My steps sound like I walk on Rice Krispies as I pass through the trails in our woodland. We¹ve had a dry spring, summer, and fall. Drought has a certain sound to it. Squirrels running through leaves sound like antelopes; a moose steps on a fallen branch and the slap echoes through the hemlocks like a rifle shot. Like a scientist, I am in a constant sate of composition. I observe details, formulate hypotheses, and connect one shard of information with another.

This will not be a good fall for out black bears. Their natural forage in September and October is beechnuts and acorns. But the drought has taken its toll on that food supply. Apple growers complain about bears who raid their orchards to fill their stomachs. But the apples won¹t provide the vital fat bears take in form the nuts required for winter hibernation. Sows, or female bears, need the fat to support themselves through hibernation, but especially to suckle their young born in January. If the pregnant sow doesn¹t have enough fat by the end of the fall season, her body automatically aborts the fetus. My trail of inquiry begins with the sounds of drought, moves to the effect of drought on trees and the lack of nuts, and ends with the sow¹s pregnancy.

There is little difference between the thinking of the writer and scientist. Both observe phenomena and formulate hypotheses to connect the meaning of events. They are fascinated by data that do not fit the norm. Exception is the root of wonder; the unexplained, the source of further inquiry; and unease is a sign of further exploration into the unknown.

Writing is the tool of the scientist, Science is t he tool of the writer. The writer- scientist follows a line of words on the pages, listening to the imbalance in information. Words are picks and shovels digging into the territory, mining facts, and turning over data culled from direct observation, reading, and notetaking, resulting in the formulation of new theory.

Writers need science because they are fascinated with the stories of change. Science provides writers with a repertoire of verbs to explain the universe. Atoms move and molecules change, water rises or doesn¹t rise in xylem to ease the drought. Chemistry, physics, and biology are the verb disciplines explaining the constant shift in the world and universe around us.

Children need to see their teacher demonstrate the near invisible line between writer- scientist. She walks in the woods helping children to listen to the sounds of drought. They feel leaves and observe the top of trees. They explore and wonder with her. they pause, sit down, and compose brief hypotheses to open a line of inquiry. They return to class and begin to read. She deliberately demonstrates a ³rereading: of the world of trees she has just left. She writes crude notes on the overhead, wondering aloud about the details they have seen. She shows them, listening aloud to herself. ³ I noticed the hemlocks have dry golden ends to them. I noticed a change in the moose scat; leaves on the rhododendrons are curled. I wonder why? She shows her students how the writer- scientist composes and thinks.

In the classroom both writing and science are laboratory subjects. Both are hands- on. In each case, the teacher invites the student to join her in exploration. The teacher places five cross-sections of hemlock, oak, maple, yellow and grey birch, and large- toothed aspen on the table. She takes one specimen and speculates aloud how the rings in sections might be read. The children formulate hypotheses with her as they reenact the possible stories through the years.

The teacher then invites the children into her writing laboratory . After the children have read and formulated hypotheses, she demonstrates how a writer-scientist thinks using words on the overhead projector. She reenacts one year in the life of the tree on the overhead, filling the overhead with a list of speculative words. For older students, she review her verbs, marking on the overhead, comparative changes in the years. Verbs and nouns are the basic substance of writing and science. In final draft form, they are carefully examined for their precision.

FINAL REFLECTION

Writing allows us to think beyond surface phenomena. I walk through my woods composing, connecting, and speculating. I make a few discoveries. Ultimately, however, I move to a different laboratory, the page. I want my thinking to hold still. Unlike oral discourse that flies by ethereally, my writing sits quiet and motionless on the pages while I circle a word , a thought, listening to further speculation, playing with an idea. First I make crude notes-perhaps the perusal of a journal kept over months-and finally, I write to connect the data in essay or report form. The writing begins with play and speculation, a careful listening to my version, to which I add the refinements of organization and language, the precision of facts.

Donald H. Graves, Professor Emeritus of the University of New Hampshire, lives in Jackson, New Hampshire, near the White Mountain National Forest (the inspiration for this article). He recently received the Award of Outstanding Educator in the Language Arts from the National Council of the Teacher of English (NCTE).

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