Why did the George The Skeleton laugh when he hit his funny bone?
Because it was humerus!
George The Skeleton stands – or hangs – just 4′ tall, a bit smaller than most of my JE students, and has been introducing kids to his 206 bones for more than 30 years. He is not the least bit creepy; on the contrary, children find his personable smile and articulated limbs irresistible. George has withstood innumerable kids shaking his phalanges and has patiently endured indignities at the hands of mischievous 7th graders (pencil “cigarettes” clenched in his movable mandible, hastily scrawled speech bubbles demanding “No homework!” stuck to his skull). Aside from worn out plastic cartilage and a few bits of hardware I’ve had to replace over the years, he has held up remarkably well.
Why is George The Skeleton so calm? Nothing gets under his skin!
Why didn’t George The Skeleton go to the dance?
He had no body to go with!
The JE students launched the unit by drawing what they thought their own skeleton looked like. George joined us to oversee every following skeletal activity. And, because George is such a humerus kind of guy, we made sure to share jokes with him at every opportunity.
What does George The Skeleton order at a restaurant? Spare ribs!
Playing “Science Says” is a fun way to learn the names and locations of the bones. When Science says “skull,” you rap on the top of your head. For “sternum,” pound your chest; “ulna,” cup your elbow; “femur,” slap your thighs. To introduce “pelvis” I show old footage of Elvis doing some of his signature moves, and we imitate him while singing “Elvis shakes his pelvis!”
What song does Elvis sing on Feb. 2? You ain’t nothin’ but a GROUNDHOG!
We have an extensive collection of bones donated by families who find deer, raccoon, fox, or groundhog skeletons, among many others, enabling us to compare the anatomy of a wide variety of vertebrates. This year we were also lucky to come upon the remains of an opossum out in the woods, where we examined the vertebrae, ribs, and mandible left behind by scavengers.
Why didn’t George The Skeleton cross the road? He just didn’t have the guts!
In most years, each student would have constructed a detailed, life-size skeleton out of a variety of found objects. This year, we reimagined the natural history museum and created dioramic fantasies with human and other animal skeletons.
What is George The Skeleton’s favorite musical instrument? The trombone!
Least favorite? The organ!
George administered this year’s final exam by having students label the bones they had learned over the past month. A teacher passing by stopped to ask what we were doing and was immediately grilled on his knowledge. “Do you know where your scapula is?” the kids demanded. He shook his head. “Your phalanges?” “Nope.” “How about your humerus?” “Uh…, no.” “It’s right here!” they all yelled, slapping their upper arms and shouting “HA HA HUMERUS!” while George smiled proudly at the latest generation of Jemicy anatomical humorists.
Every winter, M Groupers spend a few weeks immersed in oceans – virtually. We begin by studying ocean geography and topography, and then do a quick survey of marine biodiversity. This year, the first part of the unit was presented entirely on line, with students logging in for a quick introduction to each topic and then practicing research skills by looking for information. The constraints of distance and time in this pandemic year are always frustrating, but they were mitigated by my favorite part of this exercise: learning alongside my students as they discover new marine features and species that I have never heard of.
A case in point: zigzag coral, or Madrepora oculata. At the end of our virtual 2 weeks, before heading off for winter break and then reconvening in person for the new year, each student chose a marine species as the centerpiece for a multi-faceted research project. While most students selected animals that were familiar to me – orca, blue whale, sea otters – one boy chose this striking coral. He worked diligently during class to unearth facts about its range and habitat, diet, life cycle, and conservation status, arranging these into informational slides for his report. During recesses and group walks, he shared his new knowledge with me: “Did you know that this type of coral doesn’t live in tropical places? It likes deeper, colder water.” And new concerns: “I’m really worried about the coral’s survival. Fishing nets that drag on the ocean floor are ruining colonies!”
The art teachers and I have always collaborated on the ocean project, with students creating beautiful shadow boxes that featured their animals. This year, we were fortunate to be teaching M Group during the same time, but for the art component, Sean introduced students to a new animation technique using Google Slides. Students drew their research animals, along with habitat features like aquatic plants, prey and predators. They then photographed and imported them into the slides program, where they learned how to design a virtual fish tank and develop action involving their drawn figures.
Students who completed their research and animation projects devoted their final classes in science to making 3D dioramas that showcased animals in their habitats.
One of the final highlights of this collaborative ocean unit was a virtual field trip. We would normally take this group to the National Aquarium in Baltimore, but this year we were able to schedule an hour for a personal tour of the Aquarium’s Maryland Mountains to the Sea exhibits. This enabled both virtual and in-person students to get an up-close view of terrapins, hogsuckers, groupers, and other Maryland species, while being able to ask the Aquarium staff a multitude of questions.
As has become our custom this year, M Group celebrated our final class of this science rotation with a fire pit and marshmallows, talking about what we had learned in the past few weeks. While some marveled that they had never expected to be able to create their own animations, others reflected on the animals that they had gotten to know virtually through their research. Several of these species were threatened or endangered. Would they ever have the chance to see them in real life? The boy who studied zigzag coral has already told me that he hopes to someday be a marine conservationist. I think he’s on his way.
After more than three decades of teaching at Jemicy, I thought I’d pretty much seen it all. Enter Spring, 2020. The coronavirus completely upended any semblance of normalcy as we pivoted abruptly to teaching online. It seemed impossible that we could maneuver our way through the thick tangle of COVID restrictions and concerns of families and staff to actually reopen this fall. But here we are, restructured into smaller, isolated groups -“neighborhoods” – each with its own dedicated spaces and faculty. And, in a strange twist, one of my long-held dreams has finally come true: getting to teach entirely outside.
My science classes have always seen plenty of outdoor time, but this is different. This year I am intentionally restructuring the curriculum to prioritize and fit outdoor spaces – those places that I have always described as the biggest, best classroom in the world.
The JE neighborhood started getting to know their larger neighborhood by asking, “Where in the world are we?” We mapped our campus, walking the perimeter through weeds and woods, along streets and streams. Our moose mascot (who wears a mask and also a cool spiderweb beard), situated at the top of our front circle, conveniently aims north. It became the reference point for orienting ourselves wherever we happened to be. We identified notable landmarks (“Does a pile of deer poop count?”) and topographical features while adding to our biodiversity checklist.
Screen tents, the outdoor pavilion, and any place where we could find some distance, sit or place a yoga mat, became gathering spots. Along with lessons on animal classification, adaptations, and seasonal changes, we coordinated science and art classes to study the distinct characteristics and beauty of the leaves that surrounded our outdoor neighborhood.
Class time was also regularly devoted to letting kids play in the woods and develop their own unique communities there. We took trips to Jemicy’s bamboo forest where we harvested poles for fort construction. A new barter system quickly developed: “I’ll trade you this part with leaves for that short, fat stick.” “Will anybody trade me one long bamboo for two bricks?”
Friends found ways to help each other while staying safely at a distance. A giant beetle larva was unearthed during stone collecting, admired, and safely replaced. Burdock plants dispersed their seeds by using unwitting mammal “fur,” much to the mammals’ annoyance. Adopted tree seedlings found permanent homes.
What will happen when the weather turns cold? We had a taste of that this week as we gathered in the pavilion, shivering, with temperatures in the 40’s. Conveniently, our topics were seasonal endothermic (warm-blooded) and ectothermic (cold-blooded) animal adaptations. Kids immediately gravitated to the sunnier side of the structure, jumped up and down, and ran laps to get warm. “It’s probably too cold to bring the snakes out here, isn’t it?” asked one wistfully. “But maybe the guinea pigs?” We observed crickets, how their behavior changed when we moved them from shade to sun, then released them to find their way to winter accommodations.
Finally, we pulled on our boots and headed to the woods, where the kids took one look at the deep, shaded stream valley and predicted that the water would be too cold for frogs. A fresh shed from a snake confirmed that some cold-blooded creatures were still conducting business as usual.
We did find a couple of spunky young frogs that were still actively elusive in spite of the season officially shifting from summer to fall. Fortunately, it was also too cold for the mosquitoes that had plagued our previous hikes.
I stopped by yesterday to tour a set of forts that several girls were working on, noting that while they had followed this year’s new guidelines not to share close spaces, they had left open passageways from one fort to another. They gave me a tour of newly installed seating, decorations, and the hollow bamboo tube where visitors could put their “money” (large green fruits) for admission. “The money grows on that bush,” they said, pointing out their nearby revenue source, “so really anybody can come in with permission.” And when I asked about their open concept layout, they responded, “Well, we didn’t want to just build forts – we wanted to make a neighborhood!”
When Jemicy decided against having camp this summer due to the pandemic, I found myself searching for a new personal learning opportunity, preferably one that would keep me outdoors as much as possible. An online butterfly class caught my eye, and soon I was enrolled in a seminar that is traditionally field-based and taught in Vermont, but that fortunately expanded this year to include students from around the country. What especially attracted me, beyond the chance to spend hours in the field, was the use of photography and an iNaturalist project for sharing images and helping each other identify species.
Bryan, the instructor, asked about our individual goals for the course. “Skippers,” I answered, though not without misgivings. Referencing a birding term for a group of species whose similar appearance presents aggravating identification difficulty in the field, skippers are known as the “sparrows” of the butterfly world. Hesperiidae is a family of relatively small, often drab-colored butterflies that people sometimes mistake for day-flying moths. They have a plump thorax and large eyes, hooked clubs at the end of their antennae, and a characteristically darting flight.
Common roadside skipper
For years, in spite of their prevalence, I had mostly avoided getting to know these tiny, triangular enigmas. Only a few in this region, like the silver-spotted skipper, are sizable, distinctly marked, and readily identifiable at a distance.
There just didn’t seem to be a way to reliably distinguish one little orange-brown speck from another. “At least sparrows have distinctive songs,” I sighed. But learning skippers, I decided, was a worthy summer challenge. And a good excuse to spend time in some of my favorite places, searching for and photographing a few of the 150 or so butterfly species found in Maryland.
From mid-June through July, I scoured the local parks and trails with a singular focus, finding new appreciation for the beauty of butterflies that I knew well and relishing the surprise of new discoveries. This rather worn, brown butterfly that I was about to dismiss as the ubiquitous little wood satyr? No, wait, there was something different about those spots and how it was flying. Turns out it was an Appalachian brown, a not uncommon species, but one new to me.
The urge to find new butterflies pulled me out of my immediate neighborhood a few times. Remembering a butterfly spotted a year ago at a distant park, I headed there again. Along the same edge of the same field in the same 90 degree heat, a flash of orange in the grass caught my eye – a silvery crescent nectaring on a dandelion, possibly a descendant of last year’s butterfly.
Another time, using the filters on iNaturalist to see where other people were finding certain species, I drove down to the Patuxent Research Refuge. Not only was I rewarded with zebra swallowtails in abundance, but I finally got to see the resident pair of trumpeter swans – two first sightings!
As the weeks went by and my vocabulary of butterfly characteristics expanded, it took little more than a glance to recognize and mentally note the low, flat glide of a buckeye, the frenetic dance of an eastern tailed blue, the bounce of a common wood nymph. I often paused not to capture, but to simply enjoy the show: an eastern tiger swallowtail uncurling its long proboscis, a red admiral slowly spreading its red-banded wings to the sun and then snapping them shut to reveal the incredible intricacy of their ventral pattern.
Eastern tailed blue
Common wood nymph
Eastern tiger swallowtail
All this time, the skippers were darting about, teasing my ability to recognize them. Perched at one angle, a skipper could be a swarthy – at another, a dun. Field marks disappeared under both the sun’s harsh light and in dappled shade, and I tried every camera setting I could think of to capture something – anything – that would answer the nagging question, “Who ARE you? Sing to me!”
I read up on voltinism, or the different broods and flights of a species which caused them to show up in numbers, freshly emerged, for a week or two and then disappear. Little glassywings took over entire fields from the previously abundant but now abruptly vanishing zabulon skippers, only to disappear themselves after a few weeks, replaced by a fresh flight of Peck’s skippers and sachems. Meanwhile, there were the reliable constants: diminutive least skippers bobbing in and out of the grass in wetter places, and bold silver-spotted skippers that seemed to enjoy nothing better than zooming into a milkweed plant to spoil my shot of a monarch or great spangled fritillary.
Great spangled fritillary
The skippers flitted about and displayed their nature in ways that were at first incomprehensible. I had to learn which field marks were critical to note and photograph. Was it the ventral side? Dorsal? Under the head? Complicating matters were the differences between male and female of the same species, between freshly emerged and worn individuals, between an early brood and a later one. Some days I would return home with multiple images of the same skipper, try to identify it with a field guide, and then turn to iNaturalist for suggestions, only to have the app give me 3 or 4 different IDs. Obviously I was missing some essential characteristic – but which?
In mid-July, the unrelenting heat and voracious ticks forced me into a 10-day hiatus from butterflies. I worked on indoor projects, preparing for school’s imminent reopening, and tried to let images of all the butterflies I was missing settle into memory. Sometimes while taking the dog for a walk, a shadow would waft overhead, or a tiny orange shape would dart past my ankles and disappear in tall grass. The way that shadow seemed to simply float past – likely a swallowtail. The size, shape, and pattern of that skipper – probably a Peck’s. Not having a camera or binoculars along allowed me to simply observe, to appreciate subtle differences in behavior – how the butterfly moved, what kinds of plants it was using, whether it returned to the spot where I had disturbed it or was gone for good, how it interacted with other insects.
Eventually I was ready to return to hiking, whereupon I found a whole new community of butterflies hard at work nectaring, mating, laying eggs, avoiding predators.
Sachem and Peck’s skipper
Eastern tiger swallowtail
Eastern tailed blue
Many were newly emerged individuals of species I had seen earlier in the summer. The skippers flitted between flowers, landed and nectared, scared each other off and sometimes simply held a pose, allowing me to approach within inches. Their identities occurred to me now more intuitively as I watched them in context, picking up a range of clues. That’s when I realized that skippers do, indeed, have a song. Not in an acoustic sense, but as a suite of qualities that included time, location, weather, behavior, relative size and shape and – for lack of a better word – personality. Bryan, who had spent much of the course assuring us that we would eventually get to the point of really knowing these creatures, captured the essence of a butterfly’s personality in his recent blog post on the mulberrywing skipper. It’s a species that I will likely never see in my neighborhood, but I am certain that his description of its “song” will allow instant recognition if I ever encounter it.
Little wood satyr
Little wood satyr
Having logged over 200 observations of 40+ butterfly species on iNaturalist, I find my motivation for learning has only increased. So, I’m already starting to think about next summer: Who are the sparrows of the dragonfly world, and what is their song?
Along with everyone else facing the COVID-19 threat, I have spent a lot of time trying to both deter and prepare for the possible arrival of the virus in my home. My efforts to delay this visitation through distancing and staying home have become second nature, but the expectation itself diverts energy and attention to something ominous that lurks unseen and intangible.
And yet it’s spring, the best possible antidote that I can imagine to this wearisome watchfulness. Though wet and cold (a polar vortex is paying an unseasonable visit at this very moment) this spring has delivered some welcome surprises. One of my favorite parts of Jemicy’s online learning program is that my students and I have been sharing our nature observations, along with the excitement that comes with new discoveries and phenomena that capture our attention. Nature-related stories fill much of our live class meetings and often feature a child exclaiming, “Here – let me show you!” and taking the class along on her iPad to see the nest in her porch planter, a flower blooming, or a tree frog tucked under an edge of siding. Below are just a few of the photos students have shared from their homes and backyards.
Squirrel rescue, nests tucked into mailboxes and garage corners, eggs and hatchlings in many stages of development.
Strange rocks and lichens, animals showing up unexpectedly.
Flowers and trees with new leaves.
Gardening, birding on a bike, exploring streams.
And, one of my favorites: a slug drawing with slime.
For the first time since I’ve lived here, I’ve heard whippoorwills at dawn, seen an osprey carrying a fish to its nest, watched a wet raven preen and announce its presence at the top of a dead tree.
I’ve seen butterflies, fungi, birds, insects, and wildflowers that I knew lived here but had never before found or had the chance to photograph.
Each of these encounters – both mine and my students’ – feels like a gift from a world of biodiversity that still provides a safe haven for wonder.
When I was a child somewhere in those wondrous years between 7 and 10, I was a voracious animal collector. Springtime brought a wealth of opportunities to find frog eggs, red-spotted newts and rat snakes, to set up an ant farm in a peanut butter jar, to capture a mouse and house it in a hastily constructed cage, only to find it gone in the morning. My enthusiasm was fueled by a book whose words and images were so enticing, so perfectly attuned to my passion that I memorized every page and could never part with it: “The Golden Book of Wild Animal Pets.”
When I look through this book now, I am deeply thankful that I was not a very skillful or ruthless hunter. The animals that I did manage to capture invariably led short, miserable lives. And it wasn’t just wild animals. If a stray dog or cat showed up on our property, I would try to hide it in the barn in a kennel made of hay bales, sneaking food from the house. This rarely worked out in any creature’s best interest. One day I made a surreptitious trade of some unused toy for a neighbor’s rabbit, but this time when my mother discovered it, she agreed to let me keep it if I would build it a proper hutch and clean it regularly. “Someday,” I promised, “I will have my own house where I can keep all the animals.”
Little did I know that the title of this blog would fulfill that promise quite literally this week as our school closed due to the coronavirus pandemic. Not knowing how long we would be away, I knew that the school menagerie would be coming home with me. Now installed in the guest room, the various cages and tanks house animals that have been at Jemicy anywhere from 30 years (Blotch, the ball python) to the imminent (incubating chicken eggs due to hatch in three weeks). Since I will be teaching my students online here for the foreseeable future, the animals will play virtually the role that they always have in our classroom: species ambassadors helping to impart knowledge and insight into the lives of others.
On the other hand, the COVID-19 coronavirus itself represents a piece of the world’s biodiversity that I am making every effort to NOT bring home. In trying to understand the nature of recent epidemics and pandemics with apparent non-human animal sources, I came across a recent article from Scientific American that highlights this issue. Habitat destruction not only reduces biodiversity directly, but it can also open pathways for new pathogens to enter human spheres. Also benefiting from human incursions into formerly wild, remote areas is the exotic pet trade that results in animals such as the ones now inhabiting my guest room. My view of these beings has evolved from passion to compassion, and to demonstrating for my students what responsible pet ownership entails. It might mean a hurried evacuation. Or soaking a shedding snake in the bathtub.
I started this blog nearly five years ago as a way to share my learning and experiences during six months in Tasmania and New Zealand on a Fulbright award. Being so far removed from my Jemicy students, living on remote islands on the other side of the world, I treasured the online connections that we devised. Our present challenge is to make these same meaningful connections across distance that feels almost as vast, since we are all separated from each other, each in our own home. My goal this spring will be to use these separate home spaces as common ground for discovery and learning. We will be sharing observations of the nature around us, both in terms of living things and the physical environment, experimenting remotely, exploring our backyards, and discovering the heart of bringing biodiversity home.
January to February is a time that always seems to hold its breath, waiting for something to happen: Will it snow? Will there be a thaw? Will this bitter gray weather ever break? Unpredictability is a standard condition. January 29 is the average coldest day of the year with temperatures at 30 degrees F. However, the typical range from 30-43 degrees has enough variability to induce buds to blossom and amphibians to seek breeding ponds. Once these actions are set in motion, there’s no turning back, no matter what the weather has in store.
It is the best time of year to find those things outdoors that are waiting to change, or have already begun the process. Moth cocoons, praying mantis oothecae (egg cases), beetle pupae, seeds, tree buds, slug eggs – they persevere through whatever weather conditions come their way, holding new life in reserve until the moment is right.
In our visitor tank in the science room, we are closely monitoring some of these. A fat green caterpillar that we had intended to observe only briefly late this fall, and then return to the outdoors, surprised us by quickly cocooning itself to the side of the tank. We decided to leave it to see if and when the adult would emerge. An introduced species of praying mantis also spent the fall in the tank, dined on ever-plentiful crickets and stinkbugs, and left us with an ootheca. There is a matching one waiting outside on a nearby shrub.
The youngest JE’ers spent a class this fall roaming the campus collecting dried seed heads from a variety of flowers: marigolds, joe-pye weed, milkweed, black-eyed Susan, coneflower. These are waiting for a later class in February, when we will start seed trays for the gardens around the science building.
And, in the top garden bed are a dozen tree seedlings – holly, tulip tree, pawpaw, and hickory – awaiting transplant to their new home in the reforestation area. Their buds are still dormant, but just a few feet away the buds on the dwarf peach are swollen, looking impatient to blossom. We hope it can wait just a bit longer, because there is really no telling what February has in store for us.
As earth moves ever closer to its annual winter solstice, inhabitants of Jemicy’s science building take notice. The sun’s lower angle sends the afternoon rays more directly through the greenhouse bay and onto the glass walls of the fish tank, causing algae to proliferate and algae eaters to become more active. Meanwhile, that same shift in angle and lower daily temperatures send many of the classroom reptiles into a state of semi-hibernation, or brumation. The Russian tortoises stop eating, dig down into their bedding, and only reluctantly reawaken for occasional hydration. The male corn snakes have also stopped eating and moved to the cold end of their enclosure, where they will curl up together and remain nearly motionless for the next five months.
Time has taught us that these are normal seasonal behaviors reflecting what these animals would do in the wild. Even though the reptiles’ enclosures have heat and UV lamps, they somehow know what is going on outside and are responding to those external cues. Just last week we discovered a tiny, disoriented spring peeper in a classroom, the first one we’ve ever found as late as December. The temperature outside was in the 40’s, and we knew it was bound to get much colder soon, but we released the frog to the woods confident that it would find its way to a safe hibernaculum for the next few months.
Last month, JE students who were studying cold-blooded animals created their own “herps” to model hibernation out in the Jemicy woods. We drew animal figures on gloves, filled them with colored “blood,” and carefully hid them in places where we thought no predators would disturb them. These herps will wait out the winter as still and silent as the living frogs and salamanders that have burrowed themselves down under logs and into the mud of the stream bed nearby. When spring returns, we will see how they have fared, whether their skin remains intact, or whether some gnawing rodent has unfortunately discovered them.
As a strategy for surviving winter, entering a state of dormancy seems risky to those of us adapted to staying active, but it works for a variety of animal groups, and not just herps. In Maryland, black bears, groundhogs, and bats seek burrows or other shelter to sleep away the cold winter months. A recent article on hibernating bats illustrated a unique use of snow dens for chilling out in winter.
What about those animals that use migration as a means of surviving winter? To better understand the incredible sense of direction demonstrated by birds, butterflies, dragonflies, and other migrating creatures, the JE classes explored magnetism.
We made floating compasses with magnetized needles,
drew treasure maps to practice compass directions,
and practiced orienting ourselves outdoors using the sun and other natural clues.
It is hard to grasp how other animals instinctively find their way to distant destinations, just as it is difficult to imagine being drawn into a long period of dormancy. For humans, we decided, the most elemental attraction in the cold of winter is a warm campfire. With marshmallows.
“A significant lack of recent rain, and unusual heat during the month of September, led to the development of what is called “flash drought” across a large portion of the area. This essentially means that the short-term dryness and heat quickly overcame the long-term record wetness we experienced between April 2018 and the early summer of 2019. Although the heat has ended, significant rain has not yet been observed, so drought conditions persist.” National Weather Service, October 8, 2019
If you live along the East Coast, chances are you noticed how dry it was in late summer and early fall, though this “flash drought” came as somewhat of a surprise after the extended sogginess of the previous year. Given the vital role that water plays in the lives of all living things, and its effects on non-living ecosystem components as well, the JE classes embarked on an intensive study of the many characteristics that make water so central to our lives.
We began by learning about physical and chemical properties of water. Positive, neutral, and negative buoyancy were introduced using numerous objects, and by learning to make and test reasonable predictions. Classifying objects by their float-ability was more challenging than many expected.
Experimenting with different densities and surface areas enabled more accurate generalizations, and we followed this with the classic penny boat challenge: “How many Abraham Lincolns can you keep afloat on your foil boat?” Results ranged from 0 to an astounding 200+. The cardboard boats that followed used wind power to move across our mini-ocean and featured creative detailing that tested the boats’ balance and waterproofing.
Having seen negative (sinking) and positive (floating) buoyancy in action, we attempted to achieve neutral buoyancy (within the water column). Our rock/balloon constructions mimicked fish and submarines with swim bladders and ballast tanks, with success dependent on finding just the right balance.
Next, it was time to review water’s different states of matter: solid, liquid, and gas. We enacted the difference in energy between these three states by playing a tag game where kids responded to a shouted prompt by finding others to quickly form an unmoving solid or flowing liquid, or by running away as a gas molecule. We also had fun trying to predict liquid capacity in different containers and playing with dry ice reactions.
Our typical introduction to the water cycle involves learning big words with big movements. Students jump off the classroom tables while shouting “Precipitation!”, “Runoff!” to the corners of the room, “Evaporation!” while climbing back onto the tables, and “Condensation!” while huddling together as cloud vapor.
This year, we added a technology component: augmented reality in the form of a MergeCube. This cool tool pairs with an iPad to create 3-dimensional views of all sorts of science content. For this lesson, we were able to make each stage of the water cycle play out in a miniature world complete with water raining onto and running off a mountain into streams and a lake, and then evaporating into wispy clouds. We reinforced these images with one more game, creating large cardboard dice showing different parts of the water cycle and designing multi-player game boards.
Throughout these water-based activities, we talked often of the lack of rain and how it might be affecting our campus. The small stream in the woods, which has its source in groundwater seeps, has sometimes dried up during extended droughts. This year it persisted throughout the fall, though with diminishing flow. Frogs, crayfish, and salamanders were found in the deeper pockets, but the vegetation along the banks hung limp and pale, lacking its usual fall vibrancy.
“Where is this water still coming from, if there’s no rain?” we wondered. The NWS report indicated that, in spite of the drought, deep groundwater remained at relatively normal levels, which apparently continued to supply us with enough water to keep the stream flowing. By October 15, however, still with no rain in sight, our region’s drought status had changed to severe. Groundwater levels were dropping.
A week later, relief arrived in the form of several days of drizzle and occasional heavy rainfall. The air along the newly recharged stream is pungent now and “finally smells like fall,” one frog hunter declared as he studied the current.
Our final water topic currently underway is a study of fish adaptations for underwater life. Given the erratic nature of our weather patterns this fall, and the tendency toward more extreme weather events and water quality impact as our climate warms, the challenge will be to design fish with adaptations to survive such changes. Mudskippers may once again have their moment.
During a recent Back-to-School night, parents gathered in the science building to hear how their children would be spending their time in science classes this year. After my introduction, a parent raised her hand. “What will you be using the animals for?” I scanned the room, taking in the dozen or so habitats housing snakes, guinea pigs, a poison dart frog, fish, zebra finches…A simple question with a multifaceted answer. Very few classrooms feature so much biodiversity, at least of the vertebrate kind. Yet each of these animals, rescued or donated by families who could no longer keep their pet, plays an important role as an ambassador for its species. Each displays characteristics that help children understand it not just as an individual, but as representing a lineage distinct from humans and each other. Animals are also attention magnets, capable of capturing and holding a child’s focus while delivering immediate multisensory reinforcement of concepts that are being taught. This space is a “companionable zoo” where animals are partners in the learning process.
In last week’s JE classes, our older Russian tortoise, Borise, took center stage. As the students sketched her, she wandered around the table, occasionally meandering onto one of the kids’ dry-erase boards. “Hey! She likes me! She likes the drawing I did of her!” they would shout. Eventually, the focus became whose work Borise liked best, as evidenced by her movement toward a particular sketch.
Was the tortoise really paying attention to the drawings? What other variable could entice her to choose one direction over another? Food? Light? Shelter? These are things that we can and will test, with respectful, humane, and scientific methods, setting in motion an increasingly sophisticated inquiry process over students’ years at Jemicy and beyond. Employing our easily observable (and yes, endearing) classroom animalsas demonstrators of specialized adaptations enlarges our perspective on the experience of non-human others. How are they like us? How are they different? Why do they display these differences?
M Group’s first science research project identifies some of these key characteristics of our classroom animals. Each student chooses an animal to observe, while also researching the natural history of its species in the wild. Every year there are eye-opening discoveries that lead to critical discussions about research methods, physiology, cultural differences, the pet trade, reproduction, climate, etc.
“It says that ball pythons only live about 10 years in the wild, but 30 years in captivity. Does that mean Blotch set a new record? And how do they know how long they live in the wild?”
“Oh NO! They EAT guinea pigs in South America?!”
“All the Chilean tarantulas I see online are very hairy. Why is Sponge Bob bald?”
“If it’s called a poison dart frog, why isn’t Blue poisonous? And if he’s not poisonous, why can’t I hold him?”
“Why can’t I find any pictures of molly fish eggs?”
“The chinchilla is so soft, it’s like you can’t even feel her fur! But why won’t she let us hold her?”
Every day, the younger JE groups spend part of their class time with a particular animal, learning about its adaptations and accompanying vocabulary. Did you know that some snakes have vestigial legs? That a tortoise cannot crawl out of its carapace and plastron? That a gecko’s tail can regenerate? That snakes have no eyelids, and they shed the “brille” that covers their eyes? That guinea pigs are coprophagic?
Sometimes we are able to hold or touch an animal, and sometimes not. An often-repeated phrase: “It’s not about what you want. It’s about what they need.” A snake that is hungry, a chinchilla that needs her space, a bird that will always view us as predators, a bearded dragon in defensive “blue beard” or “pancake” mode: these are all animals whose behavioral response to humans we learn to identify and respect.
How to convey the significance of animals to parents in such a brief moment? I may have said, “The animals support what we teach and the importance of respecting others.” What I hope this really means is that their continued presence in our classroom will engender not only a scientific but also a humane approach to interacting with diverse creatures that are wholly dependent upon us for survival.