Of Mice and Beans

OF MICE AND BEANS

Noel Laflin

7-10-13

It was early August 1966 and I was on the hunt for at least one more merit badge. 

So, I set my sights on a newly needed round of cloth in order to qualify for the rank of Eagle Scout. It was called Conservation of Natural Resources merit badge.

The thin paperback Scout pamphlet spoke of a dozen things I needed to learn about nature and conserving our natural resources, but first led off with the following:

“Experiments and Explanations for the Conservation of Natural Resources Merit Badge.

The Boy Scout must perform one task from each of the following categories.

1. Carry on an experiment examining how organisms respond to environmental changes and discuss the findings with your counselor.

2. Explain how an ecosystem survives in nature.”

Piece of cake, thought I.  There was just one hitch; we were leaving on vacation for Minnesota early the next morning.  How was I going to carry out any nature experiments in the family Ford?

“Why don’t you plant a bean seed in a coffee tin,” my father suggested. “Beans will sprout damn near anywhere as long as you water them and keep that can in the sun as much as possible.  Sun won’t be a problem where we’re headed.  That plant ought to be half a foot tall by the time we get back.  It will make a good story for your counselor as well.”

So it was that a single pinto bean seed in a Folgers coffee can, stuffed with backyard dirt and moistened with Anaheim tap water, was packed with the rest of the luggage in the old Country Squire station wagon.  It had a place of honor atop a suitcase or two so that it could bask in the sunshine of ten different states. 

And, sure as shootin’, my dad was right – the top of the soil began to crack somewhere around Gallop and a curled green sprout announced its arrival close to Minneapolis.  Dang, thought I, beans do grow in the strangest of ecosystems.

I faithfully carried my coffee can from lake shore cabin to suburban St. Paul home to Midwest farm, all the while explaining to grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins as to just what the hell I was doing.  Some marveled at the astonishing rate of growth of said bean plant.  I quoted frequently from my Conservation of Natural Resources merit badge booklet, trying to sound important.  Grandparents, elderly aunts and uncles looked impressed, for the most part.  My farm-raised cousins were not; as they had seen a million kernels of corn perform the same trick in their daddy’s fields year after year.

By the end of our week long stay in the land of ten thousand lakes, the bean plant stood at least four inches high; my father had predicted that kind of growth.  As I had also read my merit badge pamphlet from cover to cover at least a dozen times, I knew I was ready to ace whatever questions the counselor might quiz me on once we were home.  And so, home we headed.

My father drove all the way to Jackson Hole, Wyoming that day.  We had brought camping gear and decided to rough it that evening at the base of the Tetons.  It was downright frigid by the time we had cooked supper and zipped ourselves into the family tent.

Come Sunday morning, we saw exactly just how cold it had gotten as frost covered everything.  We shivered in our summer shorts and tee-shirts waiting for the sun to break over the mountains as we ate breakfast and then broke camp.  My dad wanted an early start as he had to be at work Monday and intended to make the eight hundred mile drive in one stint.  

My father tossed me the keys to the car and told me to start making room for the gear.  The Ford gleamed with frost.  I lifted the back window and laid down the tailgate.  And, then I saw it.  My plant had died of frostbite.  The once proud, green bean pole was now ashen grey and drooped over the lip of the Folgers’s can.  It was a sad sight indeed to see what this unexpected environmental change had brought about.

“Just one more story for the counselor,” my dad noted as we hauled the tent, camp stove, sleeping bags and air mattresses into the back of our portable lab on wheels.  I tucked the coffee can in a corner and figured I would deal with explanations later.

I suppose it was somewhere in Utah when my father and I heard the screams coming from the back seat where my mother and sister had been drowsing in the mid afternoon sun.

“It’s a mouse!” they cried in unison, scrambling about the old bench seat, trying valiantly to keep their feet from touching the floorboard.  I caught sight of a fleeting flash of grey as the critter jumped the back seat and secreted himself away with all the luggage piled high behind us.

Yup, it was a mouse alright, I confided to my dad as he continued to speed down the Beehive highway.  “Looks like we must have packed him away with the gear this morning."
  
"He’s just a little field mouse," I said, turning to face my mom. "Nothing to be frightened of," I continued.  "He’s probably scared to death being trapped in here with us.  Kind of a cool stowaway, don’t you think?” 

Neither my mother nor my sister took much comfort in my keen observation.  And all the coaxing and luggage rearranging performed at our next brief rest stop could neither discover nor dislodge our tiny hitchhiker.  So, my dad drove on into the late afternoon sun where the heat of Nevada soon greeted us.

By the time we made Baker it was nearly eleven o’clock in the evening.  My father pulled off the highway for one last gas fill-up, quick bite to eat and bathroom break.  As we all opened the four doors of the old Ford I noticed a flash of grey leap out of the rear passenger’s side and hit the hot gravel of the parking lot.  The mouse had seen his chance and pounced.

I have often wondered what he thought as he raced across the desert.  He had been born and raised in the cool shade of the snow capped Tetons and suddenly found himself in hell.  Despite the time of night, it was still a hundred and five degrees outside. 

“Welcome to Baker,” I cried out.  “It’s the Gateway to Death Valley you know.”  With that I closed the car doors and followed my family into the small café attached to the filling station.  The rush of air conditioned air never felt so welcome.  If the mouse was smart, I thought, he would eventually make this discovery of his own. 

The discovery that we all made when we finally pulled into our own driveway three hours later was that the bean plant – frost bit and all – was no more.  It seems that the mouse had had it for dinner. 

“Now, this ought to make a good story for your counselor,” my dad chuckled as he handed me the barren coffee can.  “Help me haul this stuff out of here so we can get to bed.  I’ve got to be at work in a few hours.”

Two days later I found myself sitting opposite from Art Gray, my designated counselor for the Conservation of Natural Resources merit badge.  I had in hand an old Folgers coffee can with a quarter inch stub of something dead poking out of the caked dirt within.

“So, what the heck is that Noel?”

“ Mr. Gray - you know how organisms are supposed to respond to environmental changes and how an ecosystem survives in nature?” I stammered.

“Yes,” he said as he leaned forward to get a better look at my coffee can.

“Well, I’ve got a pretty good story that ought to drive the point home.”