sitting, stately, on dying trees by the side of the road...  I said they were watching over us.  Emi said I was silly.  But when we walked back into the fields from my great grandmothers house, there was a crow feather, sitting straight up, caught in the grasses before our feet.  Emi found it.  I told her the crows were watching over us.

A field of forget-me-nots, one of my favorite types of flowers...

My grandmother, who stayed at my cousin Linda's house (she lives two or three houses over from my great-grandmother's house) arrived in Gaspe this day, the Thursday, and after spending some time at Linda's, saw our car here and headed over to say hello.  It was a very grey day though, it was raining off and on (making picture taking risky), and I was suffering from truly horrible allergies, so we didn't stay very long.

We took my grandmother out to supper with us, at a nearby casse croute (aka greasy spoon).  We spent a lot of time with my grandmother throughout the whole visit, and amazingly, the four of us got along extremely well.  That never happens!!

After supper, since the beach we always visit, Haldimand, is just five minutes from the restaurant, we headed there.

Gaspe is often chilly in May, and near the water it's even colder!  But, gods, is it beautiful. 

On Friday there was the viewing (remember this whole trip was because of my Nan, my great grandmother's, funeral).  The day of the viewing was a day of much family trouble (not between my mum, sister, grandmother and I, but with extended family), so stressful, but I did get a couple of good shots when at Linda's house...

They say the eye is a window into the soul, don't they?

This was the view I looked out to from our motel room.  Isn't it lovely?

The next day, Saturday, brought the funeral.  It was a beautiful, bright day.  It was also, predictably, a sad one.

After the reception, we all wanted the relaxation and beauty of the beach.  So that's where we went again.

 

On Sunday, we rested.  No, really, we did!  It was a gorgeous day again: this time not just warm, or pleasantly cool as it had been, but hot (in the early 30's celcius).  We lazed around, spent more time at the beach, where it was finally hot enough that we could comfortably wade and slash around, since getting wet was much more comfortable anyway in the heat!  I wish I could have taken pictures, but it was windy, with sand blowing everywhere (stinging my legs like miniture needles as it hit), and I wasn't willing to subject my camera to that.  So I had to take a picture in words, instead.

remembering a day
when the sky landed on the beach
to play in the waves
that stretched long fingers
over the sand

We went out to a mediocre supper with my grandmother, which I shamefully didn't take any pictures of, either, then packed.

The next morning, we looked out the door of our hotel to see the mountain being swallowed by the mist.

We said a final goodbye to my great-grandmother's house, and to my great-grandmother's grave.

Then we set off..  It hurt, leaving.  We were there such an incredibly short time, and I'll miss it.  I do miss it.

We stopped for french fries here.  They have very good french fries! (Note the cloud so low it obscures part of the mountain.)

We arranged to meet my grandmother, at a motel she knew to be nice, that night.  It felt like we'd come full circle, when we arrived there.  It was the same little town where we'd first stopped to walk on the beach nearly a week before.

We all went out to supper at a lovely little place just down the road with delicious food.  They had the most kickass vegetarian pizza ever!  It had onions, peppers, tomatoes, green beans, carrots, baby corn...

This was our view when we stepped out the back door of our motel room:

We went down the steps onto the beach, listening to the crashing waves, way bigger than last time we were at this beach (a storm was on its way), and with the tide most definitely coming in, not out!  I walked out to the furthest rock I could get to, and just reveled in the sheer glorious, beautiful, power of this place.  I was finally coaxed back out to solid beach, and the place where I had been standing was covered by water in just a little while.

My grandmother got a motel room just two doors down from ours, and came to hang out with us for a while.

It got steadily darker, and the wind started picking up.  We opened the blinds, eager to see as much of the storm as we could.

three generations
we stood, foreheads pressed
against the cold window
watching the lightning zag
the lighthouse flash
and the whitecaps crash.
the roar of the ocean
held us close
in the cozy hotel room.

It was incredible, and we fell asleep with the window open, listening to the crash of the ocean.

This was the view in the morning from our motel window:

I was sad to leave the coast in the morning.

It was another rather misty day, and when we left in the morning, a cold one!  My grandmother, determined not to get lost (as she very often does), arranged to follow us for the entire way to Montreal.  She stopped where we stopped, turned where we turned.  It was nice to have her with us for the trip.  And, of course, Emi and I wrote poetry!

A cloud landed
Softly,
On the top of a mountain
Slid down onto the road
And enveloped our car.
Muffled, we drove through.

~


I breath deeply
the water
in my bottle
smells of ocean
even though
we've left the waves
far behind us.

It was rather funny when, not far from Quebec city, we took a pit stop and were struck with a wave of heat upon stepping out of the car!  We'd gone from 9 degree weather in the morning, to 33 degree weather in the afternoon!!

And there really isn't much more to say.  We drove for a while more, then arrived back in Montreal.

Driving through the city
(Oppressive air
And crumbling pavement)
when, suddenly-
a bird flits by
lit golden by the setting sun
to disappear down an empty street.

We crashed at home.

I still miss Gaspe.  But, I'm glad to be home!

Or, should I say, glad to be back at one of my homes.

Peace,
Idzie