A SPOONFUL OF SUGAR
Created By Lynn Bonsey & Hilary Eyestone
A Spoonful of Sugar, Sung by Julie Andrews, 1964
Written by Richard and Robert Sherman
“In every job that must be done
There is an element of fun”
The day I walked 13 seventh graders to my house so twelve-year-old Tammy could show her peers how to make rock candy from two simple ingredients, sugar and water, I had, of course, thought through the lesson: rationale, concepts, procedures, closure. Students will participate in a how-to demonstration I’d noted on the field trip request form. And so they did.
Sort of.
On arrival, three kids sneaked up to my son’s room to play Nintendo™; two girls sank into my couch and perused the personal ads in the magazine I’d somehow left on the coffee table; and a couple of boys, who didn’t care to get personal with anyone, begged me to let them watch a movie, any movie. “Just until it’s our turn to cook, Miss B. Puh-lease?”
I relented, opened my video storage cabinet, then slammed it shut for fear they might heist my fortieth birthday party videotape and catch my karaoke rendition of It’s My Party and I’ll Cry If I Want To. (I almost sang this later.) I flung Willy Wonka and The Chocolate Factory their way, and if you can believe it (and if you’re a middle school teacher, you surely can), they sat there and they watched it.
Meanwhile in the kitchen, four boiling kettles sputtered and splashed about my new stove, steaming up the premises and setting off the smoke detectors. Restless adolescents, gallons of gurgling water, and umpteen gummy glass jars gave new meaning to Shakespeare’s Double, double, toil and trouble/Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
This was interdisciplinary learning in the making. This was cooperative learning at its best. This was student-led learning. This was chaos.
The words Miss B, Miss B, Miss B ricocheted round the humid room. Miss B, I need help. Miss B, why do you have that picture of you in a bathing suit on your refrigerator? Miss B, I need help. Miss B, you buy lottery tickets? Miss B, Robert just knocked a lot of sugar on the floor.
This wasn't the first time Robert had found himself in a sticky situation with me. Bravely, he shuffled my way, his usual olympic pace stymied by granules gripping the soles of his Nikes™. He stopped, stood as still as Robert ever stands, and waited for me to mete out his punishment. I clenched my teeth, posed my hands in strangle mode and slowly tightened my imaginary grip. Robert grinned.
Snapping to, I shook off Lady Macbeth, exhaled, and inched towards the stove, one goopy step at a time. Pretty sure Robert laughed at me.
In the midst of this mess, the parent chaperone tugged at me. “I need a private moment.”
Yeah, me too, I thought.
We huddled in the only sugar free, kid free spot in the place. I thought she was going to say she didn’t think it wise to strangle a student during a field trip, but instead her eyes darted about like she was casing the joint; then she leaned in and slowly opened one side of her jacket revealing one green and one yellow pack of gum peeking out her pocket: Doublemint and Juicy Fruit.
“Ok, if I give the kids these?” she whispered.
I chewed on this for a moment.
A bit more sugar? Another strand in this cross-curricular lesson? A bribe?
If there’s one thing I’ve learned as a teacher, it’s sometimes you just have to break the rules.
Tammy put a new spin on how to close a lesson when she mentioned rock candy takes days, maybe weeks, to crystallize. Wait. 13 sticky jars strewn about and stuck to my kitchen counter?
13?
Really?
For weeks?
“You don’t mind, do you, Miss B?”
Mind?
Like I had one at this point.
I rounded up my kids, counted 13, and hustled them and their gum-snapping chaperone out the door. But before I left, I tramped back to my kitchen, snatched a steak knife and started stabbing at the semi-crystal gobs.
“Out damned spot! Out, I say” I muttered to no one – and to no avail.
As we trudged uphill through rain and gusts, my black umbrella snapped, tulip-shaped, and tried to take flight. Tippy-toed, arms sprung taut and high, chin arched skyward, rain dousing my face, I fought to keep my grip, my balance, my composure.
I felt like Lady Macbeth on her way to mad and I looked like Mary Poppins gone berserk.
Robert, coatless, bootless and clueless, chose this moment to spin a 360 through a pothole.
As he splashed past, he yelled, “Hey, Miss B, your umbrella’s broken. Looks funny!”
“Good thing you’re talking to Mary Poppins!”
“Huh?”
“Never mind,” I laughed as we splashed forth. “Never mind.”
As we clattered into our little school, super-soaked and silly, a rare and hopeful thought breezed through my wet head.
Today’s lesson is sure to stick.
Likely for a long, long time.
THE STORY BEHIND THE STORY
About three decades ago, contemporaneous with these events, I wrote this piece. I shared it once in a teachers’ writing class, but nowhere else until now.
Yesterday I showed this to my then principal, who happens to be my husband. Gil said this story goes to prove his contention that my only teaching flaw was that I didn’t preview lessons as well as I should have. Not sure it was my only flaw, but I will cop to having several near disasters, thanks to not thinking things out, plus I will admit that planning has never been my strong suit. Nor has cleaning. Or cooking.
I clearly had no idea what it took to make rock candy (just two ingredients sounded good to me!) and no clue that taking 13 students to my little home was a pretty nutty thing to do. Oh well, at least I had a chaperone.
And I made it back to school without killing Robert.
Oh by the way: Names have been changed to protect the innocent:
Me.