Category: Slice of Life

I’ve learned a few things over the last few days.  Way up on the list of things I’ll remember?  If someone asks whether or not you can catch a bicycle, they’re almost certainly going to throw one at you.  Without looking.  More than once, in fact, until it’s done perfectly.  I’ve also learned shooting video in a green screen environment is fun, and that I want to do it again!

Early Saturday morning I found myself on the set for the shooting of a new Steve Trash science video, this one covering the water cycle.  Steve (whose non-stage name is Richerson) is a world-traveling “illusionist, eco-entertainer, kid comedian, and environmental educator,” as his website reads.  He’s world traveling, but his roots are in north Alabama, as is his love for teaching others about the environment.  Hence the early-morning video shoot at a small studio in the city of Florence, Alabama.

The video opens with a question: “The water cycle: What is it?”  Before he gives the correct answer, the sight gag involves three wrong answers: A tiny bicycle, a unicycle, and a popsicle.  It was decided the first two of those three things would come to him through the air (not so much with the popsicle).  That’s where I got to help.

After a few quick run-throughs, we were ready to go.  

Andrew, the assistant director, stepped to the front of the stage, filling the screen of the video monitor.  After looking to see if everyone was ready, he started the litany I’d hear over and over throughout the morning.

“Sound?”  

And Damien, the sound engineer, replied with, “Rolling.”

“Camera?”

And Danny, the videographer, replied with, “Rolling.”

“Steve Trash, Water Cycle, scene 1 take 1.”  Then Andrew did that cool thing with the clapboard–Just Like In The Movies!

Morgan, the studio manager, read through Steve’s lines one last time before he went into character and performed them.  Andrew, having put down the clapboard, picked up the tiny bicycle as Steve started.

“The water cycle: What is it?” Steve asked.

As Steve was saying “what,” Andrew was in his backswing with the tiny bicycle in order to get the timing right. Without looking, Steve’s arms came up and to the left to catch the prop that had just been thrown to him.  

With just the right amount of exasperation, Steve said, “That’s not the water cycle, that’s a tiny bicycle!”

And then he threw it off camera to his right, into my waiting arms.  I passed it down to another volunteer, JB, and quickly prepared to catch the next wrong answer.

With just-right comedic timing, Andrew lobbed in a full-sized unicycle–that’s right, a unicycle.

“That’s not the water cycle, that’s a unicycle!”

And then Steve threw it off camera at me, er, I mean, to me.

Okay, just a few quick observations: First of all, those tiny bicycles–you know, the kind that you see clowns riding, their knees up beside their cheeks–are heavy!  I mean, 20 or 25 pounds heavy.  I think my full-sized bicycle is lighter than those things.  Second, bicycles and unicycles have parts that move when they’re thrown.  Andrew’s job was to throw them in a manner that minimized the chance of Steve catching an errant pedal the wrong way, Steve’s job was to catch them while appearing not to look in their direction, and my job was to catch them after he threw them without looking at either them or me before he tossed.  My final observation: it was a lot of fun, and I’d do it again at the drop of a magician’s hat.

My job done, the scene continued as Andrew slowly handed a popsicle to Steve, with only his arm visible to the camera.

“That’s not the water cycle, that’s a popsicle!”  As the popsicle (not thrown to me this time) slowly moved back off camera, it paused expectantly.  “Okay, okay, you can eat it,” Steve told his off-camera assistant.

His face and eyes turning back to the camera, Steve paused for a moment to facilitate later editing.

“Cut!”

With that last word from Steve (wearing his director’s hat which still looked exactly like a steampunk top hat), the scene was over.  One scene down, leaving somewhere around 60 to go!

Being involved with this project, even in a small way, was a lot of fun.  Steve’s efforts for the environment are multifaceted, but all are geared toward helping people build an awareness of their personal impact on our natural world–the only one we’ve got.  As a teacher, I want to dig into my own bag of tricks to help my students develop that same awareness.  That said, the bicycle was fine, but I hope his next video doesn’t involve one of those cannons…

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Note: Within the next few weeks you’ll be able to watch this video along with Steve’s others at http://stevetrash.com/classroomvideos

 

As the rain slowed to a gentle mist and the last bit of daylight faded from the north Alabama sky, a river otter stood next to a small pool of water just off a tributary of Limestone Creek.  Confident in its apparent solitude, it dropped into the water and quickly swam to the other side, its powerful tail allowing it to cross in just seconds.  Recognizing the easiest path available, it left the water and stepped onto the smooth mud of a beaver slide that was worn between the pool and the nearby creek.

Not quite running, it moved at a quick pace with a sense of self assurance.  It slowed and ducked slightly as it passed beneath a low-lying branch, its right front paw crushing a tiny plant into the soft mud as it did so.  Having cleared that small obstacle, the otter moved quickly once again up the slight incline of the slide before flowing gracefully into the dark, cool waters of the creek.  It disappeared with hardly a ripple as it went on its way, watching for predators as it sought prey of its own.

That’s what the story says, anyway.  The story written in the mud of that particular beaver slide.

I was recently able to spend a morning learning basic tracking skills from Nick Sharp, a friend who’s a wildlife biologist with Alabama’s Department of Conservation and Natural Resources.  He and I both serve on the Land Trust of North Alabama’s environmental education committee, and we were spending time together preparing for an upcoming children’s workshop.  He’s the expert on tracking, and I’ve got a bit of experience translating adult-level material down for an elementary-aged audience.   

I’ve always enjoyed being outdoors and know a thing or two about temperate hardwood forests, but this was a new and eye-opening experience for me as I’m now able to see things I couldn’t see before.

We started our morning together with Nick quickly walking me through some printed resources he uses with adult learners.  After a short discussion about how they could be used with children, we were off, heading across an open field and into the woods to see what we could see.  

Evidence of animals in the wild falls into two broad categories: tracks and signs.  Tracks are just that–footprints cast into soft dirt, sand, or snow.  Signs, however, can be so much more, and are plentiful in comparison to tracks. As we traversed the countryside, Nick’s words and tutelage helped me read the stories the land had to tell.

When an animal moves through grass and other vegetation, it bends and breaks the plants in the direction of its travel.  This is called flagging.

Flagging was easy to see as we started walking across the field we shared with a small herd of cattle.  I certainly didn’t have the ability to follow the trail of a single animal from the herd, but the experience was akin to reading from a children’s book and gave me the basics that I’d be able to apply later in the morning.  We saw flagging again later, this time apparently caused by deer or armadillos.  It wasn’t nearly as easy to see, but there it was once I knew what to look for.

The way this vegetation is shredded lets you know that deer probably browsed here.  Deer don’t have teeth in the front of their top jaw.  They have a hard palate that they use with the teeth on their lower jaw.  This means they can’t bite cleanly when they eat.

It was neat to think and learn about the ways animals find food and eat.  Larger squirrels like the grey and fox squirrels will chew the shells of different nuts to pieces.  It’s not uncommon to find the shell pieces of harder nuts like black walnuts, while softer nuts like acorns may be shredded. Smaller rodents like flying squirrels, chipmunks, and mice can’t begin to do that kind of damage to a nut, but will chew holes in the sides and eat the nut meat through them.  Deer browse, shredding vegetation as they go, but beavers and other, smaller rodents shear vegetation at a near-45 degree angle.  Squirrels dig small holes the size of a saucer as they bury and dig up hidden nuts, armadillos disrupt the soil and vegetation of an area the size of a dinner table, and wild hogs basically plow areas the size of the whole dining room–and then some.  

What we’re doing is reading the woods…reading the forest.

The story was fascinating as we did just that: read the narrative that was laid out before us.  Whether it was dissecting bird droppings or tracing the oft-traveled trail of an armadillo, the tale of the otherwise unseen was there for us to decode.  Examining the chewed bark of a squirrel stripe on a tulip poplar and spotting hair plucked from the tail of a passing horse by a protruding branch all helped us piece together the recent past as if we had been there to witness it.  Even listening to the warning chirp of a distant chipmunk gave us a sense of the fauna all around us.  

If you get the chance, take a walk and open your eyes in a new way.  You’ll be glad you did.

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Note: The ideas expressed in italics are Nick’s, but the paraphrase is mine.  I’m sure the lessons were expressed more clearly when he gave them.

 

 

It’s the busy season for teachers, isn’t it?  As May gets underway, we’re preparing for the end-of-the-year everything: Report cards, parties, assessments, lessons, sanity savers…the list goes on.  In the busy-ness of things, it’s nice to have a moment of calm pop up every once in a while.

I oftentimes start my mornings in our school car-rider line, helping direct traffic and keep kids safe.  One of the bright spots of the spring (and there are many) is the first red-winged blackbird of the year.  They usually show up around late March, and I love it when I hear one sing his song to me after the months of absence.  I listened to one just this morning, and it inspired me to bring out this poem to go with my short introduction.

Red-winged Blackbird

It’s like seeing an old friend

Across a crowded room
Across a field at woods’ edge

You know his voice
before you recognize his face
You know his voice
before you see him, just a glance

His carriage, familiar in a subconscious way
His tipped head, bringing a smile to your face

Remembering the walks, the talks, the dialog
Knowing this time you’re only there to listen

A moment shared before good byes
A brief time, ending in a flash

of red. Until next time, old friend

As I’ve mentioned before, “tax season” is the busy time of the year for my wife.  She’s a tax preparer, so April 18th for her was the equivalent of the last day of school for me as a teacher–it’s time to take a deep breath and try to relax just a bit.  The next year is coming, but for now it’s time to slow down and catch up.

Our granddaughters have missed their Nana, who likes to spend the other ten months of the year seeing them considerably more than she has over the last two.  It’s not as if they haven’t seen each other, but it hasn’t been as much as any of them would like.  This year, as things started to draw to a close, my wife announced a treat for the end of the season: We would take the girls pajama shopping!

Now, for me, I didn’t really understand the excitement of going shopping for what in essence is an old pair of gym shorts and a past-its-prime t-shirt.

Okay, despite having never been a two- or three-year-old girl, I guess I did understand.  What was it going to be? Trolls have been popular, and My Little Pony is still high on the list of things that make their hearts beat faster.  Maybe a favorite color: pink for the older and purple for the younger.  Regardless, I knew that gym shorts and an old t-shirt wasn’t what they had in mind.

Tax season saw its last day pass, and it was finally shopping day.  If this was a movie, the day would have dawned clear and crisp with a light breeze to make it more exciting for the butterflies and flowers to dance in the air.  As it turned out, though, an unseasonably cool morning, a wind from the north, and a fine mist is what greeted us as we stepped out of the house.  Not quite one of Pooh’s blustery days, but not a beautiful spring morning, either.  

The shopping experience came and went, and a good time was–for the most part–had by all.  The three-year-old was just excited because somethingwashappeningsomethingwashappening! and the two-year-old turned out to be, well, two.  That’s okay, we had fun and made a memory, if not for them, then for us.  If our plans for next year hold out, we’ll be out there again in the middle of April with two children who are another year older, ready to go through a new selection of pjs in search of the just-perfect pair.  

Me? I’m so much more than happy with what I’ve got, thanks…and my pajamas are okay, too.

There is not an audible whoosh when I slip my foot into one of my hiking boots.  I listen for it every time, but haven’t heard it yet.  There is, however, a deeply satisfying piston-like feeling as I grip the tongue of the boot with one hand, the fabric loop on the back with the other, and slide my foot in.  A few loops of the lace around the hooks, a just-tight-enough tug, and a quick knot has me ready to go.  That was part of the routine a few mornings ago as I got ready to hit the trail on one of my most memorable excursions in quite a while.  

Meeting the crew at the trail head half an hour later helped me know just how demanding this trip would be.  As I looked from Aaron, the seasoned Sierra Club hike leader, to Mike, recently transplanted to our area from the land of Colorado’s fourteeners, those 14,000 feet high behemoths of stone, I knew I was out of my league.  Then there was Heather, a veteran naturalist with plenty of her life spent in the wildernesses of our nation, and Erin, whose well-worn hiking boots gave testimony to her time putting one foot in front of the other along the paths of innumerable rocky elevations throughout the southeast United States.  Glancing down at my own boots and recognizing that I could only see their toes beneath my waistline (shrinking, thank you very much, but only slowly) didn’t help matters.  

Finally, there was the crew member who would soon reveal herself to be the true leader of our sojourn, not because of her experience or other bona fides, but simply through the force of her personality.  It was easy to recognize her as an experienced hiker because of her calm, I-belong-here demeanor.  I’m happy to say, though, that my butterflies eased a bit, and I found no small measure of solace as I read the graphic emblazoned across the front of her t-shirt.  It helped me know I’d be able to keep up with this most august group of trekkers.

“Wish, Dream, Sparkle,” with a wand-toting fairy flying alongside the words.

At four years old, this little hiker with the Velcro-fastened shoes was a force that had to be respected. That said, I knew I was going to be okay.

And I was.  We had a wonderful morning, hiking within a tract of land preserved by the local government and maintained by the Land Trust of North Alabama.  This hike was billed as “family friendly,” and it came about as a way to fill the need for activities that are slower and allow for folks to bring their younger children.  (Quick aside: I wasn’t exaggerating when I described the other members of our group–there really are many, many trail miles hiked among them.)

That day we experienced much of what the trail had to offer us during the few hours we spent hiking along it.  The color of the day was apparently purple, which suited our youngest companion just fine.  She quickly stated it was her favorite color, and based on her outfit I had no reason to doubt it.  We counted nearly 10 different flowers that were a shade of that particular hue, the most brilliant being a single crested dwarf iris–the only one we saw on the trail that day (crested, anyway).  Gorgeous.

While my memory and notes bring back plenty of reasons to smile, the single event that sticks out in my mind came as we were hiking up a relatively strenuous incline.  As we moved carefully from one limestone step to another, our youngest member–without prompting–suddenly burst out with a proclamation for the surrounding creation to hear: “I love hiking!”

I do too, young lady, I do too.  Thank you for taking me along.