Would Homeschooling Be Worth It?

My friend and I have been talking about pulling our kids from public school. Bangor is reportedly a great school district, with very high standards and the test scores to match. The Assistant Superintendent of Schools reminded me and my friend of this the other day when we met with her. So why would I want to remove my child from such a great school system? There are many reasons why I think about it for my two daughters, who are five and seven. I like some of what I see going on in their elementary school, but I wonder: how much more would homeschooling do for them? What would our days be like and would my girls flourish intellectually and creatively—would they turn out to be better people? What would a local cooperative school look like—could the murmurings of several friends, also considering homeschooling, actually turn into solid action? And what would push us over the edge to pull our kids out of school? Will they be just fine if we leave them where they are?

My friend and I met with the Assistant Superintendent of Bangor Schools, Donna Wolfram, because we are tired of seeing reams of worksheets in our children's school days. We didn't understand why there was a significant focus on spelling and grammar so early, why the elementary kids weren't learning foreign language yet, and why there was so little science and so few field trips. Ms. Wolfram had answers for all our questions. There is a new curriculum this year, and some of the teachers have “gone overboard” trying to squeeze in every worksheet that is suggested, she told us. This is not necessary, and she definitely sees the value in more hands-on learning. She told us they are working hard at bringing in more and more hands-on projects to each learning unit, but it is a new way of instruction for the teachers. Admittedly, it is more work. But, Ms. Wolfram agreed that integrating math principles into art or music or science makes perfect sense, of course. She called it “inquiry-based learning” and she appeared to be all for it. Apparently, the school board is working at bringing foreign language learning into the K-3 grades; they are working at ramping up the science in the younger grades too, by integrating it into the existing curriculum. When we asked about the focus grammar and spelling, Ms. Wolfram explained that before beginning a foreign language, children must first comprehend certain fundamentals of their native language. Some of these efforts to improve the curriculum are thwarted by budgetary problems or security issues, she said. Field trips have all but disappeared for the students of Abraham Lincoln. And bringing in special guests or instructors—scientists or artists or authors—presents real security issues for the schools.

My older daughter Zoe loves the routine of school, and she is a natural rule follower. Reading came very easily to her and she devours books. She is in second grade now, and has so far scored average or above average in all the tested categories. But she does not easily ask questions or engage in group discussions; she needs prodding. She does not readily ask for help if she is confused by a topic, and I can imagine her pretending to her teacher that she understands something better than she truly does—simply to not appear slow.

Zoe loves all of the “specials” as they call them in school—library, art, gym and music. But art is now given only every other week, and so far the music program at Abe Lincoln doesn't appear to be much more than singing seasonal songs and banging on the odd instrument. However, the school does have a stellar gym teacher. She has won state-wide awards for her innovative programs. Gym with Mrs. Poisson is so fun, the kids don't realize they're exercising. In her phys-ed program, she uses creative games, scooters, role-playing, and dancing to music even the veteran third-graders think is cool. The dancing isn't just random fooling around, either. The children learn specific dances and then get to show off their skills at the school-wide family dance night. Like all the kids, Zoe loves the school-wide events: the book fairs, the family dance night, movie night in the gym, the spring fair on the school grounds. Lilah, my younger daughter, is in the half-day Pre-Kindergarten program this year, and of course already loves the specials and extra school events too.

The girls both also love their teachers; they are additional authority figures and guides, separate from their parents. Zoe has had very good teachers so far at Abe Lincoln—and we parents all know who the “best teachers” are and try to get our children into their classes. By sometime luck and sometime request, Zoe has had among the best teachers. I have volunteered in nearly all of Zoe's classrooms, and this has given me a great chance to observe the teachers in action. This year, while I was directing a math game at a table in Zoe's classroom, I watched her teacher expertly move the students through several different activities within an hour: individual reading, reading to another student, small group discussion with her, math game with me, and ending with all the students in a circle. I was impressed at how orderly the students were, but also remembered something the Asst. Superintendent said about the teachers telling her they need more time in the school day; they simply don't have enough time to accomplish everything that is required. It was all very orderly, but was it also rushed?

But if I home-schooled, there would be plenty of time, right? I have heard it takes only a fraction—maybe one quarter—of the time to teach your child the same things they learn in a group setting in school. The individual attention I, or even someone else, could give my children has got to be at the top of the list of why I would take them out of public school. All the varied ideas on learning I have heard over the years have been bouncing around in my head lately—children excel best in small groups or with individual attention; peer settings can encourage children in learning; children may learn better from someone other than their parent. But these are all generalized ideas. I need to figure out what is best for my own situation, for my own children. What would homeschooling--let's say a cooperative school--look like in my life, for me and my kids?

Perhaps this summer, it would happen like this: there is a small group of us, five families, who together commit to try a cooperative school for a year. This only comes to fruition after many get-togethers and into the night discussions in the living rooms of each other's homes. Among us, there are degrees in english, math, natural science, music, and education. We all live in Bangor and our kids, ranging in age from four to nine, have attended Abe Lincoln. Some of us do not work for pay, some have part-time jobs. We agree that we need to find a space, a set of rooms for instruction and projects. Already, this is an additional cost—and of course we are still paying our taxes that support public school. (We are looking into a voucher program, but with all the recent budget cuts in education and the new Republican governor, we are not hopeful.) We find a suite of three rooms on the fourth floor of a Central St. building in downtown Bangor, the same building as a yoga studio, a fiber artist, and a violin maker. The smell of fresh baked bread from the Friar's bakery fills the stairwell. The windows of our small suite of rooms look out over the canal.

The cost of all of the supplies--the curriculum we agree on, the desks, the chalkboards and charts, the paint brushes, the rulers, the books, the shelves—are split among the families. But it is difficult to keep track precisely. Some families are simply donating items—a computer, nature books, a globe. We have chosen a curriculum that is theme-based. It meets all the state and federal requirements but is designed in such a way that encourages active application of principles, such as building projects to integrate math, science and art. With such a small group, we have the opportunity to work on these projects daily. Our suite of rooms begins to fill up with mini plywood and clay cities, leaf collections, original plays and stories, and homemade instruments.

We design a schedule that has the children in the school room for most mornings. There are always two parents in the classroom, the schedule rotates but one parent from each family must offer instruction or assistance for the same amount of time each week. The first two hours of the morning are for more or less formal instruction, review, and discussion of the week's theme. The introduction and explanation of principles leads into active application, but sometimes the hands-on project is simply the lesson itself. After the group lesson, some of the older children work on unfinished projects, individual reading, or music practice, and some of them help with the instruction of the younger children. The older kids become quite proud of their ability to read, practice penmanship, and introduce beginning math principles to the younger ones.

One week our theme is color and we need to cover the topics of measurement (focusing on fractions) and perspective. We discuss what we could build that would require measurement—what does our classroom need that would be interesting and fun to build? We decide on building art easels. First, we talk about how we will find out how to build an art easel—the library, the internet? Yes, both. But for this project, we agree that getting a blueprint for an easel on the internet is probably the best idea. We search together and print it out. We make a list of the building supplies and tools we will need. The list is divided and everyone has items to bring in for the next day. When all the supplies are gathered, the building begins. We measure and cut, drill, screw and nail. We talk about halves and quarters of the boards, and the number of nails. We draw on the boards with pencils to illustrate the fractions. We divide the piles of nails into thirds and fifths. The children clutch the hammers earnestly, and with help pound in the nails. Two crude but sturdy easels now stand by the windows of the classroom. Tomorrow we'll talk about perspective, in art and in writing. We'll draw vanishing roads and big foreground flowers on our new easels, mixing the paint ourselves and discussing which colors recede and which pop out at you, which colors are cool or warm and why. We will write autobiography, and biography. We may head down to the bakery and interview the bakers on how they started their successful business and then put it in our school newspaper, which we pass out among the tenants of our Central St. building. When we go down for a sewing class in the afternoon, with the fiber artist on the third floor, we'll ask her for a little of her life story too.

In the afternoons, me and my girls have the freedom to choose what we do. We can engage in something fun and exploratory, or active. As a cooperative school, we join with other homeschool groups for weekly sports sessions at the Bangor Rec Center. These are in the afternoons, as are outings to the Maine Discovery Museum, the UMaine Art Museum, the Bangor Library, and the Fields Pond Nature Center. The local homeschool network is strong, with a lot of religious-based groups. Whatever the reason for homeschooling, however, we discover that we can learn a lot from those who have been doing this for a while. We discuss schedules and local activities with other homeschooling families. We ask around about the feasibility of hiring a native-speaking foreign language instructor.

It is a lot of work. This endeavor requires a lot more time, money and energy than dropping your child off at school every day. I can sense all us all asking ourselves weekly: is it worth it? Are we giving them a better education than they would get in public school, and can we maintain this project? What if a family or two decides to drop out? Then the cost per family would rise significantly. We removed our children from public school because we had the interest and momentum of a large enough, skilled enough, set of families. None of our children were in crisis in a public school setting. We simply thought that we could do better.

My own girls love the uniqueness of this small, special school at the moment, but it has only been a few months. It is difficult for them when they encounter former school friends—at a dance class or playground—and hear about what's going on at their old school. But the children are clearly thriving with more individual attention, more integrated learning that is active and creative, and more freedom to pursue their own interests. We will continue, at least for the full year. Perhaps we will gain more families and expand a little. We will learn more as we go along. 

But how do we assess our progress at the end of the year? Surely not simply by standardized test scores. That should be the minimum standard, if even that. The real measure must be the growth of our children's minds, their character, their resourcefulness, their spirits. It would be so much easier if there was “a test” for those qualities of personhood, but it looks like we as parents will just have to use our own standard of humanity to judge the progress of our children.

Mother Pulse

My body throbs from the weight of it all. New blood is thundering through my veins, as if trying to find an exit. My swelling stomach is tight and heavy. My first daughter lifts up the inside of her wrist, pointing to her veins, “What’s this?” she asks.

“It’s your blood, I say (it was my blood once).

She studies her veins, and asks me to wipe them away. “It’s your blood,” I tell her. Will you one day wonder at your birth, and at the origin of all things--will it be a miracle or simply an explosion of life?

She studies her faint blue veins, and asks me again to wipe them away. I bend to smell her skin. Her hand is pressed against my pregnant belly, for warmth, for comfort. Will you bend for your sister when I move on, when life changes again?

I bend down and breathe in her toddler head, her hand is pressed against my soft, shrunken stomach. My second daughter lifts up her wrist, “Mama, what are these?”

Will you bend for each other when I move on?

My body throbs from the weight of it all.

***

I am standing by the window over the kitchen sink, and he is putting her to bed.  I hear them through the monitor. They are upstairs in Lilah’s three-year-old bedroom, getting ready to sing their nighttime song.

“Sons and Daughters, Papa.”

“Alright,” he says, “You first, then me.”

I lean in to hear her small voice float out: “When weee arriiive, sons and daughters, we'll make our lives on the waaater. We'll build our walls, alumi-NUMMM. We'll fill our mouths with cinna-MONNN…”

He helps her some with the words, then sings this same refrain from the Decemberists' song again, in a warm as bathwater voice. I know he is leaning down close to her face and she is grinning wide, so proud that she learned this song from him, sung like a secret traded between them.

Outside the kitchen window, it is dark with only moony patches of snow glowing bluish. But a light rises in my throat; I swallow it back down and close my eyes to better taste its warmth.

***

After Zoë’s bedtime nursing I creep downstairs while he reads to her about moons and great green rooms. I pour my wine and take the glass out to the back porch – it’s mid-October and our days of outside evening air are numbered.

Through the kitchen window I see him fix a drink, and I wait for him to find me. Tonight, I hope he will look. Moments pass and I sip wine and roll my shoulders trying to purge acid from aching muscles. I wonder if I look as old to him as I feel.

I hear his feet scuff on the porch floor. “Oh, there you are,” he says, “I thought the Rapture happened,” and he smiles at our longtime, only half serious joke. He is still standing.

I stare at him. My pulse thrums. One heartbeat, two. “You thought it happened, and you got left behind and I went?”

“Yes,” he replies, sitting down next to me, “You are a mother, you are good; you would go.”

I look away, and take a sip of dark wine. His words follow down my throat: absolution.

Aunt Penny

“Jennifer, this is your Aunt Penny. I was thinking about your hesitation regarding the enamel cookware set I said I would buy you for your birthday. I realized you must be thinking of that cheap cookware they used to sell at the Five and Dime. No, no, this is Chantal. It is good, expensive cookware. Now, regarding the finish, I know you said you like the stainless, but I think that’s kind of trendy right now, and besides, the blue is prettier.

Well, I hope you’re out enjoying the good weather. When you live in Maine, you have to get out when you can. I know. Remember, I grew up in New Hampshire. Don’t call me back, I’ll try you again tomorrow. End of message.”

A shock of her dark hair went white when she was twenty-five. With this dramatic stripe set against her gray-green eyes, slim straight nose and full lips, she was a stunning young woman. A woman who refused at least two proposals and never married. Instead, she climbed the corporate ladder during the 1950's and '60s when there were few other woman on the rungs. Her hair turned completely white when she was in her forties, and she kept it short and swooping up. In her sixties, her high forehead was still smooth. Teetering over slim legs, her formidable paunch later in life was the result of Crohn's disease, a love of fine food with lots of butter, and years of three-martini lunches in the corporate world. 

 

Until I was nineteen, most of what I knew of Aunt Penny were the exquisite Christmas gifts she sent from California. From the San Francisco Music Box Company there was a white porcelain unicorn with a gilded horn, and a shiny black lacquer jewelry case with purple lotus flowers painted on the cover. There were green satin pajamas embroidered with Chinese dragons. There were cultured pearls in little silk pouches. There were crates of grapefruit and oranges. My mother regularly told me: be nice to your Aunt Penny. I obeyed and was always prompt with thank-you notes.

“Jennifer--Sandra, your mother, was a sweet woman, and you have her disposition, but she got pulled into that fundamentalist Christian church and your father followed like a puppy dog, because he loved her. And she was stronger than him. She was obviously everything to David.      

My mother died when I was young, too, you know, younger than you were when Sandra died. Your Aunt Jane and I were sent to live with my Aunt Dorothea. David, because he was the male, stayed with our father. David was never good at staying in contact with me, or Jane. So don't expect your brother Geoff to take care of you now. He's just like your father, and you are not a princess. ”

The first time I remember meeting Aunt Penny, I was twelve. She came to our house in Massachusetts. She had arranged the meeting to introduce my father’s “other daughter” to my older brother Geoff and me. My father, Aunt Penny’s older and only brother, had been married 10 years before meeting my mother. His one-year marriage to Barbara had been successful in producing a child, Linda, my half-sister, but unsuccessful overall—they divorced within a year. Before this meeting, I had never met my half-sister.

My mother died three years after that strange family reunion. My father died four years after her. By then, Aunt Penny was a self-made millionaire on the threshold of retiring from an executive position at a large pharmaceutical company. She had not planned on having an orphaned niece on her hands. My brother had already graduated from college, but I was just beginning. And there I was in front of Aunt Penny: perhaps a worthy investment. My acne scars clearly would require minor cosmetic surgery, and my high school education—small, private Christian schools—would necessitate my going to a large university, perhaps UNH, where she matriculated. My Boston accent could be remedied with some discipline. She flew me out to Los Angeles to begin the hefty task of my improvement.

“Jennifer, what are you using on your face now? I hope it's not cold cream; it will utterly clog your pores. I'm sure that's what Mrs. Kippin uses. That family is very generous to be letting you live with them in New Hampshire right now. Have you properly thanked them? They are lovely, but by god, they are the Archie Bunker family reincarnate! That huge recliner and the linoleum in the living room! They are certainly not helping you get rid of that accent you still have—really, Jennifer, it just sounds so uneducated. Of course I had to meet them myself to thank them in person for letting you stay with them. But you realize, you are a adult now, Jennifer--nineteen years old. I know these church people have helped you a lot, but they do not have all the answers in the universe. I hope you are reader like your brother. Have you read any Stephen Hawking? Or Richard Dawkins? Those Christian schools probably taught you nothing about evolution and real science--just that Creationism balderdash. I'm a biologist and I know, Jennifer. It's pure bunk. The universe is billions of years old and genes run the game. You need to reeducate yourself. Novels are fine, too, of course. I'm never without one. Somerset Maugham is one of my favorites. Have you read any Somerset Maugham?”

“Who?” I reply.

Of Human Bondage is on my lap, as I sit in Aunt Penny's Florida room in Florida. I helped her pack up her California house and unpack it again in Ponte Vedra Beach. She retired at 65 on the dot, not a week longer. She was done with12-hour days and traveling to Japan and Washington D.C. several times a year. She also quit a life-long smoking habit the same year, cold turkey, without a relapse. Each time we slide into her royal blue Cadillac, she pops a breath mint in her mouth, calling it her “cigarette.” The Cadillac sails along the pristine lanes of her gated community and the white leather interior smells like money. The seats are cavernous and slippery; I feel like a doll-girl sitting in them. She lets me drive the car though, but only after a dinner out when she's had one too many martinis—which is after every dinner out. She usually does not drink until five o'clock, but it is every day, and the booze either makes her mean, sentimental, or some combination of both. The unpredictability of where she will land emotionally is the scary part of spending time with her. Her brother—my father—was an alcoholic; she is clearly an alcoholic, but a successful one, a highly functioning one.

I sip red wine as I read, my feet on the edge of the ottoman, knees propped up holding the book. The afternoon light is coming through the wooden shutters onto my face and hair. I feel Aunt Penny watching me from the kitchen. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her raise her camera, adjust the zoom and take a picture of me.

“Jennifer, I can't believe you are getting married! You will be only twenty-four next year! There is graduate school to think of. Who is this Michael? Do you know his family? Well, you can always get a divorce. I want to come up for your graduation and give you a party; the Hilton in Harrisburg is nice enough. Invite all your friends, and Michael's parents. We'll need to size each other up. But the Harrisburg area is the rust belt, Jennifer; it's so unattractive. I hope you go somewhere else for graduate school. Are you looking for a job in the meantime? You'll need a sincere suit; appearance is half the game. Heels too, for god's sake, Jennifer, don't wear those awful clod hoppers you tromp around in.

I didn't help you with college because I wanted to see if you could finish on your own. Years ago, things didn't work out very well with Linda when I helped her with school—her drug problem, you know. Thank god she got through that stage. But I will help you with graduate school, when you get in. Just send me the bills.”

Aunt Penny started coming to Maine for a week in the summer, when Michael and I moved there for me to go to graduate school; she loved coming back to New England. She came here as a girl with Aunt Dorothea. The family had a house in Salisbury Cove back then. Now retired, she would rent a house down near Bar Harbor, and invite Michael and me to come from Bangor, have dinner, and stay over for a night. The year she rented the house right on Salisbury Cove, it was late September. (She didn't want to fight the summer crowds and it was still plenty warm.) It was 2001. Michael and I had already been to the rental house and had a pleasant visit with Aunt Penny over the weekend. It was now the work week. The evening of September 11^th, we drove down to stay with Aunt Penny and together watch the coverage of the Twin Towers. Two days later, with no flights leaving Portland, she left Maine in her rental car and got herself home to Florida in three days. She was 76.

Obituary: Marietta Carr

Marietta Carr died Aug. 8, 2003. She was 78. Carr received a B.S. in zoology from UNH in 1947 and worked at a number of hospitals before joining Abbott Laboratories, North Chicago in 1967. She was named the first woman manager at Abbott in 1968. She joined Alpha Therapeutic Corp., where she was vice president of regulatory affairs—the first woman vice president of a pharmaceutical company—from 1978 to her retirement in 1990.

She is survived by her nephew, Geoffrey Carr; nieces Jennifer Carr Isherwood-Iobst and Linda Carr Farrell, and cousins. Memorial contributions may be made to the Marietta "Penny" and Jane Carr Endowed Fund c/o The UNH Foundation, 9 Edgewood Road, Durham, NH 03824.

Let Me Go

I have a streak of independence that is a source of both adventure and trouble in my life. I'm not sure if the cause of this streak is nature or nurture, but I do know that too much independence can make relationships difficult when you are older. When you are younger, it just gets you into trouble. I had a fair amount of trouble and close calls growing up, mainly because I loved the freedom of just going, without a lot of discussion.

I grew up in a town called Winthrop until I was twelve, and being a latch-key kid gave me early freedom to roam our town. East of Boston, Winthrop is about a square mile of peninsula that sticks out into the Atlantic and is packed tight with people. Not many of us had yards to speak of. Our “back yard” was a fenced-in cement lot, walled high on the back side. There was a steep slope of weeds above that back wall, and a bit of grass and some trees in the neighbor's yard. But if you knew where to look, a jungle lurked just across the main drag. On the other side of Revere St., or route 145, that snakes through town, was a body shop for boats owned by friends of ours. Across from this body shop, was a large vacant lot in which “urban bamboo” grew thick and undisturbed. In that dense underbrush, we kids escaped to Vietnam and China, without telling our parents a thing. Crossing that busy street on my own was apparently not even worth discussing. I don't remember asking, just yelling as I ran out the door, “Going out to play!”

From third grade on, I was allowed to walk home from school alone. But instead of heading directly to my house, only two blocks down, I went in the opposite direction to spend more time with my friends. This meant we ambled through the highlands of town, where Ann and Shannon lived. Sometimes I would stay with one of them, for Ring Dings and General Hospital, or homework if Ann's mother was home. Sometimes I would head home after taking my lengthy detour, down stone public stairs that run here and there over Winthrop's steep hills. Dart across the busy intersection, up the back stairs of our triple-decker to the second floor. Fish the blue house key out of the clothes pin bag hanging on the wall, and let myself in.

But if I was spending time with my Shirley St. friend, Krystal, we tended to end up by the beach. Winthrop Beach gets battered by storms regularly, as do the houses lining Shore Drive. To break some of the ocean's force, banks of huge boulders were brought in and placed in strategic sections of beach. Above one of these sections is a tiny catwalk built into the towering beach wall. The catwalk is not even a foot wide and looms about 30 fifty above the boulders and crashing sea water. And where else would a couple of ten-year-old girls go when their parents think they are both jumping rope in the other's yard? Krystal and I would inch along the catwalk in our white Keds, chomping Hubba Bubba gum and discussing who was cuter—Jay or Eddie?--while injury and death danced invisibly around us. We were oblivious. Once, when were 10 or 11, Krystal and I made it all the way into Boston's Downtown Crossing by ourselves, to go to some fancy candy store. That time we got caught though, lingering too long and slowed by rush hour subway traffic on the way back; we were late. We were grounded. But it didn't matter. We went, and we made it across the border to taste freedom. We were ten years old and we would own the world—just as soon as we were let outside again.

We didn't spend the summers in Winthrop. My parents rented a spot for our big RV at a campground in East Bridgewater. We started camping there when I was very young, three or four. At Square Acres Campground, there was Robins Pond to swim in, a big grassy field to run around, tall pine trees to climb. There was enough dirt to make plenty of mud pies. My parents still worked in Boston most of the summer, commuting during the day. My brother and I were left in someone's care, I assume, but I only vaguely remember reporting to anyone else's trailer. The campground was called Square Acres because it was home to local square dancing events. The main hall on the grounds woke up with music and dancers every weekend night.

I remember the first time we went to watch one of the weekend dances. I sat on a built-in wooden bench against a back wall, my feet dangling. All the dancing couples were decked out in matching outfits, the women in frilly poofed-out skirts or dresses. The men wore bolo ties or scarves around their necks, their shirts almost as frilly as the ladies'. Oh, all those layers of lacey crinoline that showed when the ladies spun! It looked like whipped cream to my four-year-old eyes. Topped with a bone-colored ten gallon hat, like a country music crooner, the caller shouted,“Allemande Left with yer left hand! Back to yer partner fer a Right 'n Left Grand! Ace of Diamonds, Jack of Spades....Meet yer partner & all Promenade.”

My eyes were glued to the colors swirling, legs and arms gliding, couples inches from bumping into each other, but managing not to. The caller's directions were lilting gibberish to me, but the dancers responded on cue, twirled in circles, in groups, mysteriously doing the same things. Everyone was smiling. The caller's deep voice rolled out: “Aaaaaaand Do Sa Do and Circle Right, come back to the square, yes that's right, now hold them tight. Bow, bow to your partner, bow to your corner!”  I was hooked.

Maybe it was the next weekend. We were sitting around the campfire with another family. There was a lot of grown-up talk. The marshmallows were done, but it was too early to go to bed. I was picking up sticks to throw into the fire, kicking dirt around. Then I heard the music from the hall. I heard the caller's voice rising up and down, like a wave of caramel. I could see the colors and the lacey whip cream in my head already. I knew just where I'd sit. It was just dusk, but dark enough. I turned toward the hall and just went. The hall was only a stone's throw away, but through some tall pines. I tripped over big tree roots and peeled pine needles off my palms. I slipped through the first door I saw and climbed up on the bench. There they were, a rainbow of whip cream dancers.

I'm not sure how long I got to sit there, how long it took an adult around the campfire to notice that I was missing. Maybe twenty minutes, a half hour if I was lucky. I think I remember my mother telling me she knew right where to look for me.

I've been escaping ever since, resenting the obligation to tell anyone where I'm headed. I'm not sure why this is, or what caused my independent streak--nature or nurture. Like everything else, it's probably a bit of both. I was not born an overly cautious child, and I was given a lot of freedom in those impressionable years. I gained confidence in my ability to look after myself, and find ways to entertain myself.  I also like my own company.

This would make anyone walk the ocean catwalk and leave the campfire alone, wouldn't it?