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H. Neal Glanville

H. Neal Glanville's column appears in the Craig Daily Press on Mondays.

This past Friday, I began my 60th year.

As birthdays go (if you still enjoy them) turning 60 was surprising because Ericca flew out to spend some time with me.

It's also surprising that I have not received the gift I ask for each birthday, Christmas or just cause day, a 1934 Bugatti. I understand the cost issue, but if everybody got together, they could start a savings account or a fund for an eccentric middle-aged man.

I mean, come on, it's just an old car.

For some reason, Friday brought back memories of my seventh-grade science fair project. My chicken wire, paper-mÕche creation was to become the legendary Mt. Vesuvius of Midvale Junior High School. I was the proudest geek (yes, Mrs. Jacobson, I was a geek. The only thing that kept me from the geek hall of fame was my lack of a plastic pocket protector) the morning grandpa and I hauled my volcano into Mr. Soderquist's classroom. As I set up my volcanic display, I started thinking of each acceptance speech I'd give along my path to the state championship.

Dave Redmond's project had to do with the mathematical probabilities of orbital space travel. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Tonya De Spain did a great job describing plant life, pollination and oxygen. I really don't remember the presentation, but I remember Tonya. Then it was my turn.

I'd never stood before a room full of people, and I started stuttering, muttering, and making a mess of the whole thing. Mr. Soderquist stepped between me and the giggling class.

"Close your eyes young man," he said. "Take a deep breath and start over." Turning to the class, his voice dropping two layers lower, "quiet down ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Glanville would like to start again"

As the reigning king of geeks, Mr. Soderquist was "the most."

"The life of a volcano gets started at the Earth's core," I said. It was all coming together, my hours of practice were about to pay off and first place was mine. "As the Earth starts heating up the molten rock, stuff starts pushing its way to the surface."

I turned to light the fuse that would ignite Uncle Barney's mixture of this that and the other stuff. The original batch of volcanic ash, flowing lava and small explosions had worked so well in our early experiments that my brothers and I figured if we doubled the mixture, my trip to the state finals was in the bag.

I stepped confidently toward the class.

"As the temperature rises."

The first explosion seemed a little loud, but the soap flakes were falling.

"Ash will some times fill the sky."

Panic shot across Jeanne Peterson's face, followed by a barely audible scream. I turned to see why my left arm and back were suddenly hot.

"FIRE, FIRE it's a FIRE!" Donnie Patton yelled, as the back of my volcano burst into pyrotechnic splendor.

"Quiet down ladies and gentlemen," Soderquist ordered. "We'll have this out in no time." I turned in time to face a blast of fire extinguisher stuff.

Grandpa wasn't too happy to haul a baking soda covered boy home, though he did laugh most of the way there.

Uncle Barney said that he would have paid hard money to see the back of the volcano blow off. We never told anybody about doubling his mixture. They replaced the chalkboard and the table the following week, and Mr. Soderquist gave me a C- for my attempt. I was the geeky hero of the school until we had the earthquake.

I'd like to thank all the people who wished me happy birthday, especially the lady at The Bank of Colorado who gave me a birthday sticker.

Until next time ...

Yup, there I was surrounded on seven sides when I said to myself "Self," I said 'cuz that's what I call myself when I'm talking to myself. "No sense dwelling on the woulda, coulda, shouldas, though you might have grabbed the chance to hop that freight train in Idaho. Maybe this summer."

Thank you for your time.