Post by Alois Louis Friedmann on Sept 24, 2014 20:20:34 GMT -5
One thing was for sure, students loved the yearly egg drop contest. At least, Professor Friedmann's students back in Oregon did. Hopefully, the teacher thought, these students would also love the idea of eggs splattering on the parking lot pavement in the name of science--or their grade, at least. As the aged professor greatly understood, students hated his subject with the same stubborn indignation that Calculus students felt.
Tables full of construction materials sprawled across the campus parking lot, far enough away from the cars that accidentally dropping an egg or two onto them wasn't possible. In the center of the group of workspace tables was a raised platform to drop the capsules students would build for their eggs. The criteria for a passing grade at the least was a partially cracked, but not completely splattered egg. The less broken the egg was and the more attentive the capsule design was, the better grade each student would get.
Professor Friedmann stood in front of the dropping platform. He kept a watchful eye over the cartons of eggs in coolers around him, and he'd make darned sure that not a single hand would take an egg until everyone's capsules were finished. Cars and many cartons of eggs weren't a good mix, especially with these kids. Just to be sure, he opened the coolers one last time to peek at the cartons nestled in the ice. Not a single egg was missing--yet.
Before the students arrived, Friedmann circled around the tables loaded with supplies--newspapers, boxes, cartons, bottles, tape, glue, cotton balls...he felt like he was still in the craft store. For the sake of fun, he also brought stickers, stamps, ribbons, glitter, and other things to decorate with. He even made a few capsules with the spare time he had in between classes that morning, which hung from the underside of the dropping platform from colorful ribbons.
As always, Professor Friedmann set the tone of the space with his wireless CD player that hummed the soft rhythms of different jazz records from his collection, just as he did in his own classroom. To be sure, most of his students weren't overly fond of the music, but some admitted that it was preferable to stifling silence.The teacher sighed and sat in a folding chair, taking in the warm southern Florida morning, which was already beginning to steam him with its beaming sun and relentless moisture. Some called it balmy, he called it unbearable. He shook off his coat and tossed it aside, formality be damned.
Tables full of construction materials sprawled across the campus parking lot, far enough away from the cars that accidentally dropping an egg or two onto them wasn't possible. In the center of the group of workspace tables was a raised platform to drop the capsules students would build for their eggs. The criteria for a passing grade at the least was a partially cracked, but not completely splattered egg. The less broken the egg was and the more attentive the capsule design was, the better grade each student would get.
Professor Friedmann stood in front of the dropping platform. He kept a watchful eye over the cartons of eggs in coolers around him, and he'd make darned sure that not a single hand would take an egg until everyone's capsules were finished. Cars and many cartons of eggs weren't a good mix, especially with these kids. Just to be sure, he opened the coolers one last time to peek at the cartons nestled in the ice. Not a single egg was missing--yet.
Before the students arrived, Friedmann circled around the tables loaded with supplies--newspapers, boxes, cartons, bottles, tape, glue, cotton balls...he felt like he was still in the craft store. For the sake of fun, he also brought stickers, stamps, ribbons, glitter, and other things to decorate with. He even made a few capsules with the spare time he had in between classes that morning, which hung from the underside of the dropping platform from colorful ribbons.
As always, Professor Friedmann set the tone of the space with his wireless CD player that hummed the soft rhythms of different jazz records from his collection, just as he did in his own classroom. To be sure, most of his students weren't overly fond of the music, but some admitted that it was preferable to stifling silence.The teacher sighed and sat in a folding chair, taking in the warm southern Florida morning, which was already beginning to steam him with its beaming sun and relentless moisture. Some called it balmy, he called it unbearable. He shook off his coat and tossed it aside, formality be damned.