Last Father’s Day weekend I packed up the car with my son, wife, and dog and we hit the road for Wisconsin to visit my in-laws. Being a birder, I had a secret agenda; there’s always a secret agenda for birders. I wanted to revisit a park in the backwaters of the Mississippi River that had repelled me away a year earlier when I’d come unprepared for the onslaught of mosquitoes. As best as I could figure, the park contained at least eight bird species that had yet to be added to my life list. Saturday morning, I set out for the park while the rest of the family headed to garage sales. Alone in the woods, I hiked down the old gravel trail. My slow pace would have driven a non-birder crazy. My ears picked out every bird call as I crept along and led my eyes to their hidden forms. Here’s a common yellowthroat near that wetland, there’s a yellow warbler in the trees. That’s a song sparrow in the bushes. What are those crows calling at in the distance? Ah, now I hear the red-shouldered hawk they are chasing.

It was a gorgeous day. The wind was just strong enough to ground most of the mosquitoes and the sun was shining in the sky. I’d hiked about a mile down the trail and had just added an indigo bunting to my daily bird tally when I came upon something unexpected: water. There’s a lot of water in this park. There are six large bridges crossing backwaters and streams of the Black River, but this water was covering the trail directly ahead of me. I suddenly remembered that on the previous Thursday we’d had huge storms passing through the region. There were reports of 35 tornadoes in Minnesota. That same massive line of storms dumped over three inches of water on the park. The crushed limestone trail dipped down below a pool of brown, tannin-rich water.

I have to admit my first thought was to turn back. “Wait a minute,” I thought. “I’m a naturalist!” There only appeared to be six inches or so of water and the trail resumed again 20 feet away. No problem. I stripped off my shoes and socks and waded into the cold water. I had to move slowly as my tender feet felt their way along the rocky bottom. The bright side of walking on sharp, crushed limestone was that at least my feet weren’t going to be muddy on the other side.

Successfully crossing the water, I put my socks and shoes back on and kept on hiking, all the while ticking off species of birds. I knew most people would have turned around so everything from here on out was my solo park. I was smiling as I hiked when I again came to a section of trail covered in water. Without much hesitation this time, I stripped my shoes and socks off and headed into the water. This time it was farther across and the water came up to my knees. On the other side, I tore one of my socks when I pulled too hard putting it back on my wet feet. Due to a packing error, it happened to be the only pair of socks I’d brought all weekend. Oh well, such is life. I hiked on until I came to the third place the trail disappeared under the water. This time, the sun was behind some clouds and I really couldn’t tell how deep the water was. I was also keenly aware that for every water crossing I made I’d have to repeat it on the way back. I had no idea how many more crossings there would be.

“Enough with this shoe and sock nonsense,” I thought. I hiked up my jeans and plunged into the water with my shoes still attached. I was pretty sure that was a mistake from about the second step. The one thing I was happy about was the extra height my shoes gave me. I’m six feet tall but the water was still just above my knees. I hiked on, watching birds and sloshing in my wet shoes. I made yet another water crossing and enjoyed myself until hunger and my watch told me I had to turn around. By the time I got to the car an hour later my shoes were soaked and I’d added 13 species of birds I wouldn’t have seen had I turned around when the trail submerged under water. None of them were any of the eight “lifers” I had been hoping for but I’d had a great morning none the less.

There are times in interpretation that are like that moment standing at the edge of the water. Turning around is so easy, so seductive. What was really holding me back, wet shoes? In life and interpretation we’re often more cautious than we need to be for reasons that amount to nothing more than wet shoes.

Plunge through the interpretive waters. I can’t guarantee better birds on the other side, but make sure your obstacles are real, not something as silly as wet shoes.

Kirk Mona is the outreach coordinator for the Lee and Rose Warner Nature Center in Marine on St. Croix, Minnesota. He has been an NAI member since 1996. Kirk welcomes your comments at kmona@smm.org.

Interpreters (including naturalists and rangers) need to be storytellers. The Ranger Interpretation Handbook produced by the International Ranger Federation states that the first of 11 principles of high-quality interpretation is that interpreters must “develop an in-depth knowledge of the natural or cultural protected area that is being interpreted and [apply] that knowledge to build a range of relevant messages/compelling stories.” However, though interpreters usually have an excellent knowledge of their environment, few have been taught how to tell stories. If they have been taught, their instruction often misses the critical areas that they need in order to craft and tell interesting, compelling stories that delight and move their audience.

Interpreters are storytellers. Pictured here: Chuck Lennox of Seattle, Washington, has the audience in the palm of his hand. Photo by Charlotte Spang.

Below is a process—plus some tips—on how to become skilled in humans’ most ancient art, that of telling good stories and telling these stories well.

First, you need to have a story you feel passionate about. Sometimes a colleague has shared a story that just begs to be told, and has given you permission to tell it. Usually, however, despite interpreters’ knowledge, they have not sought out and crafted the stories that are most meaningful to them. These are the stories they will tell best because they come from the heart.

To create your story, have a simple brainstorming session with your colleagues. In a recent workshop for the staff of Glacier Bay National Park and Preserve, some of the subjects interpreters suggested were sea otters, orcas, brown bears, clams, glaciers, Tlingit history, moose, hummingbirds, and mosquitoes. After they chose the subjects most meaningful to them they began to create their own stories. This was done by creating a simple graphic organizer or story map—I call this a Visual Portrait of a Story (VPS). The VPS has five main components: beginning, problem, solution, end, and picture (or drawing).

Contrary to how most of us are taught, you begin with the problem and solution (instead of the beginning) of your subject. Jot down a few words regarding the problem and solution. Then write a sentence or two for the beginning, and a sentence or two for the end. If you are at all artistic, you can draw a picture or pictures that remind you of the story.

Next, begin the powerful tell-and-retell process. Start by telling the story to another interpreter before actually writing the whole tale down from beginning to end. Do this while standing up so you can move your body and act it out as you tell. Ask your partner to tell it back to you (retell) using body movement, sound, and facial expressions. Your partner won’t use the exact same words, nor tell it just like you; that is what you want. You will see and hear your story in a different light and may use some of the words or storytelling techniques your partner used. Remember, what you are trying to do here is craft an excellent story, the best you can for your audience.

Honing Your Story Further
This is a constructive process, so it’s helpful to have someone model the language of response and criticism. I have used the following simple but very powerful discussion process effectively to teach others how to evaluate storytelling performances at all levels. When a teller finishes the story, he or she should ask, “What did I do to make this a good storytelling?” Colleagues provide specific feedback on what made the storytelling good—the sounds, facial expressions, and body movements. At the Glacier Bay workshop, one such response was, “I liked the way you moved when you stuck your [sea otter] head out of the water.” Another was, “You spoke loudly enough that everyone could hear you.” You want your colleagues to focus on how the story was told, not the content.

Critical feedback without using harsh words encourages the teller to grow and become more effective. After three or four positive comments have been shared ask, “What could I do to make the performance even better?” One response might be, “To make it even better, you might want to show the sea otter swimming” or, “Tell the story loud enough so that the people in the very back can hear you well—that way you know everyone can understand your story.” Another response might be, “Perhaps act like you are on your back and breaking the clams with a rock.” Two or three specific suggestions are optimal. This is where tellers begin crafting their story; they have a good idea of what works and what should be modified or left out. The storytelling will be better the next time it’s told.

Storytellers learn to use variations of the questions above. This language is polite yet direct and useful. This type of guided practice increases confidence and improves performance. With a few more rehearsals, you will find that you have a great story, you tell it well, and you know the process to create more stories for other audiences.

A good story can hardly be beat. Interpreters are in the enviable position of having incredible optimal environments—and often venues—for storytelling. By creating a story from your knowledge and passion, then crafting it with the help of your colleagues, you will delight your audience with a great story, well told.

Some Further Storytelling Tips

Know your audience and choose an age-appropriate story. Make sure the story you choose isn’t too child oriented for adults or too mature for children.

Be professional. Enter the performance space with a confident stance. Acknowledge the audience by smiling and making eye contact. Wait until you have their full attention. Introduce yourself, and give the story title.

Make sure your audience can see and hear you. Work as close to them as possible. The sound of your voice is your most important tool.

Use variety in your speech. For example, make your pitch higher to show excitement. Use a long pause to build suspense. Make the tone of your voice deeper to sound like an older or larger person or animal.

Use different voices for different characters. A donkey might have a deep, slow voice. A rabbit might have a fast, high-pitched voice. The narrator should have yet another voice.

Use expression. Do not speak in a monotone. The more familiar you are with the story, the more fluent you sound. Tell the story as naturally as a conversation with a good friend, not labored like when you read something unfamiliar. Try showing an emotion on your face before it comes out of your mouth. For example, open your mouth and eyes wide to show surprise.

Use deliberate movements and fill your space. Do not distract your audience with nervous mannerisms such as rocking back and forth, playing with your hair, or leaning against a wall. Do not be glued to one spot. Move in relation to your audience for a desired effect, such as leaning in with your fingers as claws to scare when telling a bear story.

Your hands are your best friends. Do not put them in your pockets—use them!

End your story as a professional. Remember to bow.

Brett Dillingham is a professional storyteller and author of the children’s book Raven Day and the textbook Performance Literacy Through Storytelling. Contact him at brett@brettdillingham.com.

As winter drew to a close I took an “active seniors” group on a snowshoe hike. It was the last snowshoe program of the year. We took off our snowshoes, stowed them away for the season, and came into the warmth of the building. We’d had a wonderful time exploring and learning. I finished off the program inside by answering just one more question and telling just one more story. Maybe it was because I was working with an adult group after working so much with kids, but I was on a roll sharing information. There is something cathartic about being able to expound on almost any topic on a deep level without worrying about going over the heads of the audience. I had already taught enough programs involving felt boards and monosyllabic words for the season. As I finished my program, we all walked upstairs and a woman asked in amazement how I knew so much.

I’d spent the last two hours chatting with the group as we strolled though the hilly terrain of our wooded property. I told them about snowshoes, owls, trees, forestry, ecological succession, black cherry burls, lichens, tornadoes, straight line winds, glaciers, ancient river valleys, groundwater movement, lake levels, animal hibernation, torpor, quinzee construction, winter camping, tracking, and probably a dozen other topics. She was clearly amazed by the varied string of knowledge I had at my fingertips. She asked very directly where I learned all this. It should not be an odd question, but it caught me off guard.

I stumbled and started to give the answer that part of my degree in college was in environmental studies, but that sounded silly as soon as it came out of my mouth. That’s the answer I gave fresh out of college trying to impress audiences that I really am a college graduate and, yes, this is really my job. I’ve been out of college for over a decade now and while I can’t be certain, I would guess nothing I learned in those four years made it into the actual information I gave out on that hike. So where do I learn then? How do I know what I know?

As in interpreter, I am constantly amazed by the resource I interpret. I explained in an interview with a journalist recently that the more I learn about the forest, the shorter distance I make it into the woods. I love to go on long, meandering hikes but sometimes it seems I only make it a few feet into the forest. There are simply so many interesting things to see that I’m constantly stopping to take it all in. There are trees, shrubs, herbs, fungi, lichens, insects, birds, mammals, rocks, soil, weather, and the signs of interactions between them all. I stop to look at and study each of these things but I use the other senses, too. There are things to hear and touch and smell and even taste in the world around me. All science begins with observation and there is much scientific learning to be had by simply observing. The best answer to give the woman when she asked me where I learned about the woods should have been “in the woods.”

I have learned to interpret the place where I work because I spend time studying and living with the everyday experience of the place. Learning is more than personal observation though. I can never see it all. To learn it all, or at least as much as we can, we have to share what we learn. I learn from my coworkers, I learn from professional journals and books, I learn from the experts I seek out, I learn from direct experimentation. For example, when the snow finally melted off the grass in the spring, it revealed a web-like frost on the ground. I wasn’t satisfied until I had touched it and studied it and checked references to learn what it was. It was a snow mold, and I’m glad I took the opportunity to study it, as the web-like mycelium had dried and nearly vanished a few days later.

Being an effective interpreter means you are constantly learning. You can’t help but constantly learn about a resource that continues to fascinate and compel you. “Where did I learn all this?” I learned all this working and living it in the field of interpretation.

Kirk Mona is the outreach coordinator for the Lee and Rose Warner Nature Center in Marine on St. Croix, Minnesota. He has been an NAI member since 1996. Kirk welcomes your comments at kmona@smm.org.

I am a journalist who hated my journalism classes. Anyone else out there with me? I loved to write, to tell stories, and get people to think. In college, I used to hang out in our campus newspaper office long after hours “just because.” I started volunteering as a writer at a nonprofit organization to get more chances to put words to paper. But I could not stand my writing classes.

Don’t get me wrong—I learned some valuable information from my coursework. Proper punctuation, when to use digits and when to spell out numbers, and the difference between ensure and insure, entitled and titled (look them up—you probably misuse them yourself!). What I couldn’t stomach was the formulaic approach some of my teachers took to writing. From the lede (journalist talk for the first sentence of your article, pronounced “leed”) to the closing ’graph, my writing was consistently marked up in the name of making sure I was clear and concise, and that my product met the needs of my audience.

Those are qualities I desperately wanted my writing to possess, and yet I hated the training. I was consistently told what I needed to do, but I never understood why. I was given the outline, but I never understood the reasons the outline worked.

Until I became an interpreter.

In my journalism classes, I wasn’t taught to make connections, to provoke or evoke. But why not? After all, one of the goals of a working journalist is to write an article about something people want or need to know in order to, ultimately, sell your product (the publication for which you write). But the most compelling newspaper articles or magazine features are those that tell a story you enjoy, that connect to your own life experiences, and that stir in you a sense that you should do something. In the end, a great piece of journalism is one that makes you, the reader, tell your friends about it. Isn’t that the mark of a good museum exhibit, or park visit, too?

The Epiphany
I never thought about using NAI’s interpretive strategy in my freelance journalism until I was working on a particularly challenging article. I couldn’t think of very much to say, and the words I did manage to type out sounded dull and lifeless. At one point, I threw up my hands and hollered at my laptop, “I don’t even know what this article is about!”

To distract myself, I started filing some paperwork away, and among the files was my Certified Interpretive Guide packet. I started flipping through the explanations of how to craft an interpretive message. All of a sudden, I stopped flipping, turned to my computer, and began typing.

In the months since I experienced my interpretive-journalism epiphany, I’ve noticed the writing process getting easier and easier. Words come more naturally, and I find that when I write, I try to simply tell a story rather than get bogged down in form and function. As a result, I work more effectively and I turn in better content in the end. Specifically, I’ve noticed the following changes in how I work as a writer:

Identifying a Purpose and Theme
This sounds like something so simple, but making a conscious choice to identify these two elements in my writing provides a sense of direction as I write—a roadmap so I don’t get lost. Sometimes, I see my writing assignments as boring “must-dos” that pay the bills. Sometimes, I’m so interested in the topic I veer off on tangents. Knowing why I’m writing and the big idea I hope to communicate to the audience alleviates both of these bad habits of mine.

Using Better Mechanics
I’ve always been a fan of good grammar and punctuation. You know what I’m also a fan of? Run-ons: those long sentences that just go on and on and on without end. Since becoming a CIG, I now read aloud everything that I write, because if it can be said easily, it can be read easily. That’s not to say I write all my articles as if they were interpretive talks or speeches, but reading aloud helps me identify areas where I’ve let an idea or sentence go past its peak into the danger zone.

Knowing My Content and My Audience
Again, it sounds like something so simple—to know what you’re talking about and whom you’re saying it to. But I think many times journalists fall into the trap that humor columnist Dave Barry pointed out: “We journalists make it a point to know very little about an extremely wide variety of topics; this is how we stay objective.” I now keep a copy of the interpretive equation handy whenever I write: knowledge of your audience plus knowledge of your resource (or subject matter) plus appropriate techniques equals an interpretive (or journalistic) opportunity.

Deciding Why and How to Make an Emotional Connection
Emotional connections aren’t really something my journalism professors taught us. We were instead trained (sometimes repeatedly) that we needed to remain unbiased at all times. But since merging my journalistic and interpretive training, I’ve concluded that tapping into emotions and keeping yourself objective are not necessarily mutually exclusive. In Indiana University’s Eppley Institute for Parks and Public Lands courses in interpretation, students are given entire lists of techniques they can use to read their audiences’ emotions. Imagery, allusion, irony, quotation—those are at the heart of good storytelling, and at the heart of good journalism as well. Henry Anatole Grunwald, former editor of Time magazine, once remarked that journalism “must speak, and speak immediately, while the echoes of wonder, the claims of triumph, and the signs of horror are still in the air.” What a boring article it would be if the journalist left those emotions in the air without acknowledging them on paper as well.

Paying Attention to the Beginning and End
The last thing that has really hit home for me concerns something I take a lot of pride in: the beginning and ending of my articles. These elements are often my strengths, and I am grateful to my CIG training for renewing the respect and care I give to these sections as I write. Eppley Institute’s course on Interpretive Talk states, “The beginning and ending of a talk are critical. What you say in the opening few minutes sets the tone for your presentation. It creates a first impression. In many locations audiences are able to come and go, so an effective introduction is essential to drawing in an audience.” The same is true in journalism. How many times do we start a newspaper or magazine article, read a paragraph or two, and move on? How many of us never even get past the headline? As a writer, my first priority is to grab an audience and make them want to stay with me through my whole story. That’s something my professors always told me, but never truly taught me.

Thanks, Mr. Tilden
It really should not surprise me that learning interpretation made me a better journalist. After all, Freeman Tilden himself was a newspaper columnist before he started working with the National Park Service. Ultimately, interpretation, journalism, and many other fields are, at their hearts, subsets of the discipline of communication. Knowing how to tell a story, exchange ideas, explore new concepts—and understanding how to do it well—are universal tools that live beyond any one profession. As I think about my two jobs—zoo interpreter and freelance writer—I realize that I owe a debt of gratitude to Mr. Tilden, and doubly so. We have many opportunities throughout the years to learn skills that will make us better at our jobs. It is a rare privilege to be given the chance to understand what your job, your passion, is truly about.

Allison Martin, CIG, is a play programs facilitator at Brookfield Zoo outside Chicago. She is also a freelance writer and part-time speech coach. Contact her at allison317@gmail.com.

The nearly $28 million building renovation the Chicago History Museum (CHM) underwent during 2005 and 2006 enabled the museum’s Education and Visitor Services departments to reflect on visitor experiences. It was an excellent opportunity to reconsider teaching and learning at CHM. During the months the museum was closed, the departments formed a school planning team to think creatively about potential new experiences for one of the museum’s most significant groups of visitors: youth on field trips.

Courtesy of Chicago History Museum

We spent hours with flip charts and colored markers, prioritizing the features of high-quality field trips based on research and our own experience. Visitors should be able to make choices. Field trips should include collaboration and small group activities that relate back to the exhibitions. Hands-on experiential elements were important. Discussion, role-play, use of imagination, putting oneself in the past, and making connections were also high on our lists. And, of course, students had to have fun. We were attempting to plan the best field trip…in history.

Our planning and charts full of wish lists resulted in seven activity carts—“History à la Cart” stations—for field trip groups and families to encounter during their visits. The carts are mobile, have heaps of storage, and accommodate about a dozen participants, a number based on the guideline that visiting groups must bring one chaperone per 10 students. Plus, with inquiry-based strategies incorporated into each of the activities, a group of about 10 enables discussion and collaboration. While many topics of Chicago history were considered during development, the History à la Cart topics eventually included skyscrapers, the early Illinois prairie landscape, bridges, neighborhoods and community, and the most popular—the Great Chicago Fire of 1871.

Interpreter Training Program Had to Be Transformed
The cart experience for field trip groups and volunteer interpreters was a change. Previously, teachers could make reservations for 45-minute guided gallery tours on a first-come, first-served basis. Now, groups stroll through galleries, encountering activity carts located throughout the museum; up to four carts are offered each day. It is up to each group whether to stop and participate in any of the facilitated, 20-minute activities. The change of the field trip experience resulted in the transformation of our volunteer interpreter training program. At CHM, our volunteers are from all walks of life. They love history and appreciate the “cool” and “awesome” educed from young visitors, a moment just short of magical.

More than three years later and after six rounds of interpreter training, I am able to reflect on the notable changes these new offerings obliged us to make.

Significantly, we are more customer-minded. We strive to have every participant during a History à la Cart activity do something. There is potential for all students to portray a part of the John Hancock building at the skyscrapers cart; all kids at the prairie cart can compare their own heights to the tallness of Illinois prairie flowers; every fourth grader surrounding the fire cart can help “burn” the city down—and boy, do they want to. Participation is at the heart of the activity carts. Sometimes, I remind well-meaning volunteer interpreter trainees, “These are ‘activity carts’—not ‘sitting and listening carts.’”

Today, the historical content offered to trainees is less complex. We still provide volunteer interpreter trainees with background material, plus we give them a manual for each cart that contains objectives, messages, and an activity framework. Museum curators lead discussions on the cart topics, but these discussions are less academic than our previous gallery interpreter training seminars. Since the information is more broad, it highlights huge, history-altering moments—the same kinds of stories visitors enjoy learning about. What we have added is material on learning theory such as addressing various learning styles and the effectiveness of using a conversational style of interpretation.

Students on a field trip at the Chicago History Museum measure lengths of Illinois plant roots at the Prairie Landscape activity cart. Courtesy of Chicago History Museum.

Training also allows new volunteers to experience the perspective of the visitor. The ability to stand in a visitor’s shoes is precious because it is fleeting. Volunteer interpreters only feel new for a while. Soon, they will be veterans, and the interpretive material and other tools will be old friends. It is wise to capitalize on this period when new interpreters have the same perspectives as visitors. At CHM, each volunteer trainee takes on the role of participant during training. As a veteran volunteer demonstrates how to facilitate a cart activity, trainees do not merely sit back and watch. They scoot right up, get their own playing pieces, building materials, or compasses, and for a few minutes, channel the eight year old within.

Mentoring and modeling are more essential. Carts work best when staffed by two volunteers. This dynamic of pairing volunteers is new, and fortunately, volunteers report that working closely with one another is enjoyable and builds rapport. They learn from one another and pleasantly pass the time during slower periods out on the museum floor. Yet, volunteers working together at the same cart must be consistent with the activity cart objectives, messages, and framework. I pair trainees with veteran volunteers who will be appropriate role models during those first few times they are scheduled. Additionally, my colleagues and I schedule ourselves on the floor from time to time to keep ourselves sharp and to model appropriate (we hope) choices when faced with challenges that customarily arise in a busy museum, whether it be redirecting behavior, creatively managing time constraints, or offering praise to the junior history buff in the crowd.

Suggestions for Hands-on Activity Carts

Chicago History Museum volunteer gallery interpreter Marion Cohen facilitates a hands-on program at an activity cart. Courtesy of Chicago History Museum.

With each round of volunteer interpreter training, we adjusted, tried new strategies, and edited old ones, and reflected on methods for improvement. Speaking of change, we are currently revising the programming for one of our existing carts. As we embark on developing this activity, I have suggestions for those sure-to-come flip charts:

• Each activity should be inherently divided into two or three chunks that make sense together, or can stand alone. From time to time, and especially during late spring, our busiest field trip season, groups don’t have the full 20 minutes to spend with an activity. Cart facilitators should be given suggestions up front about how to accommodate these groups, while still ensuring participants get a hands-on experience.
• During the activity development phase, keep asking, “But what are the kids doing?”
• Discussion is not a very vigorous activity. Nor does every activity cart facilitator lead discussions well or briefly. Sometimes, it can be a bit uninteresting for participants. If the museum is busy, it could be difficult to lead the discussion or hear participants—especially young ones. Think very carefully before making discussion the primary activity.
• Does the activity engage more than one age group? Thousands of third graders visit CHM each year since Chicago Public Schools teach the city’s history in this grade. However, thousands of middle schoolers and high schoolers visit as well.
• What about families? Families visit the museum, and not just on the weekends. The activity carts have terrific potential to connect families to the exhibition material. We have recently convened a group of volunteer interpreters and staff to think of ways to adapt the cart activities for groups with multiple ages, including grown-ups.
• Set the activity framework so participants can get to doing something soon. You can almost feel young participants vibrating as they see objects or game pieces in front of them while the facilitator sets the scene. Minimize the set-up and get to the good stuff quickly.

Change Can be Difficult, But it is Worth the Risk and Effort
While some teachers who had been booking field trips at the Chicago History Museum for years admitted they missed the interpreter-led tours, we offered them an explanation of our new opportunities and hoped they understood the benefit of every student from each visiting school having a meaningful interaction at a cart with a facilitator. Some gallery interpreters questioned the change as well. But most have commended the creativity and hands-on nature of each cart. Some of the best evidence that students are enjoying their field trip experiences is when we presume they have returned to the museum with their families and run over to an activity cart saying, “C’mon, Mom, Dad, Sis, you gotta do this!”

Marne Bariso is the volunteer and intern coordinator at the Chicago History Museum. Contact her at bariso@chicagohistory.org.

“Can I use this sugar?”

I looked up from playing with my son as my mother-in-law poked her head through the dark, wood-framed doorway to the kitchen in my 1925-vintage home. She was holding a handmade stoneware container that had been a gift from my grandmother. It was the morning of Thanksgiving and she needed a large amount of sugar to sweeten the pumpkin pie.

I contemplated the container in her hands for a few seconds before I replied. It was a beautiful brown-glazed piece of pottery with a large cork stopper in the top. My grandmother bought it from her favorite potter Ken Olson back in the 1970s. It was roughly as old as I was. The potter had sculpted it with his caring hands and it had sat on my grandmother’s kitchen counter in her 100-plus-year-old farm house for years. It came into my hands when my grandmother finally moved out of her home this year and into an assisted living community where she no longer has to do her own cooking.
I wasn’t sure what its purpose was when I first saw it. It isn’t all that big—about the volume of a grapefruit—and it holds only about two cups. My mom explained it was to set next to the stove for when you need a pinch of the contents to add a little flavor to the cooking. I do most of the cooking around the house and I feel free to create or improvise recipes as I go, so the little family heirloom fits perfectly next to my stove where my mother-in-law found it.

The opening is just the right size to stick your fingers in and get a pinch. I think my mother-in-law was looking to add more than just a pinch of the white granular powder to her pie. I told her she was free to use as much as she wanted, but she might want to reconsider, as the container is used for holding salt.

This made me think of a dinner party at a friend’s house years ago when I was starting out in the field of interpretive natural history. No one at the dinner knew anyone else, so we went around and introduced ourselves saying what we do. I said I was an interpretive naturalist, and that seemed to immediately raise the ire of one of the guests. “Why do I need someone to interpret nature?” she asked.  She seemed offended that I would dare to mediate her direct experience of the natural world. Of course, this isn’t always a fair description of what we do, but sometimes it is. We do mediate people’s experience of the resource and that can be an overwhelmingly positive thing. People mistake salt for sugar. People mistake oak trees for maples. People mistake poison ivy for toilet paper. People bring all kinds of misconceptions with them and, as a person who studies the natural world more than the average person, it’s my job to know as much as possible about the true nature of the resource so I can help the visitor more fully understand and appreciate it.

There is surely something to be said for direct, uninterpreted experience of a resource, but if that’s the only true way to experience nature, as the woman insisted, then we might as well throw away all the field guides. People cannot learn from them as they are interpretation. People can’t learn anything from their elders either, that’s interpretation. People really can’t even trust what their eyes show them, their ears tell them, or their fingers feel because, after all, their brains are merely interpreting the data. Most of all, they certainly cannot trust their sense of taste to tell them what is salty and what is sweet. Their tongue is merely interpreting flavor and getting in the way of their direct experience of the molecular structure of sodium or sucrose. This is clearly going too far, but so is thinking that there is no room for the interpretation of nature.

People are almost always free to experience nature or any other resource on their own terms. Sometimes they want our input, sometimes they do not. Sometimes, all we can do is sit back and wait for them to come to us wondering why their pumpkin pie tastes overwhelmingly salty.

Kirk Mona is the outreach coordinator for the Lee and Rose Warner Nature Center in Marine on St. Croix, Minnesota. He has been an NAI member since 1996. Kirk welcomes your comments at kmona@smm.org.

Author Allyson Mathis interprets geology at Grand Canyon National Park using the PAIR model. Photo by National Park Service / Michael Quinn.

According to Freeman Tilden’s classic 1957 definition, interpretation is “an educational activity which aims to reveal meanings and relationships through the use of original objects, by firsthand experience, and by illustrative media, rather than simply to communicate factual information.” As the profession evolved, definitions of interpretation also changed to highlight the purpose of interpretation and describe its outcome. The NAI Definitions Project defines interpretation as “a mission-based communication process that forges emotional and intellectual connections between the interests of the audience and meanings inherent in the resource.”

Regardless of the definitions they use for interpretation, most interpreters agree that facilitating connections between people and parks (or resources) is at the very heart of successful interpretation. Interpreters facilitate these connections through a variety of media, ranging from informal contacts through exhibits or guided walks to multimedia presentations. Interpreters must use effective presentation techniques, have awareness of audience characteristics, use interpretive methods, and incorporate resource information. These four components can be put together to make up the acronym

PAIR:
Presentation Techniques/Style
Audience Characteristics
Interpretive Methods
Resource Information

The PAIR model: P (Presentation Techniques/Style), A (Audience Characteristics), I (Interpretive Methods), R (Resource Information). Photo illustration by Maddie Tighe.

Successful interpretation can be described as PAIRing people with parks, using the definition of pair: “to become associated with one another.” Visitors who become associated with park resources and significances to develop stronger stewardship ethics. Interpretive activities and media build those associations and make park resources more accessible and meaningful to the public.

The PAIR model utilizes the characteristics of a chain to illustrate the outcome of successful interpretation: strong, durable, and long-lasting connections between visitors and resources. In addition to being strong, chains are versatile and flexible. Chains are used with anchors, and an ultimate goal of interpretation is to anchor people and their parks together.

Another important characteristic of a chain with implications for this model is that a chain is only as strong as its weakest link. Therefore, all links or components in the PAIR model have equal value. A weakness, or lack of knowledge or skill, in any of the links is enough to break the interpretive chain and prevent the facilitation of meaningful relationships between people and parks.  

P: Presentation Techniques/Style
Presentation techniques or style are essential in any interpretive program or product. Presentation techniques include choosing the appropriate technique to present the interpretive product in the first place, and then effectively using that method. The presentation techniques link is applicable to both personal and nonpersonal services.

Effective presentation techniques vary depending on the type of interpretive service. In the case of an interpretive talk, presentation techniques should include good communication skills and effective delivery techniques. To be effectively presented, a piece of interpretive writing must be written at an appropriate comprehension level, use attractive and engaging design and good grammar, and not have any typographical errors. Exhibits must be visually engaging, easy to read, universally accessible to all audiences, and replaced when worn or damaged.

Even if all other links in the PAIR model are present, poor presentation can prevent the facilitation of connections between people and parks. With ineffective presentation, the audience will not receive the message(s) that the interpreter is trying to communicate.

A: Audience Characteristics
Knowledge of audience characteristics is necessary for an interpreter to focus an interpretive service toward a particular audience or audiences. Different audiences have different needs and characteristics and will establish connections to park resources through different channels. For example, children are different from adults and an interpretive activity that may be successful with adults may completely fail with children. Understanding audience characteristics enables an interpreter to choose from the range of interpretive methods available and to determine what aspects of the resource information to incorporate into an interpretive activity for particular audiences.

Knowledge of audience characteristics includes an awareness of potential visitor groups and an understanding of what significances they may or may not already ascribe to park resources. It includes an insight to various demographic visitor groups, including those who may visit only electronically or through mass media.

I:  Interpretive Methods
Interpretive methods are used to link the interests of the visitors to resource information. The use of interpretive methods is the revelation step in the PAIR model. As Tilden wrote in his principles, interpretation is “revelation based on information.” Interpretive methods include the use of thematic interpretation, tangible/intangible links, compelling stories, and other tools and techniques.

The skilled interpreter uses knowledge of audience characteristics and chooses what resource information to relate in an interpretive activity or product. Interpretive methods help make that information meaningful, relevant, and significant to the audience. An interpreter should also attempt to expand the range of relevance for the visitor and to promote new relationships between the visitor and the resource.

R:  Resource Information
Accurate resource information is essential in interpretation. A program product lacking in accurate resource information will not facilitate meaningful connections between visitors and resources. In other words, resource information must be accurate in order for visitors to form a true bond with park resources. Accurately interpreted resource information also promotes public understanding of scientific, natural, and historical resources of park areas. Since interpretive programs and media have the potential to reach large audiences, incorporating accurate resource information in interpretation may increase the public’s scientific and historic literacy.

Resource information includes a vast array of information about park resources at a variety of technical levels that can relate to a wide spectrum of visitors. Resource information includes knowledge of a site’s significance as identified in enabling legislation, administrative history, current management plan, and the ecologic, geologic, historic, and/or ethnographic context of the park.

Using the PAIR Model
The PAIR model can be used to present interpretive concepts in training situations and as a tool to evaluate interpretive programs and media. One of the strengths of the PAIR model as a training tool is that it identifies the four necessary components of an interpretive product, demonstrates that the components are equally important, and illustrates the outcome of successful interpretation—a connection between people and parks.

Evaluations of interpretive programs and media can also incorporate the PAIR model. It can be used to identify the strong and weak components, or links, in an interpretive program or product. Identifying the weak link can help evaluators and interpreters determine components that most need improvement.

While the PAIR model contains the same elements of interpretive programs and products as other models, including the National Park Service’s Interpretive Equation, it separates the “appropriate technique” component into two distinct ones: presentation techniques/style and interpretive methods. These two components are, in fact, independent. A program can use effective presentation techniques, yet not include interpretive methods, and vice versa. Separating these two components allows further insight into what ingredients an interpretive program or product must incorporate in order to promote the interpretive outcome of increased resource stewardship.

Each component in the PAIR model is essential in the interpretive process. In a good interpretive program, all four links will be strong. Learning resource information, utilizing interpretive methods, recognizing and relating to different audiences, and presenting effective interpretive products all are difficult to learn and master. It takes a great deal of effort to make the chain illustrated in the PAIR model strong. The PAIR model is presented as a tool that interpreters can use in their efforts to protect park and heritage area resources, promote resource stewardship, and anchor people and parks.

For More Information
Tilden, Freeman. (1957). Interpreting Our Heritage. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press.

Acknowledgements
Roger Riolo and Bob Lillie both provided encouragement to me to publish the PAIR model. Roger Riolo and Jan Balsom provided helpful reviews of the manuscript. Discussions with numerous NPS interpreters, including Bob Roney, Kathy Brown, Laura Illige, and Kim Sikoryak, were helpful in the development of the PAIR model.

Allyson Mathis is the science and education outreach coordinator for the Division of Science and Resource Management at Grand Canyon National Park. Her background is in geology and prior to her current position, she worked as a field interpreter for a total of 15 years in four national park sites. With her expertise in the interpretation of geology, she has presented many sessions on interpreting geology to interpreters and scientists. She may be reached at allyson_mathis@nps.gov.

Sixteen years ago, I sat in a windowless high school literature classroom digesting the best short stories of American authors. After a thorough examination of all the subtleties of John Updike’s A&P, we turned to the John Cheever short story “Reunion.” It features a son and father reconnecting for lunch after years of separation. Our teacher was very excited to expose us to the work and when we finished reading it, she somehow brought the conversation around to the dad in the story being an alcoholic. We all sat there with blanker-than-normal looks on our teenage faces. Not a single kid in the class had a clue what she was talking about. We were wondering how on earth she knew he was an alcoholic when the text said nothing of the sort and she was wondering how we couldn’t see something so obviously woven into the narrative of the story.

My teacher incredulously pointed out to us 16-year-olds that the dad ordered “two Bibson Geefeaters.” She looked at us expectantly. We returned more blank stares. “You know,” she said by way of explanation, “instead of two Beefeater Gibsons.”

It apparently never occurred to my teacher that a bunch of 16-year-olds didn’t have enough experience in the realm of drinking to know what a Beefeater Gibson was or to notice he was drunk because he flubbed the name of the drink. I’m left with the conclusion that either this was the first time she had used the story in class or all of the 16-year-olds before us had been much larger consumers of quality English gin.

Because we’d never heard of a Beefeater Gibson, we had no reference point for the social cue that the father was drunk and mangling the language. Our Italian language skills being weak to non-existent, we also didn’t understand what he said to the waiter when he ordered his cocktail with, “Molto gin, poco vermut.” Going back and reading the story again as an adult, it is clear that almost every paragraph hints at the father’s alcoholism, but to us kids, he just seemed like a strange guy.

Finding the right words so audiences of every age will understand your message is one of the most difficult tasks we face as interpreters. This is interpretation in the classic sense of the word (i.e., making something understandable to another person). Freeman Tilden specifically pointed out that interpretation for children should not be a watered-down version of adult programs. In this respect, choosing your language is key to being successful. Your audience should dictate your choices. This is especially important when it comes to the analogies and explanations we use for challenging new concepts. Kids won’t understand the same cultural references adults will.

Not to be too hard on my high school teacher, just today while teaching a digital nature photography class, I made a similar mistake. I was trying to explain a little about the history of photography and how people used to enjoy collecting photos back when they first became available. It is hard for us to imagine what a sensation photographs were. Collecting photos was a genuine craze. I made a reference to Pokémon cards and was met with those same blank stares. When I began teaching this class four years ago, the Pokémon reference worked great. What kind of cards do kids collect these days? Yugioh? Apparently not. Even baseball cards drew a borderline confused look to their faces. These references, which were timely and hot just a few years ago, are now lost on my audience. I quickly realized with some math in my head that Pokémon cards first came out in 1999, which also happens to be the year most of my students were born.

Not only is it important to have different ways to explain concepts to audiences of different ages, but our references must be current. What works one year may not work next year. This is even more true with youth and kids, as they have a shorter cultural experience timeline from which to draw. I always used to explain to groups that my name is Kirk, as in Captain Kirk. Not only was this memorable, it prevented me from being mistaken for a Curt. About 10 years ago, I realized that no one in my audiences had any idea who Captain Kirk was. Oddly, with the new Star Trek movie out, fifth graders have begun calling me “Captain” all on their own. Some cultural references come back in style.

In the end, the advice for programs is the same as for a proper Beefeater Gibson. Don’t water it down, make it right. We need neither confused audiences nor Bibson Geefeaters.

Kirk Mona is the outreach coordinator for the Lee and Rose Warner Nature Center in Marine on St. Croix, Minnesota. He has been an NAI member since 1996. Kirk welcomes your comments at kmona@smm.org.

Arborglyphs in a western aspen grove, including Miguel Carrika’s elegant signature. Courtesy of Hadlock & Potashin

Historical interpretation calls to mind costly costumes, elaborate demonstrations, and expensive tools and props. However, among the trees exists a form of history that is as simple and inexpensive as a walk in the woods. Arborglyphs are—as the name implies—names, dates, symbols, messages, and designs etched into the bark of a variety of trees, most notably aspens and beeches. The notion of celebrating glyphs may seem quite foreign to readers who have long equated tree carving with vandalism. However, many historical glyphs were created prior to widespread adoption of tree care standards, and in fact the carvings often predate area public land preservation initiatives. A number of programmers now recognize arborglyphs as valuable interpretive tools. Behind each carving is a story that can entertain and inspire, but also teach valuable lessons.

Whether created by explorers, surveyors, Native Americans, travelers, soldiers, or lovers, arborglyphs—historic and modern—are an expression of man’s relationship to the environment. Contemporary glyphs reflect a discomfort with long periods in nature. Such carvings are typically poorly planned, quickly rendered, and brutally hacked into the tree. (In many areas, tree “artists” have abandoned carving altogether, instead covering the bark with spray paint).

In contrast, carvers of old often worked their entire lives outdoors, maintained a familiarity with natural materials, and exhibited great skill with knives and other tools, and therefore, such carvers planned carefully, labored patiently, and used proper form. Historic carvers employed the scratch technique, which involves thin incisions that expand to reveal an artist’s intent over time. The use of the scratch technique helps distinguish historic arborglyphs from heavy-handed modern graffiti, which can, according to historian Andrew Gulliford, “damage or even destroy trees.” Because historic carvers relied on the environment in a direct manner, they understood that tree health was integral to the survival of the carving and possibly the survival of themselves and their families.

While arborglyphs are intriguing to most people, they also afford interpreters an opportunity to introduce other topics, including stewardship, threats to trees, environmental and historic preservation, and the legacies of various groups of people. Manzanar National Historic Site rangers Richard Potashin and Nancy Hadlock educate patrons about arborglyphs created by Basque herders during off-site programs that they offer on a volunteer basis at Mono Lake in California. The programs address immigration, aspen ecology, the overlooked role of sheepherders in Western history, the effects of grazing on the environment, and an array of other subjects. Above all, Potashin and Hadlock emphasize that the glyphs represent not just a carved name, but an actual person. Careful research allows the pair of glyphers to piece together stories of individuals who lived much of the year in solitude, but still managed to make friends, raise families, and leave a lasting mark on the landscape.

Like Hadlock and Potashin, Carol Pedersen works with aspen arborglyphs created by sheepherders. However, the herders Pedersen chronicles in southern Oregon are not only Basque, but also Irish. Pedersen became hooked on arborglyphs in 1997 when she participated in a documentation project as a Passport in Time (PIT) volunteer for the United States Forest Service. In the years since, she has published a biographical account of an Irish herder and won a Malcolm & Louise Loring grant to document carvings on Steens Mountain, while also presenting annual interpretive hikes that explore the historic glyphs. As an interpreter, Pedersen focuses on cultural aspects and individual lives, noting that the aspens constitute an outdoor library that contains data on men who may not appear in public records.

No single person has done more to document arborglyphs than Joxe Mallea-Olaetxe, who has photographed over 27,000 historic aspen carvings. However, he admits that his arborglyph images represent merely the tip of the iceberg. In 2000, Mallea released Speaking Through the Aspens: Basque Tree Carvings in California and Nevada. While a number of earlier writers surveyed arborglyphs, Mallea’s effort signified a turning point because he addressed tree carvings as a legitimate subject for in-depth historical inquiry.

Each year Mallea leads arborglyph hikes at a variety of locations in the Sierra Nevada range. While introducing program participants to arborglyphs, Mallea discusses Basque culture and history, and he describes the role that sheepherders played in sustaining miners (meat) and eastern industry (wool). He also notes that the names of most sheepherders do not appear on census schedules. Thus, the arborglyphs may be the only source that reveals information about the location and status of specific individuals at a certain point in history. Mallea estimates that 80 percent of the carvings he encounters include both a name and a date, and they often contain further information, along with symbols and artwork. While some of the glyphs are lighthearted, the herders also left serious messages about the Spanish Civil War, area law enforcement, and predators of sheep. Mallea has even discovered carvings related to killings, such as Nevada’s infamous Indian Massacre of 1911.

An LOL tree at Hach-Otis Nature Preserve in Ohio. This carving is a bit more ornate than was typical for trapper Lawrence Orr Linton. Photo by Chris Worrell

Far from the Sierra Nevada, Lake Metroparks in Ohio regularly features an interpretive program about an early 20th-century tree-carving trapper named Lawrence Orr Linton, whose initials (LOL) appear on more than a dozen area beech trees. Interpreters leading tours of “LOL trees” discuss not only Linton and his carvings, but also trapping, westward expansion, furbearers, beech-maple woodlands, and the relationship between man and nature. Linton created the glyphs as directionals and indicators of cached equipment and, like most historic carvers, he employed the scratch technique. Linton may have learned the technique from his mother who was, according to some sources, of Cherokee ancestry. Cherokee Indians are known for being the creators of countless tree carvings in the Southeast, particularly during the period in which Native Americans were forced west along the Trail of Tears.

Robert Shankland—renowned physicist, Einstein biographer, and former Linton trapping protégé—provided much of the information about Linton. Using Shankland’s memories and basic genealogical research, Lake Metroparks developed a profile of an outdoorsman who once enjoyed a life of relative privilege on the family farm near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, but who left behind that life to eke out a bare-bones existence as a trapper in Ohio. Linton’s mysterious death (on the same day as his brother) only adds to the already intriguing tale. Nevertheless, interpreters in general should not feel compelled to invest an inordinate amount of time into research for an arborglyph program. Because historic tree carvings speak to the relationship between man and nature, and because they provide a wonderful opportunity to introduce related topics, research for arborglyph programs can be molded to meet time and budget considerations.

A fairly thorough knowledge of arborglyphs in general can be attained by simply reading works by Pedersen, Mallea, Gulliford, and James DeKorne. A bit of genealogical research can add color to a program. No matter the intended amount of research, libraries and the Internet both provide solid starting points.

“T.G.S. Hell’s Delight, July 4th, 1877” reads this Yosemite pine tree blaze. Smooth-barked trees were not always available, and therefore bark was sometimes removed prior to etching the wood. Courtesy of James Snyder

Any program about arborglyphs should, of course, dissuade modern carvers. There are a number of arguments against contemporary tree carving. First, the rules of public lands generally dictate against carving. Second, while carvers of years past may not have even enjoyed easy access to paper, today we possess myriad outlets for creativity and communication. Third, trees now contend with a number of imported threats, and therefore we should avoid creating wounds that can be exploited by pests and pathogens. Finally, there are simply too many of us for everyone to carve a tree in our already diminished woodlands. Through education we can not only discourage modern carvings, but also encourage documentation and preservation of historic glyphs.

Arborglyphs provide a valuable material link to past lives, a link that cannot be experienced through mere words in a book. Historical figures who have created glyphs include Henry David Thoreau, Kit Carson, Ronald Reagan, and William Clark, while arborglyphs have been documented by Ansel Adams, 18th-century Moravian missionaries, and the Roman poet Virgil. Such tree carvings exist at the juncture of nature and history, thereby affording nearly limitless opportunities for interpretation. The woodland archives await; explore, document, learn, and teach.

For More Information
Gulliford, Andrew. (2007). Reading the Trees: Colorado’s Endangered Arborglyphs and Aspen Art. Colorado Heritage, Autumn.

Mallea-Olaetxe, Joxe. (2000). Speaking Through the Aspens: Basque Tree Carvings in California and Nevada. Reno: University of Nevada Press.

Chris Worrell works in interpretation for the National Park Service. Reach him at uitdenworrell@oh.rr.com.

I recently went on vacation to Arizona and had the pleasure of the company of my 16-month-old son. He’s been cooped up all winter long, wrapped up in cozy layers of fleece jackets and flannel-lined overalls. Any explorations outside have been short, cold, and mostly about snow. He’d never really had the chance to do any exploring outside, as he was just starting to walk as autumn approached. He had been out in a stroller, but he had never truly interacted with nature. Going to Arizona in 80-degree heat wearing his new, brightly colored, wide-brimmed hat and shorts, free to walk and run—compared to passive summertime “walks” in a stroller—was the difference between watching TV and stepping into the picture. He was enchanted.

When we would bring him back inside, he would stand at the door and cry. He wanted to be exploring outside as much as possible, every minute of the day. He touched and smelled every flower he could find. He picked up leaves from bauhinia orchid trees as we walked and handed them to me. Every leaf was picked up. Everything was touched, explored, studied. He found hidden treasures. He somehow avoided the cactus. He followed a duck down a path, between tight bushes and around corners and then was surprised when it suddenly took flight. Children are naturally naturalists. They love to explore the natural world.

I found myself wanting at times to push him on. This was mainly because I knew of things I wanted to see just ahead, or because I was frankly getting tired of sitting in one spot while he played in pea gravel, letting it slip through his fingers. He was content to take it slowly. There was no point in seeing something new when he did not yet fully understand what was before him. My family likely felt the same way when they went bird watching with me a few days later. They don’t have the patience I do for looking at and studying a single, far-off, nondescript brown bird until I am sure of the identification. My son and I are a lot alike.

Life is always pushing us ahead. How often do we have time to slow down to a natural pace and study things? How often do we sit in a field of flowers as long as we wish or brush leaves against our skin just to see what they feel like? How many petals are on a daisy? What color is the iris of a garter snake? There is so much to absorb around us, yet we are given by others—and we give ourselves—so little time.

We all, I hope, interpret a resource we love. We make it part of ourselves and we want visitors to understand it on a deep, universal level. In order to be successful, we need to be sure we provide a space where people can slow down, shed the constraints and restraints that push them ever onward, while personally holding back their deep, childlike desire to simply understand. At the center where I work, participants in programs arrive by car and bus, but all must come down our driveway. They pull off the paved road and onto a long, curving, crushed-limestone driveway lined with paper birch. A small speed limit sign hints that they should slow down; it usually goes unnoticed, but the unpaved driveway forces them to slow down. Take the corner too fast and the loose gravel will gently glide you off the road. They slow down.

They park, walk down a long path to the building, and we hope that by the time they enter our doors, they have slowed down to at least a walk. You must go on a walk through the woods to come into the building. Our site is structured to slow people down to a natural human pace.

So, too, in programs can we create a space where people can slow down and simply be in nature. We’re creating emotional bookmarks for participants and remembering the scientific name Ardea herodias is not nearly as important as remembering the feeling of awe as you hide in the tall lakeside grasses watching a great blue heron silently hunt for food.

It is bitter cold out as I write this. Spring is trying to come, but cold, arctic air masses keep finding their way out of Canada. What I remember, though, on days like today was a moment I created last summer on a beautiful day. I had all the kids in my summer camp lie back in the prairie and watch the little white cumulous clouds float past the impossibly blue sky of summer. We all let the image sink in and we soaked up the heat of the sun so that we could remember this moment in the cold of the winter.

Back in Arizona, I let my son play in the gravel and pick up leaves as long as he was content. He was building emotional bookmarks that will serve him well.

Kirk Mona is the outreach coordinator for the Lee and Rose Warner Nature Center in Marine on St. Croix, Minnesota. He has been an NAI member since 1996. Kirk welcomes your comments at kmona@smm.org.