Jan. 22, 1981: A WET WELCOME BACK…
As we approached the ranch, it started to rain in earnest. This morning “we” meant me and Marie Scully, a new trainee, since Betsy was sick. It soon settled into one of those gentle, steady, undramatic storms that January is famous for around here. It would rain all day, we knew, and it did.
But HV goes on! The hut was warm and the fire going; and Lynne, Wally, and Mary were all running around digging up guides, orienting trainees, and planning for the rain. There were only four guides for about 30 third-graders, but that was enough for this day. Wally trooped them all into the hut and did some introduction about the weather, the rain dance, and some songs. We were going to do a farm day and duck inside a lot. After outfitting many of the children in yellow slickers, I took my batch of five—Stephanie, Danny, Britt, Leon, Sara plus a parent, Mrs. Hunter, and Meg, a trainee with the flu—bravely out into the downpour, at first huddling under a tablecloth like a banana slug. Progress was too awkward this way, however, and we soon gave that up.
Our first stop was the calf pen, a convenient sanctuary from the rain, which chose just then to pick up. We had three calves, two large ones and a relatively new one, and we talked for quite some time all about cows, milk and beef; why you have calves, why you don’t have bulls, the fact that beef cattle give milk, too, artificial insemination, and other things. At first my kids thought only milk cows give milk, but on the whole, they knew a fair amount. I had two, Sara and Leon, who always wanted to answer, so I had to work harder to draw the others out.
Back out in the rain, we slogged up towards the chickens, stopping to thank Frank and to smell a bay leaf on the way. The chickens were all inside, huddled miserably and complaining, and we talked for a while about meat versus egg-laying chickens, and how these different strains were man-made. We also talked about feed and bird teeth and found a nesting hen on the way out.
The roads were becoming small lakes surrounding muddy islands, necessitating hopping. We visited the pigs and talked about what pigs give us and what they eat, and everything we could think of about pigs. We were all getting a bit wet by this time, but my kids were game for a short hike to Hollow Oak, talking about moss, lichens and photosynthesis along the way. (They had never heard of photosynthesis, but they gamely stood there and listened in the rain.) We walked silently like Indians to listen to the rain, and then went back, smelling toyon along the way. (“First-aid lotion” is the newest idea about toyon.) We were all pretty thoroughly wet, so we headed towards the hut, marveling at all the earthworms in the ditch along the way. They enjoyed the hike despite how wet they got.
Back at the hut, we ate lunch and warmed up, but had to share the hut with other groups. This was distracting and made it difficult to do anything during lunch, although Kent read “The Giving Tree” to all of us and we did a few lunch strategies. My kids were wonderful about not having trash at all in their lunches—better than I was, as I had a plastic bag (I can’t find my sandwich box). At first, they were a little reluctant to go back outside, but I finally talked them into going back out to see the sheep.
They weren’t enthusiastic about damp sheep, though, and I couldn’t say I blamed them. Still, they were game enough to climb the slippery hill and go see the birdhouse, which unexpectedly turned out to be one of the best parts of the day. They loved Josephine’s story and looking out across the valley; the stuffed birds, all of the wing and feather stories of shingles, etc.; the beak stories, and finally the predator-prey matching game. We had to leave all too soon—hey, could’ve spent a long time in there. But it was time to get back. Danny was set on seeing the broccoli patch, so we quickly visited the garden and the yellow broccoli flowers, saw the compost pile and did a last decomposers dance. We ended up packing a lot into that last hour!
Back in the hut, Wally ended with songs and a marvelous group rain-sound effects game. We did a HV concert that truly had a rhythm to it—our group agreed on “birds” after first splitting between “peacock” and “birdhouse.” After a creek song, the children left in good spirits; somewhere between the wet feet and soggy sandwiches they’d had a good time.
It was a good day overall, but I wished I could’ve done more with these kids and gotten to know them better—they were very bright and receptive, but under the conditions, it was very hard to jell into a group. The rain had pronouncedly different effects on personalities. Sara, who initially seemed very strong-willed and aggressive, lost her bluster quickly in the wet and visibly sagged throughout the day until she was lagging behind on all the walks. Danny, on the other hand, got more mischievous as the day went on, though all of it was good-natured. Once in the middle of a story, he interrupted with a “You look funny. You have a dimple on one side but not the other.” But he wasn’t being nasty! Danny also tended to break into song quite spontaneously, and he was the one thrilled by the broccoli patch. I’ll never forget the sight of poor Britt—a beautiful petite blonde child—standing patiently in a slicker that swamped her, her little face a picture of controlled discomfort, but determined not to complain. Leon was completely irrepressible—water rolled off his spirits quite well, as it seemed to do off Stephanie as well, though she got pretty soaked around her hair. I really liked these kids. And like I said before, I would’ve liked to do a lot more with them. But it was, even so, a full day. Whoever has them for hiking in the spring will probably have a great time.
Feb. 3
It was a perfect day in all ways. Though cool in the protected valleys, it was pleasant to sit in the sun in shirtsleeves and comfortable to walk in. Lynne had needed me on a Tuesday this week, so I joined a mere three other guides to take on a class of sixth-graders from Nixon Elementary near Stanford. It was the two interns, Kent and Bonnie, here making a surprise appearance, and me—but we didn’t expect trouble with these children. They were a very wealthy, intelligentsia-offspring group, with a small sprinkling of the “proper” minorities. We were split into all-boy, all-girl groups, and after an initial game of Blob Tag to get everyone settled, we were off. I had four boys—Andy, Mikie, Sunil and Phil—and I could tell right away that we’d get along fine.
After first visiting the garden to thank and pick some lettuce, we headed towards the sheep, telling the moon riddle along the way. (To my astonishment, Andy got it on the third clue—my first hint that I had a bunch of conceptual thinkers on my hands.) We visited the sheep with Kent’s group, finding two black infant lambs as a neat surprise in one pen. The somewhat muddy but still thick wool intrigued my children, and Kent and I spoke of their sheep’s milk, wool-shearing, and slaughtering. My children at first were wide-eyed when told that these sheep would be killed, but they were mature enough to accept and understand it.
Two of my boys were full-blooded Indians (from India), and Mikie was a vegetarian, while Sunil had lived in India and could tell us interesting things about the relationship to animals there. (Both these boys, however, were undeniably American. I forgot to mention that initially, Sunil had told me, “My other name is Barney—you can call me that if you want.” But he preferred his Indian name, Sunil.)
We then launched quite naturally into a discussion of vegetarianism from various aspects, which eventually became a sort of focus of the day due to unforeseen events. It was in retrospect a good thing that we’d had this discussion to prepare us for later in the day. I noticed the impressive maturity my boys displayed to each other—they told their own eating habits honestly and didn’t pass judgment on each other at all. “I don’t think about the sheep when I eat lamp-chops,” admitted Phil candidly. “But I know that’s where it comes from.” Realization is, after all, all we ask.
From here we took a rabbit conveniently out of Kent’s arms—a large rabbit that however was pacified by the celery my boys had brought for it. I, unfortunately, had failed to ask Kent what pen he’d come from, so the poor thing was roundly chased by another rabbit when I first put him in a pen. The second pen I tried was far more successful. My gracious boys didn’t even tease me about my mistake!
Next, we visited cows. (Interestingly, this older age group (and also male) did not have the obsession for horses that in the past had been frustrating. “Can we ride the horses? No.” Andy had answered his own question with little regret.) We patted Summerday, marveled at the mutual grooming of raspy tongues, talked of milk and beef and leather and steaks and everything involving cows we could think of. I also threw the idea of selective breeding for different uses at them. The calves were next—they are getting now to a size where their friskiness can be intimidating to someone 4-and-a-half feet tall. My boys liked the animals and weren’t exactly afraid of them, but didn’t have the urge to spontaneously hug them all. Again, we talked of meat and these calves’ fate, and again the general response was “It’s terrible. But I don’t think about it when I eat hamburgers.”
It was a slaughtering day at HV. Will had warned me that rabbits and chickens would be killed today, and when I told this, the reaction was mostly about the rabbits, for none of my children had ever eaten rabbit and they conceived of them as pets. “I hate them!” Phil even said, referring to the farmhands who were so matter-of-factly slaughtering these things. So we talked about it, about the fact that they were only doing their job, and the practicalities of a farm in a meat-eating society, until this emotion subsided.
We next climbed to Josephine’s house, which fascinated my boys—I’ve never had the birdhouse fail me. We went through beaks, food-chain levels, flight, feathers, and all the rest with great success. I sprung the blue feather trick on them (and blue jays were referred to as “fake blue jays” the rest of the day as a result.) Their natural curiosities made the entire thing flow very easily—they questioned me about features before I’d even brought them out.
From here we walked past Frank’s house (thanking him along the way) and turned up Disaster Trail. I saw the butcher’s truck by the pigpen too late. Though I hurriedly got my boys across the bridge so that trees screened them from the pigs, it was exquisite timing. Just as we walked parallel to the pigpen, a shot and a wretched death-squeal stopped us all in our tracks. My boys didn’t have to be told what was happening. I told them that they could peer through the trees and watch if they wanted to, but they didn’t have to. To my chagrin, another shot and squeal soon followed, and another, and another. It shook all of us up to some extent. Meanwhile, I was furious that we had not been warned. Thank God, I had strong, mature kids who were sensitive to it but bounced back quickly. I led them quickly out of earshot, and soon we were distracted by stories of lichens and smells of bay and toyon trees.
The valley on this side of Disaster was cool and dark, and we first played a “Walk like Indians” game to listen to the birds singing—now that the rains have come, the birds are singing. There are many other changes, too, which I could appreciate even more than the children, of course; greenery everywhere, huge new fungi and mushrooms, even some bushes in new pink flower. And, of course, clear water in the creeks. I took them up Disaster, feeling moss and finding decomposers, and let them notice north-south slope. They already had that idea pretty down.
Up on top, we talked of smog and had lunch contentedly in the sun. They had brought pretty good lunches—no dinosaurs—but they did all have paper bags, so we talked a little of lumbering. When it came to “Whether they’d like to live at HV?” I got a very interesting, somewhat surprising response. Not one of them did. It’s not that they didn’t like this place, but they said it didn’t have enough people, and after a while, they’d get bored with just walking in the hills. An extremely sophisticated answer, I thought—already they had a strong social sense, knew they needed people, and felt no need to flee their comfortable country estates. When asked what they would do if they owned HV, most agreed they would keep it the way it was, although Andy said he might eventually sell it. They were very aware of how much this land was worth monetarily. However, when I asked if they thought keeping this land empty, unused and a wilderness was a waste, they emphatically disagreed. “It’s important to have wilderness areas to go to,” proclaimed Sunil. “It’s the opposite of a waste—building houses and street and things would be the waste,” added Phil. Honest to God, they said that and meant it. I could’ve hugged them all to death. If only they remember…
We also played “where did it go? Where did it come from?” with Mikie’s orange. We traced it to Florida, to the Bay, and back finally to an orange again. They were enthralled.
Before we left the mountain top, I asked them how many had been to a chocolate factory. They all chorused “yes” and launched into Ghirardelli stories. So, we played Chocolate Factory/Photosynthesis with great success. They had heard of chlorophyll but were unsure of the details. They even asked me about carbohydrates. Never underestimate these kids. “This is fun!” giggled Phil as he and Sunil were joined into chocolate by the factory, Andy. Mikie glowed when he could unplug himself and become the sun. And I became sufficiently evil-looking as pollution escaping the sun and virtuous as oxygen. They were blown away by the oxygen/carbon dioxide story.
Lunch over, I had them each find a rock, and shrink to the size where it was a planet— their planet. I then combined a Rump-Bump/Rock Strategy down the hill—both huge successes. I’ve never had a group get so totally into their planets. They each showed me each place for a house, garden, star-gazing, a neighbor, etc., with incredible enthusiasm, and all clung to their planets all the way down the hill. They were getting into it so much that I started getting into it more and more too. I had a spaceship fly to their planets wanting to colonize it—would they fight or live harmoniously? Would they make a city with surrounding open space, or spread out? etc. etc. Whether it’s because this is the Star Wars generation or not, they just loved their planets. They completely forgot they were somewhat dumb rocks. Also on the way down, we admired a huge mushroom, smelled new flowers and the curry plant, and, of course, had to stop and talk to the big old tree. I had them guess its age, told them of how much it had seen and lived through, and invited them to hug it and whisper it a secret. They all did enthusiastically—Mikie even kissing it. They lavished more attention on that tree than they did the animals. Also, on the way down we put on mustaches and had to crawl through a large tree in the path.
Crossing the creek and walking towards Big Rock, we looked—unsuccessfully—for banana slugs. At Big Rock we climbed it and played Camera looking at the tree canopy—they were wonderful at this. “I’ll have this image forever,” said Phil. I then had them really feel their rocks, and put them in a circle to pass the planets until they all had the right one, eyes closed, hands behind them. They did it perfectly, as I expected. Think about how well they know those rocks, I told them! Then, after a final suggestion of whispering to the planet one reason why they were lucky, they closed their planet’s ears and carefully buried them so that they could find them again. If only all of us would take care of the planet so well…
We ran off the rock and soon saw another group. “Are you having fun?” they asked. “Yeah!” chorused my boys. We were somewhat nervous about walking by the rabbits, but the slaughtering was over. We visited the chickens though forsook the muddy pen, were attacked by geese, admired peacocks, talked of egg and meat chickens, gizzards, and more. Walking towards the hut the butcher truck passed us, and Andy and Sunil say they saw entrails in the side buckets. “Ugh,” they said. We walked on to the hut, where Will handed me just what I always wanted—a bag full of chicken feet, to give to Wally for the project. We met the snake and marveled at him, and then poured over skulls and bones for a while, distinguishing meat-eaters, plant-eaters, etc. They, as usual, were curious and receptive.
Then we visited the garden for a carrot ceremony and to decompose Sunil’s apple. “You mean that turns into that?” they said, wide-eyed, at the compost pile. But they knew that bacteria lived there. The carrots were proclaimed delicious as we sat in a circle and shared our last things—the favorite thing at HV: “Planets.” “Rump-Bump” “Hugging Trees.” “The Birdhouse.” And for me—being with these super children. I really felt fond and close to them by the end of the day—they were so plain nice – to each other, to the environment, to everything. We hung our treasures—feathers, lichens and fungus – on the weaving, and joined the others for songs, a concert (“Talking to Planets” was our instrument), a pledge and a hugging good-bye. I was sorry to see them go.
All of us who’d guided were high as kites—everyone claimed to have the best group today. Praises and marvels spilled over popcorn. I repeat—it was a perfect day.
“I’m so glad I’m in this group. It’s so much more fun when there are fewer people.” “Yeah, this way we all got to participate all the time.” (Andy and Sunil) “Won’t you be our guide next time?”
Notes: Concept—what really is important to get across?
A sense of where our food comes from and goes to (lunch strategies, thank animals)
A caretakership—the land and what it means—Chief Seattle, rock strategy, would you like to live here?
An awareness of the natural world—listens, smells, penny hike, little miracles, magic circle, ranger, colors, blindfolds, scavenger hunt.
Fool-proof—Rump-Bump, puppets, Simon Says, a story, riddles, chocolate factory, run ahead, role-play.
How to begin? Perhaps Simon Says, a riddle, how does HV make you feel, what would you like to do here? Value cards.
Feb. 10: A Special Day.
I had particularly volunteered to guide this day even though it was beyond the call of Thursday duty. A small school in San Jose for the hearing-disabled cameª—20 students and four teachers. Almost none of them had ever been on a farm or on a hike before, although they were junior high school ages 12 to 15. Some were phenomenally bright – several were mildly mentally retarded. A few had partial hearing and could speak, vaguely—but all mostly communicated by sign language. The group I ended up taking was a diverse mixture of all of these things.
Two of the guides for today could sign, a little, but the rest of us relied on having a teacher along as a translator. Most of us were teamed, except—guess who? I volunteered to take a group alone since several of the other guides were a little rusty, and also because I do a little better when I have sole responsibility for a group. I was also conceited enough to think I could pull it off, though Lynne and I admitted to each other, as we waited for the children to arrive, that we hadn’t been this nervous in a long time about a HV day.
After initial chaos, Kent began a rousing game of Blob Tag to get everyone relaxed and in a good mood. Then, in a circle, we sang the “Upright” song, passed energy around, and did a Joseph Cornell poem together—speaking it and signing it at the same time. Watching all those hands moving so deftly in unison, I began to relax and got a lot better feeling about what the day would be like.
I was given a smiling, round-faced, pleasant, if somewhat prissy, teacher named Charlene, and five children—Faith, Alan, Michelle, Tim, and Lilia. Almost instantly I discovered that the day wasn’t going to be incredibly easy in some ways—what do you do in those first moments after names have been learned and you must, of necessity, walk somewhere? My first lesson was that walking and signing do not go well together. So. we walked in silence to the garden, to each pick one leaf of lettuce for the sheep. My children didn’t know what lettuce was. But I got them to either say or sign “thank-you” to the plant anyway. We then continued towards the sheep—a long walk, though I put in a bay leaf smell and a munch on miner’s lettuce along the way. I felt like I was prodding along a reluctant elephant at this point—my children were over-awed by the mere presence of the farm, perhaps, and were sluggish to either say or do anything. I took them into the sheep nevertheless, after a quick role-play on feeding sheep, and they timidly let the somewhat damp sheep come up to them. They were visibly afraid to touch them, though, but everyone did at least once feel the fur. We talked—or, I should say, I talked, Charlene signed, and the children answered shyly—about wool, meat, baby lambs and such things. I then took them to the rabbits and held a reluctant lop-ear—and I sensed they were loosening up a little as they all petted him. Who can resist a rabbit? We turned down the trail, running into Kent and Bonnie’s group examining a banana slug. None of the children had the stomach to hold or kiss it, and my teacher was visibly shaken by the mere sight of it—but it left a deep impression nevertheless.
I asked them lightly if they felt like climbing a mountain. No, shook a few heads—others didn’t reply. They were afraid of falling or somehow getting hurt. Somewhat surprised, I merely said, “Well, we’ll see.” I still intended to take them up Disaster; I was convinced they could do it. We admired a large fallen tree and felt moss, spoke of lichens briefly, then climbed the Big Rock to play camera. I then passed out colors for them to find as we walked along Lecher Creek. At this point, I felt as though they were enjoying themselves but were almost too shy to act that way. It was also fairly dark and cold in this valley, making it hard to be overly energetic anyway. At the creek crossing, we talked about water for a long time—they were blown away by the idea that this water would go all the way to the bay, into the sky, and back down in rain. My two older, on-the-ball girls asked many questions and were very interested in the whole idea of cycling water, salt vs. fresh, etc. However, poor Tim couldn’t even think of something else we use water for than drinking.
At the bridge, we sat down and rested while I told them about Burma Shave. My plot was to get them up Disaster through Burma Shave without their knowing it. Also, I decided they’d enjoy a few moments just to be quiet in that beautiful place. Before I left, they noticed the deer slide, and we talked about erosion, soil-removal, and switchbacks. I then set off, cards in hand. I knew Alan and Tim would probably not be able to read some of them, but even the experience of walking unsupervised on a trail— escaping for a short time the constant blanket of protection—would be excellent for them. I laid cards all the way up, ranging from hug-a-tree to smell pearly-everlasting to look-how-far-you’ve climbed! etc., etc. Most I made up as I went along. I tried to include as much experiential stuff as possible, and if the rest went over their heads? You never know what will get through, sometimes.
Anyway, I wasn’t up at the top long before Faith and Michelle showed up—Michelle had waited for Faith about halfway up. Than Lilia came, alone; then Alan and finally Tim, all close together but definitely alone. The boys looked tired, but all were amazed at how far they could see out. It was a gray day, so smog wasn’t obvious though definitely there. The children had all arrived within 10 minutes of each other, so I expected Charlene to follow soon. Meanwhile, I had the unforeseen problem of being alone with my kids and therefore unable to communicate. We pulled out lunch and I was dying to ask them questions about the hike, about their lunches, and found that I couldn’t. Michelle shyly showed me a few bits of moss and leaves she had picked up—I couldn’t have admonished her if I’d wanted to, so I just gave her a magnifying glass to look at them. Alan pulled out an entire bag of potato chips and three twinkies for lunch. Fortunately, I discovered that Faith had partial hearing so we could communicate; but while it was nice to be able to talk to her, it was a shame my other kids were left out.
Charlene finally stumbled up about 25 minutes later—the little hike had almost done her in! We were now becoming pressed for time, so I abandoned lunch strategies—all the kids were through—and rushed Charlene into finishing eating so that we could do The Mountain. She signed while I read and pointed out the pictures, and they were really engrossed in it, although probably the boys didn’t understand it too well. After this, we talked about HV, and would you change it? Or is it nice to have wild areas like this? They were at first reluctant to put out their own opinions, but finally, they agreed that it was nice to have the land wild like this. The mood was such, and they were really thinking about things, so that I suddenly decided to pass out writing boards, telling them to either write or draw their feelings, on the thing that they’d liked best at HV. Lynne had warned me that writings might be a little risky. Ha! They devoured the pen and paper. For 15 minutes there was complete silence as they concentrated. At last, I had really given them a chance for personal expression, and they ate it up. We shared around the circle: Faith had written two pages and drawn a picture, all about why she was glad to be at HV but how her mother had been afraid she would get hurt (interesting). Lilia drew the mountains and the bush with all the flowers; Michelle drew a quite sophisticated forest-mountain scene; Alan drew a horse and rider in front of the mountains (a glimpse he’d gotten on the way up); while even Tim produced a tree and mountain of sorts.
It was gratifying to see that the hike had made such an impression. Then, now that they were thoroughly rested, I had them choose a rock as a planet, and rump-bumped them off the hill. I had 35 minutes to get them back to the parking lot, with two main animals left to see! They loved rump-bump, although Charlene couldn’t even trot at half-pace. Actually, a nice spirit of camaraderie developed between the kids and me so we waited for her each time, laughing! In between, I squeezed in all the planet ideas, until we arrived at last at the tree amphitheater. My kids collapsed exhausted but happy on the logs. No time to waste, I immediately did the rock-passing circle—with six of them, this took a little while, and three of them botched it (including the teacher!) Oh, well, they all laughed at themselves, then I quickly had them whisper (or sign) a secret and bury their planets.
We walked to the pigs—or pig, I should say, in record time, patted the bristles, talked about mud and bacon or pork chops and hairbrushes, thanked it and scrammed. Then we thanked Frank, dove into the cow pasture to visit the cows and calves—both big hits. We talked of milk, and calves, and why cows are always having calves, and why the calves were separate (teaching Charlene a few things along the way) etc., etc. The calves were probably the most successful animal of the day, with their soft fur and raspy tongues. We talked about how Big Mac would become hamburger eventually. No time to lose, we then galumphed to the garden to do a last decomposers dance, consigning Lilia’s banana peel to the compost pile.
It was past 1:30 and we tore to meet Lynne—Alan at this point smiling at me and limping with one leg in a show of exhaustion. Here we constructed a unique concert of both words and signs—our instrument being “hiking game” or Burma Shave. We arrived at this because every child had a different favorite thing, ranging from the creek to calves to the mountain. It was sweet to see how, when we first got together, my kids so enthusiastically swapped storied with their classmates. It was obvious they’d had a lot of fun. We then sang “Upright” again, and after good-bye hugs, they had to leave.
What a day! Thinking back to it, I was flabbergasted at how much we’d done – in fact, in a little less than four hours we’d done just about as much as any usual group of kids would have. I didn’t feel the slightest bit remorseful at having pushed them physically to do things I’m sure no one has ever pushed them to do. It was good for them to get a little tired, to know they’d climbed a mountain, to run down a hill, to—in short—escape the delicate protective atmosphere for a little while. And they loved it. Although our personal communication was often limited to smiles, there were plenty of those. I’m sure they slept well that night.
One of the hardest things about this group was that they were all so diverse. Faith was bright, could speak and partially hear, and was really pretty mainstreamed. Michelle was probably almost 15, tall and shy, but bright also—both these girls were very curious once I got them started and asked a lot of questions. Lilia was a sweet child with dark hair and braces, but since she was completely deaf-mute and rather withdrawn, I didn’t get to know her well. Then, Alan, who seemed fairly bright and by the end of the day had overcome his fears and was having a blast. And finally, Tim, who was mentally handicapped enough that he probably should’ve been in Lynne’s group. But, by golly, if he didn’t do everything we did, mountain and all. He could do it, even if he didn’t say much. And as I said before, when communication as such broke down, smiles and laughter replaced it. It was a sunshiny day despite a few clouds—literally.
Feb. 19: Well….
Today reflected the weather a great deal. Though occasionally the sun did shine, it was largely a gray and slightly dismal day. And so it went with my kids. It was one of those days when luck was just not with me, and everything combined to try and produce disaster. And very nearly succeeded!
We had second-graders today—little tykes from Nixon Elementary at Stanford. I took five children and was the only group that wasn’t teamed. For once, I could’ve used another adult. My children were sophisticated in all the wrong ways. (Melissa, Karen, Mark, Robbie, Ryan)
It started out calmly enough, with a bay tree smell and picking a few miner’s lettuce leaves for ourselves and for sheep. However, I unleashed a demon here. Though I specified “four leaves’ and went into the entire spiel about thanking the plant and not taking more than necessary, my kids took this as a cue to pick what they liked, particularly Melissa, an adorable, extremely spoiled and willful little girl who did her best to be uncooperative all day. I had a very serious talk with them per respect for life, a funeral and ceremony and decomposition of the plants she had pulled, and my children all nodded their heads and seemed to understand. Then they would do it again five minutes later. It became a frustrating day. There was a definite gap between understanding and action in these children’s heads.
We first visited the sheep, mildly successful although my children thought they smelled and soon tired of them. Then we looked at rabbits and talked about them, although we couldn’t hold them. At this point, we had the plant fiasco. Moving on, I led them towards Big Rock, stopping to wade in the creek, and talk about water. They had very dim notions of water and mostly wanted to throw rocks. It was here that the whole killing ethic came up again. Some of my children said “Ugh! A bug. Let’s kill it!” And the strength of their personalities was such that none of the other children disagreed. I felt my talk was landing on deaf ears.
We went on, climbing the Big Rock for an unsuccessful camera (they couldn’t grasp it) and they were so loud that I felt I was losing control. I got them to be quiet, but all the birds had fled. I brought out Randolph, but all they said was “He’s just a hollow piece of fur.” At last, I told them sadly that if they didn’t quiet down, we couldn’t hike up the mountain because we would disturb too many animals. This had some effect, but not for long.
I began a penny hike, which worked for a while, but their attention span was too short to stick with it. 10:30 and already desperate—not good. I told them to walk as softly as Indians to the beginning of Disaster, and they did this tolerable well. I think I did manage to get the concept of erosion across here.
They ran ahead of me on the trail, but I got them to stop and notice a paintbrush, and at the big tree, though they were reluctant at first, I did get them to hug the tree and whisper it a secret. “What if I don’t have a secret? “Tell it one reason why you’re lucky.” “I’m not lucky!” I winced and thought of my deaf children, my ghetto children. At this point I turned them back. I was simply afraid to take them the rest of the way up, and it was after all a farm day, and threatening rain.
On our way back, Mark noticed a toothwort, and while we were stopped, managed to pick it. I was furious, but outwardly I merely had another talk, another decomposition funeral, and having them all say they were sorry. Across the creek, I began Simon Says, which worked for a little while, but even this provoked dissent as we walked along. They wanted to run, but not to race when I suggested it. I managed to get them quieted when we passed the house, and we ran into other groups at the sheep. “How’s it going?” asked the teacher. “O.K.” I lied.
I took them to peanut-butter river, which they concentrated on for about five minutes. Then one of them noticed a whole lot of caterpillars, and for a few minutes, there was hope as they peered at them. Then, just as I was pulling out magnifying lenses, “Aw, forget the stupid caterpillars. Let’s eat lunch.” I had lost them again.
We thanked Frank on our way and headed for Hollow Oak campground for lunch. Sitting in the sun, I pulled the lunch strategies of trees, dinosaurs, motors, etc., and while Mark did mention recycling and we did have a pretty good discussion on all of this, they still didn’t seem at all remorseful for their baggies. Grabby children, Karen snatched my chocolate chip cookie away from me. Funny how little things can get to you. I worked on Ryan’s apple (going to, coming from) but they didn’t have the imagination to grasp it quite. At last, I pulled out the Lorax. Thank God for Dr. Seuss! If nothing else worked today, it and its wonderful message did. I put everything I had into the reading, and I had them spellbound. Afterward, for a glorious ten minutes or so, they were with me. We talked about caring, and what they’d do with the land, and they agreed it was important to have HV wild. Then as quickly as it had come, it was gone. Their attention wandered once more, and as I introduced the rock strategy, they became bored and whining. They couldn’t imagine themselves living on their rocks. They botched the feeling circle. They tossed their rocks uncaringly. It was all a bitter blow after the moments of success, and my frustration had me near tears. We walked along in silence back towards the farm. I stopped and asked them if they thought I was very happy with them. No, they shook their heads. I was upfront about it, and they promised to listen. And promptly forgot.
At the pigs, it was squeaking chaos as they fed whole sandwiches to them. I got in the usuals, but just barely. Via some illegal farm machinery climbing, we made it to the chickens, which they fed but were freaked out by. Happily silly now, they giggled over answering my questions as stupidly as they could.
“Will you be our guide next time?” “Would you like me to?” I threw back at them. “I got three yeses, a maybe and a no. The strikes against me?: 1) I didn’t produce horseshoes for them; and 2) I wouldn’t let them ride the pigs.
They became obsessed with the idea of painting their faces; so, beginning with berries and going on to olives, this became the hit of the day. I told them the paint sealed a HV pledge to take care of animals and plants, but they ridiculed this. At the hut, they were indifferent largely about the snake, though all but Melissa petted or held it. She, of course, wanted to kill it. We looked at jaws, and they did understand meat-eaters and plant-eaters and the difference. I then led them towards the calves, via magnifying glasses. For five minutes they were engrossed, and that was it. The cows were by far the most successful animals of the day, and they did at least hug and love the calves, and understand meat, milk and leather.
From here—after more “Ughs” over the manure and urine—I took them back via a quick carrot ceremony, their favorite things being, by and large, the calves and a compost pile; and then led them thankfully to the bleachers. The impish Melissa washed off her olive beard. After a few songs, my children, amazingly, hugged me and were gone.
Up at the hut, writing and talking about the day, I ended in tears. I had been so frustrated all day. I didn’t feel as though one of the most basic ideas—caretakership—had gotten through at all. It had been maddening to repeatedly have them and lose them over and over. I felt they were not trying and did not care, and I couldn’t make them care. And with few exceptions, even the best things had only worked halfway. They refused to play along.
Trying to analyze why I was left with the simple: group chemistry stank. Melissa incited the rest to obnoxiousness, and they took it from there. They were selfish, me-first children, immature below their years yet smart-alecky. They weren’t nice to each other, to me or to HV. Individually, or with different group chemistry, or even with another adult or authority along, they would’ve behaved far differently.
I stuck it out, though, pulled out all the stops, and at least exposed them to everything, however. Perhaps more of it will stay than I think. They hugged me at the end and said they’d had fun. But I was exhausted. I fell asleep at nine that night, and Mary gave me a card the next day to cheer me up, bless her heart. Well, we all have to go through the fire once.
P.S. They were also disturbingly prissy children, unresponsive to (plant) smells, holding their noses on the farm, complaining about bugs, disdainful of a slightly grimy carrot, shrieking at a peeing cow, unwilling to sit on the ground, etc., etc. The little monsters embodied all that is distasteful in modern city children! The only hope is—if these Nixon second graders turn into kids like the Nixon sixth graders, we’re fine!
Feb. 26: But it does work…
Today certainly does not belong on the same page as what came before. I had slept about ten hours in three days, and I was pretty exhausted physically, but I told Wally that I’d take a group alone simply because it was a beautiful day, and there also was the getting-back-up-on-the-horse syndrome.
It was a wise decision. Wally understood and gave me the angels, I think – I had five third-graders from Palo Alto, and we got along splendidly. They were nice, cooperative, responsive kids—not perfect, of course, but nice enough that I could forgive their occasional faults. Their names were Damien, Jill, Nicole, David and Lenny.
It was one of those off-and-on drizzling days, but my kids weren’t the type to complain about an occasional raindrop. We began by talking about John Muir and sampling miner’s lettuce. I was perhaps overly cautious about the caretaker and thank-you scene, having been stung before, but I needn’t have worried. They proclaimed the lettuce to be good and we went to the cows without a problem.
They know about milkshakes and were pretty good about walking through the manure. Summerday, bless her heart, lay quietly while my kids petted her delightedly—a cow is much less fearsome to a child when it’s lying down! We talked about milk, calves, the usual, and I discovered that these were listening children. They were interested in what I was saying and what was around them. The calves were also a big hit (“They’re so soft!) as they petted and hugged them, fascinated and unafraid. Moving on, we thanked Frank, visited the pigs (counting on more than two hands’ worth of fingers all the things pigs give us) and began—as they were eager to hike— up Disaster Trail. Despite the unpredictable drizzles in the weather, they were eager to hike, but pleasantly so. We played a Shapes game in the bay trees and had two very successful silent walks—one for listens, and one for smells. I had told them to turn their noses off in the cowpen, but I said it was OK to put them back on now—and they responded terrifically, smelling everything.
We had a great penny hike, creating an ant palace, and a spontaneous game of Ranger—they were just very eager and curious about all the little things along the trail, as well as the big views. The greatest thing was that when Jill and David ran ahead a little, and I simply answered their question of “Can’t we just wait for you at the top?” with “But the point is being a group…” then they obeyed unquestioningly. I didn’t have to repeat things today. We also created trail tea, marveled at new fungus, lacy lichen, and the new sounds of the creek and birds singing. It was a pretty clear day when we got to the top. Lenny loved the subtly colored dead leaves—funny how one particular thing will catch a child’s imagination. I read them The Mountain—a big hit—and talked of land values a little. They were all certain that it was good to have this wild land. Then, they voted to continue on to lunch, so we rump-bumped—rock-strategied down the hill, stopping to smell various things, feel barks, marvel at a banana slug, hug the big tree and whisper its secrets. They were alert and curious the entire way and loved the beautiful waterfall spot on Lecher Creek, where we sat and rested for a tea ceremony of passing good luck around in the circle. They were lucky to go hiking, to have a nice guide, for their parents, and other such things. We then “Simon-said” our way back to the Big Rock—a nice rapid-fire rhythm going there—and ate lunch on the rock, speaking of lunch strategies though they knew most of them. I read them The Lorax, and we scampered off the rock. I let them run to the farmer’s garden to let off some steam, and then we visited the rabbits briefly.
At the sheep barn, when I told my children to be very quiet when we walked in, they obeyed wonderfully well. The sheep and baby lambs were primarily in the pen, and though we entered softly, only Mr. Ragtag allowed us to approach at first and pet him. The others were a little shy, and fearing a stampede if we cornered them, I was careful at the start to tell my children to not approach a sheep if it moved away, because that meant it was scared. They all wanted to hold a baby lamb but could see for themselves how scared they were at first. But we quite unintentionally stayed in with the sheep for quite some time, talking about wool and meat, bummer lambs and severed tails, and the children were fascinated by their calm wooliness. I even left them alone to fetch miner’s lettuce to feed them because I knew I could trust them to be unsupervised a few minutes. This was a great hit as they each tried to make friends with more of the sheep, and succeeded. Best of all, we had now been in here long enough that the sheep were quite used to us, and I was able to gently pick up an unafraid lamb, to my kids’ delight. They all nearly smothered the wrinkled, tightly-wooled little thing in my arms with affection. Who can resist a baby lamb?
The lesson hit home in a magical way—we had gained the sheep’s’ trust by being gentle and quiet, and it paid off. My kids were deeply impressed. “This is the most fun day of school I’ve ever had!” proclaimed Lenny. “We haven’t even learned anything!”…. or so he thought until I gently reminded him of all we’d seen and done. “Oh yeah…” He had associated learning with toil.
We visited the chickens, loose in their yard, some of them out giving themselves dirt baths. A few fed them by hand but the stupid chickens were too feisty – they do hurt and it takes extra fortitude for me to face the rooster. However, they loved seeing the eggs and the squawking, roaming birds.
It was time to go get olive paint, and then visit the garden for a quick carrot ceremony and compost pile stop. We were running out of time, but they were willing to run up the hill to see very quickly the snake, and all but Nicole held him – and even she consented to touch him. We fled back to the tables than to join Wally and his farm song. Unfortunately, my group was decimated by an early-departing car, leaving Jill, Damien and me. Our instrument was “climbing the mountain.” (Damien spoke the words—the first English I’d heard him use all day.) All too quickly they were gone. I realized that I had completely forgotten my physical exhaustion. I was high on these kids, and adrenalin had done it all.
This was a case where group chemistry clicked frighteningly well. Despite quite varied personalities, all of us got along, and I had gained their trust early enough that I was always minded. They were also observant, thoughtful children who never once—well, only once, during the rock-passing, which they flubbed—said or even hinted that any of this was dumb. They loved everything—animals and the woods—and were particularly good about all the senses and caring for the animals. Jill was naturally adventurous, but listened well; Nicole was just the opposite in physical energy but kept up pretty well. David was active but cooperative. Lenny—a bright, reflective child, and Damien, a true sweetheart, though he didn’t speak a word. But I think he understood a lot, participated in everything and never was left out, and I know he had a fun day. They were not perfect children, of course—a few good-natured “me-firsts” in line, a slight tendency to fussiness about dirt and farm animals—but these were so minor compared to the overall great vibes of the day as to be negligible. I was really grateful for this day after last week’s fiasco!
March 3: A lucky day
Over 60 little monsters arrived this morning, making for a huge game of Blob Tag and rather large groups as well. They were third-graders from a Los Altos Hills school (translated=wealthy), and I took six of them and two parents out under the gray skies— Jamie, Mike, Shelly, Jeff, Lisa and Ted. It felt like quite an entourage behind me, and as we began down the road, I asked what their favorite animal was. All of them named some farm animal at HV excepting Ted, who named “cobra,” and they were all pretty excited when I told them we’d see all of their favorite animals today. We stopped to pick miner’s lettuce and munch it down, then went to see the cows. They were pretty ignorant of cows, but with a little prodding could come up with most of the milk story. “And the front one gives low-fat, the back one non-fat, that one whole, and that one chocolate. Right?” said I. At least they didn’t agree. We went in with the calves, but they were a little frightened by them, though they loved their softness and raspy tongues. “It’s mean to kill them!” proclaimed Lisa; but none of my children were vegetarians, and we talked about the ethics of slaughtering and why, on a farm, animals seldom die of old age. I had told them it was going to be a nose-on, nose-off day, and they were a little fussy about the stink, but not too bad. I also noticed that my three little boys were more bluster but less brave about the animals.
We thanked Frank along the way, visited the pigs next, and counted on our fingers what pigs give us, talked more of slaughtering, how they taste best when they’re smaller, and why they live in mud. “No, they don’t eat it…” and how pigs turn garbage into good food. From here, while waiting for Mike’s group to leave the chickens, I pulled out Little Miracles, had them find a new plant, and read and explained it to them. When I told of how no one even clapped for the seedling, my children softly began clapping for their plants. It was one of my more magical moments at HV.
In the chickens, after oohing at eggs, and talking about chicken teeth, we ventured into the yard to feed the chickens—successfully, actually, though I had to keep my eyes on the old rooster the whole time. He threatened me a couple of times but fortunately didn’t touch my kids. The turkey was a hit when she sat down and let herself be petted.
I forgot to put in that after the calves, we walked up to the birdhouse, telling Josephine’s story… and once there we did the beak game and the predator-prey game and talked about wings and feathers—the whole story of both, pretty much—shingles, underwear, flight, coloration, blue feathers, white under the wings, etc. This was all greatly successful and they wanted more. I don’t think I’ve ever had the birdhouse fail me.
After the chickens we began hiking up Hollow Oak—I still in my Disaster rut. We smelled bay and toyon, but they were medium-smellers—with a tendency to say merely that it stank. At the bay amphitheater, I tried briefly a hug-a-tree, but there were so many (others there) that there weren’t enough trees to go around. So before they could know it, we rattled off the things that trees give us and plunged into Chocolate Factory (role-play for photosynthesis). They enjoyed this, though how much of it they understood is debatable. They did understand that the tree wasn’t plugged in and that a good guy— oxygen—came out. Pretty heavy stuff for third graders.
We walked silently to listen for the next hundred yards, and they did this excellently—the best I’ve ever had it work. There was the stream, several birds, rustling leaves, etc., all to hear. From here I began a Burma Shave up the rest of the long switchback. It was overall a big hit, though several of the children caught up with each other. They particularly liked feeling the tree with their cheek, feeling the fungus, looking for a color, and the other sensory sort of things. Once the parents had caught up, we ran into Bonnie doing Burma Shave down! And kept walking up, admiring the view (clouds obscuring the far hills) and settling for lunch at the top of the mountain. We did the basic lunch things and they had, by and large, excellent lunches. We talked about HV as a wild place—and most said that they’d want to live here, but they’d also like to keep it the way it was. All agreed it was important to have wild land, and they said they’d make lots of rules to keep people from destroying it. This fit in well with a reading of “The Mountain,” which they were very receptive to and scrutinized very carefully. They noticed some things I’d never even seen before in the pictures. After lunch, I quickly began the rock strategy, rump-bumped them off the hill, also looking at flowers, feeling barks, smelling things the entire way. I find this combination of three simultaneous strategies to be very effective in curing after-lunch blahs. In fact, seldom do my groups even begin them. They were imaginative about their planets but not overly caring, as a few of them were tossed at the bottom. When I shook my head sadly that then we couldn’t play this neat game, they hastily found new ones. They passed their rocks perfectly (7 of them, too) at Lecher Falls. Also on the way down, we bushwhacked around a tree—which they loved—and hugged the Big Tree. “What do trees need?” They—at least my sensitive little girls—came up with “love” on their own. It was another great moment, and they all hugged it—though the boys giggled.
From Lecher Falls we walked up past Big Rock—spotting and examining a banana slug along the way (“Eew! It’s all slimy!” But they eventually reluctantly admitted it was important.) We walked past several other groups and got back to the farm, where we looked at rabbits while waiting to see sheep. Bonnie beat me to them, though, so we killed time by picking two leaves of miner’s lettuce for the sheep and watching the water roll off the duck’s back. his certainly made the feather lesson hit home. We finally went in with the sheep anyway, but didn’t stay long—enough time to pet a lamb, feel wool, and get tennis shoes covered with sheep mud.
From here we went to the garden for a good fingertip test, talk about broccoli, and a carrot ceremony with a huge carrot. The animals and hiking, or just “everything” was the favorite thing—although my pregnant mother thanked me for being a good guide and the kids agreed. We decomposed the tops, dance and all (Dirt makes lunch makes more dirt) and went to the hut. Bonnie having beaten me there again, we just joined her and passed the snake to all, kisses, sense of smell in his tongue, mice chains, etc. We didn’t spend much time, however, as we had to join the rest in the parking lot, for a wild concert with nine instruments (“hiking game” was ours). With fond good-byes and a personal thanks from my other parent (“I think they got a lot out of the day”), they were gone.
Meeting back in the hut was amazing. Many, many people had had days ranging from mediocre to horrible. Kent had total monsters and was worn out. Only Bonnie, I and one other guide had good days—and Bonnie and I worked at them. I had potentially disruptive kids: Ted, Jeff, Lisa—who never gave me trouble because I never let them get bored or separated from the group. My other children were simply sweethearts, and they were all nice to me, HV and each other. It wasn’t an easy day, exactly— I had to keep working at it—but they responded well and were sensitive at heart, and I felt good that I’d kept good control over them. When Ted said he didn’t want to sit down, I made him sit down, and there weren’t any two ways about it. Within this kind of good-natured strictness, we had a very active, very positive day.
March 10: A Good Time Was Had By All….
Lynne called at 7:30 a.m. to wake me and ask me to come along today. I took one look at the morning sky and left the books behind gladly. It was an unusual and rather special day in a lot of ways. We had a class of Nixon sixth-graders that I’d had before, and we were spending all day on the longest hike at HV—Rhus Ridge, Windmill Pastures, and Ewing Hill, back to HV. I’d never been on these trails, largely, but I was ready to wing it.
There was great chaos at first, as usual, as the children and parents arrived and we all had to be transported to the trailhead. I was supposed to team with about three other guides in quick succession, and ended up with three of my former boys—Andy, Mikie, and Sunil —along with four of Lynne’s little rowdies.
To begin the day and calm the mood, Lynne and I led a group singing of the chant “Hawk”— first the two of us, then all of us, then holding hands in a circle then closing our eyes. It certainly calmed the original bustle a bit.
We set off as one group, and quickly found ourselves naturally splitting – so we capitulated to the inevitable and I took my original three little boys and the teacher. Having not done values, I was not too centered and felt a little off at first – but we began by looking at flowers, telling stories about them, pointing out some severe erosional damages, and other odds and ends. The view was spectacular nearly from the start, and while my kids were as cheerful and responsive as before, the teacher was awful—refusing to be part of the group, hanging back and taking pictures. I Burma Shaved them up quite a ways, leaving them at a very nice view, and tossed down my usual cards—Bonnie’s group reading and enjoying them as well as I laid them down. My card, “Will you eat this for lunch?” placed by a fresh bracto was the most popular, although I also got points for my coyote yelp. Mikie came first, then Andy and Sumil. To occupy them I gave them magnifying glasses, with unexpected results—they literally shrank themselves to ant size and stared at this little plot of ground for 20 minutes, finding orange-legged spiders, black and white tuxedoed spiders, and other critters, as well as sparkling dewdrops on spider webs so tiny. They were totally into this miniature world and were extrapolating it to, “What if a big eye suddenly loomed over us with a microscope?” The miracle of one dead leaf as a home and shelter for spiders, etc.! The teacher was bored, but that was her problem. I initiated a penny hike while we were in the mood, which we carried on for a little way, creating an ant pleasure palace and even finding an ant at the end. We then hiked on up to Windmill Pasture, making pennyroyal tea along the way and returning the favor to Bonnie, reading her cards on up the way.
The pastures themselves were green, rolling and lovely. I took an interesting side trail on a good hunch that led to a pretty vantage point, and from here I read them all of Chief Seattle. They were quiet and attentive, and we had writings afterward, of what the land meant to them. There were a magical 20 minutes of quiet as they bent over their boards in their own little places. It was ideal weather and I was into it completely myself. We shared quietly afterward—Mikie had drawn a tree, which, he said, had given him shade; Andy had drawn a nice mountain scene, and Sunil had written a lovely two-page story that was completely fresh and completely perfect for him and for the time. Even the teacher made a few drawings before abandoning us completely. We continued to explore the pastures then, looking for a good lunch place, marveling at the heavy scent of lilacs in full bloom, and reading a few of Bonnie’s cards. We ate lunch in an OK place and heard much about Andy’s business painting and selling magnets, as well as the talented abilities of magnifying glasses to burn holes in leaves.
Their lunches, surprisingly, were only OK. I read them “The Mountain” and they really got the message, searching out every detail in the story. From here we began back to the Pasture, stopping for a tea ceremony and luck-passing; a meandering past a windmill and a hugging tree went by, then we cast a coyote track and, while waiting, I read them another story “The 10th good thing about Barney,” which they liked. The pace had slowed noticeably, but these kids were so good that they didn’t need much teaching, and keeping group dynamics, as such, going was hard with only three.
But I wasn’t complaining as we hiked out of the Pasture, doing a quick “Little Miracles” along the way. Then Lynne, whose group was ahead, called back that they wanted to play predator-prey with us, so we joined them on the ridge. The energy level changed drastically as our groups melded, and it grew far hotter and less easily introspective. We played a half-disorganized game of predator-prey, mixing and running into other groups along the way. We put wet scarves around their foreheads in the heat, and Lynne, because of her foot, entrusted me with all of them. I rump-bumped the seven boys off the hill via Grapevine; things were boisterous but I did, actually, have control – and I ran them down at a furious pace, to their utter delight. At the bottom, we walked along the creek until, at one spot, I let them wade and try to go seining—with little success; but they liked playing in the creek. Lynne caught up, amazingly, and we just let them walk back—both of us admitting we were strategied out. At the Big Rock, my boys were all able to retrieve their planet, say a final word to them, listen to them and bury them again. We then walked jauntily back to the farm, loosely joining another group, all of us feeling like we’d walked a little way.
At the farm, there was a brief, rewarding bunny-holding – the rabbits had had babies – and then en masse, we returned to the parking lot. Here we shared writings, Sunil’s getting much acclaim—along with some very impressive poems out of some of the girls. Then, Lynne had me sing, alone, through the “Hawk,” then everyone joined in, and on the second verse, I saw one circle over Elephant Mountain, circling around, indeed….
It was both an easy and rewarding day, both different and adventurous for everyone. It felt good to change HV gears like that and have older kids, an all-trails day, and a new trail at that. My kids were sweethearts, and the day was loose. We actually nearly exhausted the trail strategies, it seemed; although I felt as though I’d structured little of it, I realized that we’d done quite a few strategies. A peaceful and resting day—and I found myself completely enjoying leading the songs. I have a feeling I will like the summer…..
March 19
I suppose this is a kind of appendix to my HV journal, as my official obligation ended last week—but I have to record this last day—this last, possibly best, day.
It was all such a nice surprise. The day was uncertain, clouds moving in and out, rain spitting most of the time. Wally and Lynne had tell-tale smiles when they assured us it would be “a neat day”—we were getting third-graders from Brentwood, a school in the heart of East Palo Alto. Supposedly, they were to be difficult kids; and I, at least, was nervous waiting for them. I expected a rowdy day spent mostly trying to keep the kids in line.
At any rate, it was to be a short day. They came on a bus about 10 a.m. and had to leave about 1 p.m. So, Wally lost no time getting his class into a circle—the bus serving as a blockade between classes—and trying to do an inverse rain dance. The kids loved it but he lost a little credibility when the faint sun we’d had vanished, and it started to rain harder. No matter. After lunches were squared away, Wally gave me a group of five little boys—Jerry, Richard, Alex, Ramy, and Andre—and a T.A. of the class named Sam. My first indication of what the day would be like came when three of my boys chorused that they wanted to go with Wally. I made a sad face and said they were going to make me feel bad. The next time Andre opened his mouth to say “Wally,” Raimy turned to him, saying “Sush. You’ll make her feel bad.” Wally was promptly forgotten.
We set off in good spirits, the boys eager and excited but not uncontrollable. Our first stop was at the miner’s lettuce patch, where I carefully explained respect for life and had them pick one leaf to munch. They were suitably impressed, thanked the plants loudly, and thought it tasted good. From here we went into the cows with first a little outside preparation as we talked about milk. They knew where it came from but had only dim notions about cream, etc. And I told them to turn their noses off. Wally had said these children would be afraid of big animals. They walked right up to the cow, put their ears to her stomach, and patted her ribs in delight. The calves were also a hit, although the big calves were too frisky, I thought, to take them in with them. At this point, I was beginning to wonder where those problem children were. My kids were attentive, caring, and obviously loving every minute of it. We talked about manure and decomposed it with great vigor, although the actual connections of manure-milkshake were obviously brand new concepts to them. They touched a quivering pile of fresh cow manure gingerly, Jerry at first offering to put it through a blender to get a milkshake. They giggled appropriately when a cow peed, but Sam just said, “Be cool man; it’s natural.”
We next headed for the birdhouse, stopping to admire the creek along the way and marvel at diamonds sparkling in the sun, which peeped out for a few minutes. “You mean those are real diamonds?” Smelling the spaghetti tree along the way, we played the beak and eating games, heard the wings flopping, and looked at feathers. They responded well but I didn’t linger long, as already time was fleeing very fast. At a puddle near the cows, we joined the Mud Club, pledge (straight out of my head) and all, and they loved it, totally delighted that I actually streaked mud on my own face as well. We pretended to be cattle over the cattle guard and thanked Frank loudly at the bridge.
The pigs were uncooperative and not out of their pens, so I decided to take them up Disaster and see how far we’d get. “Are you brave about being out in the rain?” I asked, and they all assured me that they were. Spunky kids, indeed. We discussed poison oak and how it was the only thing you could be afraid of, as we wandered on. I asked them to count how many different greens there were on the hillside— “Millions!” They finally gave up. It was absolutely lovely as we followed the creek, being quiet like Indians to hear all the sounds and smell all the smells. At least five birds singing, the gurgle of the creek, the drip of water from the leaves, the wind in the trees, an airplane overhead – there was lots to hear, and the spaghetti tree was easily smellable.
Mugwort was now freshly out and I told them the Indian legend about sweet dreams. They were on the whole very responsive to all smells, and unlike some children, thought the pungent, freshly-crushed leaves that I put under their turned-on noses all smelled good. We found two newts and played with them, having one of them walk across everyone’s hands. “It tickles!” They at first thought they were lizards, but I slowly explained the difference. They were fascinated by his toes and green eyes. “Can we keep him?” asked Andre. “Why shouldn’t we keep him?” I put it back: “Because this is his home and he belongs here,” answered Ramy. The level of maturity in these children continued to amaze me. After gently putting him back and thanking him for letting me handle him (these were appreciative children who thanked everything) we went on, feeling and smelling toyon, feeling lichens, moss with our cheeks, decomposing dead leaves (what great decomposers they were). Toothwork was named “White Twinkle” by Alex, and Ramy named hounds-tongue “Blue Crystals.” Later, Indian-warrior was named “Red Fern.” I’ve never had Purple-Thurple work so well. I thought their names were beautiful and original, and showed a lot of creativity. Alex found White Twinkles everywhere after he’d named them.
We turned the big corner, feeling fungus and witches’ butters, and Jerry found a banana slug. We examined and touched and talked about him for a while, my kids utterly enthralled, and every single one of them licked it gently! I left them there then to set up an alone walk— I felt as though they were ready for it, and I wanted to give them that sort of experience. After 200 yards I yelped back at them. Alex came first, beaming me a broad smile. We yelped together for the next person, and so on. “I’m scared!” called out Richard, just 50 yards and barely out of sight from us. “Keep walking—I was scared too but I made it,” called out little Alex. They all loved this experience, had noticed neat things as “The most beautiful thing they’d seen,” and were happy to get mustaches and smell mint while the last ones arrived. “That was fun!” I felt as though a major step had been taken for each boy, and they were all smiling. My coyote yelp also had to be repeated by popular demand!
As we climbed higher and began to get views, they were totally wowed by how high they were and how much they could see. “That’s the bus!” At the very top, they had the most exhilarated reaction of any group I’d ever had. “We can see Moffett Field!” I’m sure they’d never seen a view like that in their whole lives, and they were terribly proud of themselves as mountaineers. “This is beautiful.” I then asked my game kids if they wanted to eat lunch now or later. “Let’s wait,” they agreed, eager to get on to more adventures. So we rump-bumped off enthusiastically, smelling and feeling things along the way, and hugging the big tree warmly to give it love. They learned how to tell plants from mushrooms, where lilac perfume came from, and all the things that trees give us. At the waterfall, we had a “freeze-out” competition, talked about water, and had a water ceremony to thank water for drinking, bathing, and “making plants grow so that they give us air,” said Ramy, bless his heart. We then hiked to the Big Rock, careful of slippery bridges and counting banana slugs as we went. Dew-coated spider webs complete with spiders were also admired.
At the Big Rock, they grabbed a little lunch. I talked briefly about plastics, and they did know that they came from oil and were not decomposable, and I read them “The Giving Tree” while they ate. We were rapidly running out of time, so we ran off the Big Rock and made our way back to the farm in time to see sheep. They approached them quietly and reverently, touching them in delight, feeling through the wool, and kissing a baby lamb that I held in my arms, a black bundle of warm, tight wooliness. They thanked them profusely and we next tried the pigs again, with no better luck. Before they had time to be disappointed, I whisked them off to the chickens, which became a cacophonous melee when the geese joined in; but nearly everyone fed a chicken by hand, and they all enjoyed it. “Did you have fun today?! I asked them as we hurried back, late—“YES!” they chorused. They all said they’d like to live at HV if they could, also. We almost ran the last part, saying good-bye quickly as they hopped on the bus, and I thanked Sam. (“You were a great tour guide,” he said, to swell my head.) All too quickly the bus of waving black children was gone.
Almost everyone had had a neat day, with a few exceptions of a couple of problem children. We all agreed it had just been too short—three hours versus a regular five-hour day. Myself, I could’ve spent hours more with these children. The day had been busy and we had packed in a lot, but it hadn’t been too rushed so far as the kids were concerned. I opted to do fewer things more thoroughly rather than try to do everything. Still, we saw a lot and did a lot, and I was glad we’d done everything we had. They’d all had a fantastic time, which was the most important part of all. They’d overcome any misgivings, adventured out, and been rewarded. They loved all the animals and creatures and respected the land. They’d felt important and no one was even left out. It was probably one of the best days I’d ever had at HV— everything just clicked.
My children were unusually bright, although they knew very little. But creative—they were continually astonishing me. So far as intellectual teaching of ecology, etc., they probably learned not a whole lot—but they were exposed to the wonder, beauty, and joy of it all, and that was the more important level today. They might’ve been a different group to handle without the steady presence of Sam—while he never interfered and actually disciplined little, his calm good-naturedness and curiosity helped a lot in setting the mood for the day. But on the whole, they were just so interested that I can’t imagine discipline ever being a problem with them. Ramy was quiet, a rather sad-looking child who brightened up all day, very sensitive and very caring and very, very bright. Alex also radiated a gentle sweetness and was extraordinarily creative. Andre was our big tough guy who acted like a lamb all day, and Jerry and Richard were also nice kids who didn’t stand out in my particular way but were right in the thick of things at all times. I just plain liked these kids. They were fun people to share with, and they liked and respected me back. It was the kind of day when every 10 minutes someone would say “This is so much fun!” It was a little poignant, though, to realize that these sweet, intelligent kids had had and would continue to have such rotten educational stimulation that they could barely read and write. I remember Alex’s sweet smile and wonder how it will fare on the streets of East Palo Alto. I am scared for them.
But it couldn’t have been a better last day at HV. Tears came to my eyes when Wally and Lynne gave me the guide patch and we sang a last song. How am I going to stay away from this place that has given me so very, very much?
Gale Warner
Unpublished, 1981