Fresh Water-Healthy Lives Mary McKinney Schmidt Writer and Great Lakes Advocate |
| If you have suggestions and comments, contact mary@freshwaterhealthylives.org. Copyright 2008 Mary McKinney Schmidt |
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| Heroes of the Great Lakes When people chose to get informed and engaged, things happen! |
Quincy Elementaryt School 4th grade
teachers Kathy Nemeth and Donna Atman
worked with their 2007 class to launch a
multi-media campaign against balloon litter
on the beach. Photographs courtesy of
Kathy Nemeth.
teachers Kathy Nemeth and Donna Atman
worked with their 2007 class to launch a
multi-media campaign against balloon litter
on the beach. Photographs courtesy of
Kathy Nemeth.
An update to the Quincy Elementary 4th Graders' balloon litter campaign April 22, 2008 “Don’t let it fly or the Great Lakes will cry” “What slogan did you create for your balloon litter campaign?” I asked the 4th graders from Quincy Elementary School in Zeeland, MI. Forty-four voices called out enthusiastically “Don’t let it fly or the Great Lakes will cry.” “That’s perfect,” I beamed. A month earlier I had visited the classroom at the urging of their teachers, Donna Altman and Kathy Nemeth. Heartbroken at discovering the many challenges facing the Great Lakes, I had begun writing and speaking throughout the community. But this was my first time in an elementary school There was certainly plenty to talk about. The Great Lakes represent twenty percent of the world’s fresh water. And yet the influx of aquatic invasive species, the frequency of sewage overflows, toxic pollutants (such as mercury, PCBs and pesticides) found in nearby soils and the loss of wetlands and other coastal habitat have placed the Great Lakes ecosystem in grave danger. Scientists say we are running out of time to reverse the damage. “What issue would spark the interest of 10 year-olds and capture their imagination?” I wondered to myself as I walked the soft, white sandy beaches of Lake Michigan. As always, I was picking up trash that marred the beauty of the shoreline. The answer lay at my feet. I walked into the classroom that first visit carrying a bulging black bag. As the 4th graders watched in amazement, I dumped a smelly collection of plastic bottles, containers, wrappers and other litter on the classroom floor. The predominance of brightly colored balloon ribbons took the kids by surprise. “Where did all those balloons come from?” they wanted to know. “That’s the same question I ask myself every time I walk the beach,” I told them. “I pick up more balloon ribbons than any other trash.” “I never thought of balloons as trash,” a boy exclaimed. Most people don’t. Releasing balloons has become a trend, a way to honor those who have died and celebrate birthdays, marriages, and graduations. But the beauty of balloons floating in the skies is fleeting. They return to the earth as trash; offensive, jarring colors that compete with the soft hues of nature. The kids decided to launch a multi-media campaign to tackle balloon litter. I was now listening in awe to their stories that bubbled with excitement, conviction, and pride. They created colorful, imaginative posters and flyers. They convinced store owners selling balloons to place the posters in their windows. They distributed the flyers in their neighborhoods. They crafted persuasive letters to the editors of local newspapers. They collected “evidence” by taking a field trip to the beach. I nodded, listening intently. A heaping pile of sandy balloon ribbons was amassed in the corner of the classroom. Above the pile were photographs from their trip, including a picture of a fish skeleton entangled in a long, black balloon ribbon. But the story that captured my heart and earned my respect was their decision to “politely and respectfully” challenge the tradition of releasing hundreds of balloons during high school graduation ceremonies. Inviting the principals of both high schools to visit their classroom, they pointed to their evidence. With voices brimming with passion and steeped in confidence, the students beseeched the principals to throw beach balls in the air, release bubbles or butterflies. Anything but balloons. The order for 450 balloons for the Zeeland High Schools was cancelled. I may have been the one in front of the classroom that day, but it was I who was the student. A year later, I am still learning. Now 5th graders, the students visited their former classrooms. Combining rousing presentations and spirited skits, they shared with the new 4th graders all they had learned about the environmental damage associated with releasing balloons. “You can make a difference,” they said knowingly. Inspired, this year’s 4th graders painted 560 buttons encouraging others to “Save our Shores” and “Stop balloon litter.” Each was a unique masterpiece. There was an illustration of a balloon ribbon caught in the propeller of a boat. One depicted a group of children clutching their balloons. Another showed a bird swallowing a ribbon on the beach. The 10 year-olds are selling the buttons to fund a field trip to Saugatuck Dunes State Park. They plan to walk the beach and pick up trash. They invited me to join them. At times it is tempting to throw up my hands in despair at the failure of elected officials to prioritize Great Lakes legislation, to become cynical, to quit and let others assume responsibility for addressing the issues that lie beneath the surface of these magnificent bodies of water. But then I eye my button. Against the backdrop of an exquisite Lake Michigan sunset, a balloon floats across the surface of the water. I owe it to 4th graders everywhere to stay engaged in protecting these waters I call home. |
conferences and meetings for Baxter Healthcare. Admittedly, I stayed in nice hotels in safe neighborhoods. But I jogged every morning at 5:30 a.m. And I’d often run six to seven miles. Returning safely was a big deal. I participated in a month-long extensive workshop on self defense. “FightBack of Central Ohio” was a program designed for women. And in addition to learning how to “fight back” should one be attacked while sleeping or grabbed from behind, participants learned what they should do to minimize the chance of confrontation. The lessons are engrained within my fiber. Avoid eye contact with strangers. Keep your demeanor mean, tough- looking. Do not answer questions. Above all, don’t say hi. So all my defenses shot up when I noticed him hobbling into my campsite, violating my space. A wiry, white-haired man, he gingerly walked towards me, leaning heavily on his cane. He slowly folded his body into the other side of the picnic table, before asking “Do you mind if I join you for a minute?” . But his smile was kind, warm. “Is this your first time at Hoffmaster?” Taking a deep breath, I decided to make an exception. “Hi,” I replied. “I hiked here a couple of weeks ago but this is my first time camping.” Bill, I learned, belonged to the campsite with the white Buick and a small, oval-shaped trailer with a Ritz cracker box in the front window. The son of a Pennsylvania coal miner and a World War II veteran, he met his wife while stationed in Germany. And while she had been dead 17 years, his face still lit up when he spoke of her. “Have you been to the Battle Creek campground yet?” he continued. “Not as nice as this one, but open year-round,” he shared. Bill was 86 years-old. And while I purchased my bundle of campfire wood from the gasoline station where it was conveniently stacked next to the pump, he used an ax to split seasoned, hard wood. My $4.69 bundle was gone in less than three hours. His roaring bonfire lasted most of the afternoon and well into the night. He lounged by his campfire stretched in a collapsible cloth recliner that boasted a foot rest and a drink holder. I read and wrote seated on the hard campground picnic table. Delighted to notice the campsite had electricity, I plugged in my laptop and cell phone. Bill plugged in a heater and an electric blanket. “You see that propane tank with a clip on it?” he asked me later when I stopped by his site. “It’s got a thermometer on it. I’ll look out the window and notice the temperature is 40 degrees outside. Inside it might be 90 degrees.” I was developing a strong case of campsite envy. Bill and I were the only campers to brave the entire first week of May, with its arctic temperatures, gusty winds, and occasional blast of bone- drenching rain. By week’s end, we were friends. I knew if I needed help, he would be there for me, as I would for him. Sometimes it’s okay to say hi. |
| To read "BP Story a Wake-Up Call," "Lakes' Future Depends on Will of the People" and "The Real Threat to the Lakes" double-click on Heroes Continued. Double click HERE to return to Home Page. Copyright 2008 Mary McKinney Schmidt |
| To read "BP Story a Wake-Up Call," "Lakes' Future Depends on Will of the People" and "The Real Threat to the Lakes," double-click on Heroes Continued. Double click HERE to return to Home Page. |
- P.J. Hoffmaster State Park
is one of Michigan's greatest
treasures. I hiked many of the trails
criss-crossing the sand dunes in
early April of 2008. Braving arctic
conditions, I decided to camp the
first week of May. The beauty of the
water, sand, and early signs of
spring made it an extraordinary
experience.
| The Homestead Trail in April. |
| The One Mile Walk in early May. |