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Lessons from the grave(yard)

In their Montessori school, the kids never had a dedicated history class.  What they learned of history was learned through the lens of social studies.  That was much too restrictive for my taste, and we knew wanted them to be exposed to history directly as part of our homeschooling.

As an introduction to that, I intended from the start to make history more real to the kids by taking them to…a local cemetery.  It’s funny, I suppose: Graveyards have never weirded me out.  On the contrary, I remember being intrigued as a kid by the idea that there were people who lived where I lived, fifty years, a hundred years before.  Hence I’ve never treated cemeteries as weird with our kids.  They’re a resting place.  That said, while I’ve had the intent for a couple of years, it wasn’t until now, at nine and ten, that I felt they were cognitively ready to begin comprehending the lessons involved.

They learned more than even I was intending.  What stood out first, of course, were the dates, which got older, in general, the farther back we walked.  They’d exclaim about someone being born in 1910, and then we’d find someone born in 1878.  And then 1856.  And then 1836.  I pointed out to them that when that person was born, where they were standing was part of Mexico.  That got a look from both of them.  The oldest birth date we found was 1812.  That was just four years after Lincoln was born, I told them.  Another look.  What I should have done and didn’t—need to do—is have them count up how many generations ago that was.  I think they’d be surprised how few it is.  (Only six or seven from my generation.)

An unanticipated (but not surprising to me) lesson for them was how hard life was for children a hundred years ago and before.  They were at first confused, then sad, when they did the math on one and the age was only three years old.  There were several like that.  Three, two, one.  One was a set of twins, born and died in the same year.  And one simply said, “Infant,” with no dates.  I told them I wasn’t sure what that meant, except that perhaps it died at birth before even being given a name.  They were clearly troubled by it, but it gave me the opportunity to explain to them how lucky they are to live in the time they do, when science and technology have made being born and being little aren’t nearly so risky as they used to be.

Another unexpected revelation was that women tend to live longer than men.  After seeing two or three dozen husband-and-wife graves, we came upon one headstone that had the birth and death years for the husband, but only the birth year for the wife.  I asked them, “What’s different about this one and why?”  It took a long moment before the confusion set in.  ”The wife doesn’t have the year she died.”  ”Why do you think that is?”  Another pause, and then Angelina got it, surprised: “She hasn’t died yet?”  Nope, I said, explaining that many married couples arrange for a single headstone for both of them, so when one passes, the birth year for each of them is inscribed.  After we found a fourth one like that, I asked them if they were spotting a trend.  Again it was Angelina with the strike: “All the women are still alive!”  Yep.  I told them that women tend to live longer than men.  The sideways look she then cast at Alexander was priceless.

We left soon after that.  (After I showed them a headstone with a Star of David on it and I explained that to them.)  I could tell it had them thinking.  Somehow we got to talking about cremation versus burial.  They were struck by the idea of cremation.  I told them that for a long time my plan was to be cremated, but that now I’m leaning toward burial.  My reasoning, which I shared with them, is that I like the idea of there being a physical place for those who so desire to come visit me after the transition, and I like the idea of returning to the earth.  (Though come to think of it, I would more quickly return to the earth as ashes than a body in a comfy coffin.  I’ll have to think on that more.)  Regardless, after hearing my reasoning, they were both still sure they’d want to be buried.

A bit morbid, to be sure, but it was a good experience for them.  I don’t want to introduce such things too early to them, but I don’t want to wait unnecessarily long, either, especially when it can inform and expand what they’re studying.  When we were leaving, I reminded them again why I’d brought them there: to help them understand that history doesn’t just happen somewhere else, a long time ago.  That it happens in their own home town.  That there were people living where they live, under much different circumstances, a hundred, 150 years ago.  And that those people, while not necessarily the main movers of history, all contributed their part to it, locally, nationally, and otherwise.  History shows the movements of people and the results those movements cause, and it was all of those people choosing to settle where they did that caused the town of Allen to come into being, and all the events—affecting scores of thousands of people, over the next 150 years, including, eventually, them—resulting from its creation.  They just finished watching the Back to the Future trilogy.  The effect of events big and small on future events is currently well impressed on them.

Our next history class is now written.

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