At the nearby Cathance River Education Association, this is camp season, a time when campers ages 6-13 get close-ups (and touches) of the natural world. It is, among other things, a time of wonder. At CREA’s camp, there’s a chalkboard with two simple questions on it: What did you see, or what did you hear? “I saw a dragonfly,” wrote one camper; “Many many frogs!!! (one did a backflip!),” wrote another.
It’s also common wisdom that the wonder of our early years in the woods or ponds or bogs gets worn off or outflanked by the demands of the busy built world. The daily walks and rambles that many of us beyond camper-age prize try to reverse that loss, restore its wonder.
A recent visit from my 18-year-old nephew sent me off on such a walk. On the day after solstice, a little after noon, we set out to walk in Brunswick’s Town Commons. It was, for a change, a blue sky day, and the thick green of early summer was enhanced by this year’s diet of rain and fog.
I’d asked for this walk because I’m ever curious about what we see and hold in common. Aside from being related, it’s not always evident.
To any observer, we make an odd pair — odd at least by the modern thoughts about affiliation. Me: white-haired, white, slow to speak, given to quiet musing; M: young, Black, quick to speak, quick to move, curious, alert to design and color.
A group of white pine trees near the Brunswick Town Commons. Sandy Stott photo
What, I wondered as we set out, would M see as we walked? How would he sense/know where he was and what was before him? I knew also that M had taken courses (chemistry, botany and conservation ecology) at his school last year that might (or might not) slide a lens or lenses over his eyes.
Lest this seem like a stealth exam slipped into the middle of summer, I’d said to M, “I’m not asking you to review your courses or show me that you remember formulas. Just tell me what you see or sense as we walk, whenever you feel like it.”
“Okay,” he said.
At the stones that mark the Commons’ northern edge, we paused, looked at the nearby sign that explained a little of Commons’ history. I added a few words about common land as opposed to the private property that rims the Commons.
“So,” he said some hundred yards along the way, “there are a lot of dead or dying trees in this forest. It looks like there’s not enough room or food for them all.” Good observation, I thought and didn’t say.
“I like the quiet in here,” he said a little later. I looked over. He had his usual headphones banded on his head, but the earpieces were pushed back; nothing was playing.
“The big trees hold a lot of carbon,” he said. He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t press. But he repeated this a few minutes later as we passed a large white pine, and I recalled a family conference with his chemistry teacher. She had revamped her curriculum and oriented it to the immediate outdoors at M’s school. She wanted chemistry to “be in the world.” This time, I asked M what he meant.
“Well,” he said, “when we went out into the woods, we took a tape measure to see how far around a tree was. Then, Susan (his teacher) showed us how to guess the height of the tree. And we kept on writing down what made up the tree. We then estimated the tree’s weight, but I can’t remember how to figure that. Then we divided it by 2. Which was supposed to give you the weight of carbon.”
I wanted to press on. I was for many years a teacher, though not one of chemistry, but mindful of our bargain, I muzzled myself. The summoning of school seemed to have exhausted M, and he fell silent for some minutes.
A wood thrush sounded its flute-call, and I wanted ask, “Did you hear that?” But I didn’t. A little later, a jay screamed. “What’s that?” he asked. “A blue jay,” I answered wondering, why the jay? A world of flutes and fury, I guess.
We’d made the turn for home, and I offered a brief primer on direction since I wanted him to be able to get here and then home on foot or bike. Perhaps the north-south axis of the Commons and the hint offered by sun position made sense; perhaps not. I got nods. I gave no exam.
On the way back, we paused at one of the largest white pines in the area. “It’s so big partly because it’s near this pond,” he said. “Eighty inches around,” he guessed. “More,” I said, and gave the pine the half-hug that was as much as my 62-inch wingspan could manage. “Yeah, more,” he agreed, then added, “That’s a huge tree.”
We both looked up. I tilted my head back; the tree’s needled crown seemed spread in the sky. Perhaps, I thought, I’ll try a backflip.
Sandy Stott is a Brunswick resident, chairperson of the town’s Conservation Commission, and a member of Brunswick-Topsham Land Trust’s Board of Directors. He writes for a variety of publications. He may be reached at fsandystott@gmail.com.
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