Curiosity

Among the other keepsakes and collectibles (Pee-Wee Herman dolls, old Rolling Stone magazines), there was an encyclopedia.

His animal was the anaconda, and the Internet assisted him in writing a highly factual report that touched on the snake’s habitat (semiaquatic), prey (occasional goats and ponies) and size (freaking huge).

What’s certain is that he has spent at least three hours on the Internet, because I saw it with my own eyes, last spring, when third grade culminated with an assignment to research rain-forest animals.

(I mean the same kinds of reports, of course — my body of work in elementary school included coruscating monographs on raccoons and airplanes and George Washington Carver.)

Education, at least as I remember it, isn’t only, or even primarily, about creating children who are proficient with information.

Or maybe, if I was especially motivated, I would have gone to the library and checked out a book about snakes, but even that would not have been a guarantee.

I had owned the same encyclopedia, and I paged through it with a mix of nostalgia and boredom.

Did you know that most snakes only have one functional lung?

They’re not venomous.

Each of my sons passes through phases quickly: one month they’re obsessed with marine life, the next with world flags.

And so I would have most likely gone on with my life in third grade, and then fourth, faintly feeling the burr of the question in my brain, continually assessing how important it was to scratch that itch.

Sometimes they’ll drop the question immediately, but sometimes they’ll persist, and I’m learning not to give in to the persistence but rather to ensure that the questions stay with them until they arrive at a point when they know nothing for certain except that they have questions they cannot answer so easily.

By supplying answers to questions with such ruthless efficiency, the Internet cuts off the supply of an even more valuable commodity: productive frustration.

He went to bed still musing.

I made that statistic up, though it sounds plausible.

By supplying answers to questions with such ruthless efficiency, the Internet cuts off the supply of an even more valuable commodity: productive frustration.

By supplying answers to questions with such ruthless efficiency, the Internet cuts off the supply of an even more valuable commodity: productive frustration.

I shrugged.

He went to bed still musing.

His animal was the anaconda, and the Internet assisted him in writing a highly factual report that touched on the snake’s habitat (semiaquatic), prey (occasional goats and ponies) and size (freaking huge).

Sometimes they’ll drop the question immediately, but sometimes they’ll persist, and I’m learning not to give in to the persistence but rather to ensure that the questions stay with them until they arrive at a point when they know nothing for certain except that they have questions they cannot answer so easily.

He frowned slightly.

I would have returned to the encyclopedia, and if the answer wasn’t there, I would have ended my investigation abruptly.

His animal was the anaconda, and the Internet assisted him in writing a highly factual report that touched on the snake’s habitat (semiaquatic), prey (occasional goats and ponies) and size (freaking huge).