LIFE IN THE COLE BIN

By Burton W. Cole

Fractions troubled a good percentage of us in school. I don’t know why. We caught onto the concept of fractions even before kindergarten.

“My, how big you’ve grown. How old are you now?”

The child beams. “I’m four. And a half.”

Now when someone comes up to me and says, “My, how big you’ve grown. How old are you now?”

After whapping him upside the head with my ham sandwich, I reply, “In my 60s.”

We have grown from tacking fractions onto our age to now, rounding off that number to a nonspecific range: “I’m in my 60s.”

Unless a senior discount is involved. Then I’m 67. Just 67. There is no “and a half.” If I can get the full discount without the “and a half,” we’ll just leave the fractions alone.

Back when I was approaching senior discount age, I’d report that I was nearly in my 60s. In three or four years, that’s how I will again answer the age-old age question about how old I am: Nearly in my 60s. I’ll just leave out which side of 60 I “nearly” am.

(Side note: Sister-in-law Fran, who is “nearly in her 60s,” wears a T-shirt that proudly proclaims: “I survived the sixties — twice.” Those of you who were born way back in the mid-1900s know what I mean.)

As a growing teenage boy, my feet sprouted to a size 11 ½. (“My, how big your feet have grown.”)

That fraction was important. Squeezing into 11s was uncomfortable, but I swished around in 12s. I needed that “and a half.”

One of the problems of growing up in a family that put a premium on frugality is that we couldn’t afford fractions. I was stuck with “for-$5-you-can-wear-them” shoes.

“Just stuff half a newspaper into the toe of each shoe and you’ll be three-fourths fine,” decreed the family economists, aka, Mom and Dad.

Then one day, Grandma showed up with a brand-new pair of shoes for me. “They were marked down to $3. For $3, you can wear them!”

You can’t buy fractions for $3. I may have lost 3/16 of my respect for Grandma that day. But I later calculated that perhaps I inherited 4/5 of my humor from her.

I used to apply fractions to my height. I just KNEW that it was my destiny to be a six-footer. I aimed for 6-foot-6 because that seemed to be the minimum height to play small forward in the NBA.

It turns out that to be a professional basketball player, you need more than to have people look up and say, “My, how big you’ve grown.” The coaches also expect you to be able to put the ball in the basket. And dribble. Pass. Defend. And all those other things that I wasn't especially skilled at doing.

In a cruel twist of how big, I topped out at 5-foot-11 3/4. The “and three-quarters” rounds up to an even 6 feet — which is what my driver’s license says I am.

I suppose I should have that changed. Sure, you get senior discounts when you’re in your 60s, but there’s also this weird thing about gravity. It’s heavier as you get older. Or maybe it’s the weight of age.

All I know is that now I’m clocking in at 5-foot-11 — and a half. On my way down to "and a quarter."

But hey, school was a long time ago. I may have forgotten how fractions work. I’m perfectly content with my driver’s license rounding me off to a general 6 foot even. Besides, that’s what I am with my shoes on (size 13 now with no “and a halfs”), and I rarely drive barefooted.

It appears that I have filled up 31/32 of my allotted column space. I leave you with this fraction — or fractured — wisdom: If anyone says to you, “My, how big you’ve grown,” you can roll up this newspaper and swat them on the nose.

Or divide it in half if you find unfractioned shoes on sale. Because for $3 and half a newspaper, you can wear them.

Admire half of how big Burt’s grown at burton.w.cole@gmail.com.