Kentucky Association for Environmental Education

What are the moments that you have experienced as an environmental educator, when you realized that what you were doing was making a difference? Was there one teacher who really opened your eyes to the environment?  Or a student whose life was touched by nature? We invite you to share your story with us. By sharing our stories, we can give each other hope and inspiration.  Sharing with potential new members can help KAEE grow.  Please send your story to put in contact info for the newsletter editor and this site.

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By: Rosetta Fackler
Want to hear a dirty story? Oh not THAT kind of dirty – I’m talking about real dirt, mud and yucky water. All of you clean-niks prepare yourselves, this is not pretty. When I was eight we moved from Louisville to a much more rural area. Being the adventuresome sort, I soon found a ditch that carried storm water and probably the effluent from a few
straight pipes. Now understand that I did not know then that water could be contaminated…period. Water was water in my eight year old mind. I soon found a friend who liked adventures as much as I did.

One bright summer afternoon, we found ourselves at the edge of this ditch. There was a pathway that was used as a shortcut to a major highway where one could catch the Greyhound Bus into town. We decided right away that a rusty tin can would be the perfect scoop to use to wet down the hill and that it would be great fun to slide down into the ditch. We proceeded to do just that.

Then we wanted to add a little excitement to the trip so we hollowed out steps so that our
ride would be a little bumpy. We spent the better part of the afternoon happily getting covered from head to toe in red clay. I distinctly remember that I was wearing a white blouse and lime green peddle pushers (now known as Capri pants) with white pique trim and a large white button on each leg. We went down that hill so many times I actually wore a hole in the seat of my pants!

All afternoon my friend and I giggled our way up and down, pouring more and more water over the mud so that we had to claw our way back to the top every time. That only added to the excitement and to the imaginary stories we cooked up as we went along.

How many mountains did we climb that afternoon, how many jungles did we explore, is that log really an alligator? Who knows? The thing I remember most is that it was more fun that I could have imagined. When we finally got hungry and decided to go home, my friend suddenly realized that she was in BIG trouble. She and I both looked like mud pies. When she arrived home late for dinner, her mother was horrified and grounded her for two weeks. My mother, being the patient soul that she was looked at me, marched me to the bath tub, took my clothes and threw them away. If that doesn’t seem like punishment, you have to understand that mother had long since given up on
keeping me clean. This was only proof positive that I was going to be a child who played in the dirt and water and loved every moment of it.

That day stands out in my mind as the day I had more fun than any other day I can remember. I often wonder what the non-mud folks thought when they went to cross the ditch that day. Did they wonder who in the world made such a mess of the shortcut? Did they have to go back and walk all the way around on the main road? Did they have a few choice words for us? Or, did they understand that two kids had a great day being kids?

I still like getting dirty and wet, a l though I am more discriminating about where I do
that now. My gardens are the pathway to dirty fun and I still love the bugs, except potato
beetles (I get a perverse pleasure out of squishing them and telling their kin that the
same fate will befall them if they don’t stay off my plants), I love the smell of good clean soil (notice how sophisticated I’ve gotten), the feel of a good handful of humus and the pure joy of watching things grow.

I wish every child could get dirty and have the experience of finding bugs, of getting wet, lounging in the grass and visioning themselves in places foreign to their experience. A little sunshine, a lot of dirt, some water and a vivid imagination can cause a body to get healthy and maybe even become an environmentally aware citizen, or even an environmental educator.

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By Elizabeth Robb Schmitz
Growing up in the suburbs, especially in the overcast Pacific Northwest, the stars were never a big deal to me – until one night when I was visiting family in Northern California. It was a warm summer evening during the Perseids meteor shower, and we all slept out on the deck, with silhouettes of redwoods on the horizon. My aunt and uncle lived far away from city lights. I still remember the curtain of stars – more stars than I had ever seen in my life – and the way that the dozens of shooting stars left a trail behind them and lit up the night. That was when I fell in love, with the stars and with Northern California. I was quite young then, but I have never seen the stars in the same way since.

Fast forward twenty or so years, and I found myself standing on the bank of a salmon spawning stream in a rural county near the coast, with a high school senior whose trail name was Casper. The high school student was categorized as “at-risk”. He was
an inner-city youth who lived in an area pervaded by gang violence. Casper was a big,
burley kind of kid, who rarely offered any words or displayed any emotion.

We were standing there together because I was his mentor in a residential outdoor school program. Students stayed for a full school week; outdoor school counselors taught by day, stayed in cabins with the 6th graders at night during the week, returned home for the weekends, and were committed for the entire 10 week outdoor school semester. My job was to teach Casper, and the other Outdoor School Counselors, an experiential activity about forest ecology. Their job was, in turn, to teach the lesson to small groups of sixth
graders.

Casper was doing a great job teaching his sixth grade students, and I had pulled him aside to tell him so, while we waited for the next group of students to arrive. I never expected what came next. Gazing out at the creek in front of him, he slowly started to speak. “You
know, I never spent time outside before I became an outdoor school counselor,” he said. “It never interested me before.” He paused and became emotional. I could tell he was
fighting back tears. “But since I came here, I don’t know, things seem different…you can see the stars out here, you know? I never saw the stars before. I heard about them, I knew
they were there, but that isn’t the same as actually seeing them. Seeing the stars, it has changed my life, you know?”

I did know. Fighting back my own tears, I told Casper what a great job he was doing…and that the stars would always be there for him, now that he knew them…he just had to remember they were there, and find his way back to them. I hope and believe that he has.

Postscript:  Cleaning out my basement after writing this story, I found a memento from that season at outdoor school – a Chinette paper plate that all of the counselors and my fellow naturalists had signed during our last night together. Casper’s note read: “It has been an incredible experience working with you. I still remember that conversation that we had, and the rock that we saw. Thank you for everything you have done for me. ~Casper”

 My hope is that if our conversation stuck with him for that many weeks, perhaps he remembers it still, as I do.

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By Janet Kistler, 3rd grade teacher
Story 1:  Evan (not his real name) had one of the worst cases of ADD that I ever saw.  He sat right in front of the classroom to help him focus, but it didn’t help.  He could not pay attention or follow directions for more than a minute or two.  The child mastered falling asleep sitting up, and did so quite often.  He struggled to keep up with the class, but he wasn’t getting any help at home, and couldn’t focus at school.  He was falling farther and farther behind, despite our best efforts. 

On one beautiful October morning, we went outside to check for migrating monarch butterflies.  We had been learning all about monarchs and had raised a few in the classroom.  The weather was perfect for migration.  Sure enough, we started seeing the beautiful orange jewels in the sky – one here, look another one, way up there!  Evan was fascinated and turned out the best butterfly spotter.  He could spot monarchs before anyone else!  Well, we couldn’t stop bragging on his perception and skill.  He was so proud of himself. His broad smile said it all. Finally, he was really excelling at something.

I would like to say this signaled a turn-around, but I don’t know. Shortly after that, his family moved.  I do know that he had one super day spotting monarch butterflies on their miraculous migration.  I hope he remembers it as well as I do.

Story 2:  Last year, I had a third grade student who moved here from Florida.  In his previous school, he got in trouble quite a bit. (He said he got in trouble every day!)  It was easy to see why, with his boisterous nature. He didn’t really like school.  But, as the year got underway, he proved to be very intelligent – a terrific student.  He took part enthusiastically in our classroom projects, especially nature-oriented ones.

Toward the end of the year, when we were outside checking the schoolyard bluebird trail, he exclaimed that he loved our school because we got to do something fun every day.  What did he consider to be fun? Something as simple as going outside for a science project. It was quite a turnaround from his attitude at the beginning of the year. He is now in the gifted program for science and still thrives on engaging and challenging projects.