Science needs to happen! Cover crops to cut and bag. Soil to
core. Weed-free plots to make weed-free. Soybeans to count. Ah, studying
sustainable agriculture. And for all this to happen our lab has hired a number
of undergraduate research assistants this summer.
Which means I am now a supervisor. (!)
I have never really served this role before, and had you
told me that I’d be doing such even a few years ago, I’d be mighty
surprised. Myself and Master Chris, (lab
manager and brilliant with any farm implement), work together to make science
happen. “Champions of Science!” Co-worker Brian called us one day, and I’m kind
of adopting the moniker for our lab team, in a way laughing how us Champions of
Science spend our days ingloriously hand-weeding, counting soybeans, and
identifying various grasses to species.
Not flashy work, but the quiet pumps behind the goal of making
agriculture as sustainable and efficient as possible.
It’s no small task to help coordinate the field work that
needs to happen in a number of experiments, helping the grad students if they
need it, partitioning the research assistants out to different projects.
When we first had out group of new assistants on board, and
I was realizing that I would be Supervisor, I wasn’t sure at all how to deal
with this. These first weeks were wearied confusion, as I wondered about
authority and strictness. Should I be maintaining distance and mystery like a
classic field boss? But it was too tiring moderating myself all the time,
wondering what was the Correct and Conservative way to be.
And then I decided this was stupid. I was going to be
myself. (how trite, right, a Disney
movie take-home message, but sometimes in this life—thanks to mores and
all—surprisingly difficult) I played
loud beatsy happy music in the van while I drove people to and from the field
site, pumping the brakes to the beat while approaching a stop sign. I teased
people playfully and joined in jokes. I brought chocolate to share. I shared
stories of embarrassment, hilarity, or heartbreak from my own life. And others
did too. Instead of quietly keeping my
four-leaf clover finds to myself I victoriously crowed out and gave them to
people, not caring if I seemed eccentric.
I enjoyed our field days so much more now, and I think our
group did too. People were bringing
ice-cream and watermelon to share. We left the key in the van and listened to
music while we worked in the field. We had long discussions about relationships
and travel and personalities. “I love this lab!”, “I’m going to miss this so
much when the season is over!” the research assistants shared. Our field work
sometimes felt like hanging with a group of friends (just friends who I
frequently reminded to be more efficient). I’m going to miss our group too.
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| Some funny faces in the field. |
It makes me wonder about group dynamics. What makes for a
“good group”? A certain pivotal member of good humor? An underlying subculture
of spirit and pride? Everyone realizing that everyone else is participating
with dedication and that becomes the norm?
But in all this fun I still am the one who paces about the
field, suggesting ways to be more efficient (“you know, having one dedicated
bag-labeler instead of everyone reaching for the sharpie might be a good way to
go”) and encouraging people to drink plenty of water. I also recommend people pee in the non-research
corn field (“go sidedress the corn!”) rather than driving all the way back to
the field house for bathrooms. “Just pretend you’re camping!”
When I was a child, we had an imaginary town called
Beanville, where we each had a play-family of Lego-people and farms and played
commerce and trains and town meetings. Because our game moved through time, we
decided to have Night and Day occur at the same time for all of our
play-families. Somehow, little Sandra
became The Night Mayor (this word-play delighted us) and would strut around,
arbitrarily calling out when it was day and night and we all had to scurry our
little Lego people to bed or out to milk their little plastic cows in the
morning.
And now, relating to time, I noticed that lunch-break would
continue endlessly because nobody was mindful of the time. So I took upon
myself the responsibility of getting everyone back into the van after lunch. A
Lunch Mayor of sorts. “With great responsibility
comes great power” one of the grad
students pointed out to me. “Five minute warning!” I’d herd everybody.
For all these people we have both a big aggressive 4-wheel
drive research truck and a white maternal van for going to and from the field,
lugging soil probes, bags of samples, and people. “Which vehicle would you like
to drive?” Lab Master Chris (my compatriot supervisor). “I don’t care,” I
replied, “I can be a badass or a mom.”
And most of the time I am the mom, whizzing around in the
van with music blasting and kids in the back singing and dancing. I joke about
soccer practice and ballet lessons. The assistants told me, “we’ve decided
we’re like a big family: you’re the mom, and Lab Master Chris is the dad.” “What about our professor?” I asked (who is
mostly writing and thinking about cover crops from his office, rather than
playing in the field). “Oh, he’s the Wizard” they responded.
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| There was no room in the mom-van, so Mom rode in the back. |
