My dad is turning eighty-seven this weekend. It's sad. He can't do the math to figure out his age. He only vaguely remembers that my mother was five and a half years younger. Our shared birthday once added to our deep emotional connection. Now we just "check in" daily if Dad can hold the phone right-side-up.
This is the man who taught me to do square roots to pass the time on long car trips in the '54 Chevy with no air-conditioning. We practiced whistling, too, and reading maps. Way before the energy crunch, Dad helped me understand miles per gallon. He taught me to draw floorplans, and to delight in the pristine beauty of a multiplication table written on graph paper. Our after supper strolls around Pierce, Nebraska, made it easier to comprehend story problems about people living in the white house with the pet giraffe.
Eighty-seven is not a prime numer.
© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder