Some guy ruining a great picture of Dr. Teska & me and two Sigmodon hispidus (cotton rats) in 1994.
It has been over 22 years ago since I had a class at Furman
University with my undergraduate mentor, Dr. William R. Teska—Bill Teska to
many, but beloved Dr. Teska to me.
I have four folders in my file cabinet at work from the two classes I
took with him, Ecology and Field Zoology.
Nearly everything else from that time has been parted with—I am not a big
saver—but those classes and the professor were precious to me. What is interesting to me, as I look through
those folders, is all the information that was in my notes, about how much he
taught us so long ago that I still use in my work and in my classes. I was expecting to see notes where I wrote
the funny sayings he had about doing things “for funsies” or how we should be “quick
like a bunny” or advising us not “to stand around with our teeth in our mouths.”
Or his famous advice that “you only go around once,” a mantra that I have
reminded myself over the years when feeling particularly cautious. But the folders are full of good, solid
information—and what is lost in my notes is the magic that I remember him
creating in telling about the Nile Perch or the distribution of ecosystems from
global circulation patterns or the global amphibian crisis, back in 19 and 93
and 19 and 94. Turns out I didn’t
need to write down the magic—that I have remembered.
His death at the end of June has been laying heavily on
me. I would hear from him maybe only once
a year or so, but I placed great value in knowing that I would and that he was
out there, now at Pacific Lutheran University in Tacoma, WA, continuing to
teach and inspire undergraduates and develop innovative classes. That he was there if I ever needed a bit of
advice or thoughts on teaching. That I would hear, eventually,
of his tropical adventures leading students or discovering a new species of
mammal in his summer research. That he was an email away if I
ever needed to tell someone I saw a Sigmodon
hispidus, the adorable species of cotton rat that he studied for his
graduate work at Savannah River Ecology Lab in Aiken, SC. (“Any day you see a mammal is a good day to
be alive.” Indeed. )
When I started college, I knew I wanted to be involved in conservation work,
but I did not know how to get from the point of having a vague idea for future
employment to having a career. Dr. Teska
provided a road map. He helped me get an
internship with the US Forest Service (where I also met my future husband) and
then at Savannah River Ecology Lab where Dr. Teska had worked and where I had
some of the best research experiences I could hope for (and where I also met my
graduate advisor). (Meeting both the
future husband and graduate advisor were very good things.) He may have been the faculty member that took
me on my first class camping trip. He
helped me see that I could be a scientist—and that it could be wonderful (no
lab coats or goggles necessary). And,
later, when I had a job here at Miami U, he sent me one of my very best
students. In faculty jobs, especially
when universities are squeezing the life blood out of you, it is easy to forget
that many of the students do not quite know how to make the leap from student
to scientist. I am so grateful that he
took the time to help me find a path through the forest. I hope I can always remember to be as generous to the students as he was to me; it is much easier not to be that generous, but he was
generous and one should be as Dr. Teska was.
The world has lost a wonderful laugh—as well as a serious
biologist and educator. It is a laugh
that I will remember until the day I die.
His lessons, all of them, I will cherish. I will hope to be half the mammal he
was. Well, maybe we are both equally
mammals, but perhaps you know what I mean.
He was the very best. Rest in
peace, Dr. Teska—until we meet again, at which point I will want the scoop over a
nice camp fire and a bag of M&Ms, while the heavenly Sigmodon hispidus run through the grasses, free from worry of being
caught in a Sherman (or worse, snap) trap.
