Kevin Ross and the 1991 Science Fair Volcano That Went Too Big
Kevin Ross still remembers the moment the room stopped feeling like a classroom and turned into a small, startled theater—one paper-covered mountain, one eager reaction, and an audience that couldn’t help themselves.
This memory is brought to you by Oh Sherri Irish Pub — Testing the partner system
This story is brought to you by
Oh Sherri Irish Pub
Testing the partner system
Visit Oh Sherri Irish Pub →Every kid seemed to bring the same project — the classic volcano. Mine erupted a little too enthusiastically, covering half the table in foamy lava. The judges laughed, and I secretly considered it a success.
The Year of the Volcano
In 1991, Kevin Ross walked into the science fair knowing exactly what he was up against: rows of near-identical papier-mâché cones, each one trying to look like the “real” thing with painted ridges and a crater at the top. The classic volcano wasn’t just a project—it was practically a rite of passage. And that’s what makes Kevin Ross’s version stand out in memory: not because it was different on purpose, but because it refused to behave like the others.
The thing about a baking soda and vinegar volcano is that it’s supposed to be controlled chaos. “Supposed to” is doing a lot of work there. Kevin Ross had built his mountain, set it on the table, and reached the point every kid lives for—the moment when the quiet preparation finally earns its noise. But when the eruption came, it didn’t politely bubble in place. It surged out and spread, foamy and fearless, claiming space that didn’t belong to it.
Half the Table, All the Attention
Kevin Ross doesn’t frame it as embarrassment, and that’s the detail that lands hardest. Plenty of kids would have felt their stomach drop as the “lava” crossed some invisible boundary—too much mess, too many eyes, the risk of being the reason an adult frowns. But in Kevin Ross’s telling, the reaction that mattered wasn’t the spill. It was the judges laughing.
That laugh turns the whole scene. It means the adults weren’t angry. It means the mistake wasn’t treated like a failure. It means the room gave him permission to enjoy what happened next—permission he was already taking, quietly, in the exact way a kid does when he knows he got away with something.
Because underneath the papier-mâché and the vinegar tang was a private conclusion that probably felt deliciously rebellious: if it erupted “too enthusiastically,” then it erupted. It performed. It did the thing with conviction. And if half the table went with it, well—nature isn’t tidy, and neither is a good story.
Caption: Kevin Ross’s volcano in 1991—when the foam didn’t stop at the crater.
What Kevin Ross Kept From That Moment
Some school memories stick because they’re perfect—blue ribbons, clean results, a project that behaves. Kevin Ross kept the version where it didn’t. The detail that survives isn’t the grade or the verdict. It’s the sight of the foam spreading and the sound of grown-ups laughing, and the small, secret certainty that it counted as a win.
There’s also something honest in the way Kevin Ross remembers the sameness of the room. When “every kid” brings the same idea, you can start to feel interchangeable. His volcano refused to be interchangeable. It made a mess big enough to be remembered, and it turned a predictable display into a moment with a pulse. The kind of moment that, decades later, still feels like yours.
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About the Storyteller
Kevin Ross
Memory from 1991