Value of a Math Class

We signed Gerrit up for a summer school math class at the junior high. Maybe we’re doing well on teaching the value of education, or maybe he’s just a good kid, but he hasn’t complained at all, and Shannon and I sort of feel like we’re getting away with something.

He’s struggled with math in the past, but has really come far lately, so we didn’t want his math brain to shrivel up from three months of neglect. The class is only a month long, and a challenge is that Gerrit has scout camp this week, which would be a lot of missed classes. We decided he’d not travel to camp with the other scouts on Monday so that he could attend class that morning, and I’d drive him myself to Mt. Pleasant later that day.

While executing that plan, music playing as rural Utah went by out the car windows, I kind of wondered if it was worth it. Gerrit could technically miss five days of math class and still get credit for it, so he could have missed the whole week. But what if he had to miss a class later in the month? What if a week puts him too far behind? Does he even need credit for this class? But there I was, taking time off work for a four hour round-trip drive.

When we arrived at camp, I figured that I’d get him to his site and to his leaders, and turn around for home. His scoutmaster asked if I was in a hurry to get back, though, and suggested that I help get Gerrit registered for his merit badges. I guess there wasn’t really any hurry.

I’m glad I stayed. I got to help Gerrit juggle his merit badge classes so that he could get the ones he wanted, sign a waiver so he could do horsemanship, console him when he didn’t quite have the wind to pass his swim test, and share an ice cream outside the trading post. I got to see him step up and say, “I’ll do that!” when there was work to be done, even though he is the youngest scout at camp. And I got to watch him help cook a dinner of Dutch oven Shake-n-Bake chicken, potatoes and scones that was so good that I thought, “We ought to have this at home some time.” Sometimes scouting is this irritating and ironic mix of strict rules and disorganization, but it certainly has its great moments.

While driving back home at dusk, with a light rain falling from dark clouds massed around Mt. Nebo, I was really glad we had decided to send Gerrit to math that morning so I could spend the day with him.

Then the oil pressure light on the dash lit up.

Hmm… That’s not good. Let’s see — is that the one that would always come on, and I had to get the special stuff from the dealer? No wait, that was the coolant light. Oh, the oil light turned off now. Yay! Maybe I can make it the hour or so home. Maybe it just needs to be topped off a bit. Rats, it’s back on.

I pulled off the road at the bottom of the canyon in Nephi and curled up for a good read of my owner’s manual. It confusingly told me to check the dipstick, but that the oil light doesn’t come on because of a low oil level. Whatever. I checked the dipstick, which indicated that I had… let’s see… no oil at all. Can that be right? Judging by the rapidly forming puddle of oil I discovered under the car, the dipstick was spot-on. Oh, yeah… there was that loud clunk driving on the dirt road from camp way back there.

Of course, people with mechanical skills were all home watching the Stanley Cup by that time, so I got a short tow, courtesy of AAA, to a shop conveniently located by an inexpensive hotel. Shannon would have come to rescue me, but she needed to take our niece to the airport at an obscenely early hour the next morning (obscenely early for Shannon means waking up before 7 AM), so I just took advantage of said hotel, determined to get patched up and on the road again as obscenely early as possible.

It turns out that replacing an oil pan isn’t cheap, and not particularly fast when someone has to fetch one from another county. The mechanic didn’t think my idea of duct tape was such a good one, either. So I got to hang out in the waiting room for a long time. After nearly clawing out my eyes from watching some TV evangelist infomercial about people being blessed by unexpected infusions of cash, I hunted down the remote and switched to Sports Center. Those of you who know me well will have a light turn on at this point: So that’s how Eric knew that the Stanley Cup was on the previous night! I also learned who won the NBA championship, which I gathered also happened recently.

I also had an interesting discussion with another customer waiting there. He was an older gentleman who lives in an RV and who has given up watching wrestling on TV because it had become just too corny. Note to self: When someone asks me if I know anything about computers, and I say I’m a software engineer it’s kind of like this:

What I mean: I know a lot about developing software, and I spend loads of time with computers.

What they hear: I am the oracle of all things technology. I can answer any question about why your computer is not working from just a vague description of the trouble. Prepare for enlightenment.

I like to help people when I can, but I can only do so much.

Back on the road several hours later, the mid-day sun wasn’t quite as mystical as the rain-shrouded Mt. Nebo from the night before, but summing all the costs, I still felt like it was all worth it — the day with my son, and a few hours with an ex-wrestling fan who never once yelled at his wife in their years together before she passed away about a year ago.