As far as I’m concerned, two things of note happened in 1994. First, I
won the science fair. And second, after spending weeks recreating a
miniature, but insanely scrupulous papier-mâché Mt. Rushmore, I lost
the fifth grade “state fair” by handing out fist-sized bags of pure,
unadorned flour as a snack during my oral presentation. And yet,
neither the triumph nor the failure were really mine alone: I had
what’s known a yes-man on both counts. (You know who you are. Mom.)
My science fair experiment, adapted from a handy “ideas for science
fair experiments” book that my mother had bought me, involved gauging a
volunteer’s stress level, showing them a bit of a scary movie, and then
checking to see how the clip had affected their heart rate. I can
remember that the book recommended Psycho
as an anxiety-provoking choice, and that it specified that the
experiment be performed on adults not currently taking any medication.
As we didn’t own Psycho – nor possess many reliably non-medicated family friends - I came up with a few minor variables of my own.
Excited, I told my mother what I planned to do, and with her uncanny
ability to support what is least appropriate for children, she approved
it. And so, armed with my middle-aged father’s at-home blood pressure
finger cuff, I subjected thirty-two Catholic ten-year-olds to select
scenes from a Natural Born Killers
VHS tape. The results were fantastic, and not only for the science
fair: in the eyes of my peers, some of whom had never seen a PG13
movie, I instantly reigned supreme. (Looking back on this I remember
it as being better than any birthday. We all lined up in school
uniform, our happily terrified faces illuminated by the warm glow of
unsuitable footage, and giddily awaited the blood pressure machine’s
serious, medical beep… Did we make them, or their parents, sign
release forms? How were we not sued by a trove of angry Catholics? )
Unfortunately, my cult status didn’t last long: our end of the year
project - the state fair – started off badly. We’d covered the
American Revolution going into it, and ever the consummate anglophile
brat, I’d announced to anyone who would listen that I identified with
the English, going so far as to bring my British passport to “hand
round” at school. I might’ve chosen South Dakota, a nice Midwestern
state, to restore my American rep, but in reality I was an incorrigible
grade grubber and thought I might earn points for selecting this
remote, wholesome state over say, the much coveted Florida. This
predilection for kissing-ass became my eventual downfall: extra credit
was to be awarded to those students who incorporated an edible handout
into their presentation, something to “bring the region to life”. How
could I resist? The Florida kid, I knew, was bringing oranges, and
after a brief consultation and the green light from my mother, I
assembled thirty-two wax paper pouches of whole wheat.
If you can imagine a Fun Dip – that ubiquitous schoolyard candy
consisting of a chalky stick and a package of sour-flavored sugar
crystals to dip it into – you’ll understand why a few of my peers
instantly licked their fingers and dove right in. I had just embarked
on an exhaustive discussion of the history of South Dakota – beginning
with the line “In the time of the glaciers and the Bering Straight” -
when a girl who I recall as particularly enjoying Natural Born Killers
spit a pasty roux out onto the desk before her. Her dry voice, after
hoarking for a while, theatrically called out for water. This began a
symphony of disgust sounds punctuated with cries of “Try it!” “No you!”
and the occasional, reproachful “Is this flour?” In order to power
through my presentation I distinctly remember concentrating on one
detail: the handouts’ wax paper packaging, each one adorned, by my
mother, with a lovely ink drawing of wheat. Executed in black sharpie,
and in her ominous style, my mom’s pictorial label suddenly seemed to
me like the skull and crossbones on a poison jar. And just like that,
my would-be-legendary science fair project, and even my dutifully
rendered Mt. Rushmore, was eclipsed by the kind of artistic serendipity
that you just can’t teach.
Because we French’s keep everything, I’ve not only resurrected my
rendition of Mt. Rushmore this Fourth of July, but both my science and
state fair papers as well. My science fair project has a simple
“First” on it, but the state fair paper, not quite up to snuff, goes
into further detail. It reads “Excellent opening. Using humor is
always a great way to get attention” and also “Your rye handouts were
well prepared”. My mom can’t have known that the flour was meant to
be eaten, I must have omitted some crucial detail in my frenzy to make the
grade, but then again, she does have a knack for interpretation. Last
night I asked her what she remembered of the state fair incident, and
after a pause she responded. “First of all, I’m not one hundred
percent sure that wheat’s the biggest crop in South Dakota,” she said,
adding, “Did you get an A?”
Agatha French is a Boston based writer about to make a cross country move. After 12 years away from her home turf of Southern California, she will be returning to Los Angeles in the fall. She, and Ryan, are very much looking forward to the year round fruit.