Suddenly seized with an idea, Kristi (not her real name) squirmed from her mother’s lap and raised her hand. The entire time I’d watched, she had not sat still for more than 15 seconds.

“Yes?” the teacher paused.

“I was thinking,” she fidgeted, “maybe we could go outside?”

From plastic chairs around the wall, other parents laughed. There was plenty to do indoors.

We were in a Nature Nuts class for ages 3 to 7 at the Pisgah Center for Wildlife Education near Brevard. The day’s two-hour lesson was on animal senses, and the teacher - an engaging, pony-tailed young woman in the standard green garb of the Forest Service - was seated on the floor of the activity center with nearly a dozen kids.

“We’ll be doing some other things in a while,” she replied, trying to contain the child, who had returned to her mother’s lap ... for the moment.

Admittedly, the text was written for slightly older kids, but it was posterboard size with huge, colorful pictures of a wide variety of animals doing animal things. Each two-page spread covered a different sense (vision, hearing, etc.) and the teacher was bridging the age gap with questions and examples.

The kids were getting restless, but I was fascinated. For example, I didn’t know butterflies tasted with their feet. And while I knew horseflies’ compound eyes gave them a wide-angle view, I didn’t know the hairs on their bodies can detect changing air currents, making them that much harder to swat.

But while I listened, Kristi looked around, her mind as busy as the colors on her shirt. She got up and ran to a table to look at something, then ran back, her short brown hair wing-dancing with the plap-plap-plap of her stocking feet on the carpet. She stood up. She sat back down. She pulled at her feet while watching the teacher for a few seconds, turning back over her shoulder for a quick verbal moment with her mother.

And though she didn’t engage any other kids directly, she seemed to draw them along. The teacher had explained how dogs identify each other by smell, then asked: “When your dog meets another dog, what does he do?”

“Bark,” said one.

“Growl,” offered another.

“One time when I was out with my dog,” began a little boy. The story lasted forever and had nothing to do with dogs meeting dogs. Nobody said “sniff” and the audience was clearly drifting.

But then magic happened. A VCR whirred, an overhead projector tossed images on a huge roll-down screen, and for the next 20 minutes nobody moved. At least nobody age 8 or under.

All the kids - even Kristi - sat transfixed as a bumbling but likeable lizard hosted an episode of Amazing Animals. Bantering with an adultish voice-over announcer and a variety of other animated creatures, the lizard took the kids through much of the same material as the book, but at lightning pace.

I know our minds slow as we age, but I had no idea mine was that far gone. As image after image flashed before me, I found it hard to keep up. The kids were enthralled, but as I looked around, I was not the only restless adult. And by the time the voice-over chastised the lizard for his last bad pun, several of us were blankly staring at nothing in particular.

At the activity tables, though, the action slowed to a real-life speed all ages could follow.

To simulate the compound eye of a fly, the kids held small plastic colanders over their faces and tried to look out. They could see all around, but not very well - which was the idea. Kristi looked through hers for about three seconds, then ran to her mother for her to look, then ran back to the table for another look herself, after which the colander became a hat, then was discarded during an animated little dance.

I noticed that while most parents sat in chairs on the periphery, Kristi’s mom stayed relatively close at hand - whether to protect Kristi or the teacher, I wasn’t quite sure.

At the next table the teacher gave out (gasp!) binoculars to simulate the vision of a bird of prey. With telescopic sight, the kids could identify pictures of small animals on the far wall. As the binoculars were passed around, squabbled over, and remarkably not dropped, one small boy finally got his turn, sort of. Taller children (and adults) kept passing in front of him, so his mother intervened to clear a path. But just as he raised the binoculars to his face, Kristi ran in front for a bent-waist gaze at him through the other end.

After making paper cones to hear whispers and passing around small canisters of mystery odors, the teacher asked, “Now, who’s afraid of the dark?” A couple shy hands went up, but everyone followed her into the bathroom to turn out the light and test their night vision.

With the kids corralled, I took a look around the facility. I saw a collection of cuddly, stuffed animals. A mounted lynx catching a pheasant. A large hornets’ nest. And shelves of picture-filled children’s books, outdoor guides, and videos.

I skimmed through a delightful story about “Crinkwing,” a semi-disabled cockroach who, under attack by army ants, saved his friends from certain annihilation. He simply directed the leaf cutter ants to construct a huge leaf-maché anteater.

But no sooner had the army ants taken flight than the bathroom door burst open. Kristi was not the first one out, but quickly made her presence known, running from table to table, revisiting each lesson, and taking things to show her mother, who by this time was slumped in a chair by the door.

On my way out I commented, “Your daughter is a stitch.”

She smiled a weary smile and said, “I’m glad somebody thinks so.”

I think Kristi’s mom thinks so, too.

(Lewis Garnett lives in Maggie Valley. He can be reached at lgar@brinet.com)

 

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