The following
scenario might relate to a gun fight at high noon in Virginia City, Nevada in
the 1800s, but in reality it occurred in a junior high science classroom, circa
1978, in the Northern Bedford County High School.
The
characters involved were neither outlaws (at least not that I’m aware of) nor
actors in a Hollywood movie, and no firearms were involved at all. The biggest danger to the two participants may
have been a slight case of indigestion, nothing more.
In that day,
the Marathon Bar was frequently advertised
on TV ads, and one famous line used in a commercial was “I bet you can’t eat a
Marathon Bar quick, Carl.” Quick Carl was a fictitious gunfighter
in the commercial, and he was challenged by another guy, Marathon John, who was intent on making some money in a wager. With my tendency to give many of my students
a nickname, I couldn’t resist referring to Carl Mellott as Quick Carl after I saw that first commercial.
Carl Mellott
was a quiet, well-mannered student with a likeable personality and friendly
smile. He never got tired of me
repeating to him daily, “I bet you can’t eat a Marathon Bar quick, Carl.” To be honest, poor Carl may have hated
hearing that line so often, but being a good kid, he never once complained
about it.
At times I’d
work the line into the science lesson when I could. But again, if I’m really being truthful, that
probably didn’t happen very often.
In any event,
I felt the line was wearing thin -- and I’m sure the students felt the same way
-- when an idea hit me. Frank McIntyre was in that class, too. So when I said, “I bet Fast Frankie can eat a
Marathon Bar quicker than Quick Carl,” the class immediately responded with
excitement. Friendly wagers were taken,
the date for the match was set and placed on the calendar, and the hype
followed and continued to build right up to the day of the big event.
[Note: If you’ve forgotten your junior high or middle
school years, I want to remind you that it was easy to get those kids excited. Bringing them back down to reality and stressing
the importance of the lesson was always much more difficult.]
Like
Christmas or summer vacation, the anticipation of the big event seemed only to prolong
the date’s arrival. Admittedly so, I was
just as energized as the kids – maybe even more so. Finally, the day of the duel was here.
I can still picture
the contrasting personalities and physical size of each boy as they stood in
front of the class. Quick Carl -- tall,
lanky, red-cheeked, and shy -- tried the small nibble approach. His plan was to
take in less with each bite and try to swallow methodically and steadily. True
to the meaning of a marathon, he approached
the event like the tortoise in his race with the hare.
Fast Frankie,
on the other hand, was much smaller in size. However, in spite of his small
stature, he bubbled with boastfulness and confidence. He decided to stuff as much into his mouth as
he could, all at one time, and let his saliva work its wonders. Frankie, like the hare in the race, took his
chances with speed rather than endurance.
As the
contest continued, both kids experienced some major bodily contortions while
trying to swallow the gooey mixture. Warm caramel and chocolate dripped down
their chins, though the chocolate was much easier to swallow than the
caramel. Needless to say, giggles from
the contestants as well as the audience didn’t help either boy in his attempt
to win the race.
Meanwhile,
their teacher contributed his play-by-play analysis, much the same way as a broadcaster
would during a horse race. Part of my
color comments included incorporating some digestive terms into my description,
such as saliva (and other enzymes), chewing, the esophagus, and
peristalsis. [Note: Do you see how well
I incorporated some life science into this event? I don’t want my former
supervisors to think for one second that I was a complete doofus.] The terms epiglottis
and respiration also came to mind,
but more so in my worries because I surely didn’t want any competitor to choke,
pardon the pun.
The suspense
finally faded as Fast Frankie won fairly easily. His face told the story of victory, and he was
permitted to go to the restroom to wash up. Quick Carl’s runner up award consisted of
allowing him to finish his Marathon Bar at his seat at his own pace. If my
memory is correct, Carl didn’t require the same immediate attention to soap, warm
water, and paper towels as his adversary did.
Following
this duel, an imaginary 1878 headline in the Virginia City News may have read “Fast Frankie Beats Quick Carl” on its front page, but that life
science class in 1978 witnessed and will remember much more than that. That lesson was part of an era when kids
could learn while still having fun in school.
No one fretted about their school’s state test scores or if their music
and art programs might get cut because of budget issues. A child never fathomed that an armed intruder
might enter school and cause harm to anyone.
And the words lock down had no
meaning. It was simply the best time to
be either a student or a teacher.
I’m sure
Fast Frankie and Quick Carl would agree.
As for me, my biggest worry later that day was, “I sure hope no one gets
heartburn from that lesson.”
