Image above: Rabbits at Walnut Farm Montessori, including Mufasa, on the far right.
Starting in the fall of my ninth-grade year, I discovered a binary world in wonderful black and white, guided by two words: debt and credit. Accounting became my north star, guiding every decision according to increases or decreases. Fifteen years later, my career in independent schools has catapulted me into a technicolor, four-dimensional, high-definition world. My formative first eight years in the industry were spent as a finance assistant at an EK-12 school, Laguna Blanca School, in Santa Barbara, California. The new perspective I discovered there would forever change my life’s path and help me discover my vocation in school accounting.
Fast forward to last year, when I spotted a job posting for the finance administrator role at Walnut Farm Montessori School in Bentonville, Arkansas. My gut told me that something was different about this little Montessori school, apart from the fact that it was a smaller school serving 18-month through 12-year-olds. But really, how different could it be?
My first year at Walnut Farm Montessori was a blur of student carlines, camp drop offs, employee contracts, board meetings and all the usual business office duties. Just as sweat mixes with sunscreen on an August afternoon in Arkansas, so too did those days blend together, and my list of “other duties” grew. With prior experience driving a shuttle and chaperoning school trips, I foolishly thought no task was too daunting for this seasoned business officer. Little did I know then that those skills had not prepared me for my biggest challenge — Mufasa!
Mufasa is one of the school’s four rabbits that reside in an outdoor classroom enclosure. A formidable creature of superior intellect and considerable agility, Mufasa rules over her bunny warren with an iron paw. Okay, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, but trust me when I say she is a mighty presence within our school not to be trifled with.
My path crossed with Mufasa’s one fateful morning when I was called to campus to support our insurance agents, who were assessing the damage after seven tornados tore through our area. Geared up in my flip-flops and accompanied by our handyman, we surveyed the facilities, noting Mother Nature had been kind enough to spare our campus from the bulk of her cruel havoc. Unfortunately, numerous oak trees had fallen, wiping out fences, storage sheds, and the corner of our kitchen roof and gutters.
Shakespeare surveys campus after a series of tornadoes.
As we made our way through the debris, several substantial piles of rabbit fur came into view. My heart stopped as I realized the storm had unfastened the door and enabled our bunnies to escape their enclosure. Were they injured somewhere? Or worse, had they shuffled off this mortal coil? Two thoughts raced in my mind. One: what would happen if a summer camper stumbled upon a lifeless bunny? And two: Insurance adjustors would be soon arriving campus, and I needed to find the bunnies quickly. Mission accepted: I ventured forth to locate our pintsized fugitives, dead or alive — preferably alive.
Following the trail of fluff, I promptly discovered Charlie, feasting on playground grass. I scooped him up and returned him to the pen. One down — easy enough. Meanwhile, Mufasa had camouflaged herself under the brush of a fallen oak tree. It took both our handyman and me to capture the wily bunny, who grunted and growled the entire way back to her enclosure. Who knew that bunnies could be so vocal?
Sure enough, I returned to find only three-fourths of our rabbit warren. Who was missing? Mufasa, of course.
Rescue mission complete, I dusted the grass off my pants and mentally prepared myself to meet the adjustors, who would be arriving any minute. However, as I approached the business office, a nagging feeling urged me to turn around and ensure the bunnies were still nestled in their enclosure. Sure enough, I returned to find only three-fourths of our rabbit warren. Who was missing? Mufasa, of course.
After 15 minutes of frantic searching, I located Mufasa, once again nestled under an outcropping of fallen tree branches, happily munching on oak leaves. Slowly, so as not to scare her away, I tiptoed backwards to a maintenance shed and chose a plastic rake as my tool of choice for shepherding her in my direction.
The rabbit enclosure after tornado damage.
It is at this point in the story that I’d like to remind my fellow business officers of the 1994 Disney movie “The Lion King.” It is purported that the Allers and Minkoff film was modelled after William Shakespeare’s “Hamlet,” with some biblical references thrown in. Now, if Allers and Minkoff had met our Mufasa, the villainous Scar would have never stood a chance! Mufasa zigged where I zagged, darting through the underbrush with an agility that would put her fictional namesake to shame. To add insult to injury, my rake repeatedly became lodged in the felled branches, causing me each time to kneel on my hands and knees to dislodge the ineffective tool. This was not Montessori grace in action.
Not wanting to be caught by the adjustors running around like a mad woman, I decided it was time for different tactic. What I really needed was a way to usher Mufasa into a confined area, but how? Her original outdoor pen was split in two parts and leaning against the shed wall. Carefully, I formed the broken pen pieces into U shape, and then little by little, I herded Mufasa into the makeshift trap. Quicker than you can say “Hakuna Matata,” she darted for the back wall, and I seized the moment, closing the fencing around her.
The moment I picked her off the ground, Mufasa let out an ear piercing, high-pitched scream, the likes of which I’d heard on episodes of “Wild Planet.” In spite of a fast-developing, multi-colored migraine, I steeled myself and briskly walked her back to reunite her with her nest. Instead of thanking me, Mufasa spun around and charged straight at me. Faster than an accountant flagging unusual transactions, I made a beeline for the enclosure door. Once at a safe distance, I rechecked the enclosure for potential escape routes before returning to business as usual.
Even with the return of relative normalcy, however, I was no longer the same finance professional as before — the world seemed less black and white; it was now a multitude of colors.
Later that week, the regular rhythm of independent school life gradually returned. Dedicated volunteers, who moonlighted as lumberjacks, landscapers and janitors, helped repair our tornado damaged campus. Even with the return of relative normalcy, however, I was no longer the same finance professional as before — the world seemed less black and white; it was now a multitude of colors.
My experience working at an independent school has been, at most, 40% business, with the remaining 60% being anything other than accounting. As we all know, the business part of the school business office is an ever expanding, fulfilling and learning-as-we-go occupation. Our job rewards us with lessons and experiences not found in college textbooks, and insights which always keep us coming back for more.
As my husband gets closer to retirement, we discuss what work we’d do once relocated to the East Coast. His answer varies depending on his current frame of mind. My answer is always the same: accounting work at an independent school. And since our last talk, I can happily add to my growing skillset of other duties: prowess in bunny wrangling.
