I’m closed into my study, air-conditioner purring, sun trying to poke through dense gray skies and break up the muggy air. My older son is crafting a new song in the room at my back and, me, I’m hoping to find enough time to mow later, wondering where this weekly writing journey will take me.

It’s interesting how stories develop, how there are days when you sit down and try to come up with something, consider taking the week off, rarely find a good enough excuse. Maybe this week I had one. Son Gary II’s family of four has shared my home for the last couple of weeks, which has given me an extended period to spend with grandsons Jordie, 4, and Arie, 10 months. Usually, I spend a day here, a day there, maybe even a weekend with them, but never have they actually lived with me this long, Jordie eagerly tailing along on my daily travels, which can get interesting, sometimes maybe even “inappropriate” for kids, depending on who’s passing judgment. So, yes, this was a first. Fun. Brought me back to parenting. Gave me a chance to teach Jordie in a non-threatening environment, a far cry from what he’ll likely soon discover in some breathless schoolhouse, where, unfortunately, he’s bound to encounter some bored “educator” standing at the chalkboard for a paycheck, not the love of teaching. Then it’ll be all about raising your hand before speaking, sitting still and memorizing lists of words that mean little but must be spelled correctly to succeed. It doesn’t matter if you understand and know how to use these words, just spell them right, Sonny, if you want to pass. Ah, yes, the sad state of education and standardized testing. Peee-U.

It’s sad when you think about it, which I find myself occasionally doing, especially when I’m getting a daily dose of inquisitive, youthful eyes aching for new information and concepts, fresh words for an expanding vocabulary, new ideas to meld with the old and form perspective. The questions are intuitive, fascinating, often surprising, never boring. They come at you from all angles: in the barn, by the brook, in the car, at the supper table, on our daily walks through Sunken Meadow. Basic stuff like who, what, where and why? Maybe when. Constant questions; answers often requiring finesse, the ability to drop to a juvenile level that can be easily comprehended, comparison and analogy helping along the way.

Take for example the concept of a swollen river, which I tried to impress upon Jordie on our walks along the Green River, our trips to the backyard brook. The first time I used that description we were headed toward a section of the Green where he daily picks his way down an undercut back near an apple tree to play in the water. As we approached the familiar site along a grassy farm road, I pondered aloud if the river would be swollen following the rain. Jordie looked at me inquisitively, like, “Huh, what do you mean, Grampy, swollen river?” I asked him if he ever noticed how after a tumble on his knee, elbow or hand, it hurts and gets bigger. Well, that’s called swollen: bigger. Same is true for a river or stream. Rain makes them bigger, or swollen. I wasn’t certain he got it, but thought he did. Then, Wednesday morning, I knew the lesson had registered when, on an alternate route to the same spot, he asked, “Grampie, do you think the river is swollen?” Instant gratification. More, please. And, yes, more was on the agenda.

When we got to our spot where the dogs always jump in, swim across, get a drink, we sat on a red-stained picnic table overlooking the river and I pointed out the murky water below. I told him the river was riled up, dirty, that it would be a good day to catch fish because fish feel invisible in dirty water, come out to feed on the many insects and worms that have been swept off the bank or trees and bushes and into the stream. He seemed to get it, will someday probably ask to go fishing during a rain. I hope so, would love to teach him to fish for trout on a rainy summer day, perhaps someday pass on all my expensive rods, reels and accessories that have sat idle far too long.

Jordie’s learning experience at Sunken Meadow was not limited to the river. No, much more. He learned about the dogs, hunting dogs, all nose and tail, boundless energy. I’d park and release them from their porta-kennels daily and then watch as they enthusiastically jumped down off the bed of my truck, sprinting down the rows of young Christmas trees, bounding, springing off their back legs, front legs curled underneath at the elbows, bursting through the dense brush along the perimeter, then popping back out, excited. Pure joy. From this he learned a couple of lessons. First, the dogs were looking for cottontail rabbits that had left their scent behind while eating clover, white and red, lots off it. Perhaps they also smelled deer and ducks or geese or wild turkeys, maybe squirrels, all of which will come to a fertile wetland like that to feed and nest and romp. Second, he learned to read the dogs by focusing on their tails, the faster they wagged the hotter the scent. After a few days, he understood and pointed it out to me when either Lily or Buddy, “were on a fresh scent,” a phrase he heard me use often, new to him, a new concept that he won’t soon forget. It’s ingrained.

Another time, we were down in that same quiet slice of Connecticut Valley paradise and the owner came through in her blue station wagon. She stopped to talk, told me she heard I had written more about her property, seemed cool with it, then told us the tale of her clover field. She plants red and white clover there to save her Christmas trees from deer, which will eat evergreens when hard-up but won’t touch them when the rows between the young trees contain tasty clover undergrowth. “Some people shoot the deer when they destroy their crops,” I later told Jordie. “The lady uses a creative approach to save her trees, and the deer.” His response? “She’s a nice lady, Grampy.” Indeed. He got it. More than one way to skin a cat. Someday I’ll teach him that saying, too. Bet on it. In the right situation, when I know he’ll understand. Someday I may even use the old “closer the bone, sweeter the meat” saying, then explain it’s meaning. When he uses it, someone, somewhere will probably emit a sinister chuckle and he’ll wonder why. He’ll soon understand that, too, probably sooner than I did, and I was far from sheltered.

We also touched on the killing concept. Jordie knows I hunt, am capable of killing. He often asks me about it, stuff like: “Grampy, you can’t kill mommy deer or baby deer;” or “Would a hunter kill a mother duck with babies?” No, I tell him, laws are in place to protect babies from being orphaned. Hunting occurs in the fall when immature creatures can fly and run and fend for themselves with others of their species to help. It’s never easy for a child to comprehend because a child relates wildlife directly to human beings and it’s difficult to justify hunting and killing on those terms. But the fact is that human beings are predators, and birds and animals and fish are not human. Case closed. Once again it takes finesse to explain the difference, one “animal lovers” — you know, the ones who hang up their lambskin coats before sitting down to a medium-rare, Whately Inn rack of lamb — can’t seem to get their heads around. Jordie will understand. I’ll teach him not to be a hypocrite, to be tolerant of all types of folks as long as they don’t try to impose their will and lifestyle on him. Value your independence, your freedom: that’s what I’ll teach him. Don’t try to fit under that cookie-cutter they’ll try to squish you into. Fight back. Be an individual, maybe even “eccentric” if that’s what they want to call you. I hope he listens.

Jordie is gone now. He went back to Vermont Wednesday. I’ll miss him. I hope “the authorities” don’t ruin him, suffocate his curiosity, his spontaneity. He has a chance in Vermont, I guess, where they seem to have a clue. But one bad experience can do irreparable damage to a young lad, send him off on a defiant ride that can make life miserable. I know. I lived it. To be honest, loved every minute of it.

It’s true that it’s safer to play the game by the rules. True, indeed. Less trouble. But it’s also true that independence nurtures wisdom.