Roots and Seasons

We took our grandson, Asher, to the May Festival a couple of days ago. The May Festival is an annual event put on by the Tamarack Waldorf School. It celebrates the arrival of spring—which, in Wisconsin, is well worth celebrating. We live in a climate where it’s not unusual for people to wear hoodies on Memorial Day or even well into June. It’s only been within the last week or two that all the trees finally have their leaves. When our world suddenly turns a vibrant green, it’s definitely party time.

The festival was held in a tiny park a couple of blocks from the school. Tamarack is located on Brady Street on the lower east side of Milwaukee. The school really has no green space of its own, so the park is a better place to celebrate the annual resurgence of the natural world.

There is a small knoll in the park. That’s where everyone gathered in a circle at the beginning of the festival. Karin, Asher, and I got there just as the show was about to start. We found a place in the circle. It was an eclectic group: caregivers, little kids, and a few teachers. The school has a diverse population. It even had that twenty-five years ago when our children attended. In a way, it felt like we were back home.

One of the teachers led the entire circle in an a cappella version of a Waldorf song. The tune was accompanied by body movements. The teacher told all the newbies to watch what the older kindergarteners (“the tall pines”) did and just follow their lead. The song was a hymn of praise to nature and springtime. It might have been a bit overly sentimental, but it struck a chord in each person in the circle.

After the song, the kids dispersed for other activities. The school had set up a station to give each child a temporary tattoo (the school’s logo). There was also a table with bags of popcorn and a place to blow soap bubbles. Most of the children gravitated to the jungle gym. That’s where Asher went.

I stood on the mound and looked at the other families at the gathering. My mind flipped between the present scene and images from a quarter century ago. There was a feeling of disorientation and profound sadness. A lot can happen in a family in twenty-five years, and in our family, a lot did happen. A kid went to war. A kid got divorced. A kid did time in prison. Those are just the highlights.

My mind flickered between memories of our children when they were innocents and the kids now playing and laughing in the same park. So much was different, and so much has been lost. Then I caught a glimpse of Asher doing what a four-year-old should be doing. I got back my balance.

Karin and I struck up a conversation with a kindergarten teacher who might become Asher’s guide in the fall. We told her a bit about the old days, when this school was just starting. Karin and I were there at the very beginnings of the organization. We didn’t stay long. I couldn’t deal with the chaos and conflicting interests that accompanied the birth of the school. I was an angry and impatient bastard back then, and I was not at all helpful. We homeschooled for three years and then came back after the dust settled a bit.

The teacher was fascinated by our history lesson. Karin drifted off to talk to others she knew. I told the teacher more stories about the school. She seemed interested, and I love an attentive audience. I told her about the time I was a chaperone for our youngest son’s class trip to New Orleans. We went there in 2008, three years after Katrina. That was an adventure—but then, I’m convinced that any visit to New Orleans qualifies as an adventure. The teacher I spoke with had been to “N’aalins” years ago and fell in love with the town. So did I. We agreed the city has a soul, and it teems with both angels and demons.

Later, I found Karin again. She was talking with a young man who had once been a teacher at the school. I didn’t recognize him at first. His hair was thinner, and his middle was thicker. We talked for a while. He remarked that we were back at the school with Asher and that we had “come full circle.”

That’s not quite accurate. A person never comes full circle. A person may return to a place or an organization, but that individual comes back different—and returns to something that has also changed, and changed forever. We are coming back to Tamarack, but it isn’t the same school. Oh, the school is still in the same building, and the curriculum is pretty much the same, but in some ways, it is alien to us.

I looked at the new parents at the festival and saw strangers. They have more tattoos and piercings than my generation ever had. They have different views of what it means to be a family. They have different challenges, and they probably can’t understand our struggles. They are bringing new things to an education model that is already a century old. Their children—like our Asher—are entering a world beyond my comprehension.

At the same time, I can see, or better yet feel, the similarities between these young people and me. We have the same fears. We have the same hopes. We might all become friends. That is my hope and wish. My wife and I are entering the winter of our lives. The other parents are beginning their summers. All of our little ones are laughing and crying in the early springtime of their generation. We have that in common.

_____________________________

Frank (Francis) Pauc is a graduate of West Point, Class of 1980. He completed the Military Intelligence Basic Course at Fort Huachuca and then went to Flight School at Fort Rucker. Frank was stationed with the 3rd Armor Division in West Germany at Fliegerhorst Airfield from December 1981 to January 1985. He flew Hueys and Black Hawks and was next assigned to the 7th Infantry Division at Fort Ord, CA. He got the hell out of the Army in August 1986.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.