No self-respecting teenager does his summer homework during June or July or August. At least, not in my family. The tradition is to wait until the very last minute to read the assigned books, do the work, and write the essays. When Shaggy Hair Boy and Blonde Niece were in high school, they would spend Labor Day weekend at camp working feverishly on the work they’d put off for months.
With-a-Why kept to that tradition. His summer was filled with projects: the mural he’s painting, a pile of books a friend had recommended, classical piano music he’s learning, a novel he’s writing, and chess games with anyone he could get to play with him. He was plenty busy, but with projects of his own choosing and not school assignments.
In keeping with family tradition, he brought his summer homework to camp for Labor Day. Sprawled in a lawn chair by the firepit, he wrote furiously while his siblings gave sympathetic support and sarcastic comments about the value of the assignments. “Just write a whole lot of bullshit,” said Boy-in-Black. He gave me a crooked grin: “English teachers love that.”
With-a-Why finished the work just in time. Public schools opened today. He tossed his everything into his backpack and went off to begin his senior year in high school.