Summer School

Last July and August, we traveled up north and then out west. It was a lot of fun, and it did our hearts good when we were able to spend time with family members and friends we hadn't seen in too long.  We also spent a lot of hours in the van, and one day, after some spontaneous stops, I tried to jot down some emotions that were flooding my heart. I just ran across the pages, and I present them here, with occasional corrections, the incredulous question in my mind of "Why did we even TAKE math books??" and a guess or two in places where my penmanship got messy. I was writing quickly that day, trying to catch the impressions before they escaped into the busy-ness of our plans.  Re-reading the lines now, this verse comes to mind: My heart overflows with a pleasing theme; I address my verses to the king; My tongue is like the pen of a ready scribe. - Psalm 45:1 Summer School by Dee Dee Rauscher Today Day 4 of our cross-country drive As we (Husband, our younger 4/8, and I) Drove through a prairie citylet, We had to stop And take pictures at An old-fashioned, Legitimate "Holland Mill." There it stood Majestic and white Looking to all the world Like it was guarding Delft Instead of Milbank, South Dakota. The road we turned on Ran between the Surprising, pristine mill (Looking like it had sat there for A century - but it hadn't) And a cemetery - Also surprising - With gravestones Interspersed in a grove of trees, Strange in this tree-sparse state. The choice was ours, really: Visit the cemetery (Lovely, but we barely considered it) - Stay in the car and keep to our Schedule as we made our way to Aberdeen Or stop. The timeless setting - as this and that Family member snapped photos, Climbed on surrounding platforms, And peered through shading hands At the quiet windmill blades And through dark panes to see the Inner room - Made my own mill cease its turning. Realizing every time we drive out west We have a different arrangement of children with us - Last time we had five, From age twelve down to nearly one - I could suddenly see the need to breathe the moment in Before it's milled away, Lost to the wind, And all that's left are photographs And the cherished memories My net of a mind can keep. I've lost too many of them, I realize now With tears burning my eyes. Forgive me, Lord, for all the Days I waste. Against counterpoint graves on the other side of the road, I am reminded that This is life - As young people frolic and laugh And sit pensively on grass to Frame a windmill in a Viewfinder, As he tells us that the blades Work like a helicopter's, As she lifts her brother up to See better, As they form human windmills And read South Dakota history On the mill's historic marker. This is life. And this is school. Not watered down in textbooks, Not in hard, wooden desks, But in vivid colors And warm breezes, Amidst familiar smiles. An hour earlier we stopped at a Playground - Our one room schoolhouse Out to recess (not a daily event). Four of them - nineteen to nine - On seesaws and Monkeybars Not because the recess hour came But because In the midst of a long drive There was a great Place to play. A couple of hours later We were back in the car, Chasing the bright sunset With at least one notebook on a lap - Math begun, Vacation timeline tended (a voluntary project), Eyes scanning the vast Expanse of Dakota Country. It's been a day of Giggles, silliness, questions, And - In the front seat - Deep thought and realization Of how very Blessed I am; A reminder to my Hurried, greedy spirit - That it's here - To stop grasping for more, To take in The wealth and fragrance Of the moment Instead of running past it, Instead of stepping down the roses To find some imagined path, Shushing the music because in My misjudgment I think It is static, Rushing through the exquisite Moments Because I don't see their Value. Help me to see, Lord, that The evenly hemmed and seamless day My steps keep running toward Is a mirage - That the world would steal from me The perfect, unkempt moments That will too soon Be milled into Memories.