Counting

My 1300^th post.

My daughter says I should do something . . . important.

But I don’t know anything important.

You’re getting the old and usual . . .

I was helping out in my grandson’s first-grade class.

An active bunch. (If any of you have seen the movie, The Lion King, you will recognize the row of monkeys in the ‘future-king-presentation scene’. They were modelled after any first grade class you find.)

Ahem . . .

The activity I was there to help with was an exercise in caring for animals. Each student chose an animal, then was given materials to build a little compound specifically suited for said animal’s needs. Food, water, sleeping arrangements, toys, entertainment.

Because what animal doesn't need its big-screen TV, right?

Moving on . . .

As co-ordinator of my little group of four boys, I was entrusted with the bag ‘o treats. The feathers, popsicle sticks, foam sheets, paper cups, string, sticks, tape, glue and scores of other building materials.

It was a large bag.

And everyone was having a large time.

One of them asked for sticks and I dove into the mass of materials and dug out a small container of bundles of sticks. Colourful little bundles of sticks.

And just like that, I was transported back fifty-five years to my grade one class.

And no, it wasn't held in a cave . . .

Our teacher, Miss Woronoski had laid out multi-coloured sticks. Some singles. Some in bundles of five and ten.

And with a combination of those singles and bundles, we were learning to count and add.

I loved it.

I especially loved saying the word ‘bundles’.

I would manipulate little packs of sticks, laying them out in regimental order, and add them. Then re-arrange and add again.

Sometimes I would concentrate so hard, I would completely miss what was going on around me . . .

“Your Gramma isn’t listening to me!”

“Gramma! Gramma!”

Like now.

Sigh.