Tales of the Hopelessly Homeschooled: Sample Chapters

Those Bygone Weiner Days

by Carolyn

It all began with the days when my parents took five little girls camping in a four-man tent. Other campers stared in amazement as my dad, my very-pregnant-with-Andrew mom, and five small, disheveled girls crawled out of our teeny, weeny tent in the morning―looking a bit like those circus acts when two dozen clowns pop out of a two-person car.

Camping has been a tradition in our family for as long as I can remember, and the memories associated with it are many.

When Andrew was still fairly little we went to Cultus Lake for a week. The temperature exceeded the bounds of decency, but otherwise the trip went quite well. Figuring we were on a roll, we tried a second camping trip in the same summer. We headed up to the mountains that August―a mistake, as we discovered. As the year waned, so did the mountain temperatures. By the end of the trip we had all abandoned our personal sleeping bags and taken to huddling together in the middle of the tent like a pile of shivering kittens.

We had survived far from civilization in two rickety tents twice in one summer, so we figured we could manage two consecutive weeks the next year. We set out to try.

We arrived at Alice Lake on a Sunday night and set up the same two old tents. The first week was a blast. We added phenomenal numbers of “do-you-remembers” to the family archives. I remember standing on my dad’s shoulders trying to rig up a tarp as the neighbouring campers looked on and chuckled. Once we were comfortably set up, all the girls started a plea to go swimming―just as our parents had settled down in their lawn chairs. Andrew, who was three or four at the time, looked up from lolling about and proclaimed, “I’ll take them. I’m a grown up.”

The next week, a blight fell upon the picturesque scene. Rain clouds rolled in on Monday, and we all cast anxious glances at the sky. That night the skies let loose. It poured ceaselessly for days. Once again we huddled in the middle of the tents, trying not to lie in puddles.

Everyone but Mom and Elyssa ended up in the larger tent. The small tent had been taking colander lessons. Mom set up a reclining lawn chair in the middle of a puddle and tried to sleep with Elyssa, the aerobic sleeper, perched atop her. During Elyssa’s nightly acrobatics, the sleeping bag would inevitably end up dragging on the ground. Throughout the night a small lake would seep its way up the sleeping bag.

Dad dug trenches around the tents to keep out the water, but to no avail. At last we came to a conclusion: this was ridiculous! We were drenched, our bedding was saturated, there were no more dry clothes, and we couldn’t even cook. We packed up our wet selves and our even wetter belongings and drove out of the campground. Just as we crossed the camp border, the sun came out. We all moaned loudly in protest, but to no avail.

A few years later, we headed for the Okanagan. The weather was lovely, the lake warm, the area beautiful and... crowded. We staked our claim in an open, public area―the only place we could find.

In no time at all we became the talk of the place. The campground hosts brought us other campers’ forgotten toys, invited us over to pat their dog, told us all the campground news, and delivered hot, buttered popcorn to our tents. We waited in line at the washrooms and listened with a wry grin as total strangers discussed the size, attributes, and behaviour of our family. There are so many of us that no one ever realized the subjects of their conversation were the people next in line! An elderly couple in the camper next to our tents watched our every move. It didn’t matter what time of day it was. They sat in their lawn chairs quietly observing or watched us from their camper window as they ate dinner.

One fine afternoon, we decided to climb the four hundred steps up to the top of a waterfall. We hiked up and then took a path back to our campsite. Merrily and rowdily we hiked along, cracked jokes, threw pine cones, remarked on the view, and made as much noise as a jovial family of ten can possibly make. Suddenly, someone (I suspect it was me) glanced up the mountain and saw a terrible something with a large head, a barrel-like body and a long nose.

Everyone else followed my startled gaze. Horrified, we hushed. Dad and Mom cautioned us to stop talking and walk very quietly past the bear. The ten of us tiptoed as silently as we could around the bend, which is how we escaped being mauled, eaten, and otherwise prevented from camping ever again. My astuteness saved the day.

I wish that was the end of the story, but actually, someone decided to take a second look. And then a very hard third stare. From the new angle it was very apparent that we had just pussyfooted past a very cleverly arranged tree stump. (No one remembers who instigated the panic and you won’t tell, will you?)

We’ve been cautioned about so many things in life. When our family became larger than normal, people reeled with horror. We began to homeschool, and mere acquaintances called begging us not to go through with it. Then there were the just-you-waits. Just wait until they’re done high school. No credits? What university will accept them? How will they ever get a job? Your kids will drive you crazy if you keep them home! Just wait until they’re (gasp, choke, faint) teenagers. Then you’ll be sorry.

The just-you-waits, like that bear, have proved to be hollow. So many people dread these life milestones without realizing that really, they’re pussyfooting around something that doesn’t really exist. When you find yourself consumed with worry about tomorrow, recall the saga of the bear that wasn’t and the stump that was. Don’t waste time with worry. There’s too much to do today!

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