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In the second grade Mrs. Winegar figuratively whipped our class into shape. She was a by-the-numbers lady. We could line up for recess with the best of ‘em. Eventually hands were raised without the frantic let-me-answer waving, and voices were quiet enough unless called upon. Our potential was evident. Our mothers were proud.

Arithmetic was emphasized that year. We excelled at the something-plus-somethings and were just as sharp with the take-aways. Learning was a slow, ongoing process, but we trusted the teacher. Times and goes-into equations were beyond our comprehension, but under her tutelage we steadily prepared for the future and long division.

The folks in some states must have had a persistent pedagogue like Mrs. Winegar. When they do all the something-plus-somethings that it takes to count votes, they do not sprint. Haste does not disrupt their accuracy. The Steady Eddies from Arizona, for example, are not afraid of a math marathon. What patience!

By high school, math got a little crazy for me. Story problems were so unreal. If you drove 60 mph for five hours, how far would you go? Now that’s a trick question. Half of us didn’t have a license. Gas stations and pit stops were never a part of the equation. “I want a Clark Bar” echoed constantly from back seats but was never a calculation factor.

The educational insanity continued. By the time I graduated from college E=mc2 seemed simple compared to Robert May’s chaos theory. I still worry about the notion that the motion of butterfly wings could create tornadoes and hurricanes. Last month I saw three monarch butterflies in Brown County. It’s hard to believe that a mathematician might speculate that their “butterfly effect” caused my newsboy cap to blow off a week ago.

Trigonometry definitely pushed me to the edge. Negative numbers made no sense until I had a checking account, and multiplying and dividing fractions confused me. No wonder my brother drew my picture on milk cartons. I was lost all the time. It was hard for a young man to look at numbers when he was more interested in figures. Life just got complicated.

As you might guess, there are tremendously complex quandaries that only a rare few can solve. Did you know that a person with a lot of smarts and a little Arizona persistence can get rich? In 2000 the Clay Mathematics Institute actually declared the solutions to seven problems, the Millennium Prize Problems, as worthy of a million dollars apiece.

At this time, I believe only one has been unraveled. Most people can’t even understand the assignments. Snoop Dogg may have been right. “If you stop at general math, you will only make general money.” The temptation for honing my skills for cash is almost exhilarating. Unfortunately, I have nothing to polish.

However, I do have a free suggestion. The Clay Mathematics Institute might consider adding the Big Ten Numerical Enigma to its list. If IU is still in and Purdue hasn’t left, how can teams be added to the conference? We may be the only nation where a Big Ten equals 18.

My appreciation for math started in the second grade, but my interest peaked in literature class when I sat with Carl Sandburg and his poem Arithmetic. It was a fun look at all I had learned about numbers with an additional comment that summed up a little of what I should have known about family.

If you ask your mother for one fried egg for breakfast and she
gives you two fried eggs and you eat both of them, who is
   better in arithmetic, you or your mother?

For a moment there was no one-and-only-one answer for the issue, and the greatest truth of all was acknowledged. Archimedes has nothing on moms. Some problems can be solved with love and understanding. Those make us rich in a different way.

Maybe I was only meant to be good enough at math to count my blessings. If I do, I’m proud to take my socks off.