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I always struggle with what to write for this column because we're not quite at the point in the year when I can be excited for fall and summer is almost over. It's that weird limbo time of the year similar to spring where it's not winter, but not yet summer either. Yet, it is back-to-school time, so I thought I'd write about the struggle of going back to school. See, there is only one problem with being a teacher and it's the start of school for me, which stems way back to when I first entered kindergarten. Ready to journey back a long, long time ago? Here we go.
So as I've mentioned before, I didn't go to a traditional preschool. Preschool was my Grandma and Grandpa Letwen's farm, and man, it was the best preschool out there. Every day was something new, ranging from adventures in the woods on the four-wheeler to see if we could see any deer to field trips to Linesville and various other locations to just take in the sights. Nap time happened if it rained, and the food was pretty good. Fried egg sandwiches on white bread were my favorite, personally. Random people would constantly stop over to see grandma and grandpa and there were goats, cows and dogs. Grandma sometimes spoke Hungarian to people when they called, and there was always a loaf of bread rising near a heat vent, especially in the winter. Pretty much, it was paradise to my little farm kid mind.
However, there came a day when that big yellow bus pulled up to my grandparents house and I had to walk onto it. I didn't know a single person and honestly, I didn't want to go. I was jealous that my brother got to stay home and do all the fun things while I was forced to sit quietly at my desk, ask to use the restroom, raise my hand to talk, and be quiet during nap time (which was EVERY DAY). School was torture! I counted down the moments until I was free to feel the sun on my face, the wind in my hair, and the freedom the farm offered.
Eventually, I got the hang of school and I was pretty decent at it. However, there was one thing that never got old. It was the final bell dismissing me for summer break. Whether it was high school, college, during my master's or even as I finished my doctorate, summer meant freedom. It meant going outside whenever the whim struck me. It meant the sun on my face. It meant the wind blowing my hair and bringing the sounds of summer. It meant freedom. So in becoming a teacher, one of the things I didn't realize was that the torture of my childhood will continue until I retire.
I know a lot of people won't understand, but I think former and current farm kids will. There is something about the lure of summer, even with its heat and humidity and sometimes downright awful stickiness, that just makes you feel free. It's the smell of fresh-cut hay. It's horses frolicking in the pasture. It's green pastures dotted with black-and-white cows. It's fields full of green crops. It's early morning sunrises and late sunsets. It's knowing that there is so much to do, but also knowing that your time is your own. It's bare feet in the grass, vegetables straight from the garden, and the late night smell of corn sweat as you look up at a full moon. To me, it's freedom.
Tomorrow, though, that freedom will once again be interrupted by an alarm clock and a school bell. I'll trade my bare feet for school shoes, late sunsets for pre-dawn mornings, and the sounds of summer for the hallways full of students. Even after all these years, a part of me will still wish I was that little girl staying behind on the farm.
Maybe, though, the farm and school were never as far apart as I once believed. Long before I sat behind a desk, the farm was already teaching me. It taught me to pay attention, ask questions, solve problems, care for living things, help when there was work to be done and understand that worthwhile things take time to grow. Those are still some of the most important lessons children can learn.
As our students return to school, I hope we remember that they need more than books, pencils and perfectly packed backpacks. They need opportunities to explore, create, move, wonder, make mistakes and discover what makes them feel capable. Not every child will grow up on a farm, but every child deserves some version of the freedom my grandparents' farm gave me -- the freedom to be curious, learn by doing and grow at their own pace.
So yes, I'll still mourn summer when that first bell rings. But I'll also walk into school carrying the farm with me, hoping to create a classroom where learning feels a little less like being pulled away from freedom and little more like another kind of adventure.
Christen Clemson is a member of the Trumbull County Farm Bureau and completed her Ph.D. at Pennsylvania State University. She and her family have a farm in Mecca.