MATHEMATICAL THOUGHTS BY POOH

Math has never been easy for me. When I was struggling with college-level algebra or geometry, my brother Michael (in middle school at the time) would sit down with me and try to break down the problems for me into simple terms.

"It's really very easy," he'd say as if he were six years older than me rather than six years younger. "All you have to do is..." He'd then proceed to scrawl out equations and formulas across the paper, explaining as he went. Though I tried to follow along, I was usually still helplessly lost at the end of it, though I hated to admit that to my patient younger brother.

Being the kind and considerate people that they are, certain members of my family like to make jokes about my lack of math skills. For a birthday a few years ago, I received addition and subtraction flashcards. And somehow clipped comics from the newspaper show up on my door - such as the one about needing to answer a word problem to get into heaven ("If two trains leave Boston at 10:00 and one is going 50 miles per hour and one is going 75 miles per hour..."). Then there was the little sign that was taped to my bedroom door by one of my siblings - "No Math Needed." I actually thought that one was quite appropriate.

So when I was re-reading recently one of my favorite volumes of classic children's literature - The House At Pooh Corner, by A.A. Milne, I decided that this is one more thing Pooh bear and I have in common. In addition to a love of eating and a fondness for rambling walks in the woods, we both have a distinct lack of mathematical inclination. But one of the great things about Pooh is that he doesn't seem to be bothered by this in the least. He's not the kind of bear to lose any sleep over things like multiplication facts.

One sunny afternoon, Pooh is playing his newly invented game of "Pooh-sticks" - which consists of dropping sticks into the river on one side of the bridge and running over to the other side of the bridge to see which stick comes out first. Pooh had been playing against himself for quite awhile, dropping in two sticks of different lengths and guessing which would win. And he was quite pleased with himself.

"...And when he went home for tea," the book says, "he had won thirty-six and lost twenty-eight, which meant that he was - that he had - well, you take twenty-eight from thirty-six, and that's what he was. Instead of the other way round."

And that's all the math a bear like Pooh needs to know.

IN PRAISE OF LIBRARIES

The worst imaginable punishment when I was growing up was a revoked library privilege. My brothers and I all loved to read. Books were my escape, my way of exploring the world, my constant companions. And the public library was a magical place of unending possibilities. Surrounded by stacks of Tin Tin comic books and Nancy Drew mysteries, I spent many happy hours of my childhood between the shelves of the public library.

I love the slightly musty smell of paper and ink in a library. I love the hushed meditative quiet of people absorbing knowledge or engrossed in fantasy of the imagination. And with just a small plastic card, I can access all of these wonderful volumes of biographies and novels and comic books and detective stories and travel books... For FREE!

When I lived in Asia, public libraries were one thing I really missed. English reading material was very hard to find. And so the few volumes I had taken with me or acquired there were read over and over and over. C.S. Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia were among my minimal collection. I practically memorized those books over the four years in the Far East - especially "The Horse And His Boy" and "The Magician's Nephew" and "The Voyage of the Dawn Treader" - my favorites.

One of the first things I did when I came back to the US in 2008 was to renew my public library card. I remember walking into our city library again for the first time in several years - the same library I spent hours in as a girl. It's been remodeled and looks different now. The old card file system is gone, replaced by computers to aid in the search for a particular volume. But it still thrills me to see the shelves and shelves of books, on everything from Mediterranean soups to The American Civil War.

Today I picked up three new titles in The Number One Ladies' Detective Agency series, a novel about Chinese immigrants to the US in the 1940s, and a historical fiction work on the disciple Luke - the physician who wrote one of the Gospels on the life of Christ. It's such an amazing thing to be able to swipe my little card and walk out with several volumes under my arm. And though it's late tonight and I should be going to sleep, I'm tempted to dive into the novel about the Chinese-American family, just as I used to do when I was a girl and would stay up late reading my latest library book with a flashlight under the covers, long after I was supposed to be asleep.

Just a few pages can't hurt. Just for a few minutes. So I snuggle down under my blankets and crack open the cover and prepare to be swept away into a glorious adventure. I read eagerly, impatiently, jumping ahead, scanning the pages, anxious to see what happens next - until finally, eyes heavy, the book slips from my hands and I reluctantly take off my glasses and turn off the lamp by my bed. My book will still be there for me tomorrow.

PUSHED INTO A CORNER AND FORGOTTEN

The Number One Ladies' Detective Agency books have become my favorite reading these days. I love the picture they give of the intertwined relationships of a small African community in Botswana. I find myself getting so caught up in the stories as I'm listening to the books on CD in my car that I drive more slowly than necessary or take the long route home so that I don't have to stop in the middle of a chapter.

Last night after I returned from a small group at church, I sat in the dark car outside my house for several minutes with the engine running, listening to Precious Ramotswe's adventures as she tries to unravel the mysteries in people's lives with her private dectective agency. The legs of my jeans, the fabric on the passenger seat, and the curved vinyl of the dashboard were all speckled with the shadow of spattered raindrops through the windshield. I had this strange momentary feeling that I was blending in to my surroundings in my little car, like a chameleon changing his color to hide among the leaves, or a cheetah becoming very still and small in order to stalk his prey undetected in the yellows and browns of the African plain. I was almost afraid to move, hesitant to disturb the lovely patterns of spots, and hesitant to leave the world of Precious Ramotswe and her charming life in Botswana. But after a few minutes, the chapter ended, and I reluctantly turned off the engine and got out of the car to return to my very different life in suburban America.

This morning on the way to a substitute teaching job, I listened as Precious Ramotswe, the "traditionally-built" woman of the "Number One Ladies' Detective Agency" of Botswana, sat in the shade of a tree and munched on molasses sandwiches with her friend Mma Potokwane, the director of the orphan farm. As the orphan boys and girls ran and played in the afternoon sun, Mma Ramotswe marveled at how happy they were, though most had experienced such tragedy and difficulty in their young lives.

"We want to make so many good memories for the children," explained Mma Potokwane, "that the bad memories are pushed into a corner and forgotten."*

I pondered this thought as I turned off the ignition and entered the school building. I thought about it as I went over that day's math and history lesson plans for the fifth grade. What a wonderful image - to crowd out any negative memories, bad experiences, hurtful comments, abuse, neglect, rejection or abandonment with an avalanche of positive experiences.

Was I flooding the children that I was responsible for teaching that day with love, affirmation, encouragement, praise, and positive memories? Sadly, most of the day it seemed I was correcting negative behavior and giving lectures. It's so hard to focus on the positive. It always seems to be easier to point out the negative. But I want to remember the wise words of that fictional woman from Botswana in Alexander McCall Smith's book, and "make so many good memories... that the bad memories are pushed into a corner and forgotten."

*From The Good Husband of Zebra Drive, by Alexander McCall Smith)

FEELING IMPORTANT

If I had to be one of the characters in A.A. Milne's The House At Pooh Corner, I think I might have to be Rabbit. He's not necessarily my favorite character, but I must say I feel a connection with him.

Rabbit certainly does not struggle with low confidence. He is an animal that is full of the idea of his own importance, and convinced that the world needs him desperately. Like Rabbit, I rather enjoy giving orders and being the center of attention, especially if it's admiring attention by people who assure me that they can't possibly carry on without me! Today it struck me that maybe, just maybe one of the reasons I decided to become an elementary school teacher was so that I could have a roomful of little people who HAD to listen to me and do what I say!

Here's a taste of classic Rabbit from The House At Pooh Corner.

It was going to be one of Rabbit's busy days. As soon as he woke up he felt important, as if everything depended upon him. It was just the day for Organizing Something, or for Writing a Notice Signed Rabbit, or for Seeing What Everybody Else Thought About It. It was a perfect morning for hurrying round to Pooh, and saying, "Very well, then, I'll tell Piglet," and then going to Piglet, and saying, "Pooh thinks - but perhaps I'd better see Owl first." It was a Captainish sort of day, when everybody said, "Yes, Rabbit" and "No, Rabbit," and waited until he had told them.

"After all," said Rabbit to himself, "Christopher Robin depends on Me. He's fond of Pooh and Piglet and Eeyore, and so am I, but they haven't any Brain. Not to notice. And he respects Owl, because you can't help respecting anybody who can spell TUESDAY, even if he doesn't spell it right; but spelling isn't everything. There are days when spelling Tuesday simply doesn't count. And Kanga is too busy looking after Roo, and Roo is too young and Tigger is too bouncy to be any help, so there's really nobody but Me, when you come to look at it. I'll go and see if there's anything he wants doing, and then I'll do it for him. It's just the day for doing things."

I've had days when I felt like that. Have you?

Wisdom From Pooh

A few weeks ago I ventured into the depths of the attic of our old house, the one I lived in since I was nine years old. During my moves across the ocean and back again over the last several years, boxes labeled "Michelle's Stuff" (a.k.a. miscellaneous things that didn't fit in my suitcases) waited for me in the attic. One of those boxes had "Michelle's Books" scrawled in black marker on the side. It's a small collection, actually, of beloved books that I couldn't bear to give away but couldn't take with me to Asia or Europe. Shakespeare's "Taming of the Shrew." Helen Keller's autobiography - "The Story of My Life." Corrie ten Boom's "A Prisoner And Yet..." And "The House At Pooh Corner" by A.A. Milne.

Adventures of Pooh, Tigger, Piglet, and Rabbit have been my nightly entertainment this week. I love the way A.A. Milne uses language and the way he captures the feeling of childhood. I love Pooh's poems about snow and fir-cones and honey-pots. And I must confess, I cried at the end of the book when Christopher Robin says goodbye to Pooh - "Pooh, promise you won't forget about me, ever. Not even when I'm a hundred." It just doesn't seem right that Christopher Robin has to grow up and leave all his friends and adventures in Pooh Corner. But I suppose we all have to grow up sometime. Even Pooh-bear, who is, after all, a bear of very little brain, seems to understand and accept this somehow.

Here are some of my favorite moments from "The House At Pooh Corner."

On Being Clever:
"Rabbit's clever," said Pooh thoughtfully.
"Yes," said Piglet, "Rabbit's clever."
"And he has Brain."
"Yes," said Piglet, "Rabbit has Brain."
There was a long silence.
"I suppose," said Pooh, "that that's why he never understands anything."

On Writing Poetry:
"But it isn't Easy," said Pooh to himself, as he looked at what had once been Owl's House. "Because Poetry and Hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. And all you can do is to go where they can find you."

One day, when Pooh was walking towards this bridge, he was trying to make up a piece of poetry about fir-cones, because there they were, lying about on each side of him, and he felt singy. So he picked a fir-cone up, and looked at it, and said to himself, "This is a very good fir-cone, and something ought to rhyme to it."

(Rabbit to Pooh, after Pooh has sung him a song)
"Did you make that song up?"
"Well, I sort of made it up," said Pooh. "It isn't Brain," he went on humbly, "because You Know Why, Rabbit; but it comes to me sometimes."
"Ah!" said Rabbit, who never let things come to him, but always went and fetched them.

(As Pooh is finishing reciting his new poem about Tigger)
But whatever his weight in pounds, shillings, and ounces
He always seems bigger because of his bounces.

"And that's the whole poem," he said. "Do you like it, Piglet?"
"All except the shillings," said Piglet. "I don't think they ought to be there."
"They wanted to come in after the pounds," explained Pooh, "so I let them. It is the best way to write poetry, letting things come."
"Oh, I didn't know," said Piglet.