HILL HOUSE SPEAKS
Edited by David Lewis and Lisa Dugas
The Children of Clay Platte Children’s House Montessori School Hill House
FOREWORD
Lisa Dugas has been my writing partner for some years now and, as such, holds a certain amount of sway over my time and behavior. When she expressed the desire that I visit her son Tristan’s class at school and read two or three of my short stories to the children, I recalled which side of my bread contained the butter and did as she asked. Besides, I had heard of the Montessori system of education for years and was curious to observe it in action.
No father
myself, I had not spent time amid a gaggle of small children since I was a
small child, and I admit to being a little intimidated at the thought of
being in close association with a group of them, with only a story or two
between me and the clutches of the mob. Even though larger and stronger
than the average ten-year-old, should they decide to attack I would have
little chance of survival. With visions of wild dogs pulling down a zebra
on the Serengeti dancing in my head, I steeled myself and accompanied Lisa
to the school.
I have never felt a school that felt so little like a school. The texture of the place was similar to a house in which children worked together, played together, and actually learned something. There exists within the Clay-Platte Hill House a spirit of cooperation and support for one another among the students that is unique in my experience. The relationship between the staff and students is flexible in nature, more like adults assisting children in the learning process than teachers teaching those who must be taught. In the many hours that I eventually spent there, not once did I hear or see any evidence of conflict, name-calling, or derision among the kids.
Shortly after my arrival, twenty or so of the children arranged themselves in a semi-circle on the floor, I took the only grownup-sized chair in the room, and began to read to them. Between the stories of my childhood they asked questions, made comments, and, wonder of wonders, actually expressed interest and appreciation for what some old guy had to say. While I suffered no wounds, bites or claw marks, the zebra did not escape scott free. By little kid demand, I promised to return in a few weeks with more stories.
In the time before I went back to the school, I received a series of thank you notes from the children, several asking how I came to be a writer, some expressing a desire to write stories of their own. Misery loves company and I was encouraged by the fact that some budding authors might be present within the flock. When I returned to the school for the second onslaught, they were waiting for me, a few with their own stories in hand. One thing led to another, the simple act of a couple of trips to the school became months of visits, editing, and encouraging by Lisa and myself, the involvement of my publisher, Leonard Press, and finally the volume that lays before you. It has been a joyful, maddening, uplifting, deflating, wonderful, sorrowful, enlightening experience. It has been writing, and that is my favorite thing in the world.
If the kids have gotten half as much from the past months as I, then it has been well worth the time and effort we have all endured. As for myself, I have come into the company of children, I have seen snatches of their lives, I have looked at things with new eyes, and I am the better for it. In some ways, the zebra has changed his stripes.
