Sunday, January 20, 2013

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.

Saturday, January 19, 2013

Ninety in Forty

It's true.

My mom will be 90 in 40 days.  It is no secret, of course.  But it is a wonderful landmark.

So, I have challenged myself to countdown these forty days by writing each day until Mom's birthday.  And I'll try to use the countdown number in some way.  Today's number is 40.

Mom turned 40 on February 28, 1963. I was eleven years old (I turned twelve in May).  I was still at the age where I thought my mom was probably the smartest woman in the world, or at the very least, in the top ten.  Adolescence was just around the corner when I would discover that she actually knew nothing at all, and it would be a few years after that before she would regain her rightful place at the top.  But at age eleven, I trusted her instincts and wisdom.  If she said a politician or movie star or big-time athlete was a jerk, I didn't ask why.  I simply believed her.  If she said someone was to be trusted or admired, then I went along.

Now, I know it is not unusual to think one's mom is brilliant.  But I had evidence.  When I was sick with the "green goofus" (Mom's term for the intestinal flu) she knew I needed hot tea and cinnamon toast.  When I was hungry between meal times, I wasn't really hungry, I had a "nervous stomach." I would need to take a jacket to an evening baseball game because it would get cool, even if it was warm at the time.  Once again, she would be proven to be correct.  But her real genius revealed itself when we were watching a drama program on television.  When it would be reaching the climax and I would give her that look that said "I wonder what will happen," she could always correctly predict the ending.  Yes, no Mom could match my mom.

Now that you are convinced she's brilliant, you'll have to wait until tomorrow to find out more on Day 39.  Meanwhile, this post was brought to you by the number 40.

Warmest regards to all on this Saturday night,

Don