The Remembrance of Homeschooling: A Blog: Chapter I

The sun is bouncing off the glittering snow piled on my balcony like the inevitable wayfaring sparkles from a Barbie’s holiday gown. I’m recovering from being sick, and having the time of my life. Not only is it New Year’s Eve, it’s also a rare day of ultimate relaxation.

Whilst being sick these past days, I’ve forced myself to get my apartment into tip-top shape after coming home from work. There was lots to be done, and I’ve had to acquire more things to fill in the holes after my roommate’s departure. I’ve been cleaning cupboards, rearranging, shopping, etc., and, needless to say, I’m happy the brunt of it is over.

On this day of relaxation and recovery, I realized what an absolute treat it is to have the luxury of having a sick day. In the last five years, the times I’ve stayed home from class or work due to illness have always consisted of me still trying to stay ahead — to not get behind — not relaxing and recovering.

Well, today is different. I’m not scheduled to work, so I don’t have to feel guilty for staying home. I have no school, and I live alone. Today is mine! I may feel crappy, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy my state of sickliness.

So far, I’ve watched “Pocahontas II,” an episode of “Dinosaurs,” a ’90s Jim Henson-aided show, and am now enjoying “Amazing Planet.”

All of these shows share a common bond: my childhood. Yes, yes, “Amazing Planet” wasn’t around when I was a kid, but National Geographic, The Discovery Channel, Animal Planet and The History Channel were with shows to spark my interest as a precocious, young home-schooler. I loved history. I loved science. I even enjoyed math. And, of course, I loved English and the Arts.

Up until eighth grade, I was taught by my lovely, knowledgeable and patient mother, Anita. A-N-I-T-A. Feir. F, as in Frank — E-I-R. Between blocks of learning about the Tudors and arithmetic, I’d accompany her to Mom’s In Touch meetings and grocery shopping. When the colder months were in session, I’d watch “Franklin” or shows on National Geographic (or the like) during recess.

Those were days when a 5-year-old Meghan could explain to a grown man why the Vikings gave Iceland and Greenland their names (it’s not what you’d expect). Those were days when a smaller version of myself would learn about nature with a book in one hand and iced tea in the other while I walked outdoors in our woods exploring God’s creation.Those were the days I began writing short fiction stories about “Frozen Frog Turtles” (whatever they are) and poems about mice.

I remember my second grade arithmetic workbook was bright yellow and had a giraffe on the cover. I drew eyelashes on the giraffe, as I did with every other thing’s 2-D eyes.

As my mother made history and books come alive, I drew what was happening. She knew I’d remember the material much better if she continued to let me draw, so she never reprimanded my semi-artistic notes.

This day is flinging baskets full of joyous nostalgia at my heart. Maybe it’s the couch my parents brought up from our cabin so I’d have some furniture in my living room. Maybe the TV shows are comforting me beyond their creators’ initial intentions, but whatever the reasons are as to my state of complete coziness, I thank God for giving me these memories to hold on to and to keep.

I can only hope and pray I can recreate, to a point, such rich experiences for future children of my own, just as my parents have done for me.

(All this from watching TV. Mmmm hmm.)

P.S. After reconsideration, John Rolfe is pretty cute, too.

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