COLD, HARD MATH
Some weeks ago, I went to the funeral of my uncle's sister. It was a simple yet moving service for a gracious woman who had lived a long life without getting married and having kids. But her niece and three nephews -- my cousins -- were very fond of their Aunt Sara and had done much to help her and care for her. Each spoke about her, and their words came from the heart.
My own relations with Aunt Sara were distant but cordial. We were not blood kin, and so her death did not have the same weight upon me that it had upon my cousins, aunt and uncle. She was a woman whom I had respected, but that was not enough to keep my mind from wandering during the service, especially whenever the minister spoke.
At first, I was distracted by the video screens that were set up on each side of the funeral home chapel for those sitting in bad sight lines. I was thinking I could perhaps get ESPN on one of the screens, but quickly nixed that idea. Had I tried to do so, my mother, though about 150 miles distant, would have sensed my boorishness immediately, and our next meeting would have been marked by a feral bellowing that would have cowed a grizzly bear.
My meditations soon began to take a more serious turn, however, when I began seeing a big similarity between Aunt Sara's life and mine: She had lived without a family of her own, and I had managed to stumble into middle age without ever marrying and having kids. So I wondered about old age and my funeral. Would there be anybody to care for me, as my cousins had for her? And would there be anybody to speak movingly about me when I am dead?
I began to do some cold, hard math. Unless I get married and start cranking out kids pretty soon, it looks all I'm going to be able to count on in my old age are my three nephews, who live in Decatur with my sister and brother-in-law and are 7, 7 and 4 years old. I figure one of the kids will be devoted to his mother and one of the kids will be devoted to his father, which leaves one of the nephews in play. I say the kid is in play because my brother-in-law has a brother who is situated like me: single in middle age. But only one of us can claim the allegiance of a nephew who will keep the perils and sorrows of the winter years at bay. The other one will get handed a pack of adult diapers, shoved into a wheelchair and pushed down the hill to the Groaning Acres Nursing Home.
Now, I'm already at a distinct disadvantage. Steven, my brother-in-law's brother, makes well into six figures a year working at Google. Right now, he can afford to buy the boys the coolest toys out there. And when they're teenagers, he'll be able to buy them cars and hookers for their birthdays. I work at a newspaper. I can afford to buy my nephews, oh, a bag of balloons. And when they're teenagers, I will be able to afford to buy them, oh, a bag of balloons.
The first thought I had to turn this around was to switch tags at Christmas -- make his gifts to the nephews from me and vice versa. The simplicity of this plan is its strength. If Steven says nothing about the subterfuge, I win; if he decides to protest, I can simply crush him by saying, "Steven, I'm shocked at you! This is not a competition! I 'm surprised that you would treat your nephews like poker chips, mere items to be won!" But this could only be done once or twice. Steven is very smart, and it's quite likely that he would start putting severed heads and cobras into Christmas boxes.
Besides, it would only be a matter of time before Steven would swamp me with his financial resources, even if he did have to pay for the extensive psychotherapy the boys would need to recover from grisly holiday gifts. The advantage I have over him is distance: He lives in the San Francisco Bay Area, and I live in Macon. That's plenty close enough for brainwashing.
See, what I'm thinking I should do is single out one of the nephews and begin indoctrinating him into the Cult of John. I could read him bedtime stories about two uncles, one named John, who was good, and one named Steven, who sold young boys to organ harvesters. I could give him two pets, one a loyal and protective collie named John, and one a weasel named Steven. I could rig up some sort of remote device that would allow me to shock him whenever someone said, "Steven." Best of all, I could ingratiate myself to him by giving him information on his brothers that would get them into trouble.
Naturally, none of these steps guarantees that I will have a prop in my Golden Years, and maybe none of them are necessary. Maybe I can simply count on the love and warmth that can grow between an uncle and his nephews.
Nah, I think I'll raid the college fund instead.
Some weeks ago, I went to the funeral of my uncle's sister. It was a simple yet moving service for a gracious woman who had lived a long life without getting married and having kids. But her niece and three nephews -- my cousins -- were very fond of their Aunt Sara and had done much to help her and care for her. Each spoke about her, and their words came from the heart.
My own relations with Aunt Sara were distant but cordial. We were not blood kin, and so her death did not have the same weight upon me that it had upon my cousins, aunt and uncle. She was a woman whom I had respected, but that was not enough to keep my mind from wandering during the service, especially whenever the minister spoke.
At first, I was distracted by the video screens that were set up on each side of the funeral home chapel for those sitting in bad sight lines. I was thinking I could perhaps get ESPN on one of the screens, but quickly nixed that idea. Had I tried to do so, my mother, though about 150 miles distant, would have sensed my boorishness immediately, and our next meeting would have been marked by a feral bellowing that would have cowed a grizzly bear.
My meditations soon began to take a more serious turn, however, when I began seeing a big similarity between Aunt Sara's life and mine: She had lived without a family of her own, and I had managed to stumble into middle age without ever marrying and having kids. So I wondered about old age and my funeral. Would there be anybody to care for me, as my cousins had for her? And would there be anybody to speak movingly about me when I am dead?
I began to do some cold, hard math. Unless I get married and start cranking out kids pretty soon, it looks all I'm going to be able to count on in my old age are my three nephews, who live in Decatur with my sister and brother-in-law and are 7, 7 and 4 years old. I figure one of the kids will be devoted to his mother and one of the kids will be devoted to his father, which leaves one of the nephews in play. I say the kid is in play because my brother-in-law has a brother who is situated like me: single in middle age. But only one of us can claim the allegiance of a nephew who will keep the perils and sorrows of the winter years at bay. The other one will get handed a pack of adult diapers, shoved into a wheelchair and pushed down the hill to the Groaning Acres Nursing Home.
Now, I'm already at a distinct disadvantage. Steven, my brother-in-law's brother, makes well into six figures a year working at Google. Right now, he can afford to buy the boys the coolest toys out there. And when they're teenagers, he'll be able to buy them cars and hookers for their birthdays. I work at a newspaper. I can afford to buy my nephews, oh, a bag of balloons. And when they're teenagers, I will be able to afford to buy them, oh, a bag of balloons.
The first thought I had to turn this around was to switch tags at Christmas -- make his gifts to the nephews from me and vice versa. The simplicity of this plan is its strength. If Steven says nothing about the subterfuge, I win; if he decides to protest, I can simply crush him by saying, "Steven, I'm shocked at you! This is not a competition! I 'm surprised that you would treat your nephews like poker chips, mere items to be won!" But this could only be done once or twice. Steven is very smart, and it's quite likely that he would start putting severed heads and cobras into Christmas boxes.
Besides, it would only be a matter of time before Steven would swamp me with his financial resources, even if he did have to pay for the extensive psychotherapy the boys would need to recover from grisly holiday gifts. The advantage I have over him is distance: He lives in the San Francisco Bay Area, and I live in Macon. That's plenty close enough for brainwashing.
See, what I'm thinking I should do is single out one of the nephews and begin indoctrinating him into the Cult of John. I could read him bedtime stories about two uncles, one named John, who was good, and one named Steven, who sold young boys to organ harvesters. I could give him two pets, one a loyal and protective collie named John, and one a weasel named Steven. I could rig up some sort of remote device that would allow me to shock him whenever someone said, "Steven." Best of all, I could ingratiate myself to him by giving him information on his brothers that would get them into trouble.
Naturally, none of these steps guarantees that I will have a prop in my Golden Years, and maybe none of them are necessary. Maybe I can simply count on the love and warmth that can grow between an uncle and his nephews.
Nah, I think I'll raid the college fund instead.
posted by John Parnell at 2:02 PM
1 Comments:
Hey, John, I followed a link from Keeme's site to yours. You're very humorous, keep it up.
Yeah, kids' affections are swayable, but they can be kinda unpredictable, as well. Don't count yourself out of the running too soon ... Mebbe if you tell him enough funny stories.
lol
Anemone
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