We are not on a big vase

Periodically when I’m talking to the kids about their education, I throw in something from my education, and they snort believing I’m making stuff up.

For example, this week the poem ‘Ode On A Grecian Urn’ by John Keats came up. I vividly remember learning about it in English class with a teacher aptly named, Miss Fury, but my youngest was entirely unconvinced.

“You’re telling me some guy wrote a poem about a vase?” Lachlan asked, disgusted.

“Well strictly speaking an urn.” I replied.

“What's the difference?”

“A vase holds flowers and an urn holds the ashes of dead people,” added Fergus helpfully. “Though it can also hold flowers too. Really an urn is just a fat vase.”

Lachlan shrugged. “Alright, so you’re trying to tell me a guy wrote a poem to a fat vase? Jeez, some people have too much time on their hands.”

“It was a metaphor, about art and life and…erm stuff.” I said, wracking my brain to remember the specifics aptly named, Miss Fury had once yelled.

I recited.

 Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
 She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
 For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Lachlan looked deeply unimpressed.

“To be fair, it does sound a lot more exciting read by a really angry person,” I said. “But the point is that painted on the side of the urn in the poem, there are two lovers trying to kiss but they never will kiss because they’re just painted figures on the urn.”

“Bummer,” muttered Fergus a little sarcastically. I threw him a threatening look.

Lachlan grunted, “What's your point, caller?”

“My point is,” I said, continuing with great dignity, “ that change is always happening for everyone. Unless you’re a painted figure on a vase.”

“Or a high school teacher,” added Lachlan, “ They never change. Year after year they teach you a whole load of random stuff in class. Stuff you have to learn that makes no sense. Stuff you will probably NEVER need but you have to pretend you do. Like pre-calculus. What moron invented that? Same kind of moron who'd write some rubbish about a vase.”

“Urn,” Ferg added helpfully. Lachlan threw him a look. Ferg wisely retreated to his room.

“You won’t always be where you are now,” I said, “Before you know it, your life will be completely changed.”

“I don’t believe you,” he said, heading off back to his room, “You said that before and I still, completely, every week, have homework.”

“One day you’ll miss having homework,” I called after him.

“You literally don’t know me,” he said, closing the door to his bedroom definitively.

I laughed. I hated homework too. Especially pre-calculus. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

I’ve been feeling a bit old of late. Old because when both your kids are able to grow moustaches (with varying levels of success) then you have to admit you are no spring chicken any more. Hell, even my spring chickens aren’t spring chickens any more.

Here in the Valley, it’s no longer perpetual Summer. The mornings now are darker, overcast. The season has moved on. Change is in the air, there’s no doubt about it.

It's funny. When you're a kid, all you want is change. Then when you're an adult, it always comes salted with trepidation.

Silly really. The whole point of a journey is taking the next step forward. Unless you're some bloke or some woman dressed in a toga and painted on the side of a Grecian urn.

Fergus opened his bedroom door.

“The people on the urn, they totally could be changed them you know. You could draw a moustache on them. Or glasses. You could glue on a wee picture of a cellphone or draw it so they were being chased by a horse,” he said.

“What's your point, Caller?” I asked.

“Point is, I think the urn thing sucks as an analogy. Really, when it comes to homework, maybe you should go with the ‘we all have to deal with things in life we don’t like’ theme you used to with me. You know, ‘It’s not what you bear, but how you bear it,’ Seneca. I think that was quite successful.”

“Thanks, Ferg. Good to know,” I smiled.

Ferg smiled back and closed his bedroom door.

I laughed to myself. Good analogy or not, aptly named, Miss Fury would be pleased to know that all these years later I was talking about a poem I learned about in her class. I’m lying of course. Miss Fury was never pleased about anything.

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Notes From The Valley volume 2 coming soon.