Twenty-five wide-eyed children sat motionless in their chairs. “This, class, is a butter bean. Look how small it is.” The students agreed, nodding their heads in approval.
“But what happens if I plant this seed and water it daily?” Annette jumped up quickly. “It grows into a plant, and the plant gets bigger, and bigger, and bigger, and then loads and loads of beans grow on 'em, and . . .” I stopped her. “Terrific,” I responded.
“Tommy, what happens next?” “I guess you pick 'em and eat 'em.” “Is Tommy right?” Again the children nodded. “How many of you like butter beans?” There were nods and grimaces; Silvia stuck her tongue out. All had at one time or another eaten beans, although none had actually seen a butter bean. Butter beans weren't very common in England.
The stage had been set, however, and the great farming experiment could now proceed. “Children, remember we just finished `Jack and the Beanstalk' and remember how the plant grew? Well, we are going to be gardeners, too, just like Jack.” The children were thrilled as I produced some potting soil, 25 small plastic pots, and 25 butter beans that I had carried with me from Louisiana. I had previously cleared several tables, and we now set about the delightful task of planting. The children put soil into their pots and wrote their names on the outsides. Then I handed each child a special seed, a seed that each gave a name to. We had the Dennis seed, the Kulji seed, the Mariam seed, and some 22 others.
Each day, about 15 minutes before teatime, we watered our plants, looking for any signs of life. I hoped that all of the seeds would yield nice, healthy plants and that each of the children would derive satisfaction from seeing the individual plants grow. But I wasn't taking any chances. The day that we planted the seeds at the grammar school, I rushed home and planted 10 of my own seeds. If someone's plant didn't grow, I would simply sneak in later in the evening and substitute one of my own. A brilliant plan, I thought.
Slowly the plants broke the surface. Life had been created where the children had seen no life. Words like “nifty,” “amazing,” and “brilliant” echoed across the room. During teatime the children brought other students into the room to see their small plants. All except Trevor. His seed was not cooperating.
That evening I returned to my flat, chose one of the plants I had been growing, and returned to school. Carefully removing Trevor's pot, I replaced it with my own. Then using the same marker I had loaned to Trevor, I copied his name on the base of the pot. Yes, I was a master of deception! I could not wait for the next day.
All the children rushed to the tables, excited by the growth of the plants. I followed Trevor to his plant. The boy stood in silence over the plant. I walked up to him. “Amazing, sir, amazing.” “Quite right, Trevor. Life is amazing. Your plant began as a tiny seed. Now look at it!”
The boy's eyes never shifted from the plant, its stem nudging its way upward through the black soil. Again, there was that quiet mumbling, “Amazing.”
“Tell me, Trevor, what part of this growing process do you consider most amazing?” The boy turned his head and looked into my eyes. “All of it, sir. All of it. I couldn't plant my seed. I ate it.”
I smiled. We both looked at the sprout. “Amazing.”
