THROWING TOMATOES

One year ago I wrote: This is serious. Something needs to be done about all the tomato pushers out there, aggressively forcing large quantities of their mutated fruit onto unsuspecting citizens such as myself.





Today I write: There will be no continuation of tomato pushers in my neighborhood because of an invasion of tomato hornworms, and even though I preserved a half dozen of the fat little buggers in Isopropyl Alcohol, I’m afraid the damage is done. I must admit, they'll make for neat specimens in the 2008 Science Olympiad competition.

Last night I met with one, yes—one, not two or three or four—but one Science Olympiad committee member. The meeting went pretty much as expected. Start by praising the volunteers (my wife and I) for doing a phenomenal job, then ease into the concerns, aka complaints. According to the guidelines: The competitors will identify various body parts, characteristics, habitats, ecological significance, and life cycles of twelve orders of Insecta. However, even though our questions do not deviate from the two reference books listed on the rule sheet, some coaches thought it unfair to ask the kids to actually identify specific bugs by their common name.

“I’ve been making my own insect collections for the competition,” I defended, “and every bug that I ask for identification of is pictured in these books. Plus, they’re allowed to bring a homemade bug chart into the event.” Then I asked for specific schools that complained regarding this issue. He offered up one school in particular.

After much discussion, I agreed to add one line to the rules: They will also identify insects from within these orders.

When my wife and I returned home, I commented on how unprepared some coaches were. “Let’s see, it’s okay to ask a garden variety of questions on a bug, its life cycle, its ecological significance, its habitat. But you cross the line when you ask for its name.”

My wife cut me short. “Well, you know,” she said, “his child competed in our event last year …”

I was dumbfounded.

“…and that’s the school that complained.”

I should’ve known. I’m glad I didn’t cave-in to all his suggestions.

Here’s a bonus question for everyone: What type of wasps will emerge from the cocoons on the back of this tomato hornworm? (Keep in mind that at the elementary level this question would be multiple choice.)

UNEMPLOYMENT LINE, HERE I COME

Last week I infiltrated the ranks in preparation of a government shutdown in Michigan. My most logical choice: a middle school science classroom. Why? Because I started an insect identification program for our county’s Science Olympiad Program, which, I might add, is the largest elementary school program in the United States. Not that it should matter, most public schools are begging for subs on the cheap. School administrators will work them for eighty-nine days, then forget about them. Something about a union contract stating that after ninety days, the school district must hire the sub as a regular—that wouldn’t be financially responsible, now would it?

What really amazes me is how easy it is to walk into a public school building and not be questioned. An open house is truly an open house. Not one teacher questioned me. Not one teacher said, “I don’t recognize you. Are you new to this district? Which student on my roster is yours?”

Instead, I heard one teacher say she doesn’t assign homework on Fridays because the weekends are for her and her family. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, even though I wanted to say, Yeah but you have the whole summer, whereas I teach all year round. Then I thought, Not anymore, now that our dear politicians in the puzzle palace, otherwise known as the state capital building in Lansing, refuse to work together and settle Michigan’s budget crisis. Our two party system is alive and well. (See the "Blogging for Michigan" link on the right for more details.)

When the first bell rang, signifying the parents to switch classrooms just like their children would, I decided to visit a Social Studies class. I realize that the easiest teaching certificate to obtain is in this subject, but still, the instructor should have made sure that “September” had been spelled correctly on the board. Again, not that it mattered. No one said anything. Perhaps out of politeness. Still, “Sepmember” looked a little funny.

The only time a parent raised a concern in a classroom had been when another teacher’s presentation consisted of all the advanced degrees she had and how many committees she participated on. She implied that she was so busy fighting for the education of her students with meetings and her own personal schooling, that there were times when a sub would be necessary; it was inevitable. A father spoke out, “Just how many days do you plan on missing?”

I shouldn’t bash my fellow teachers. It’s not an easy job. I’m just hoping the state settles this budget mess by October 1st or I’ll be in the unemployment line or subbing. I don’t know which is the bigger ass kicking. Speaking of such matters, Monday evening I’m scheduled to meet with the Science Olympiad board members. They want to review my event and share some of the complaints and concerns lodged against me. Should be interesting, considering it’s a voluntary position.

THE TWO-EYED CLICK BEETLE

Once again I've been slightly preoccupied with our county's Elementary Schools' Science Olympiad program. My wife and I, along with some children from our neighborhood, attended a workshop on Sunday at the Stony Creek Nature Center. While there, I observed some highly energetic youngsters willing to learn as much as they could in preparation for the "Don't Bug Me" insect identification competition this spring. (My wife and I are the event coordinators.)

One rather enthusiastic boy approached me and asked, If you could be any bug in the whole wide world what would it be and why? And after staring out the window, thinking about a man dragging his children's sled through these very same woods, his wife's body parts neatly stacked on top, I gave him my answer. "Sometimes," I said, "I wish I were hinged at the neck like a Two-Eyed Click Beetle. They have a special joint, something that resembles the fittings holding a train's boxcars together. A quick audible snap and it's not only able to right itself, but it can also scare away any would-be predators." He told me he had seen one at Station #14 neatly pinned to some Styrofoam in a display case. "What's your favorite?" I asked in return.

"I don't know," he said. "It's a toss up between the assassin bugs and the ambush bugs."

After the workshop, I asked my wife if she'd like to walk the nature trails and she quickly said, "No. I'm ready to go home."