“Well,” I started still not fully aware of the importance she placed on it.
She interrupted, “It’s this place. It’s the animals. It is what you do with the kids. He WANTS to write!”
I got it. I understood. This was the kind of kid’s reaction I wanted. I wanted Habitat House to create a connection between the real world and the artificial world of academics. He needed the concrete link. The animals became the teacher, the routines and tasks were the lesson plans. I was merely the facilitator. I set the stage for them to interact together. In the process, we all got what we needed.
I loved going to work.
The meeting ended with Rob’s mom making the statement, “If this program has this effect on Robert, I want to do anything I can so that other children can have the same experience. I want to help you at Habitat! Can you use me?”
“Sure,” I said jumping at the offer. She had no idea how much help I needed, nor how much she would ultimately give.
The mom became my volunteer assistant, gradually taking over much of the day-to-day operations for the extensive collection of animals. She was on a first name basis with Albert Einswine, our potbelly pig, Goata Meier, the pygmy goat, Balboa, an infamous eight-foot resident boa constrictor and Larry, a northern lobster. What she did not know, she learned. She coordinated scheduling other parents and the Habitat grew, flourishing with her help.
When Robert left elementary school, his younger sister, Rebecca, joined the lunchtime program. She and her mom continued Rob’s legacy of hard work and commitment. We took Habitat on the road, visiting local nursing homes where the students presented their favorite animals. We established a Saturday open house so children from around the whole school district could bring their parents and enjoy the Center. More than a thousand children experienced nature up close and personal within its walls. It became well known in the community.
As Rob grew older, we had less and less contact. We ended like the bittersweet folk song, Puff the Magic Dragon. It contains the line, “Painted wings and giant rings make way for other toys,” Rob grew out of Habitat. He exchanged childhood play for cars and work. Upon his high school graduation, our contact ended all together.
Not long after his graduation, I also left the Habitat when I retired from the district. In a sad development, Habitat House had to close its doors. No teacher was willing to accept the intimidating challenge of running the gifted program and maintaining Habitat House. Few colleagues shared my perspective on education or my expertise in science. The District would not hire someone to run Habitat alone. The collection was available to the community for adoption. Area nature centers accepted the remaining specimens. Interested schools took the equipment.
Although I no longer see Rob or his family and children no longer visit the Habitat, some things remain. For example, I can always see the glowing image of Cathy sitting on the bed that night. As a beacon brightly shining in the darkness of my memory, it reminds me of Puff and another magical land we called Honah-Lee.
The lesson in this was with adequate motivation set in the proper environment, young and old thrive. Diverse educational opportunity at their best over-come many barriers to authentic learning. For Rob the Habitat House was one such place.
A Master Teacher
I always thought myself a decent teacher. I loved my work and threw myself into it. For twenty-three years, I crafted my style and honed my skills. By age forty-four, I felt a seasoned and competent educator. Life, both personal and professional, had developed a rich fullness like a ripening fruit in the warmth of the summer’s sun, blemishes and all. While there were some who chose superlatives to describe my work, I simply visualized myself as dedicated and hard working. There were no doubts, as actor Jack Nicholson quipped in a movie, life was “As good as it gets.”
As good as my realm was it was also just as temporary. My world was vulnerable. My castle was built out of sand and sat beside the sea.
It all began to shift with the onset of those innocent-seeming muscle cramps. It crumbled with that call from my neurologist. It put me under a death sentence. ALS runs its nasty, fatal, paralyzing course in a flash.
The first of many choices I faced was how to spend the rest of my life. This was not a yes or no question. The answer did come easily. Quite early, I made my decision. My life was good: I wouldn’t change a thing. In spite of the challenges to come, I knew I wanted to continue teaching.
Little did I realize that these darkest hours would produce my brightest moments. Along my journey with the disease. I eased from teacher to learner: from leader to explorer. The most profound lessons were still to come. As I battled ALS in the public’s eye, my class, my school and my district became my allies. We all became a team, learning life’s important lessons together. Here is one simple story that epitomizes the interrelationship between us all.
As mentioned, the Habitat House was an incubator producing numerous examples of this interaction. It housed many dozens of varying animal species gathered for children in a “living laboratory.” Lunch periods found my room a veritable beehive of activity. Like worker drones, children were in perpetual motion tending to their charges. A large magnetic chalkboard ruled off into a grid, served as the master scheduler. It listed a myriad of feeding details including animal names, cage numbers, food types and amounts.
The chalkboard was a self-directing manager. Each animal had a small square magnet occupying the last square of the grid. One side was red and green on the other. When a student scanned the board for a task to complete, they saw which jobs needed to be completed -they were green. Upon selection of a particular “green, go” job, the student must turn the magnet to red, signaling, to other children, “Stop—it’s done.” Then they set about doing the task. Perhaps they needed to weigh out twenty-one grams of oats for the Egyptian spiny mouse, change the hay in the Pigmy goat enclosure, measure 125 milliliters of water for the chinchilla or sample the Ph in one of the aquariums. Each new marking period, another crop of lunchtime would-be naturalists stride into Habitat, ready for work.
On one of the orientation sessions for a new group, a timid third grader listened to my detailed procedures. When instructed, she approached the board and viewed her options. Her head rotated as she scanned the list. After an inordinate interval, she turned and stared off in my direction. Sensing something, I labored toward her.
“Mr. P, I need help. I want to feed the iguana but can’t,” I barely heard her say over the busy background noise.
I bent down to inquire the nature of her problem. I gently probed, “Do you understand the board?”
Her head bobbed in affirmation. Perplexed, I searched wider. “And, you know where the supplies are?”
Again, she nodded. Her eyes, on level with mine, seemed tense and unsure. I remained hunched to be close. Her statement stumped me. “Well honey, what is it?”
She raised her hand, index finger extended and pointed to the chalkboard. Her arm angled up and fixed on the iguana. It was the highest choice.
“It’s too high; I can’t reach to turn the magnet. My arms are too short; will you do it for me?”
The pint-sized waif stood looking at me awaiting my intervention. I froze, helpless, as I sensed my own paralyzed arms hanging limply at my side. I, the teacher, was unable to help this young girl with her simple request. She waited with an innocent stare that burned through me. I interpreted her body language as saying, “Well, are you going to help me or not?” I couldn’t.
As I faced the decision to teach with increasing disabilities brought on by ALS, a haunting thought always shadowed me. Would I recognize when the time comes that I should retire, when my limitations exceed my contributions? Sixty odd years ago, my disease’s namesake, Lou Gehrig, faced the same decisive moment. After a historic string of over 2,000 games stretching 13 years, Lou left baseball.
“Leave at the top of your