I Remember You
I think I get it from my mother.
The ability to walk into a room full of strangers and recognize someone I haven't seen in twenty years. To place a face before they've even turned around, pull up a name, a dorm, a shared joke from a hallway in 2003. My mother has always been this way, and apparently so am I.
It has started happening at almost every stop.
A few weeks ago in Middleton, I spotted a woman across the gym with her two kids. It clicked immediately. January 2007. A mission trip to St. Lucia. We were both recent college graduates, we spent one week together on the other side of the world, and then life moved on. Eighteen years later, she's standing next to a 56-foot whale in a gym in Middleton.
"Hi, Nicole."
She had no idea who I was until I filled in the details. That's usually how it goes. I rattle off ten things about how we met, where, when, and who else was there, and slowly the light comes back on. It's become one of my favorite unscripted moments in this job.
Then it happened again last Friday in Oconto Falls.
A man walked in who I recognized immediately from Red Cedar Hall at UW-Stout. A guy named Chris (not to be confused with my friend, Dino Chris). My last year there. We didn't hang out constantly, but we talked enough that he left a mark, the kind of person who makes you laugh easily and leaves a good impression without trying. I hadn't seen him since graduation.
He looked at me the way people always do. Trying to place the face. Working backwards through the years. With some people, it clicks. Others, it doesn't. And that's okay.
Oconto Falls is a small town, just under 3,000 people. On Friday, more than 300 of them came to see Clara. That's more than ten percent of the population showing up on a Friday afternoon in the summer for a whale.
I've been thinking a lot lately about what crowds actually mean. Middleton is a large city, and we had about 400 people. Oconto Falls is small, and we had 300. Onalaska, somewhere in between, drew 1,200. The numbers don't follow the population. They follow something else, something harder to measure, whether it be community pride, curiosity, word of mouth, or just a town that shows up for itself.
Every crowd is different. Every crowd is worth showing up for.
Late in the afternoon in Oconto Falls, an older gentleman stepped inside Clara. He was a little unsteady on his feet, navigating the floor and the gentle slope of the whale's interior. I noticed it immediately and walked over mid-tour, arm extended.
He grabbed it without hesitation.
By the end of the tour he was holding both of my wrists, and I walked him slowly toward the exit, matching his pace. When we got outside he apologized.
I told him that's why I was there.
I say some version of that a lot. To the kid who's nervous about touching the T. rex jaw: that's why it's here. To the parent who hangs back while their child goes ahead: come on in, this is for you too. To the teacher who thinks the fossil table is just for students: please, pick it up.
We are not a museum where you look through glass. We are a mobile museum. Nay, we are more than that. We want you to feel so comfortable that you don't hesitate when your child reaches out to touch the narwhal tusk or the whale skull. And we want you to do it too.
We are here, in your gym, in your town, because you showed up. The least I can do is show up too.
Two stops. Two people from a lifetime ago. Three hundred people in a small town who gave up a Friday afternoon to walk inside a whale.
I remember all of it. I get that from my mother.
Forest Whales brings hands-on marine science and paleontology programming to K-8 schools, libraries, and community events across Wisconsin and the Midwest. To bring Clara to your community, visit
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