This essay ran in a recent issue of Home Education Magazine.
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With a slight sense of urgency my mom asked, “What about dances? Remember the Queen of Hearts dance?” She was trying hard not to offend me, but the issue was clearly causing her concern. “Brad’s almost fourteen. What about the Prom?”
My two boys – her grandchildren – are schooled at home. A Queen of Hearts dance in their future is unlikely, to say the least. Mom has always skirted our decision to homeschool in conversation, uncertain about our daring choice to throw caution to wind with the education of her grandchildren. She always seemed content with their manners, their abilities, even – quietly – their knowledge. But this was too much. No dances?
Do I remember the Queen of Hearts dance? A quarter-century later, I have to say not really. School dances run together in my memory: a darkened cafeteria trying desperately to look elegant, but succeeding only in smelling of too much cheap perfume and not enough deodorant. I recall the rules-be-damned sense that permeated the crepe-paper draped room. Whispers of spiked punch; the couple du jour sneaking off into dark corners for make-out time; dance partners that during daytime hours were mere acquaintances, but in the darkness felt compelled to hold me tight and slowly slide their hands down to my rear-end to cop a feel.
Having attended these functions, I’m quick to dismiss the whole dance experience as extraneous. Had I not attended, perhaps I’d wistfully feel compelled to provide something similar for my kids. Is it unfair to disregard certain opportunities based on my own past experiences?
Dances seem to be a sticking point for my mom; I’m regretful about other things that my kids will miss out on: looking forward to the annual television showing of movies like The Wizard of Oz or The Sound of Music long before DVDs made it possible to watch movies on demand; knowing with certainty that banana seats are far superior to other bike seats; careening a countrified golf cart down rutted dirt roads. I recall many events from my younger years more fondly than angst-filled dances: high school football games on a crisp autumn evening; cheering for the home team; transforming a dusty farm truck into a parade-worthy 4-H float. Raised on an apple farm, I can tell the difference between a Roman Beauty and a Gravenstein apple, blindfolded. But the family farm is gone and my kids happily eat bland apples from the supermarket, clueless to the flavor lost to them – there’s no point of reference for them, nothing to which they can compare waxy grocery store apples. The passage of time has removed all chance of my kids ever knowing most of these thrills for themselves. Things change; opportunities change. It’s not necessarily a bad thing; it’s just the way things are.
I remember listening with rapt attention to my mom and her cousins telling childhood tales of swinging from barn rafters into deep piles of hay and driving trucks through the fields of a dairy farm long before they had their driver’s licenses. This sounded to my young self like an ideal way to spend the day, yet that particular thrill was out of reach. I can’t recall, though, ever feeling like I missed out on anything because I didn’t have those exact opportunities. Similarly, I can’t imagine either of my kids pining away for lost chances – they have too many of their own. They’ve hammered the nails of tree forts not only with their dad, but their grandpa, too; they’ve lived in the mountains and by the sea; they’ve skied, they’ve raised tadpoles, they’ve danced naked in the rain.
Do I remember the Queen of Hearts dance? I remember the desperate need for this farm girl to fit in with the country club crowd at the biggest event of the year. The expense of a dress that was, understandably, more than Mom was willing to pay. I remember the way Mom worked at her sewing machine late into the night to recreate the dress of my dreams, so that I could go and look like I fit in, even if in truth, I didn’t. What I recall is that my mom put such effort into making certain that it was a special night for me. I remember her concern for my happiness, her desire to help me fit in.
My memories are nostalgic bits that can only be passed to my kids in stories – they are mine, a piece of my own reality. No matter how many times I tell the tales, they will still only be stories to them. I cannot replicate the experiences, good or bad. Instead, I try to provide opportunities for them to experience life with individual zeal, to make memories of their own. They may not have a home team to root for but they can still attend football games. They’ve been in their fair share of parades already, albeit without the dusty farm truck. And, well, Gravenstein apples still grow not too far from their Grammy’s house – maybe it’s time for a visit. And while we’re there, perhaps Grammy will teach them to dance, just like she taught me all those years ago as she prepared me for an event that must have seemed important to both of us at the time. Now that’s something I wouldn’t have them miss for the world.
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