It is early morning. We are in the kitchen doing tarts of some kind. The dogs are barking at a non-existent visitor. Dear Daughter is calculating. She claims to have had 1,440 major tests in her 8-year-long school career. She doesn’t count kindergarten.
Impossible! I say as I watch Dear Daughter and Dear Son noisily pack their book bags for the final days of their final run at middle school. Which, of course, is impossible. Because, if my calculations are correct (and the loan officers and scholarship committees see it my way), that means it will be only eight more years until they graduate from college. And only four until they START college. Impossible!
“No way!” doubts Dubious Son, loudly. Early mornings tend to be loud around here.
Can I borrow your calculator? I politely ask my .
“Here, take it!” hurls my Darling Daughter.
Thank you, I catch.
“That averages out to be one major test per day since first grade. I’ve kept track!” Indisputable Daughter states.
“No way!” Doubtful Son repeats.
I am quiet, avoiding controversy.
Let’s see, Clemson. I punch in the numbers. Fourteen thousand a year, and they both want to go. That’s $28,000. Hmmm. Times four years, hmmm, $112,000. Impossible!
“We didn’t have that many tests in first grade!” claims brother.
“Did too!”sister retorts.
I’m still punching away. William and Mary? If I remember, $37,000 a year, if you cut corners.
“Can I have my calculator back? We have ANOTHER test today!” Doleful Daughter weeps.
I hand it back to Dear Daughter, looking at the little screen. Four years at William and Mary would be $148,000.
Wonderful Wife enters, coffee in hand, ready to drive these two people to school, something she has done almost every morning for (impossible!) eight years. The image of the little calculator screen remains fixed in my mind’s eye. I’m wondering if you can home school college students.
“Pack it up, kids, we’re outta here!” my Bride sweetly yells. The children heft their 50 pound bags. Bride and progeny are gone. The dogs settle. I contemplate.
This is, of course, not the first time I have thought about the cost of a college education. Why, just the other day, one of my telemarketing friends called to give me a hot tip that would bring us enough income in the next ten days to pay for our kids’ college education.
“Avocado futures, my friend. It’s the hottest game on the street,” says telemarketer Floyd. “A hundred thousand today and next week, you’ll be rolling in it! There’s an avocado shortage in Belarus. What do you say, friend? Superbowl coming up! Think of the kids! We take MasterCard and Visa.”
Unfortunately for Floyd and I, our friendship lasts approximately 12 seconds. But I do think of the kids. And college. And the fact that their bedrooms keep shrinking and they eat more and soon they will be driving and in eight years they will be GRADUATING FROM COLLEGE! I am tempted to look up avocado futures on the Internet, but resist.
And again, I think of them. Why did my young daughter’s haircut make her look, well, older and beautiful? And when did my small son get as tall as me but so more handsome?
Fortunately, my maudlin mood passes and I resume my morning writing ritual. Which lasts five minutes. I decide to walk the dogs, which greatly surprises them since they were walked just an hour before. As we walk, I think of tiny dorm rooms and awful cafeteria food and food fights and the big metal box I used to send home every week with my dirty laundry (my poor mother) when I was a freshman. And I picture the Dean of Men’s ebonite bowling ball as it drops five stories down the dormitory stairwell, bounces half-way up, then turns into dust. (Boy, did we get into trouble, but the physics department was all over it.)
I think of my world back then, how it started to spin out of my parents’ orbit, taking years, decades to find one of its own, long after my parents’ orbit of the world ceased.
I think of the phone ringing in my office. Wait, it is ringing! I don’t even remember how I got back here! The dogs are asleep. I pick up. It’s the alumni office at my old college, wanting to know if I am going to attend my 35th class reunion.
Impossible!
“We’re sorry to hear that,” the young lady at the other end says.
No, no, I mean we’re thinking about going, thanks for calling, I stammer and hang up.
From the sound of the dogs, every squirrel within a five mile radius is in our courtyard or the kids are home from school. Fortunately, it is the latter. This beautiful young woman walks into my office and gives me a hug. She is followed by a tall, handsome young man who asks, if I hear correctly, if he needs to walk the dogs.
Impossible.
Copyright, 2002, 2023 Paul deVere
Published in Celebrate Hilton Head, Pink,
Jacksonville Magazine (FL), Houston City
Rocky Mountain Magazine
Jay, happy life my friend.