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The 4H Club

2010-03-04 - 1:09 p.m.

In the late seventies, at the unsavory suggestion of my mother, I became a reluctant member of �The 4-H Club� for girls. It was the no frills version of the Girl Scouts, and all the local misfits seemed to be members by default. The girls in my division met around the block at my chronic overeater friend Jeanine�s house. Her mother was our 4-H leader, and her grandmother was senile, which was probably a clever escape trick, having to live full time with an Arts & Crafts Commander. After the Club had been meeting there for a few months, Jeanine�s Mom changed the game on us and essentially told us it would no longer be a haven for us to scarf down as many cupcakes as possible.

My parents weren�t into Arts & Crafts, and there were no cupcakes to be found in our kitchen, but we did have wheat germ, and a lot of fruit. My Dad had been a classic Italian chef in the past, but when morphed with my Mother�s hippie vibe, he changed the menu to rice patties and vitamin shakes for a while.

I knew Jeanine�s mom was going to make us prove ourselves worthy of the 4-H title eventually, especially being that the club�s motto was �For You, For America, 4-H!� It was bad enough we couldn�t eat any of the snacks wasting away on the table until we recited the 4-H manifesto in her porcelain cow kitchen.

The 4-H Motto, or the Creepy Credo

I Pledge my Head to clearer thinking,
my Heart to greater loyalty,
my Hands to larger service,
and my Health to better living,
for my club, my community, my country, and my world."

Sounded like a bunch of givers to me, and I wasn�t interested, although I used to recite it all the time when I was alone because it sounded otherworldly. Jeanine�s mom let us know that we would each be performing a �how to� demonstration on the topic of our choice the following week. It would be in front a panel of judges at the Senior Center, and there would be an audience. I had always wanted to be discovered, but for exactly what, I didn�t know. Some of the girls had no problem finalizing their topics right there on the spot. Among them were

How to Brush a Horse�s Mane
Bathing a Baby
Macaroni Jewelry Making

I made my parents promise that while they were certainly welcome to accompany me to the Senior Center, they would under no circumstances be permitted to watch me onstage. They agreed, and so began the tedious process of choosing my topic. After some two hours of debating in my head, I bounced some of my better ideas off of them:

�How to Lick the Bowl After Your Mother Bakes a Cake, � was met with double silence.

��How to Change The Cat Litter Box�, sparked similar blank looks.

I rattled off a few of these, until one of my parents interjected with a pretty classy demo title, and intuitively I felt it was the right one. The title was

�How to Separate the Egg White from the Yolk of an Egg�.

Of course! My Dad had taught me that two weeks ago. Why not show others how to do it? I was assured that I would have no competition on the topic, and as happy as I was with my decision, I was haunted. This was my first ever performance, and it was only a week away.

In my family, the boys had always been the performance hub of the family. Collectively, they demanded attention for their above-average skills in Sports, Academics, Music, and Juvenile Delinquency. Occasionally I would throw the ball around or something when one of them stopped by, but it was evident I couldn�t catch. I�d usually give up to go play hide and seek with one of the 16 cats living outside in our backyard woodpile.

By the time 4-H performance day came around, I was a complete wreck. I claimed I needed candy to calm me down, and surprisingly, was given some sesame seed honey chunks. I also wasn�t sure I approved of the clingy nylon turtleneck I was wearing, and mentioned I might prefer something �cooler�. Then I was too cold. Too hot. Felt sick. Was upset. Had to go lie down. Needed soda. We never had soda at my house, and no one offered to get me any, so I just followed my parents out to the car as I rehearsed my stage walk for the thousandth. I had to be sure that my skills would be top shelf at exactly two o� clock.

Anytime anyone said anything in the car, I requested that they stop speaking, because I was trying to concentrate on swallowing. I had gone through at least six eggs in my kitchen that morning while practicing my final dissertation, and in the process found out that �eggs don�t grow on trees, kiddo�. I was certain I had my demonstration down pat, but in some test runs I did notice the occasional glitch in some of my specimens - a speck of yolk would wind up in my bowl of egg whites, and I would have to begin again. I secretly hoped the judges were elderly, or at the very least, had poor eyesight.

When we arrived at the Senior Center, there were only a few minutes left until my time slot. The girl ahead of me was performing some sort of ridiculous Irish jig, and she was wearing a sequined bodysuit with a matching pink skirt. She was clonking around in what looked like a pair of wooden elf shoes, and the judges were clapping along with the audience. I thought she was a complete showoff, but I couldn�t focus on her, I had come way too far at this point in my own development. Besides, I didn�t have much time to set up my gear, which was comprised of two mixing bowls, a fork, and a large white cardboard chart with an egg drawn on it in blue pen. I had drawn the egg at its various stages on the chart: whole, and then finally, broken. Last, I had a long pointer stick (or tin foil wrapped antenna) to show exactly what on the chart I would be referring to in my talk.

As my 2 p.m. time slot came and went, my heart sank a little as the Irish jigger went into a second winded burst of overtime, due to the overwhelming reception from the judges. I was dry swallowing again, and felt an intense desire to go home and hold one of my cats. I had no water, and worse, no one to fetch it for me, because I had just banished my parents from the building only moments before.

�You won�t even see us, kiddo Can we just stand right here?�

�I said get out! I can�t focus on my show if you�re here! All the way! No, all the way!�

And they headed for the exit, but not before teasing me one last time by hiding behind the curtain and poking it. I started to cry, and flapped my arms frantically for them to get out. If they weren�t bigger than me I would�ve kicked them through the curtain, no question.

I could see the little spazlet dancing out of the corner of my eye as more people filed into the room. Some of the girls in my division scurried in and flopped down on the floor to watch, because by this time it was standing room only. Those little traitors were clapping for her, but I couldn�t. I was still practicing in my head, rehearsing with my hands the precise cracking and draining movements of my imaginary egg. Dance all you want, Irish time hog, I�ll go on last, and they�ll all remember me when you�re long gone, probably off somewhere eating stupid ice cream later with your stupid parents.

It seemed to never end, but when it finally did, the girl received a standing ovation. Everyone was still clapping, and way too loud, I thought. I tried to motion to the girls in my division to take their seats, but they were too busy jumping up and down to notice. Then one of them sprung to her feet and hugged the dancer. To top it off, they all hugged each other. I waited patiently for the showoff to take her seat next to her Mother and looked around. To my satisfaction, there were no signs of my parents, and the room was quiet.

One of the judges nodded to me to go ahead and take the stage. I slowly began my walk to the front of the room as I had practiced, dragging my heavy cardboard chart up to the front of the room, allowing it to scratch loudly against the carpet for effect. Someone giggled. I turned around quickly to see who it was, and giggled back. I thought I heard one of the judges ask me if I needed help carrying my chart, but this was a one-person act, and I didn�t want to be upstaged. I looked down at the eggs, nestled safely in the bowl, each carefully wrapped inside of exactly one paper towel. I placed the bowl on the table and propped the cardboard chart against the wall on it. Then I gingerly unwrapped the eggs.

I drew my antenna pointer from the bag, which I had imagined the night before was a sort of magic wand. I was sure the judges would see the magic in it too. I was lucky that my older brother let me take it with me, even with the hesitant understanding that he wouldn�t get any good TV reception for a while.

�How to Separate the Egg White from the Yolk of an Egg,� I announced in an authoritative tone, one that was foreign, even to me.

It seemed I had the full attention of my audience, but not for the reasons I had originally thought. As I spoke, I suspected there might be some clapping, similar to the kind the dancer had a few minutes before. But no one clapped. In fact, no one moved.

�Well - they probably have never seen how to do this before,� I thought to myself, arranging the clear bowls next to the eggs just so. �And- everyone in the world�s seen an Irish jig, but who can actually go home and do it?� I pointed with my wand to the spot on the board so the group could follow along and tapped the blue pen egg I�d drawn. Next, I retrieved from my bag a polished silver fork. I removed the first egg from the bowl and peeked out at the judges. One of them had her head cocked to the side and she was smiling. It was the same look my mother gave me after I did my first potty poop. I continued.

�What you want to do is, crack the egg just hard enough to break it, but not hard enough to...�

I could not remember my lines. I really couldn�t. Whose idea was this?

...to break - that egg this egg. To � break -��

That judge was probably trying hard not to laugh at me. And probably so was everyone else. Life isn�t fair. I should�ve done my demonstration on �How to Bury Four Cats in One Year�, because that�s exactly what we had to do when our neighbors poisoned the litter recently. Then some cats would climb up on the fence and fall and break their necks, or even more puzzling, simply drop dead. It was a heart-wrenching time, and no justice was ever served. Not for ANY of those cats! My mouth dried out again, and simultaneously, my voice got much lower. I sped it up.

�Then you do this, this and that and balance it until - you only see the egg white, and not the yolk.�

I just wanted to get it over with. The judges� looks of vast amusement changed to collective looks of concern. I did the best I could to finish, and forfeited the magic antenna for my pointer finger. That thing was no magic wand! Why couldn�t I have grown up on a horse farm learning how to dance in little elf shoes?

I had carefully observed my parents cooking many times. Still, neither of them would ever eat anything I made. A few weeks back, my friend Luxonna and I had gone out to the back yard and pulled some plants from the ground, which we figured was garlic. Her mom was a caterer, so between us, we found we had the combined skills to make our first soup. It turned out really interesting, and only took 5 minutes. I presented it to my parents when they got home from work, but they politely declined. I was crushed, and wouldn�t make soup again for years.

�...And that�s how you separate the Egg White from the Yolk of an Egg. The end.�

As soon as I finished, I carelessly threw the eggshells into the bowl, tossed the crumpled up paper towels over them and shoved the whole thing in my brother�s TV antenna bag. He would probably be mad that I got egg all over the inside of it, but it was preferable to the egg on my face. Still, I felt a small sense of relief that I would never have to see these judges again. I believe it was then that I made the permanent decision to hate Judges and Performances and Acting and Living.

Once I got all the original contents back inside the bag, I grabbed my cardboard chart and ran towards the exit, as the judges granted me a polite round of mercy applause. To my horror, my parents were standing at the exit door, clapping along like they had the right.

�Hey, great job, kiddo! Bravo!�

All at once failed and betrayed by my parents, my peers and a panel of judges. It was a three-strike situation I wasn�t willing to face like an adult. Visibly, I was shaken and my parents understood that they would have to restore some balance. In the car, I reasoned that the only thing that �might� make me feel better was to go and have some ice cream.

After we had settled in at the ice cream place, and I had just finished my sundae, I slumped into a nice forgetful sugar coma, when I saw the little Irish Jigger making her way over to our table. She was celebrating with her parents, just as I had suspected earlier. She politely introduced herself to my parents and then put her dainty hand on my shoulder.

�My mom said that you have a great disposition.�

I had no idea what that meant but I played it off.

�She said that? Oh that�s nice, thank you.�

�But she said that you seem like you need a better hobby�.

�Well�, I started. �Your dance was good. I like your tights. I�m not allowed to wear short skirts, because my mom�s not gonna train me to be a sex symbol. But if I could, I would wear them.�

I looked out at her standing there with the first place medal in her hands. I hadn�t stayed for the awards ceremony; I just felt like the underachieving egg-white girl. She appeared to be glowing like an angel, and I wondered why her ice cream didn�t make her feel tired. It seemed to give her more energy.

�Thanks�, she said. �I�m sorry that you didn�t win, but just don�t give up, ok? You�re going to have other on-stage stuff,� she laughed. �But I really don�t think it will have to do with eggs.�

Little did she know, I was already planning a private dance recital for my cats.

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