what is a googol good for?
” I asked. My dad shrugged. “How many grains of sand are there?” “Nobody knows that!” exclaimed Billie. “Which beach?” asked Mort, which brought a round of hoots. Absurdity was still new to us (see literally). “Why not all of them?” my dad asked, solemnly. “That’s not possible!” I exclaimed. My dad nodded toward the paper. “Is a googol bigger?” “Not more than all the sand in the world,” Billie said. “You’re sure?” asked my dad. “Why not figure it out?” Billie punched me on the shoulder. “Have your father drive us to the beach, and let’s start counting.” “Figuring,” said my dad, “doesn’t mean counting.” That was the closest my dad ever came to a lecture. “Find a handful of sand,” he said. “I’ll help you.” “My sister’s sandbox!” Mort cried. We mounted our bikes and returned with sand in our pockets. My dad had cleared a space on his bench for our butcher paper. He handed Mort a ruler and told him to draw a square one inch on a side and cover it with sand. “How deep?” I asked, while scrap
