Home-schooling Grandparents Create Educational Breakthrough

Literacy rates set to rise! TheNews interviews grandparents who home-school the kids while their parents are at work:

Experts predict improvement in literacy and factual knowledge among students who are outside school classrooms and learning at home with grandparents who were themselves educated when schools taught "the 3 R's". 

"We used to sit in rows as a matter of course," says one Grandma, "with desks at any spacing the teacher said they would be. We walked down hallways in lines, too. Not forming an unruly mob, shouting in each others' faces … I daresay there was a lot less spreading of germs back then."

"We used pens and paper and read books with pages that you turned," adds her teaching partner, Grandpa.

"We can't wait to tell our grandchildren that penmanship exists."

They are not alone; this new breed of grand-teachers is changing the face of Education. In what ways, exactly?

"We read books!" says one Granny who sits in a rocking chair reading aloud from ancient legends and modern poems. The kids at her feet sit mesmerized. "We memorize verse," she says. "What you memorize at age ten will be with you at age 80. I call it our EFL class (English as a First Language)."

"And we do arithmetic," says Grandad. "We count back coins for practice." (What are coins, asked one grandson?)

Another Grandad was once a naval engineer. "We re-enact great sea battles in the backyard," he says. "Even the pre-schoolers. We plot them on paper-boards."

"All hands on board-books!" says Granny.

And for these home-schoolers, it's all hands off cellphones, ipods, laptops. 

Another great-grand-step-parent favours Outdoor Ed. "I give the kids out-of-home-work," she elaborates. "I send them to local parks to bring back a feather, a deciduous leaf, a piece of lichen, an acorn. Next week we'll start an ant farm."

It's good for physical distancing, to be outdoors, one assumes.

"Yes," she says, "and we language-distance too, from words like 'misgendering', 'woke', 'identity' and 'marginalize'. 

(Here, safest is "no comment".)

"It's not only the plague of COVID we're getting away from."

Promises to be interesting, the educational "new normal". 

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(See also: How toys have changed: 

and: How Books Are Still Magic:

The more John A. Macdonald gets knocked down the more newly-famous he becomes

In the fame-game, the more your statue gets pulled down the more important you must have been, and the more famous you become again -- as a de-platformed statue.

Historic figures were given statue-status ("standing") because contemporaries or descendants wanted to com-memorate ("remember together") their heroes.

You'd think remembering together would be something any group would be free to do, in a free society. We're also free to forget, but paradoxically the more publicity the statue-destruction causes, the less forgotten a historic figure will be. John A. Macdonald has more in the Victoria BC news this week than he has for years -- given the scarcity of History classes in today's schools.

Indeed, if a statue hasn't been pushed over or had paint thrown on it, the person it represented, were s/he alive to know it, might feel quite rejected. Enemies confer significance; only the most banal non-doer never made any. There's something to be said though for anonymity, and probably more than a few of the commemorated wish they'd never become so famous. (see John A. Macdonald's imagined reaction to his statue-removal here: https://satiroceneage.blogspot.com/2020/02/what-john-macdonald-thinks-about.html )

Some of those newly reviled by ideologues would probably be happy to Rest In Peace  (obscurity) but they're paradoxically being revived. When they lower your memorial stone they raise your profile. Maybe the long-forgotten deceased are guffawing in their graves. Others might think, like the poet Alexander Pope:

Blest, who can unconcernedly find

Hours, day and years slide soft away

In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;

Thus unlamented let me die;

Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lay

We could think of statue-tackle sport this way:

Manufacturing new consent,

new ideologies have their say,

other figures from the past today

are the ones raised high, to stand (to "stare")

from an unaccustomed height

These icons make a gaudy sight

but don't take them for granite,

they too will stand on feet of clay

and topple like last year's heroes,

media darlings and falling starlets ...

The new leading men are placed on sand

as shifty as the ground of Ozymand

                 (NOT by Alexander Pope)

SBJ

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Municipal Munificence and Parks-Policy

In its munificence, the municipality gifts its citizens with things they don't want: dog-free beaches, wine-free parks, a ghostly gallery of spy cameras watching them perform their private lives.

Much rule-making seems to be about the perfidy of animals. A sleeping settler-cat on a front porch is deemed a threat to indigenous bird species. Take your Hound of the Basking-villains to the beach and he'll be accused of plotting mass-murder of gulls. The birds don't care about the dogs, but the humans are squawking.

They also squawk about garbage cans: raccoons and bears get into them. So ban the beasts, or at least spy on them with surveillance cameras. But wait … the cameras are showing a different bin-vasion: homeless tent-people rummaging and plundering.

Oh, well that's different ... don't ban the tent-slums. It's the bears who are homeless though: they preferred forest-food to garbage-can food but their forests were logged bit by bit as the suburbs spread and human housing took over. So they moved next door to us.

The parks sprinkled around suburbia are heavily monitored and planted with a forest of signs sporting red circles slashed with black lines: NO SMOKING, NO PARKING, NO CARS HERE, NO BALL-THROWING, NO DRINKING, NO FEEDING WILDLIFE, and above all: NO DOGS. And if you do smoke, there will be NO ASH TRAYS, although this doesn't mean less smoking, only more butts on the ground.

If you take a sip of wine at a picnic in these parks you could be fined, but if you buy, sell and inject hard drugs in a homelessness tent-encampment you'll be enabled, because you're vulnerable and disadvantaged. (If you're a kid playing in a park with tents, don't take your shoes off because you never know what will be lying on the ground.)

Eventually you keep right out of the park. If you drive a car you're committing mass murder via climate change, but you have no other way of getting to a different park or a beach where dogs are permitted and tents aren't -- it being hard to take a dog on a bike.

Some citizens ask whether we need all this surveillance and these prohibitions? The Municipal Council held a meeting about that and decided to form a committee whose minutes would be sent to a bigger committee who would report back to Council at a future meeting (or ten), after consulting municipal staff who would first commission a study and host an interactive meeting … 

So don't stay tuned. Just stay home -- if you're lucky enough to have a back yard. Feed birds and squirrels, throw a frisbee and watch comical raccoons knocking over your garbage can. Plant tall trees and big hedges to block out the neighbours' CCTV cameras. When you do slip off to the park for an occasional meet-up with friends, hide your wine in your yoga-class juice bottle. And if you smoke, bring your own ashtray. 

The Mask and the Crown of Life: a Brief Amusement

A funny thing happened on the way to the grave, and I couldn't keep a straight face, despite my destination. Of course no one really believes in the destination, and maybe that's the funniest thing of all.

Life is all play and we're all tricksters. We put on masks, try roles, tricking ourselves as well as each other -- Prosperos all, but not wanting to abjure our rough magic. We put on a mask, for instance, as magical protection against the "corona" (crown) of the pandemic virus that stalks us today. It's an act of faith, but certainly not faith in the government bodies and experts who told us to wear the mask, after telling us for months it would do no good. Oh well -- it can't hurt, we decide.

Funny things keep happening, in life, over the lifespan:
You spend the first half building your brain and the second half de-menting it (with substances, grief, wear-and-tear). But often old-age de-mentation is but a time of deeper wisdom (of "the best of brains, the worst of bodies").

When young we used to say we wanted to find ourselves, but today's young seem obsessed with finding shared identity, not self -- a programmed thing, not an individual thing. Bullying is often part of sports, and "anti-bullying" was briefly a movement. Now bullying's part of the rules of the game of censoring and de-platforming the wrong rights-movements. (Never trust a movement.)

Agatha Christie played a disappearing game at one point. Hide and seek. She left home and everyone ran around looking for her and coming up with theories about her fate -- and then she was back. Many people want to do an Agatha-disappearance, or at least to play-act one through dis-guise. Some people seem to have quite taken to hiding behind COVID masks, making a flag for the face covered with playful symbols. Shapes, colours, diagrams all mean something. At first we all felt awkward wearing a pandemic mask, but now we're beginning to feel naked without it.

That's one of the funny things: you disappear behind a mask, or you disappear into thin air like Agatha did, but then you resurrect. You are re-born. If you were born in the first place, that is. Some apparently weren't. If you were born in a place where earlier tribes lived before you, they say you weren't born in your natal place, but "settled" there. Where you came from is not explained, but you can only be native to the place where you were born. Maybe some of us are laughing on our way to grave because we won't be dying there, never having been born. We laugh at this thought, funny-humorous and also funny-strange.

We wear the crown of immortality then, and the double laughing/ weeping masks of theatre as we follow the muses through our comedy-drama -- never born, yet having the time of our life.

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HAPPY BIRTHDAY CANADA! Are you being wished many happy returns?

Today we celebrate the birth of Canada. Usually a birthday isn't considered a day for hurling insults, it's usually reserved for compliments and good wishes -- but not for Canada on July 1st 2020.

On early morning radio detractors start the day by explaining why they don't celebrate Canada's birthday, and others, who do, apologizing for it. (How Canadian can you get? Maybe that IS the celebration.)

One commentator says Canada is "racist", another that it's "colonialist", which seems to amount to the same thing in current social justice-speak. It's interesting to deconstruct the word "colonial" however: a colony is but a collection of people who live, work and share resources for mutual support in what may be a hostile environment. (Even ants and beavers do it.) The Canadian climate and wilderness was certainly hostile for the first farmers, traders, communicators, town-builders, arts-creators and social service providers who settled here. 

"Social services" meant orphanages, hospices, food charities and such as provided by women from backgrounds where "care and share" philosophies were valued (Quaker, evangelical, communitarian, convent-based or whatever). The "communicators" used written words and felt it was worth setting up schools to teach young people to read and write them. 

Gradually these early settlers joined up their colonies up into a nation (note for those who don't read history: we haven't been a colony for quite some time) in which prosperity and voting rights were eventually made available to everyone, constitutional equality and freedom of conscience were protected, and all without a single bloody national Revolution. Tolerance, accommodation, learning to adjust to irrational or resentful criticisms of other citizens were part of the colonial equipment -- and still are. 

So Happy Birthday Canada, and congratulations for being born! No wonder millions of immigrants from all over the world clamour still to settle within your boundaries.

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Grave Thoughts on the Levity of Life

From where I sit on a bench the seaside graveyard climbs a gentle hill. The graves, headstones, crosses, bouquets of flowers fresh or wilted, have a calming quality. The silence of underground folk makes them seem wiser than they were in life. They have acquired gravitas, of course. All of them, however wise or foolish they once were, took some sort of knowledge to the grave, took life experience. If you could gather all the knowledge and memory lying silent and hidden here – cryptic in the crypts – how bulky would your treasure trove be? How would we measure the weight of it? 

The birds are hushed and even the trees stand motionless for a windless moment. Wisdom gathers just out of reach, below ground, an existential state away. I chat with the dead.

I knew some of the people buried here, before they arrived at this final place. As a Memoirs Coach I helped them write their life stories. I did unofficial surveys of their beliefs (as I still do of their survivors' beliefs). What is the secret of your longevity, I would ask clients in their 90s? How do you stay young and active?

“Don't drive. I walk everywhere.”

“Exercise kills. Never run or do aerobics. I drive (or better yet, get driven) everywhere – I relax, I smell the roses.”

“Play bridge, it keeps the mind alive.”

“Never play bridge, it's an old folks game.”

Maybe it's a matter of diet, I wonder aloud when I'm chatting with these wise elders.

“It is indeed: eat protein. Lots of meat.”

“It is indeed: never eat meat! I'm a vegetarian.”

“Oils. Olive, sesame, coconut, grape-seed ... I'd be dead without oil.”

You'd be dead without food, I point out. It doesn't seem to matter which kind we eat.

“That's because we don't live by bread alone. (By the way, don't eat bread, carbohydrates kill.) Try prayer.”

“Meditation.”

“Friends and family.”

“Solitude.”

“Knowledge.”

“Innocence.”

“Duty.”

“Wealth.”

“Freedom from possessions.”

“Doing what's right.”

“Doing what you want.”

“Laughter.”

Yes, I reply, you're right.

Afterwards, my memoir clients drift off to their own lives and purposes, to solitude or family, bread or no-bread, walking, driving, roses, bridge ... leaving me none the wiser. Now I sit in the cemetery where the wise lie silent. So many purposes they too had, back then in Life.

Purpose itself keeps us getting up in the morning. I noticed that memoirists who had proclaimed purposes that made them unhappy were tense and tight. Those who were pleased with choices freely made seemed fortified, balanced, calm. Whoever is pleased is healthy. People with a sense of humour live on after death: I hear them chuckling down there below ground. There's levity inside those heavy coffins. Why not? Who said the afterlife would be rational?

I am pleased to sit in the sun in a park-like cemetery, viewing the natural world, living off-line. For this, my "platform" is my bench, from which I survey the beach and a bit of ocean to my left, and the grassy expanse of the graveyard to my right. Video sites (“I see” in Latin) in fact provide no vista. Cyber-life has no physicality, no flesh, no touch or scent. Virtual isn't real. 

The underground folk are real, and I hear their murmurs. Their city-state is stable, their country will last forever. They have time to be wise, now.

I turn to the seaside view on my left. A reviving breeze is coming off the ocean, its salty tang just noticeable up here on my bluff. The sea heaves gently. The life below the surface is as mysterious as that in the soil around the graves beside me. There are worms and micro-organisms in sea as in soil. The ocean floor crawls with them. Crustaceans hunt them. Fish slip through underwater forests of weed, nosing the swaying curtains apart in a silent search for food. Above, kelp forests bloom. A few otters and seals break the surface, calmly pursuing their otter-pleasures, seal-purposes, oblivious to us, our graves, lost loved ones, fears, plagues and sudden prohibitions. 

If You're Not Confused You're Not Paying Attention

In the middle of town the Cacophonous Zone is set up, a discordant place, there being so many behind the creation of it. Leadership they didn't like, for it sounded elitist, colonial and privileged. Yet the founders knew the wrong followers when they saw them, and evicted them.  

Anti-capitalists jostled for space with libertarians, while indigenous interests denounced both as Euro-centric. 
Communists notwithstanding, a gaggle of entrepreneurs appeared, creating a pop-up market in one section when the Cacophonous Zone took over a square hectare of the city. Business opportunities abounded here. Marchers need equipment and protestors need stimulation.

Stimulants were offered under a big old urban survivor-tree in a corner. Someone set up "aSIGNations" in the marketplace, which offered instant signs for those who forgot to bring a placard or who (if they were politicians perhaps) suddenly changed their allegiance, and needed a new placard. These knew when to abandon a sinking allyship (as CTV News called allegiance, when they stopped having any for Jessica Mulroney who sunk from TV because she said … what was it again? Does anyone remember an outrage of an hour ago?)

Not remembering an hour ago, few here remembered anything at all about distant history, if they'd ever learned it. They only knew it was Bad. They joined with gusto in the new sport of statuecide, which was (as far as most could tell) a response to genocide, which was all that ever happened in history. "Take that, War Hero!" shouted the crowd, as one granite figure after another was pulled from its plinth.

One entrepreneur did good business selling Statue Lassoos, so that anyone could join in the pulling. Someone else started an instant translation service which would translate your placard slogans into rap. It could also purge your messages of any lingering grammar (grammar being elitist). The instant printer produced Certificates of Gender Identity, in case anyone in the LGBTrans corner suddenly needed to transfer theirs that very day.

There was a herbal products table which sold drops that turned tear gas into tears-of-laughter gas. This could be aimed at the riot police, making them die laughing.

There was a used clothing outlet that sold … used clothing. The product came from the homelessness tent city where it had arrived after being liberated from a different used clothing retailer. Originating thus in the trendiest district of town the used clothing fetched top dollar, and was displayed on a table labelled Riotware. (That entrepreneur was getting a free government start-up COVID grant to trademark the name.)

Someone spray-painted "Cacophonous Zone" on a wall at its entrance, but someone else covered that with Robotonous Zone, which was at length recognized as a criticism, and erased. Those deemed the perpetrators of Wrong Labelling -- a bunch of Golf Hooligans whose skin was as white as white marble -- were captured and knocked down (we thought they were statues, their assailants told police).

Some English as a Second Language teachers turned up with a peace sign plus a message saying "Clear Language Matters". The crowd ripped up their banner accusing them of disrespecting ethnic groups and calling them cultural appropriators, not to mention demo-jackers. The teachers texted their union from the Zone for help, but the union merely responded (via media) by saying that "Canada has systemic racism". 

One man's placard read "Non-Cause in Search of a March". He wandered about aimlessly, anonymous behind a pandemic mask that looked so scary the other marchers left him alone -- except for one old lady who called out "Hi George" while walking through the square because she always walked her dog through the square. 

"Stay safe", he called back.

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