The Share Fair is a tradition at the annual Association of Missouri Interpreters (AMI) conference. It's like nothing so much as an interpretive "open mic night." Interpreters at the Share Fair have a chance to brag about all the great ideas they've had in the past year, all in a very open and fun atmosphere.

The web version of the Share Fair attempts to capture that same spirit. Here you'll see program ideas, articles, poetry, rants about interpretation, and occasionally some flat-out nonsense. But it's relevant nonsense, mind you.

You'll find the featured article below and past articles here.

by Dakota Russell

Nobody asked Parker the Turtle to clean out his desk. Nobody explained to him the "new direction" the company was heading in. When you're a mascot past your prime, the end comes quietly. They just start putting your dolls on the sale rack.

For several years, Parker was the face of Missouri State Parks. He frolicked through Missouri's natural and cultural resources on bumper stickers and in coloring books. But Parker never achieved the celebrity he was supposed to. Instead, he joined the growing club of unemployed interpretive mascots.

I didn't know Parker had so much company until chatting with other interpreter friends. We were fawning over Mula, an orphaned opossum then residing in Kendra Swee's hooded sweatshirt. Talk turned to other cute animals, especially the cartoon ones that once represented our organizations. I listened as tale upon tale of doomed mascots unfolded.

Irrelevance leads most interpretive mascots to their bitter end. Some are created haphazardly, without identity or message. Some lose their relevance over time. It's a rare mascot who can keep pace, but a few manage. Many of the mascots I remember from childhood still thrive. They can teach us a few lessons on survival that hold true for all interpreters, fleshy or animated. Three of these lessons stand out to me:

Lesson #1: Being deep matters more than being cute.
Smokey Bear, employee of the U.S.D.A. Forest Service, remains the alpha male of all interpretive mascots. Like a furry Madonna, Smokey has been recreating himself for sixty-plus years. He's journeyed from tree-hugging cub to shovel-wielding authority figure. The mature Smokey is gruff in voice and firm in belief. What he's not is cuddly. Still, Smokey spends a lot of time swarmed by hugging five year-olds. It's proof that even the young can tell between someone who's mean and someone who really cares.

Few human interpreters adopt a character as deadpan as Smokey, and for good reason. The attitude is much easier to pull off if you're a talking bear. Most interpreters like to have fun, and encourage their audiences to do the same. The great interpreters, though, do carry some of Smokey's spirit with them. Their programs always have a moment where the action slows, the jokes stop, and the message shines through: this matters. It changes something for the audience. The frankness catches them off-guard, intrigues them. The program ceases to be a diversion and interpretation begins.

Smokey reminds us to respect what we interpret. He doesn't dilute his message so it's easier to swallow. He doesn't mellow his intensity just to make friends. For interpretation to work, we must wear our respect boldly on our sleeve. Smokey does it, and he doesn't even wear a shirt.

Lesson #2: Intimacy with a resource is nothing to be ashamed of.
When I was a kid, the National Wildlife Federation's Ranger Rick starred in his own series of adventure stories. A typical story found the raccoon and friends in desperate peril, usually the result of careless human activity. It always fell to Rick to rescue his home, his friends, and-- most importantly-- himself. Rick was no altruist. He protected his resources because he depended upon them.

Interpreters may not directly rely on their resources for survival, but they do need them. Resources provide interpreters with tone, message, and reason for being. Interpreters give back by imbuing resources with their humanity and personality, bringing them to life. In the best case, interpreter and resource blend together, become symbiotic. Seeing this type of interpretation is like watching a foreign film. The subtitles are always there, but eventually the audience stops noticing.

Rick's lesson for us is to stay at eye-level with our resources. Though we may see ourselves as guardians, we work best as partners.

Lesson #3: Sometimes it's okay to be simple.
Woodsy Owl, who also cashes a Forest Service check, is recognized as America's foremost cartoon environmentalist. But is his reputation deserved? The alpine-hatted avian has never presented Congress with a plan for solving the ecological crisis. He doesn't participate in protests. He doesn't involve himself in alternative fuel research. He doesn't even have a PowerPoint presentation with colorful graphs. All Woodsy has ever done, really, is ask people to "give a hoot." I believe that's more than enough.

Woodsy knows interpreter's true purpose: to elicit hoots. Interpreters are but one thread in a complex web. The scientists, historians, educators, politicians, and radicals also have parts to play. The interpreter's role is to bring people closer to the resource than they've ever been before, to let them know that this belongs to them. Then, when that resource is threatened, people will hoot. And that hoot will vibrate through the web, gathering volume, refusing to be silenced until something is done.

Most interpreters couldn't tell you how to change the world so it better protects our resources (and those of us who think we know should probably keep quiet). Woodsy reminds us that we aren't expected to have all the answers. In fact, we can easily complicate our work by trying to have too many answers. Let our colleagues sort out the details of saving the world. Interpreters can be content to remind people why it's worth saving.

-- In Memory of Mula the Opossum