To: Ben Franklin, Private and Personal

From: Mom

July 4, 1776

Dear Benji,

Why haven’t I heard from you? You know I worry. If you had time to sign all those declarations, while you had the quill out couldn’t you drop me a line? Sure I received your thank-you note for the Chinese urn I sent, but I was hoping for a real letter. Not that your letters are always cheerful, believe me. Why do you still resent being one of fifteen children? So you had to wear hand-me-downs. So? Your sister isn’t that much bigger than you. If you’re so smart, why didn’t you tell your father that an ounce of prevention was worth—well, never mind.

Benji, there are a couple of things I want to talk to you about and as your mother I have a right. My friend said you were seen in Congress last week wearing those stupid tiny spectacles called Granny Glasses? Are you a Granny? No! So stop it! Get something more fashionable. She also mentioned that she saw you flying something in the sky that looked like Speedos! Honestly, Benji, I thought you were over that little fetish of yours. You’re lucky they don’t put you away. Speaking of luck, you are pushing yours. Everyone here has heard about your little escapades, and if you’re not careful, your wife—what’s-her-name—is sure to find out. I’ve learned about the new one you’ve been sneaking around with, Penny Worthington. Ben, listen to your mother, I’m telling you for your own good. The next time you are with her and you hear your wife approaching, you’d better hide her in the vase. Believe me, a Penny urned is a Penny saved. Oh, stop groaning.

About the stove you shipped me. You know I’m proud that you made it yourself, but to tell you the truth, I find I get much more use out of the little Hibachi I got at Sears. It was a nice thought, though and in return, I’m going to do something nice for you. I’m sending you a hair-dryer, and a picture of an artichoke. It will help you disguise that bald spot that troubles you. It is so easy. After you wash your hair, you blow it dry and brush it all toward the front.
All the men in Washington are doing it. Even that egotist who puts his name on every bit of property to prove he exists (I truly believe he has low self esteem-I mean, why does he do that)? He brushes forward, then wiggles and jiggles and back combs and blow dries and … ah what the use. I need to get back to you. Let his mother worry. So brush forward Benjamin. Once you grow used to it, you’ll look smashing.

Speaking of smashing, that’s exactly what I wanted to do to your nose after I read your latest remark, “When man and woman die as poets have sung, his heart’s the last that moves; her last the tongue.” That was so typically choov … Chauvin … shavinis—well, you know what I mean. One more slur like that and you’ll have to change the name of your almanac to “Poor Benny’s.” By the way, there is no k in the word almanac, sweetheart. I admit I am sounding a bit angry, but you know I don’t mean it. You are my darling bubie but I am concerned.

Why are you always coming out with those silly little expressions for no apparent reason? What in the world does “snug as a bug in a rug” mean? You pull those statements out of the air when no one’s even talking to you. And if you say “Time is money, time is money” one more time, you’ll get punched in your printing press!

Mostly, I suppose, I’m worried about your instability. Look, you’ve been a cartoonist, a printer, an editor, an inventor, a scientist, a philosopher, a statesman … I mean, how do you think that looks on your employment application in these tough times? Sometimes I feel your parentheses are going the wrong way. Frankly, Benji, I think you need counseling which is the actual purpose of this letter.

I just heard about a wonderful new therapy group. I’m sure you’ll benefit from it. In fact, a couple of the people attending may be in worse shape than you, believe me, so you needn’t be shy. One of them is a woman called Marie Curie who insists on being called Madame, of all things. Anyway, her husband persuaded her to attend the meeting because she can’t cook worth a darn. He says every time she goes into the kitchen he hears pots rattling and things bubbling on the fire, but when he asks “What’s for dinner?” she says “Nothing!” It is driving him nuts. Then there’s a man named Morse. What a nervous Nelly he is! Can’t sit still for a minute without tapping his fingers—on tables, chairs, anything he gets his hands on. Just don’t sit next to him unless you need a massage.
All in all, I think this twelve stepper would be good for you. Listen, Benji, I only want you to find yourself—to be happy. Perhaps if you listen to your mother, you’ll amount to something. Most of all remember what you yourself told me. “If a man empties his purse into his head, no one can take it from him …” Need I say more? Get help!

Love, Mummy