Theories on science fairs

Along about this time of year when the wind blows and there is mud everywhere, I start to get anxious and a little crazy. It is a holdover from the days when my kids were in the public school system. This time of year brings me to recall that public school institution—the science fair.

There was a time when I had a child in every level of the system from college down to kindergarten. I know that was my own fault, but you get smarter as you get older, and science fairs are just the vehicle to teach you something. Not about geology, ants, or plants either.

My kids were ordinarily about as scientific as mashed potatoes, but when someone mentioned the words “science fair” they suddenly got urges to mess up their hair, drag out their microscopes and carry magnets around in their pockets.

And they began to ask me to find things like dry ice, food coloring and iron filings. They began to use words like “heliotropic” and “chemosterilant” and I began to feel “disinclined” and “reluctant.”

First of all, it’s hard to gauge the benefits of science projects. I’m not sure children are better equipped for life because they can make a barometer out of a two bottles and a quart of water, or a tornado with dry ice and a hair dryer. Somehow it seems that kids should be learning to safely pour a glass of milk or push a lawn mower in straight lines.

I know one thing. Science fairs are not cost effective. I think they impose a limit on what you can spend on one, but you only have to calculate what you can see. You don’t count the test tubes you broke, or the dry ice that evaporated, or the poster paper they spilled milk on.

And you don’t add the cost of gasoline or your time spent on forays looking for glass rods, battery-powered fans or one-way ball-seat valves. You could spend a week’s wages for it all and in return the kid gets a ribbon of one color or another. Even if he wins a blue one, you don’t get to list it on job applications later on: Winner, elementary school science fair, third grade, “Killer Bees.” I don’t hardly think so.

And do you know how much space it takes to make a science project? They wisely limit the sizes of these things for the exhibition, but that doesn’t mean that it takes only that much space to build it. One recipe of salt dough can use up every kitchen counter when you have a couple of grade schoolers “making” it. And don’t forget the batches that didn’t turn out which take up time, money and space also.

For the moderate science project, most famous of which is the soda-and-vinegar volcano, you need a bare minimum of paper, glue, markers, scissors, poster board, boxes, tape, string, salt dough, vinegar, soda, and courage. Do you realize how many of those items are either lost to begin with or can be spilled?

An immoderate project, which in all probability (a science-fair word) is the kind your little Einstein will insist upon, requires an immodicum (a word?) of things like extension cords, baling wire, ice cream buckets, sand and gravel, small mirrors, garbage bags, beakers, hammer and nails, duct tape, batteries; and when they get older, chemicals, circuitry, optics, and many tools, not to mention fire extinguishers, helmets, and other safety devices.

Getting all of this stuff to the school on a windy day poses another problem. Mud on posters doesn’t look any better than milk does. Can you picture Bertha fighting a three-o’clock deadline for three different schools carrying all of this stuff in a Camaro with a pre-schooler in tow who is carrying a couple of “science projects” (burpie and pacifier) of his own?

I remember it well.

The year of the “mold project” was the best though. The judges probably thought that my budding scientist (wait a minute, not one of my kids grew up to be one) had carefully constructed his own incubators where he grew molds for days and days. Actually not, since I knew right where to find some of those—in the back of my refrigerator.