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"What would you think," I asked Marjorie over supper, "if I should
undertake to lead a junior achievement group this summer?"
She pondered it while she went to the kitchen to bring in the dessert.
It was dried apricot pie, and very tasty, I might add.
"Why, Donald," she said, "it could be quite interesting, if I understand
what a junior achievement group is. What gave you the idea?"
"It wasn't my idea, really," I admitted. "Mr. McCormack called me to the
office today, and told me that some of the children in the lower grades
wanted to start one. They need adult guidance of course, and one of the
group suggested my name."
I should explain, perhaps, that I teach a course in general science in
our Ridgeville Junior High School, and another in general physics in the
Senior High School. It's a privilege which I'm sure many educators must
envy, teaching in Ridgeville, for our new school is a fine one, and our
academic standards are high. On the other hand, the fathers of most of
my students work for the Commission and a constant awareness of the
Commission and its work pervades the town. It is an uneasy privilege
then, at least sometimes, to teach my old-fashioned brand of science to
these children of a new age.
"That's very nice," said Marjorie. "What does a junior achievement group
do?"
"It has the purpose," I told her, "of teaching the members something
about commerce and industry. They manufacture simple compositions like
polishing waxes and sell them from door-to-door. Some groups have built
up tidy little bank accounts which are available for later educational
expenses."
"Gracious, you wouldn't have to sell from door-to-door, would you?"
"Of course not. I'd just tell the kids how to do it."
Marjorie put back her head and laughed, and I was forced to join her,
for we both recognize that my understanding and "feel" for commercial
matters--if I may use that expression--is almost nonexistent.
"Oh, all right," I said, "laugh at my commercial aspirations. But don't
worry about it, really. Mr. McCormack said we could get Mr. Wells from
Commercial Department to help out if he was needed. There is one
problem, though. Mr. McCormack is going to put up fifty dollars to buy
any raw materials wanted and he rather suggested that I might advance
another fifty. The question is, could we do it?"
Marjorie did mental arithmetic. "Yes," she said, "yes, if it's something
you'd like to do."
We've had to watch such things rather closely for the last ten--no,
eleven years. Back in the old Ridgeville, fifty-odd miles to the south,
we had our home almost paid for, when the accident occurred. It was in
the path of the heaviest fallout, and we couldn't have kept on living
there even if the town had stayed. When Ridgeville moved to its present
site, so, of course, did we, which meant starting mortgage payments all
over again.
* * * * *
Thus it was that on a Wednesday morning about three weeks later, I was
sitting at one end of a plank picnic table with five boys and girls
lined up along the sides. This was to be our headquarters and factory
for the summer--a roomy unused barn belonging to the parents of one of
the group members, Tommy Miller.
"O.K.," I said, "let's relax. You don't need to treat me as a teacher,
you know. I stopped being a school teacher when the final grades went in
last Friday. I'm on vacation now. My job here is only to advise, and I'm
going to do that as little as possible. You're going to decide what to
do, and if it's safe and legal and possible to do with the starting
capital we have, I'll go along with it and help in any way I can. This
is your meeting."
Mr. McCormack had told me, and in some detail, about the youngsters I'd
be dealing with. The three who were sitting to my left were the ones who
had proposed the group in the first place.
Doris Enright was a grave young lady of ten years, who might, I thought,
be quite a beauty in a few more years, but was at the moment rather
angular--all shoulders and elbows. Peter Cope, Jr. and Hilary Matlack
were skinny kids, too. The three were of an age and were all tall for
ten-year-olds.
I had the impression during that first meeting that they looked rather
alike, but this wasn't so. Their features were quite different. Perhaps
from association, for they were close friends, they had just come to
have a certain similarity of restrained gesture and of modulated voice.
And they were all tanned by sun and wind to a degree that made their
eyes seem light and their teeth startlingly white.
The two on my right were cast in a different mold. Mary McCready was a
big husky redhead of twelve, with a face full of freckles and an
infectious laugh, and Tommy Miller, a few months younger, was just an
average, extroverted, well adjusted youngster, noisy and restless,
tee-shirted and butch-barbered.
The group exchanged looks to see who would lead off, and Peter Cope
seemed to be elected.
"Well, Mr. Henderson, a junior achievement group is a bunch of kids who
get together to manufacture and sell things, and maybe make some money."
"Is that what you want to do," I asked, "make money?"
"Why not?" Tommy asked. "There's something wrong with making money?"
"Well, sure, I suppose we want to," said Hilary. "We'll need some money
to do the things we want to do later."
"And what sort of things would you like to make and sell?" I asked.
The usual products, of course, with these junior achievement efforts,
are chemical specialties that can be made safely and that people will
buy and use without misgivings--solvent to free up rusty bolts, cleaner
to remove road tar, mechanic's hand soap--that sort of thing. Mr.
McCormack had told me, though, that I might find these youngsters a bit
more ambitious. "The Miller boy and Mary McCready," he had said, "have
exceptionally high IQ's--around one forty or one fifty. The other three
are hard to classify. They have some of the attributes of exceptional
pupils, but much of the time they seem to have little interest in their
studies. The junior achievement idea has sparked their imaginations.
Maybe it'll be just what they need."
Mary said, "Why don't we make a freckle remover? I'd be our first
customer."
* * *
"The thing to do," Tommy offered, "is to figure out what people in
Ridgeville want to buy, then sell it to them."
"I'd like to make something by powder metallurgy techniques," said Pete.
He fixed me with a challenging eye. "You should be able to make ball
bearings by molding, then densify them by electroplating."
"And all we'd need is a hydraulic press," I told him, "which, on a
guess, might cost ten thousand dollars. Let's think of something
easier."
Pete mulled it over and nodded reluctantly. "Then maybe something in the
electronics field. A hi-fi sub-assembly of some kind."
"How about a new detergent?" Hilary put in.
"Like the liquid dishwashing detergents?" I asked.
He was scornful. "No, they're formulations--you know, mixtures. That's
cookbook chemistry. I mean a brand new synthetic detergent. I've got an
idea for one that ought to be good even in the hard water we've got
around here."
"Well, now," I said, "organic synthesis sounds like another operation
calling for capital investment. If we should keep the achievement group
going for several summers, it might be possible later on to carry out a
safe synthesis of some sort. You're Dr. Matlack's son, aren't you? Been
dipping into your father's library?"
"Some," said Hilary, "and I've got a home laboratory."
"How about you, Doris?" I prompted. "Do you have a special field of
interest?"
"No." She shook her head in mock despondency. "I'm not very technical.
Just sort of miscellaneous. But if the group wanted to raise some mice,
I'd be willing to turn over a project I've had going at home."
"You could sell mice?" Tommy demanded incredulously.
"Mice," I echoed, then sat back and thought about it. "Are they a pure
strain? One of the recognized laboratory strains? Healthy mice of the
right strain," I explained to Tommy, "might be sold to laboratories. I
have an idea the Commission buys a supply every month."
"No," said Doris, "these aren't laboratory mice. They're fancy ones. I
got the first four pairs from a pet shop in Denver, but they're
red--sort of chipmunk color, you know. I've carried them through
seventeen generations of careful selection."
"Well, now," I admitted, "the market for red mice might be rather
limited. Why don't you consider making an after-shave lotion? Denatured
alcohol, glycerine, water, a little color and perfume. You could buy
some bottles and have some labels printed. You'd be in business before
you knew it."