Ninety in Thirty-Nine

"Grandpa, how old are you?"

"I"m thirty-nine."

"But you said that last year.  And besides, Dad must be almost thirty-nine."

Apparently that's roughly part of a conversation I had with Grandpa Barbour when I was eight or nine years old.  Mom always told me I was good with numbers.  She told me yesterday that even my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Shoe, didn't doubt me when it had anything to do with numbers.

I don't remember her complaining about my fascination, or, really, obsession with numbers.  Of course, there were plenty of ways I'm sure I was annoying, such as not doing what I was told the first time, and not picking up my room, and showing my hot temper.  But she loved my preoccupation with numbers.  I liked it, too.  She would ask me what the temperature was going to be because she knew I would have already read it in the paper.  And if it was a sports question, forget it.  I knew exactly how many home runs Harmon Killebrew and Willie Mays had on any given day of the baseball season, and whether or not the Giants could still catch the Dodgers late in September.

So thanks for appreciating my obsession with numbers, Mom.  And just for the record, my baseball number was 24, my football number was 10, and you are now and always will be number 1.