Blog #81

“Autumn repays the earth the leaves which summer lent it,” said Georg Christoph Lichtenberg, an 18^th Century German physicist and philosopher famous for his many quotable phrases.  Aren’t you glad I told you that?  Now you can quote old Georgy to your friends.  It is now Autumn, of course, and the season of falling leaves.  Many of you will spend Autumn in Florida where the leaves don’t fall or Arizona where there are no leaves, but here in Missouri we have a glorious and colorful Autumn to look forward to.

Good old Georg also said, “Man loves company,” so let’s keep each other company for a few paragraphs.  My oldest grandson is now a senior in high school and is exploring colleges.  The cost of attending college has become scandalous.  A four-year education at Stanford is upward of $300,000.  But wait – if your family makes less than $125,000 per year, Stanford considers you impoverished (well, it’s California) and your tuition is free.  That’s right.  Under $125,000 income – free.  Over $125,000 income – they’ll stick it to you big time..

If poverty is your condition

You won’t have to pay the tuition

But if you have dough

We’ll charge enough so

You won’t have a pot you can pish in.

I don’t know whether you think that taking from the rich and giving to the poor is a good thing or not, but certainly that is what occurs in the calculus of college tuitions.  A rich family pays twice what the rate should be so that a poorer student can attend for free.  I’m not sure the one-to-one ratio is the correct permutation, but you get the point.

I apologize for the excess of mathematical terms – calculus, permutation, ratio -- but, you see, I used to be a math teacher and I sometimes lapse unknowingly into math-speak.  I’m planning to write a racy and erotic novel about a math teacher one day.  I think I’ll call it Fraction in the Rye.  Or maybe Five Squared Times Two Shades of Grey.  Or Tropic of Calculus.

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well.  Thinking of my grandson Zach brought back memories of a Hanukah we spent in North Carolina when he was six.  When we gave out gifts, Zach got a Playmobile Rescue Helicopter.  He assembled it all by himself in about an hour, an endeavor that would have taken his Phi Beta Kappa, Juris Doctor Poppy six months and the constant aid of a staff of rocket scientists to accomplish.  Zoey (age 4) got a sticker-making machine.  Alyssa (age 2) got some crayons.  My son-in-law got some socks.  Jennifer got some shirts.  Carol got some stationery.  I got what the arrow-maker’s husband got – the shaft.  My gift, I was told, was watching my loved-ones’ pleasure at opening their presents.  I felt like the coach of the Washington Generals.

After the presents, Zach and I made up a whole adventure using his helicopter and told stories till bedtime.  Sometimes I wish I was six and had a Poppy to take me to movies and buy me popcorn and tell me scary stories.

Frank Smith was recovering successfully from bypass surgery he had had a month earlier.  He told his wife that the doctor said he could have sex, but she didn’t believe him and refused.  “I want a letter from the doctor,” she said.  So Frank went to the office and got a letter that said, Dear Mrs. Smith, I have treated Frank and released him from my care.  He is one hundred per cent healthy and may participate in any romantic endeavor that he chooses.  Frank looked at the letter, thanked the doctor and said, “Doc, can I ask one more thing?  Can you address it instead TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN?”

“What are we doing tonight?”  I asked my Honey last Saturday night.  By Honey, I mean my wife, in case you thought I had another Honey lying around.  “Movie and dinner with J&A,” she replied.  I asked her what movie and she stumbled and stuttered like Porky Pig with some lame answer like. “Oh, just one of those movies that’s around.”  Ok, I was born during the day, but it wasn’t yesterday.  I have been married to this woman for 51 years and can translate Carol-speak pretty accurately.  Last week we saw a movie, and during the seemingly endless Coming Attractions, I told her which ones looked interesting and which ones I refused to see.  When she stuttered out just one of those movies, I knew it meant – We’re seeing one of those movies you refused to see, but you’re a man and I don’t care what you want and I wouldn’t vote for you to be on the Supreme Court either.  For richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, but not at the movies.

Should I be mad about being ignored?  No, I look at it this way.  It gives me something to write to you about so you’ll get a chuckle.  Did you?

Speaking of wifely irritations, Carol and all her friends like to talk about who’s seeing who, what widow is dating what widower and should I fix this one up with that one.  It’s as if they were still in high school and wondering who’s going to ask them to the Prom.  “Once I’m gone”, she tells me, “you’ll be getting casseroles and everyone will want you because you can play bridge and drive at night.”  I just hate talking about this depressing subject, but she thinks it’s as much fun as watching The Bachelorette.  She even has my next wife picked out for me.  “She’s perfect.  She can cook and has lots of money.”   As if I would abandon all thoughts of romantic attraction for a Caribbean cruise and a meat loaf!  I have never met this woman she has picked out for me nor, more importantly, does the woman know Carol’s plans for her future.

Carol and her friends, of course, have no interest in romance.  They’re too practical.  “Well,” my wife says to me, “If you go first, I want someone who makes me laugh and who likes to travel.”  Slow down, Zsa Zsa, I’m not even coughing.

Ok, I’d better let you go.  Count your blessings and stay well.  I’d better stay well too.  One sneeze from me and she’ll start reading travel brochures.  By the way, I like lasagna better than meatloaf.  See you next week.

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com