I Don't Want to Set the Room on Fire

Like most guys, I’ve always loved playing with fire and blowing things up. Fireworks and gunpowder; I learned how to make my own. But despite this, neither of the fires in Mr. Kodyk’s classroom were my fault.

The first incident happened during Mr. Kotyk’s soap making assignment. I have no idea why we were making soap. Were we studying pioneers? Who knows? For several days he reminded us to bring in “some lye, grease or fat, and some kind of small container.” Amazingly, on the appointed day I actually remembered to bring it all in. I mean, why not? There was no homework involved. We’d get to kill an hour or so making an oily soapy mess.

So, my mom bought some lye, gave me some bacon fat, and a container, all of which I carried in a bag to school. We began around mid-morning. Mr. Kotyk had set two or three hot plates in the back of the room, and though I can’t remember exactly, the procedure must have involved heating and mixing fat and lye, then pouring the mixture into our small containers. Mr. Kotyk supervised everything, pouring hot molten soap into students’ containers one by one. All went well until he poured mine, when two problems intersected in sudden exothermic fashion.

1. Mr. Kotyk either didn’t know, or else never considered that some kid’s container might be a turkey pie tin.

2. Lye, aluminum, and warm liquid really don’t play well together.

Ok, so a moment or two after Mr. Kotyk pours my bacon soap mixture into my turkey pie pan, smoke begins billowing up from the counter. The pan is dissolving, kids are yelling, and Mr. Kotyk is cursing. He grabbed the burning pie tin with a pair of pliers and headed out of the room, down the stairs, and out the door. I know this because we all followed him.

After lunch, Mr. Kotyk announced our grades one by one. “H” meant “hi,” “S” meant “so so,” and “L” meant “loser.” So it was like, “Hanson, H; Kotlarczyk, H; Lakomy, S; … Shouse, L,” and he said it with that sardonic grin he was so good at. It didn’t seem fair and I said so.

“Well you darn near started the room on fire!” he bellowed, and I was caught without reply.

I got even with him, however, when I did it again.

It was the volcano project. Very simple. Just make a model volcano. I made a beauty out of paper mache, with simulated flowing lava made from red candle wax. At the top I installed a small metal cup to hold some kind of flammable chemical. But now where would I get such a thing? Where could I find some kind of powder that would shoot sparks out the top of my paper mache and wax volcano?

There was just one place to go. The Shaders’ house. A teacher and counsellor at one of the local high schools, Mr. Shader was a like a walking encyclopedia of science, nature, and history. During the summer, Mr. Shader worked as the Town Crier at the Henry Ford Museum. Antique rifles covered the walls of his basement den, along with an old crank style telephone. The adjacent laundry room was filled with interesting chemicals and other science stuff, so, I figured Mr. Shader might have just what I needed.

“Copper sulfate might work,” Mr. Shader suggested, and he gave me a not-so-small vial of the stuff, which I took to school on the appointed day along with a book of matches. When it came time to show off our volcanoes, I told Mr. Kotyk that mine could erupt.
“Really?” he said with a genuine glint of childlike curiosity.

“Sure,” I said, “but I have to light it.”

In today’s American school, this would all be impossible. Aside from streaming video, “erupting” of any kind would never be tolerated and God forbid anyone suggesting “lighting” anything. But Mr. Kotyk, I guess was thinking to himself, “what could possibly go wrong?”

Having obviously forgotten the soap incident, he gave the go-ahead. It took one match to set off the powder at the top of the cone. Sizzling blue sparks and yellow flame began spewing out and the whole class was going “ahh” and “ooh” and then we all realized that the whole volcano was starting to burn. I guess wax covered paper mache burns pretty well once it gets going. Whoda thought?

As he lunged across the room, Mr. Kotyk did some of that, oh, whaddya call it, “almost swearing.” You know, like “gonna fran san, whatta little muffa bung dongit!” He grabbed the burning mass by the plywood board it sat on, headed out the door, down the stairs, out through the kindergarten hallway doors, and onto the playground blacktop. I know this because we all followed him.

I liked Mr. Kotyk, but I’m not sure whether or not he liked me. On the last day of school he signed me an autograph. I still have it. It reads, “To the world’s biggest clown. Mr. Kotyk.”

Coming soon: Other reasons why Mr. Kotyk might have thought I was a clown. Problems with the Safety Patrol. A sad love story.