Close Encounters of the Third-Grade Kind (29 page)

I’ve learned that if you put a bar of soap into the microwave, it will expand to five times its original size. If you put
a peanut M&M into the microwave, it will spark. And if you place two marshmallow Peeps into the microwave facing each other
and stick a toothpick in each one — after thirty seconds they will inflate and stab each other.

Every elementary school teacher has a poster of the scientific process:

1. Ask a Question;
   
2. Gather Evidence;
   
3. Make Your Best Guess;
   
4. Test Your Hypothesis; and
   
5. State Conclusion.
   

I’ve become an expert at using the scientific process. Just this week, I followed it to a T with Robbie and Joshua. The boys
were sitting under my desk recording in their science notebooks. My box of Cheerios was open.

1. Ask a Question:
   “Did you two boys get into my Cheerios?”
   
2. Gather Evidence:
   Robbie is frozen. Josh is frozen, too. Robbie is not responding to my question. Josh is also speechless. Their lips are shut.
   Their cheeks are full.
   
3. Make Your Best Guess:
   “You ate my Cheerios, didn’t you?”
   
4. Test Your Hypothesis:
   “Okay, you two, show me your hands.”
   
5. State Conclusion:
   “Based on the presence of Cheerio residue on all four hands, plus the fact that neither one of you has dared to swallow or
   blink since I walked over here, I conclude that my hypothesis is indeed correct. Now get out from under that desk.”
   

Even though science is not my favorite subject to teach, I do try my best. Kids love it. Bring in a stethoscope and they all
want to wear it. Dust off the giant plastic model of the teeth and suddenly everyone wants to brush. Ask them to rub balloons
against their heads and I lose complete control of the class.

One day I gathered my students around my giant thermometer. I pointed to the
F.

“Can anyone tell me what this letter stands for?”

“Fahrenheit!” Jennifer called out.

“Very good. And can anyone tell me what the
C
stands for?”

Stacy raised her hand. I pointed to her.

“Cellulite.”

Together my students and I have made solar systems out of old tennis balls, punched airholes in jars of caterpillars, and
created sedimentary rocks out of peanut butter, jelly, and Wonder Bread. We’ve traced our shadows with chalk on the blacktop,
written invisible messages in lemon juice, and turned off the lights to watch the pupils in our eyes get really big. We’ve
sprinkled salt on ice cubes, created cumulus clouds out of cotton balls, watched carnations sitting in food coloring turn
red, and made molecules out of toothpicks and mini marshmallows.

I do my best to stay abreast of the best practices for teaching science. Since the experts have declared that Pluto is not
a planet, I don’t teach students
M
y
V
ery
E
legant
M
other
J
ust
S
at
U
pon
N
ine
P
ickles anymore. Now I say
M
y
V
ery
E
nergetic
M
om
J
ust
S
erved
U
s
N
achos.

Kids are natural scientists. Christopher can demonstrate erosion when washing his hands. Trevor illustrates friction when
sliding into home plate. Brian is an example of force every time he pushes the door to go out to PE. Recently, Melanie taught
us all about static electricity when she ran in late with a pair of “Wednesday” panties clinging to her sweater.

Of course all children are zoologists.

“Mr. Done, look at the ladybug. I found it at recess.”

“Mr. Done, I gotta cricket. I caught it on the way to school.”

“Mr. Done, I found a snail. It was outside the classroom.”

“Mr. Done, look at my cockroach. You need more? We have tons at home.”

Sometimes my students’ science knowledge is a bit off. Over the years, I have clarified that the famous man who studied gravity
was not
Sir Fig Newton,
that the earth does not revolve on its
axel,
and that a
sense of humor
is not technically one of the five senses.

I’ve explained that pistils inside flowers do not
shoot
pollen, that the inventor of the graham cracker was not Alexander Graham Bell, that the only mammal that flies is not Superman,
that goldfish eat algae — not
allergies,
and that the Big Dipper is not a
constipation.
Once when I asked the class, “Who knows what migration is?” David grabbed his head and pretended that he had a massive headache.
It took me a second until I got it. “That’s a
migraine,
David. But you’re close.”

Of course, I’ve had my own science bloopers. Teachers never forget the lessons that bombed. This is when we’re glad the classroom
door is closed and that children are very forgiving. I should have known papier-mâchéing twenty mayonnaise jars into volcanoes
then filling them with vinegar and baking soda all at the same time was not such a good idea. I should have realized that
sticking twenty vibrating tuning forks into cups of water would soak everything on their desks. Who’d have guessed that one
itsy-bitsy candle could set off the fire alarm? And how was I supposed to know that when the directions on the ant farm say
to put the ants in the freezer for fifteen minutes to get them moving — it means
fifteen minutes.
Next time I won’t forget about them.

When I was a kid, I was actually very good in science. I knew why the entire strand of Christmas tree bulbs went out when
one bulb died and how far away the lightning was by counting till I heard the thunder. I could make a xylophone out of my
mom’s water glasses, Kool-Aid powder dissolve by stirring really fast, and bubbles in my milk by blowing in a straw. On hot
days, I could make rainbows in the water when I turned on the garden hose. And I knew that the first letters of the color
spectrum (red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet) spelled the man’s name ROY G. BIV.

Every spring at my school we have a science fair. On the day of the fair, the children set all their displays out on the tables
in the multipurpose room, and all the classes go see what everyone has made.

Before the fair, the children must get their projects approved by their teachers. More than once, I’ve had to veto an idea.
Nathan never got to test if a jump rope lassoed to a ceiling fan could slow it down. Ben wasn’t allowed to see what happens
when he shines the bar code reader in the class bunny’s eyes. I nixed Ronny’s idea for measuring the distance water will travel
when putting a finger under the faucet. I refused to let Kerry’s goldfish swim in apple juice. And I steered Brian away from
determining if Coke or Pepsi produces the more gigantic reaction when Mentos are dropped into it.

On the day of the fair, I know before even stepping into the multi exactly what the science projects will be. One will show
if houseplants grow better listening to Beethoven or Britney Spears. Another will prove if Tide or Biz does a better job at
getting out the stains. And somewhere in the room a group of plants that were exposed to various levels of sunlight will remind
me of the Seven Dwarfs. One will be Happy. One will look Sleepy. And one poor fellow will look like he needs Doc. (I’m always
tempted to take the droopy ones outside for some fresh air when no one is looking.)

Scattered around the multi will stand displays explaining which paper airplane flies the farthest, why our hands get wrinkly
in water, which brand of bubblegum blows the biggest bubbles, and what paper towel is the most absorbent. And there will always
be at
least
one project that doesn’t work. I’ll feel so bad for the guy who made it that I’ll stand and wait for him to rebuild his motor
invention with his entire LEGO set because he swears that it really did work last night.

No matter what the project is, all the displays have one commonality — the science fair board. In fact, this board has not
changed since science fairs began. The board is always folded into three panels. On it is a title along with the words
hypothesis, materials, procedure, observations,
and
conclusion.
Oftentimes one of these words is misspelled. When people walk by the display, it falls over.

At this year’s science fair, several classes were in the multi looking at all the exhibits when a large gust of wind came
shooting through the open door and blew over a whole row of projects. Like dominoes, board after board began collapsing and
falling on the floor. Everyone went scrambling to save them. It was chaos. The science fair was almost ruined. Quickly I assessed
the problem. Noticing the strong wind current rushing through the doorway, and understanding the effects of air pressure on
cardboard, I walked over to the door and shut it. Immediately the displays stopped falling over. The fair was saved.

I told you I was good in science.

W
hile driving with my friend Marian one day, we came upon a large group of children walking down the sidewalk in a single-file
line. Name tags tied with yarn hung around their necks. Several adults were spaced between the kids. Clearly they were on
a field trip.

“Oh look,” Marian cooed. “How cute.”

“Cute?”
I protested. I pointed at the man in back of the line carrying three backpacks and giving one kid a piggyback ride. “See
that man over there — the one who looks like a coatrack? I’m sure he’s the teacher. And I can tell you right now that he does
not think this is at all
cute.
You know why? That man will share his lunch today because some kid forgot his. When they stop for a potty break, he will
stand in the boys’ bathroom making sure that no one empties the entire paper towel dispenser. And when they’re walking back
to school, he’ll get punched in the arm if someone sees a VW Bug.” Marian started laughing. “If it’s a VW bus, he’ll get punched
twice
!” As we drove past the teacher, I rolled down my window and shouted, “God bless
you
!”

Over the years I’ve led dozens of field trips — to fire stations, factories, farms, libraries, airports, aquariums, and the
school parking lot. (I had washed my car and my class wanted to see it.) No matter where a teacher takes his students — there
are nineteen universal field trip truths:

1. When you send home permission slips, you will never get 100 percent of them back by the due date.
   
2. After the teacher makes car assignments, one child will request to sit in a different one.
   
3. When discussing the trip with your class, one boy will ask if he can bring his Game Boy.
   
4. When you pull out of the parking lot at school, at least one kid will say, “When will we get there?”
   
5. If the teacher is driving his own car behind a car full of his students, they will
   shmush
   their faces against the back window and wave to him for the entire drive. If the teacher opens the window and flaps his arms,
   they will laugh.
   
6. If the teacher passes his students on the road, they will scream at their driver to go faster.
   
7. Ten minutes after you arrive, one child will ask, “When’s lunch?”
   
8. When it’s time to eat, she will feed her entire sandwich to the birds.
   
9. When assigning children to groups at the nature preserve, more kids will want to be in the
   falcons
   than in the
   hummingbirds.
   
10. The teacher will spend the entire trip counting his students’ heads to make sure everyone is there. (This is like playing
    Duck, Duck, Goose. For six hours.)
    
11. If there is a fountain, the children will ask if they can play in it.
    
12. If there is a gift shop, they will ask if they can buy something.
    
13. The farther you walk with your students in a line, the more spread out it will become.
    
14. When taking a group photo, half a dozen moms will hold up their cameras at the same time so you don’t know in which direction
    to look.
    
15. By the end of the trip half the kids will have lost their name tags.
    
16. When it’s time to hop into the cars and drive home, several will try to renegotiate the seating arrangement.
    
17. When you go to the theater, one child will have to go to the bathroom just as the lights are dimming.
    
18. When you say, “I just asked who had to go,” he will answer, “I didn’t have to go then.”
    
19. As soon as he returns, five others will have to go, too.
    

Years ago I used to perform in shows at the local community center. I’d bring my correcting basket to rehearsals and the cast
would help me grade papers. They thought it was fun. I felt like Tom Sawyer when he gets everyone to paint his fence. One
year we put on
Pirates of Penzance
and I got tickets for my entire class to see a performance during Arts in Education Week.

The day before our field trip, I went over the rules for good theater behavior:

1. No talking during the show.
   
2. Keep your feet off the chair in front of you.
   
3. No hooting or whistling.
   
4. No wearing baseball caps inside.
   
5. No turning around.
   
6. No sitting on the springy seat when it is upright then collapsing down on it as if you are on the giant water drop ride
   at Six Flags.
   

When I was done with my speech, Valerie raised her hand.

“Yes, Valerie?”

“Can we laugh?”

I smiled. “Yes.”

Since I needed to be at the theater early on the day of the performance, I arranged for a substitute to cover my class and
asked my room moms to drive the children to the show. I’d meet my students afterward.

Finally, the big day arrived. The kids came to school all dressed up. The moms got the kids to the theater and in their seats
without any problems. The children giggled when they saw my name in the program. The lights dimmed, the overture began, and
the curtain opened. I stood in the wings and peeked out at my students. I could tell they were excited. I was, too. As I waited
to go on, I wondered if my kids would even recognize me. I wore a big hat, and the makeup lady had slapped a full beard and
mustache onto my face with toupee tape.