The Power of Non-Fiction

Alex Grant, the young man pictured here, is the subject of this post. Before I get to him, I wish to make an announcement that is tangentially, but delightfully, related.

The power of non-fiction, and the myriad ways that educators, authors and other creative people can harness it, will be the subject of The 21^st Century Children’s Nonfiction Conference, to be held on June 14-16 at SUNY New Paltz, about 80 miles north of New York City. Among many stellar speakers are INK’s own Vicki Cobb and Melissa Stewart, along with Kent Brown of the Highlights Foundation, Robin Terry of National Geographic Children’s Publishing and other luminaries. The conference includes 23 workshops, three intensives, two panels, six meals and unlimited networking opportunities. Details at http://www.childrensNFconference.com; further information from organizer Sally Isaacs, sisaacs@starconsultinginc.com. 

Now about Alex. We met early on a chilly February morning on a footbridge in the Boyce Thompson Arboretum, 60 mile east of Phoenix. We were among a dozen or so birding enthusiasts who had gathered for the weekly guided bird walk sponsored by the Arboretum. Alex and I discussed two related birds, initially indistinguishable to my eyes. Both were wrens, small songbirds with barred tails and thin bills. Binoculars lifted, Alex pointed out the differences: the canyon wren had more distinct coloration  —  reddish brown wings and back, and a bright white throat, compared with the paler, grayish brown rock wren whose throat lacked the lustrous white. Alex spoke eagerly, with the facts at his command and a confidence that belied his age: 15. Very soon he might be leading walks like this, as his reputation had reached the Arboretum and a ranger had invited him to become a volunteer bird guide — the Arboretum's youngest by far. He and his parents had come on this walk while he considered the offer. 

Rock Wren

Canyon Wren

Later, as the sun finally warmed the air enough for us to shed an outer layer or two, I asked Alex’s mother, Sonja Grant, about her son’s zeal for birds. It had begun during the summer between first and second grade. The catalyst was a book called Birds of the World. Alex had checked it out of the library and it had changed his life. True, he had already shown a keen interest in nature, and he'd owned books about birds as well as sharks, insects and other taxa. He’d read some of them so many times that their pages had fallen out. But with its dazzling photos and engaging text, Birds of the World had taken Alex to a new level of interest that he calls “a deep passion.” Before long, the passion spread to both of his parents, and the family had a new hobby. School vacations became extended birding outings in Arizona, California, Texas and Maine, the trips oriented around an important statistic—the number of species seen between Jan. 1 and Dec. 31 of the year. That number had reached 306 in 2012. Birders refer to a year in which they keep count as "a big year"; the Grants decided to do another big year in 2013, and by mid-May their list was up to 263 species.

Finishing his freshman year at Gilbert High School in Gilbert, AZ, Alex is homing in on a college education and career in ornithology. And it all started with a non-fiction book.

I am reminded of a quote I once saw from a Jo Carr (if you know who she is, please let me know): “You can almost divide non-fiction into two categories: non-fiction that stuffs in facts, as if children were vases to be filled, and non-fiction that ignites the imagination, as if children were indeed fires to be lit.” I don’t know anything about the book that turned Alex into a bird lover (a fair number of books bear the title Birds of the World). It may even fall in the “stuffs in fact” genus in Jo Carr’s taxonomy but clearly it ignited Alex Grant’s imagination and illuminated the apparent direction of his life. 

Many modalities of non-fiction (in the form of books and other media) will be explored at the New Paltz conference. Perhaps the one you teach or create will ignite a child’s life, or your own.

The Snake on My Desk, and After That

I came out to the barn where I work at about ten o'clock this morning. So what if it's Memorial Day? Writers work when they need to, and I had two blog posts to write. Past the gorgeously blooming hibiscus plant that props open the door, up the stairs past my son's Hess trucks and a painting I did once of the moon, as it looked every day for a month, past color printouts of my work-in-progress, an illustrated book about my dives in the submarine Alvin... I hit the button on the radio, preset to WFUV, and I set my glass of water on my desk.

That's when a five-foot garter snake uncoiled itself from somewhere, scooted across my desk toward me (I leapt back. Duh.), slid down the front of my file cabinet, and skedaddled into the dark corner beside the desk, where it found safety amid two open canvas boxes of files.

Holy BATS. Hell's bells. Crikey! Why me, why this, why now? Lord, don't you know I'm BUSY?

Okay, okay. I have resources. My friend Tucker is nineteen, studies zoology, and is known for his extreme joy upon discovering a fer-de-lance snake in the boot of a bunkmate during a stay in Costa Rica. I knew Tucker would come over and get the snake out for me. But Tucker's mother tells me he is away for the weekend, saying sadly, "He'll be so sorry to miss this opportunity." Uh-huh.

I get my park ranger friend Noonie on the phone at her house in Pennsylvania. Noonie is famous among my family for having introduced them to several fine examples of snakes, including Harry, her Burmese python; a water snake at our swimming hole; and a couple of mating snakes that made beautiful music -- well, if you want that story I'm going to post it on The Doodling Desk under Good Little Snakes.

Noonie suggests I construct a barricade using bed sheets, planks. and blankets and, having created a channel for the snake to run along, begin to remove the files boxes and other stuff that is shielding the snake. Then I can just pick it up if it doesn't go in the right direction and take it out. "It's going to try to bite you, but just remember you're not small enough to fit inside its mouth." From the background, her partner Steve shouts, "Wear gloves!" All this is the kind of advice I find difficult to follow, and besides I have WORK TO DO, did I mention that? At last Noon admits that just leaving the snake behind the desk is definitely an option.

So I do, for now. Yes, I do have work to do, but this situation has presented me with a different approach to that work. The earlier idea for the blog post has gone straight out the window (where I wish the snake would also go) and an interest born of necessity has overcome it -- not just the necessity to feel comfortable in my work place, but a fascination with learning enough about this situation to write about it. Yes indeed -- step into my office! Digging around for individuals, advice, and information -- and then writing and drawing about it -- is what I love to do.

Next I'm on line looking for a regional wildlife center Tucker's mother mentioned, and before long I'm talking to Pete Reid, who actually works in publishing (he writes about the beer industry) and moonlights as a "naturalist by vocation." His wife, Dara Reid, is a wildlife biologist who directs Wildlife in Crisis in nearby Weston, Connecticut. Wildlife in Crisis was organized in this area in 1989 to assist with the situations that arise, as one has in my barn this morning, when people and animals live in proximity. They know what to do if an animal is hurt and needs rehabilitation, if baby birds fall out of their nest, or if a coyote takes up residence under your shed.

Pete knows about every animal that lives in our area, whether it's native or introduced, and how it's doing. It seems that Connecticut is seeing strong numbers of beavers (I saw one walking down the street recently), fisher cats, otters, coyotes, and many more. And snakes are doing dandy as well. My garter snake, a mild-mannered type, most likely came into the barn intentionally, says Pete, and does not need my help to get back out. "He's there probably because there are insects and crickets or something else attractive in the barn. He'll slither around and find a gap, going out the way he came in." In the meantime, Pete suggests I wear closed-toed shoes and keep a broom handy so I can sweep the snake out the door if I see it again.

Pete tells me some other snake stories, confirming the existence of the state's legendary copperheads -- of which I've heard many stories but seen no evidence -- and which have been a topic of heated debate among some of my friends. And he reassures me that the garter snake behind my desk is "just part of the natural order of things in the barn."

I hang up the phone, determined to be philosophical about my deskmate. By now I've been sitting here working in near proximity to a snake for some four hours, with nary a slither or other sign of life from the dark corner. I admit that my feet aren't on the ground; I've propped them up on the handles of my file cabinets. I'm kind of jumpy, too. But I've also learned a lot, done an interesting drawing (I'm going to try another snake another day, but for now here's what I've got, see above), talked to some great people, and heard about different approaches to the situation that started my day. Not bad for a day at the office.