Island Family Stonehenge

Recently, my son’s kindergarten class discussed the concept of collections. In conjunction with this and, I think, given that they were celebrating the 100^th day of school, he was asked to bring in a collection of 100 of something.

You need to know that I am not very good at this sort of thing. I’m not creative in any sort of crafty way. This is one of many reasons why I chose secondary education over elementary education. Elementary teachers amaze me. Studying insects? They can wave their magic wands and make bug farms that wind through every classroom in the school and tie it in with their Flat Stanley projects as well as 17 other oh-so-fun activities that kids love and remember the rest of their lives.

This is not my strength. I’m more about Hey-guys-let’s-discuss-Hemingway’s-use-of-dialogue-in-A Farewell to Arms. You know, stuff kids forget about before they’re even done with it.

So, after hours of brainstorming and intense research, I suggested that my son collect shells. I know. Pretty good, huh?

He didn’t want any part of it.

“I think I should do C-noodles,” he said. “C-noodles” is our term for elbow macaroni.

“Sweetie, that’s the example the teacher gave. Half the class might end up doing C-noodles.”

“I think I should do C-noodles.”

“Don’t you want to do something a little more interesting, like, um, shells?”

“I think I should do C-noodles.”

“What about sea glass, or sharks’ teeth, or an assorted collection of all the things you find on the beach?”

“I think I should do C-noodles.”

He’s very tenacious, that one.

He did C-noodles.

That was the culmination of the collection unit.

Until last weekend.

For some reason that I still have yet to determine, a large quantity of driftwood washed up on our beach a few weeks ago. This was not an anomaly, by any means, but the amount that washed up was larger than normal, for sure.

So, last weekend, my son was out jumping waves, when mid-jump, he turned around, ran back up the beach, and announced that he was starting a driftwood collection. And so he proceeded, with great care, to assemble a pile of noteworthy pieces. Then, he took his pile and dug each piece into the ground, as you can see from the picture above.

As my son was finishing, my husband turned to me, and we both said in unison, “Stonehenge.” Thus, our personal Island Family Stonehenge was born. Unlike the original, however, much of ours didn’t survive the first night, likely being harassed by dogs, crabs and high tide.

On the other hand, the original probably didn’t have to face any of those enemies (well, maybe the dogs), and my personal theory is that it wasn’t built by a kindergartener.