Out of trees

Trees are easy to take for granted. Standing leafless in the Jemicy woods, dark trunks braced resolutely against the wind, ice, and snow that winter throws at them, they are part of the background landscape. It’s also easy to forget how much of what we deem essential comes from those same solid trunks. 32855191774_f1f3a773c3_oWhile we wait for them to end their dormancy and reveal the first buds of spring, late winter is a good time to look around and acknowledge the presence and value of trees in virtually everything we do. I challenged my classes, as we went about our normal routines and special projects in the last few weeks, to give a shout out to items derived from trees. Some uses were immediately obvious: the classroom furniture, the paper we write on, the wood chips in some animal habitats. But others were more unusual, or creatively Jemicy-esque:

  • A paper Valentine delivered to a rat, who added it to her shredded paper beddingratvalentine
  • A hamster maze made of re-purposed paperIMG_0837
  • A scrap wood bench custom-built for a stuffed animalIMG_0705
  • Trebuchet frames

 

M Group students, learning about the layers of a tree’s trunk and vascular system, created “tree cookie” pendant necklaces from slices of branches that allowed them to see the annual rings formed in the xylem.

tree cookie

We examined different kinds of fibers and spent a week recycling paper scraps collected from around the school, turning them into our own paper creations.

The best part of learning about the xylem and phloem layers of the tree trunk, though, may be getting to taste what they produce. As the late winter sap began to move from the roots up the tree, carrying sugars formed in last year’s leaves, it was time to see what we could harvest. Once again, we repurposed plastic containers into buckets, drilled holes and tapped in spiles, and hoped for a stretch of cold nights and warmer days.

We managed to collect a few gallons and boiled some of it down over a bonfire (naturally, toasting marshmallows while we waited). Almost everything around us there, it seemed, came from trees: the wood for the fire, the marshmallow sticks, the logs that served as benches, the sap, the leafy mulch beneath our feet.

Once the sap run ended, we turned to our final tree-based winter project: birdhouse construction. Since we do this annually, we first checked previously installed boxes, cleaned out old nests and composted any wood that had rotted.trees-5 For the new houses, we examined the boards that we would use, learning about their grain, the knots where branches once attached, the way pine trees are grown and milled. In teams, the kids measured, cut, decorated, and assembled the birdhouses.

Amid the sounds of cardinals and woodpeckers announcing their spring territory in the woods, we installed the new birdhouses. Nearby, we are marking off an area to establish a small forest restoration project, with new tree plantings and the replenishment of understory biodiversity: an opportunity to give back to a patch of woods that we have taken for granted.

 

 

 

 

 

Eggventures

“An egg, because it contains life, is the most perfect thing there is.”

EB White, “The Trumpet of the Swan”

Many years ago while trying to come up with new ways to teach children about animal migration, I wondered, “What activity could simulate sending a fragile, minimally protected creature on a long voyage fraught with hazards, with the ability to track its progress and ultimate fate?” Coincidentally, I had just decorated and mailed off some eggs to far-flung friends and family, and was anxiously awaiting news of their arrival. To my relief, the eggs survived, their journeys across the country creating a joyful web of long distance reconnections.

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Thus the Great Egg Migration was hatched.

Every winter, Jemicy 4th graders research animals that migrate, learning about their geographical range, food needs, and breeding grounds. We examine eggs, test their shells, discussing the variables that could cause them to be weaker or stronger. Students decorate an egg with an image of their migrating animal and carefully blow out the contents leaving the eggshell intact.

Students then construct a box, package the egg (meeting a 4 oz. maximum weight requirement), and enclose a note to the recipient requesting an email response with photos when it arrives.  Using maps, we plot possible routes and predict arrival times. We mail the packages from a local post office. And wait.

In the first few years of this project, we encouraged the migration of eggs overseas. We have records of eggs arriving safely in Australia and Japan, Uganda and Uruguay, Sicily and South Africa.

Some of the enthusiastic recipients kept the egg migrations going by carrying them to new destinations: into the Alps, on a Balkan cruise, across the English Channel. One lucky egg – the Mandarin Fish – traveled quite literally around the world and to every continent except Antarctica in the luggage of a student’s friend, who (we surmised) had the enviable job of previewing celebrity accommodations. For two years, Greg sent us travelogues, with descriptions of the view and photos of the egg enjoying the local sights.

Customs restrictions and soaring postal rates now prevent us from sending our eggs overseas, but even within the US, our eggs are managing to find adventures. This year, one egg mailed to a ski resort in Pennsylvania got to go skiing, while another egg migrated to California and then took a road trip up the coast.

Given the minimal packaging that the eggs receive for their travels, their success rate has been amazing. And everywhere the eggs migrate, they seem to bring extraordinary pleasure to the recipients, who proudly display them in their new locale.

Although most of our migrating eggs have enjoyed remarkably healthy journeys, one not-so-lucky traveler (a whale shark egg named Eggbert) that arrived in Thailand several years ago inspired a picture book featuring visits with his “cousins” to see elephants, a temple, and even a fish spa. The following letter that we received from Thailand remains unrivaled in the annals of the Great Egg Migration, evidence that even a cracked egg contains the life of a story, and can still be, as EB White noted, the most perfect thing there is.

“I must admit, Eggbert is a little worse for the wear – apparently he didn’t travel over easy and was bedeviled by all the air turbulence, but looking at the sunny side, at least he arrived in one major piece (and several smaller ones).image

His arrival was a surprise but we scrambled and quickly hatched a plan to get a welcoming party together and, as you can see from the picture, quite a few of his Thai cousins came out to greet him, I believe it was over a dozen!  At first his mood was a bit fowl but it soon brightened!  He definitely had a great timer.

You may have thought Eggbert was a hard-boiled sort of fellow, but underneath that shell of his, he’s an old softie!  I think I even saw his eyes get a bit runny.  Don’t misunderstand me, he’s quite brave and definitely not a chicken.  And smart!  What an egghead!  Not to mention funny:  he cracked us all up with his many witty yolks!

For now, though, Eggbert simply needs a break.  He’s a bit fried from all the activity and just wants to lay low.  I assure you though that we will take wonderful care of him and show him all the sights.  He really is a good egg.”

On the move

Last weekend’s entertainment was watching geese attempt to land on the ice-covered quarry lake. They sailed in toward the surface as if it were a normal water landing, fanning their wings to slow down, tails spread in black and white chevrons, feet aimed to brake. Only at the last second did they seem to grasp that something was different, but it was too late – they were off in a wild, uncontrolled skid that ended only when they collided with another goose.

goose ice landing

This activity was reminiscent of the JE kids this winter, during a unit spent learning about simple machines, gravity, laws of motion, and friction.

After practicing and illustrating these concepts in the classroom with pizza box pinball games and wooden cars, we wanted to test them outdoors. Gravity pulled us down the hill into the woods, where we searched for surfaces with reduced friction. Sure enough, along the stream several patches of ice proved large enough to slide and spin on.

Just a week or so before this, we had received enough snow to blanket the steep hillside above the playing field. Jemicy’s long tradition of sledding during recess was quickly revived, with all manner of sleds racing down the hill.

During aftercare, we set up tests to see if we could extend our runs by changing different variables: running first for momentum, sitting vs. lying down, saucers vs. rectangular sleds.

We watched with regret over the course of the week as the snow eventually melted into muddy tracks and the ice into puddles. But today a new storm system pushed more snow our way, school closed early, and one six year old left the science room singing, “Inertia, inertia – I’m gonna go play with inertia!”

goose landing

 

 

 

 

 

Adaptation

The theme of adaptations has dominated science room projects for the past month. On the walls hang displays of different fungi models made by C Group, dioramas by M Group depicting birds that they have invented, and a colorful array of prehistoric creatures made by the JE kids.  Though each of these focuses on a different group of organisms, they share the concept of demonstrating a specialized fit within a particular environment – one that allows them to survive and succeed as a species.

It is a hot topic not just at Jemicy, but everywhere right now as we try to understand how different species are faring in a rapidly changing climate. The recent article below describes how the Galapagos, the place that sparked our understanding of evolution, faces its own unique challenges of adaptation.

Adaptation can refer to a relationship with – and adjustment to – an immediate environment (like our classroom tortoises’ seasonal behavior changes, likely triggered by the amount of daylight they perceive) or the natural selection of certain traits that aid survival over time (like the formidable jaws of a Tyrannosaurus rex). T rex

The 7th graders studying fungi focused on certain mushrooms’ striking appearance. I urged them to delve deeper, to ask questions: “Why is this mushroom blue? Why does that one glow in the dark? What’s up with this one’s weird shape?” While the blue mushroom derives its color from methyl stearate, we discovered, it has no obvious adaptive benefits – or at least none that we have discovered yet. Glowing green mushrooms, on the other hand, may or may not attract nocturnal animals that will eat them and disperse their spores. The lattice fungus has a structure that allows the dispersal of its spores by animals attracted to its powerful odor.

The 4th graders’ mission was to create a bird that would demonstrate adaptation to a particular chosen habitat, including unique ways of getting food, evading predators, and successfully raising a family. To accompany this project, we watched videos of birds displaying incredible adaptations for displaying, feeding, raising young, and surviving extremes.

Then I decided to share one of my favorite books with them. It features such rarities as the Blue Dart (that pierces its prey in flight with its needle-sharp bill), an owl that roosts upside down like a bat, and a bird that uses its curved bill to swing from tree to tree while calling like a famous vine-swinging human.

After reading several descriptions and receiving only expressions of amazement, I told the class the story of one of my students years ago who fell for an internet hoax about the endangered tree octopus. Slowly, it began to dawn on the kids that the bird field guide was fictional. After all, isn’t the crosscut sawbill’s limb-lopping ability nearly as believable as the pileated woodpecker’s ability to excavate huge holes in tree trunks? They noted ruefully that each “species” could never have survived for more than a single generation with these incredible adaptations.

But who knows – maybe somewhere out in a deep, vast ocean there really does lurk a Yeti bird with a beak adapted into a lengthy snorkel or a purple and blue pelican gliding silently through the bayous.

 

 

Immersed

An afternoon carpool ritual: I walk with a student to her parent’s car, open the door, and call, “It was a good day!” while gesturing toward the child’s muddy shoes and picking a leaf out of her hair. Fortunately, most Jemicy parents will smile and agree wholeheartedly that a day well spent leaves plenty of evidence to clean up later.

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Kids work hard and play hard, and, like many other creatures, are naturally drawn to elements that they can dive into. While most other animals might use these primarily for bathing, there is no doubt that there is a simple delight in feeling completely covered in something other than air. Our classroom chinchilla and button quail love regular dust baths, flipping around in every direction to coat their fur and feathers, while the zebra finches hop into their freshly filled water dishes and splash energetically.  I especially enjoy watching waterfowl, who are meticulous, thorough bathers.

 

Water, dust, mud, snow – all are attractive in their own way, even if not for purposes of cleanliness.

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Kids who play in the woods know the best spots to sink into what they call “quick mud” – irresistibly oozy, sticky mud pits along the stream that have claimed many a boot.

mudboys

The puddles that appear on the playground during wet seasons are also magnets for the younger students. Unplanned but highly popular features, they support numerous fun activities, from rock fishing to impromptu water ballet.

Before fall gives way to winter and the delights of snow, we also celebrate one of the briefest, yet crunchiest and most aromatic of immersive experiences: the gift of leaves.

All of these activities are just that – active. Their purpose is to surround oneself with new sensations, to encounter and manage the unknown for pure pleasure – in other words, to play.303047_190595997684573_439728440_n

In Japan, a different kind of outdoor immersive activity has emerged: Shinrin-yoku, or forest bathing. Recent research suggests many positive benefits from this stress-reducing, health-promoting practice of spending time relaxing in a forest setting.

At school, we call this “recess.”

Attitude

November brought Jemicy its first snow of the year, along with some species that we had never seen at school before. Purple finches crowded into the feeding stations along with the usual house finches and goldfinches.

purple finches

There was some jostling for position, but all the finches seemed able to gain access – until a blue jay showed up. With a raucous squawk, the blue jay dove down from a branch, scattering the smaller birds.

Once the blue jay finally left, the smaller finches wasted no time returning to feed.

Late fall is a season that tests an animal’s readiness for winter survival. Will the groundhog evade the hungry coyote long enough to fatten itself sufficiently before hibernating? Will the bluebirds find enough berries to compensate for diminished insect numbers?

A predator like an eagle holds a position at the apex of a food web, allowing it to survey meal options relatively unperturbed.  For smaller animals, though, the drive to find food, establish feeding and breeding territory, and simply survive the threats of predators can result in what looks (to human eyes) like either virtual disappearance or a major in-your-face attitude.

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Waterfowl spend considerable time and energy signaling their attitudes toward others of their species. At the small quarry lake that I visit regularly, male hooded mergansers will seem to be feeding or bathing peaceably near each other, and then in the next instant, one lowers its head and attempts to drive another off.merganser chase

Canada geese put on elaborate shows to claim a favorite vantage point on a protruding rock near the shore.

 

I was accustomed to seeing these overt, tongue-sticking-out displays with larger birds, but was surprised to find a diminutive field sparrow using the same tactic to chase a bluebird away from its bounty of berries.field sparrow 1

The opposite strategy – becoming invisible – is one of the most frustrating aspects for me while trying to observe birds in the fall.  Some diving ducks are masters of the art. I think of them as “quantum birds” for their seeming ability to exist and disappear in the virtually same instant.

Sparrows, too, have this quality. A walk along a trail can flush 20 small, brown birds which manage instantly to vanish into the brush. The collective noun for sparrows is a “dissimulation.” It wasn’t until I saw the other meaning of the word – the act of concealing one’s feelings –  that I grasped how perfectly it suited the adaptation of foraging sparrows to disappear into sameness as opposed to expressing a strong, visible attitude toward intruders (though if you look closely, this sparrow clearly appears to be mocking me).sparrow hiding

Last week in the woods during recess we discovered a creature whose change in attitude precisely served its intended purpose. It was an adult garter snake taking advantage of one last sunny day to forage along the stream. Startled by kids coming along the trail, it had tried the vanishing trick of coiling itself underwater. When this failed and I drew it out onto the bank, its response was unusually fervent.

Its defensive adaptations – the flattened head and simulated strikes – were impressive, making it clear that this snake had no intention of becoming someone else’s meal. It was an attitude whose vehemence spoke to the lateness of the season and the narrowing window of opportunity to find sustenance and safe winter quarters. We left it minutes later in its power pose, still flicking its tongue and weaving its head warily back and forth, sizing up our retreat before vanishing for good.

Arachtober

We may be a little late to the Arachtober party this year, but it’s never too late to celebrate the 8-leggeds among us. Following the costumed craziness of a Halloween morning at school, some middle schoolers joined me today for a spider hike in the woods. We started in the science room, admiring the subtle beauty of our resident tarantula, Webster. Then we headed into the woods, pausing to flip logs and examine minute webs strung between small branches.web103118.jpg

Most of the spiders we found on webs were tiny offspring hatched this summer, already proficient orb-spinners. Along the stream, fishing spiders spread themselves flat against the ground, perfectly camouflaged. We snared several spiders dangling on single strands of silk, but these evaded us by dropping quickly to the ground and vanishing.

Our final spider discovery was a large web that appeared abandoned, along the path on our way back up the hill. Then we spied a curled leaf at one side, and tucked in it, a lovely marbled orb weaver. She was intent on eating her most recent victim (which looked like it might be another of her kind) and she fixed her many eyes upon us without releasing her grip on her prey. We took her picture and then left her to eat her treat in peace.spider103118a

For more Jemicy arachnids, check out the gallery below:

Mis-placed plants

“But make no mistake:  the weeds will win; nature bats last.”  Robert Michael Pyle

My last post celebrated having reached over 400 identified species at Jemicy. Why, then, would these kids be cheering an effort to reduce that number?

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A few weeks ago, this group went for a hike into the far Jemicy woods. I told them only that we were on a mission and brought along a bag, so they assumed that we were picking up trash. “Not exactly,” I replied, “although what we are looking for doesn’t belong here, and we’re going to try to get rid of it. It’s right under a red flag.” We found the flag, but the kids looked around, puzzled. “There’s nothing wrong here – just some grass.” I bent down and pulled up one of the low plants at our feet. It had wide, wavy leaves. “See this? It’s called wavy-leaf basketgrass. We’re not sure how it got here – probably by a seed stuck to someone’s shoe, or in mulch – but it can spread very quickly and keep other plants from growing here. So, do you think we can get every one of these little plants out of the ground and into this bag?” “Yes!”

10-10-18 wavyleaf basketgrass

We hunted and bagged plants until the area was clear, declared our mission a success for that day, and made plans to come back in the spring to check for those that might have evaded us.

Jemicy’s woods, like much of our region, is full of plants that are considered invasive, as defined by the US Department of Agriculture: “non-native (or alien) to the ecosystem under consideration, and… likely to cause economic or environmental harm or harm to human health.” The Maryland list contains many species that were intentionally introduced for ornamental or practical purposes – as a food crop, perhaps, or to stabilize eroded slopes. Jemicy’s Lower and Middle School campus has 20 of these, most so firmly established that there is little hope of eradicating them. While many introduced species remain contained and manageable, others “escape,” their seeds carried by birds, the wind, or inadvertent human transport. The effects of these aggressive colonizers can range from shading out native species to trapping them in a permanent stranglehold. While we do have some native wild grapes, most of the “Tarzan vines” that snake up our trees and drape the canopy of our woods are introduced and now invasive species of bittersweet (Celastrus orbiculatus) and honeysuckle (Lonicera japonica).

 

Porcelain berry (Ampelopsis brevipedunculata) is a more recent invader whose broad leaves and tenacious tendrils create a thick blanket along the edges of the woods – and whose bright blue berries are eagerly eaten and transported by hungry birds.

robin porcelainberry

Some of these introduced plants bear a strong resemblance to native species. For years I had assumed that the spiky-stemmed, purple-fruited trees growing at Jemicy were the  Maryland native, devils’ walking stick (Aralia spinosa). When I went to photograph them for inclusion on our biodiversity checklist, however, a closer look at their leaf veins revealed that they were instead Aralia elata, an introduced species now regarded as invasive.

I often cite George Washington Carver’s words to my students when we are discussing the value of plants such as dandelions or other introduced agricultural species: “A weed is a flower in the wrong place.” One of the stories that I remember my mother telling about my grandfather was that he inspected for “noxious weeds” growing along the roadsides of farms in Ontario. That term left me with the vivid impression that some weeds were worse than others, defined by our need to manage them.  That “wrong place” is one that allows the plant in question to grow and spread without constraint, where it lacks its native consumers, pests, and environmental controls, and where it impinges on human interests, which increasingly include the value of ecological integrity. Garlic mustard (Alliaria petiolata) is an example of an introduced food plant that can rapidly inundate and obliterate the smaller plants in a forest understory, to the detriment of other species that depend on them.

garlic mustard

During aftercare this week, a student brought something to show me. “What’s this?” she asked. I hesitated, envisioning the chain of events that could follow my response. Paulownia tomentosa, or princess tree, is one of those plants that was introduced here intentionally from eastern Asia, as an ornamental. In the spring, it puts out large, lovely, purple blossoms that sometimes still contain a taste of delectable nectar after they fall. They have large, heart-shaped, fuzzy leaves and interesting boat-shaped seed pods that open to release hundreds of tiny seeds. Once the wind gets hold of them, they can sail for miles.

paulownia

In the end, after explaining my concern, I let the pod-finder open it and explore the seeds in a place where I thought they would not be spread.  A few days later, I saw the same student pointing out more pods to another child, and explaining what they were. Nature may bat last, but educators hope we have a few innings left to help make up for a few errors.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Milestone

We’ve reached a biodiversity milestone! Five years ago, in the summer of 2013, Jemicy School joined the Maryland Biodiversity Project, an endeavor founded in 2012 with the goal of documenting all the species of Maryland. When MBP founders Bill Hubick and Jim Brighton asked whether we would like to be one of their featured sites – offering to help us identify Jemicy’s biodiversity, from fungi to fauna, from ant species to plant species, and everything in between – we jumped at the chance. Today, five years later, our site checklist has surpassed 400  identified species. Many more species have been photographed and are under review, but all can be found in our Jemicy biodiversity album.

Documenting new species on our school grounds has become second nature, an integral part of daily teaching and learning. In just the past few weeks, we collected dozens of images and specimens:

The soundtrack to this ongoing bioblitz – heard at recess, during aftercare, or abruptly in the middle of a class – is usually some variation of “Quick, get your camera! I found something!”

Sometimes we make a deliberate and focused effort, as in the seasonal fungi, plant and invertebrate hunts that send the younger students scouring their play areas for new species in specific categories. Among other things, we’ve learned that worms and slugs are escape artists.

Usually, though, the process of locating and documenting our local species is a natural part of how children learn science at Jemicy – by following their inherent desire to explore and discover. It takes little more than the willingness to follow a child to wherever they have made their discovery, to provide oversight for temporary, humane capture and release, and to appreciate every find, no matter how small or apparently common. One experience from our first year partnering with MBP has become a now iconic story shared with each incoming class: A group of 6 year olds coming to science class stopped me on the patio outside, insisting that I photograph ants (that I could barely see) crawling on a single piece of popcorn. I obliged, reluctantly, assuming that this was probably a waste of time. But no – those minuscule, nearly overlooked creatures turned out to be “pavement ants,” a new species record for the project.

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Some kids talk about their participation in the biodiversity project the way others might describe reaching a new video game level.  Two 8 year old girls discussing their finds: “I just got a new record for a beetle.” “Cool! I remember when I got my first one – a cute little jumping spider.” They love to scroll through our Flickr album and recall who found what, where, and when, calling out, “That’s my hand!” or “That crayfish almost got me!” The photographic records themselves have become a valuable teaching tool. Printed out as cards, the images are used for sorting and classifying, for comparing to new specimens, for examining adaptations and features specific to different plant, fungi, and animal groups.

Our 5-year bioblitz has yielded a trove of information and revealed some glaring gaps. Arthropods dominate our checklist, and we need to find ways to better document plants and fungi. I have no doubt, however, that the enthusiasm for finding new species that brought us this far will continue to expand our checklist well beyond this milestone, while helping us to recognize the value of documenting all forms of life.

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The senses of wonder

“Whatever we touch is touching us.”  Paulus Berensohn

Ten years ago, on an early fall day, I stood at the top of the hill at Jemicy looking down into the woods. The foliage was still thick and green, obscuring much of the activity that I was supposed to be recording. A torrent of kids had just swept past me and disappeared into that tangle of trees, but their voices carried along the stream below and up the hillside. The woods had just opened for recess, and everyone was scrambling to explore, to find animals, and to claim fort territory.

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As I watched and tried to determine the best way to follow the children featured in my research, a new student joined me. She paused, scanning the woods, watching her new classmates disappear into the brush. Assuming that she was feeling daunted by the wildness of the scene before her, I was just about to offer to accompany her down the steep hill when she turned to me, her eyes wide.

“How,” she gasped, “did this place get to be so amazing?”

I discovered later, after interviewing this student with her parents, that she was awe-struck, expecting to find a recess environment similar to her old school. There, her choices consisted of an asphalt pad and a manicured soccer field. It didn’t take long before she was fully, physically engaged in the activities typical of the Jemicy woods recess setting: collecting and trading goods, constructing shelters, meandering along trails chatting with friends.

Expressions of wonder may happen in a split second or last much longer, in response to a single encounter or one that is ongoing. Whether expressed verbally, with a wide-eyed gape, a smile of pleasure, or through intense mutual scrutiny, they represent unparalleled learning conduits. JJ Gibson, who developed the theory of affordances, explained it this way: “An affordance cuts across the dichotomy of subjective-objective.” This is never more evident than when observing children in a state of wonder, fully immersed in and attentive to the relationship of that moment, especially when it involves the sense of touch.

 

The students that I teach may have difficulty sustaining focus with certain learning tasks. When holding a snake or other animal, this is not an issue. Handling requires constant awareness and assessment of both parties, the location of their bodies and the negotiation of movement between them.  The animals that share my classroom are therapeutic, providing not only opportunities for curiosity, amazement, and enhanced learning, but also for highly focused empathy.

The same goes for the animals that we encounter outside – usually amphibians or invertebrates such as insects, worms and crustaceans. Their touch on our skin creates unaccustomed sensations – slimy, tickling, or clingy – that remind us to respect their otherness.

A few weeks ago we brought in some milkweed that had fallen over by a sidewalk at school and was in danger of being trampled. There were many monarch caterpillars still feasting on it, and we decided to let them safely go through metamorphosis in our classroom visitor tank. Last Friday, they began to emerge, one by one, but so quickly that we could never catch them in that amazing moment of transformation. One of the kids suggested taping my phone to the tank and doing a time lapse:

Later that morning, still more adults were ready to release:

The final monarch to emerge seemed in no hurry to fly. Instead, it rested calmly, clinging to eagerly offered nose launchpads, eliciting gasps of “It tickles!” It fanned its wings slowly a few times before lifting off and fluttering quickly toward the south, its final delicate touch leaving an indelible memory.