Why Kids Should Learn History

Those rocks aren’t going to break themselves.

First, I went way off into the weeds when I started writing this. I needed to back my thesis with indisputable evidence, so I ended up binge reading Wikipedia and swung from one url to another like some kind of scholastic Tarzan. In the end, tired and bruised, I found what I was looking for. Here is why kids need to learn history.

Back during our Zimbabwe days, a certain road on campus was semi-blocked by a large, smooth granite boulder top that was too tall to drive over without damaging a car but was too low to form a handsome landscaping feature. The rock needed to go away.

My problem was I needed a strategy that would result in a clear cut victory. I recently lost a bet on a technicality with my beloved project foreman, Mr. Mlalazi, over an improved method of building sceptic tank lids in situ. The traditional way was to build the side walls with concrete blocks and build a temporary platform shored up from underneath with scores of eucalyptus poles to support the platform until the concrete adequately hardened, and then send men inside the tank to remove the poles and the temporary platform so the materials could be used on the next tank.

My idea was to use discarded corrugated asbestos (we all need to die from something) roofing as a combination platform, and because of the wavy corrugations, it’s own built in support system. I tested to see how much the asbestos would hold and was satisfied that it was strong enough for our use.

When the day came to field test my invention, Mlalazi stood to one side of the activity, his arms folded and a highly visible smirk on his face. I asked him what he was smirking about.

“It won’t work,” he said.

“I’ll bet you it will,” I replied.

“What are you willing to wager?” he asked.

“A nice suit next time I go home,” I said. He liked nice suits, but he was thinking Brooks Brothers while I was thinking Salvation Army. We shook hands to formalize the arrangement.

The concrete lid was poured and finished by noon, so the men moved their equipment and materials to the next excavation for another septic tank. Unfortunately, a long green snake had fallen into the excavation during the night and was busy avoiding the rocks the men were hurling at it. One man whose enthusiasm overtook his caution got too close to the edge and slid into the pit with the snake. I don’t know exactly how long he remained in the excavation with the snake, and I can’t say with certainty whether he even reached the bottom before he rocketed out, but a good time was had by all except for the long green snake.

Soon enough, it was quitting time and the men headed home. I headed home, but out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Mlalazi was standing near the lid we poured that morning. His arms were still folded and he was still smirking, despite the obvious success of my invention.

About 9:30 that evening, I heard someone knocking on our front door. When I opened the door, Mlalazi stood grinning at me and handed me a piece of folded paper. I unfolded it and in his neat handwriting, I saw the measurements for his new suit.

I was at the job site very early the next morning to do a failure assessment. The concrete, steel reinforcement bars, and asbestos were in a tangled, hardened mess on the septic tank floor. It didn’t take long to figure out what happened. The system worked well until moisture from the fresh concrete soaked into the asbestos and like a wet cracker, collapsed. Technically my idea worked, except for the minor wet cracker problem, which was quickly resolved by soaking the asbestos with used engine oil (we saved everything in Zimbabwe) before covering it with concrete. The TL;DR summary? Mlalazi got his newish suit and I got my quick and easy septic tank lids.

Which brings us back to the rock in the road and my need for a decisive victory. What to do? We couldn’t hire a demolition expert, because there were none. Hammer powered rock drills were available, but it would take weeks to chip away the huge rock. That’s when my high school education finally paid off. I remembered how Hannibal, the Carthaginian general who crossed the Alps with a vast army that included elephants, found his route to Italy blocked by giant boulders. He quickly organized his men to build hot fires around the rocks and let them burn for several days before dousing the rocks with vinegar. I always thought they used wine, but during my trip down the Wikipedia rabbit hole, I learned they used vinegar, which is basically wine that exceeded its expiry date and went off. I had my decisive solution.

The men took the big Toyota truck outside the security fence and found a patch of mopane trees that were scheduled for removal by the farm. A large pile was placed over the top of the rock, a fire was started, and for two days, the fire burned hot 24 hours a day. On the morning of the third day, the men filled four open top 210 liter barrels with my orange bath water. The fire was allowed to die down enough so we could park the truck back end over the center of the rock. Then the men dumped the barrels, one at a time, onto the hot rock.

A wonderful thing happened. As soon as the first barrel of water splashed down, we heard rocks popping, and with each subsequent barrel, the popping sounds grew deeper and deeper. The exposed surface of the rock fractured into small, cantaloupe-size pieces mixed in with gravel.

By quitting time, the broken pieces of stones were removed and the hole was filled with dirt. My victory that day was as decisive as Hannibal’s, probably.

And that’s the reason why kids should learn history, because if they ever need to remove a massive rock without the benefit of explosives or heavy equipment, they will know how.