In Which We Demonstrate the Scientific Method

So day before yesterday, we were talking about the Periodic Table of Elements. We like to talk about the Periodic Table; Helier, in fact, has taken the lead in memorizing all the elements. We've done Latitudes One and Two so far, and have just started the third, and on Wednesday we were discussing magnesium, which -- so much more helpfully than sodium -- has a symbol resembling the name by which we know it. The kids tend to want to call sodium something like "Naaaaa aaaaa aaa . . . "

Among magnesium's many felicities are 1) the fact that you can make racing bicycles out of it, and 2) that it occurs in chlorophyll. (next time somebody asks you what Lance Armstrong has in common with a philodendron, you'll know what to say). Of course, I had to explain what chlorophyll was, which led to a (very very very basic) discussion of photosynthesis, in which the Greek roots of the word played a predominant role. This is what you get when an English major teaches science: you might not know how it works, but you sure as heck know what the words mean, which tells you more about how things work than you might suppose, now that I think of it.

The upshot of all this was that we -- read I -- decided that we should try an experiment.

Our question: What happens when you withhold light from a plant?

The children's hypothesis: It turns brown.

To test this hypothesis, we went outside and yanked up two hanks of lemon balm, which we have growing everywhere. We planted them in jars, watered them equally, and put one in the back-porch window, and the other in the back-porch closet. We wrote up our question and hypothesis on the whiteboard in the kitchen, and I set up a calendar to remind us to check the closet plant each day and compare it to the windowsill plant.

Here are our results so far: both plants look pretty peaky from being yanked up and transplanted. The one in the closet seems crispier than the one on the windowsill, but really it's a neck-and-neck race.

More interestingly, Helier has become emotionally involved with the plant in the closet. Yesterday he confided to me that while I wasn't looking, he'd been sneaking it out to get some sunlight.

Me: Well, don't do that. It spoils the experiment.

Helier: I hate the experiment. It's mean.

Me: The plant will be fine.

Helier: How would you like it if I closed you up in a closet? (Ah. So people do hear what I say to them sometimes.)

Me: It's only for a week. I promise we'll plant it back outside when we're finished.

Helier (tearfully): It needs some sun now.

Me: Long disquisition on the subject of how much I like plants, how I would never be mean to a plant, how I am not a mean person generally --

Helier: Oh, yes you are, sometimes.

Me: Only when I have to be.

Helier: Well, I hate science. (marching to kitchen door, pausing with hand on knob, turning for the parting shot) I HATE science! Slam.

So, you know, this hands-on-learning thing. It can have unintended consequences. At this writing, I don't think he's actually liberated the plant yet, but I have my eye on him.