In my recollection of things, we are somewhere in the middle of elementary school, suddenly huddled together, some of us close enough to the centre to have our elbows on the table, more of us in-behind, on our tip toes, watching as the teacher, a giant by our standards, extracts something from a small black bottle and drops a droplet of it into a large glass bowl of water. And though I know it as a drop of nothing, it comes alive, like one of my babushka's Siamese Fighting Fish, or as they are better known today, bettas, Siam being Thailand.
Experiments in those days were left at the level of awe, and unexplained. Closer to the end of elementary school another teacher opened another small container and poured its contents into the waiting palm of Jaunita Wee, who sat in the front row seat beside the door. Jaunita was instructed to pass it carefully to the next person, etc. As it neared me, it became apparent that what we were passing was liquid mercury, and suddenly Ian Langmann was touching his tongue to it.
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