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If this November weren’t depressing enough…

“Good morning, sunshine,” waitress Beverly greets us as we stroll to our customary table for another Kaffeeklatsch. “What can I get you?”

“Why are you so sunny,” grumbles John. “It’s depressing.”

Jukebox plays Bill Withers singing “Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone.”

“Uh…I think we’re gonna need a full pot of your daily coffee special,” I suggest.

“Right you are, our Maragogipe  will fix you right up.”

“Mary…what?  If I can’t say it, I’m not gonna drink it,” John resists.

“MAH-rah-goh-jee-pee,” I say slowly. “Look here’s an app on my phone.”

“John, it’s also called Elephant Beans,” Beverly simplifies as she fills our cups.

“Speaking of elephants in the room,” John shakes his head, “I’m really down.”

“It’s pretty sad all right,” I agree, “after all these weeks of hope and it comes to this.”

“We knew it would happen eventually,” Beverly joins us. “Just try to make the best of it.”

“It’s Benjamin Franklin’s fault,” John charges.

“Whoa, I thought you were talking about our disappointing college and pro football seasons?” I question.

“Football?  Aren’t we discussing the  depressing presidential election?” asks Beverly.

“No, no, no!  I’m complaining about the switch back to Standard Time.  Every year I have to turn back my clock one hour. It’s a fall funk.”

“A what…?” Beverly is shocked.

“Funk is what he said. Fall funk. But Danish scientists agree with John,” I explain. “Switching from Daylight Saving Time to Standard Time does increase depression and other health problems.”

“Benjamin Franklin started this whole mess. We should strike his picture from the $100 dollar bill. Uh…not that I have one right now…but he should be removed,” John notes.

“Oh, you mean his funny letter to the Journal of Paris in 1784,” Beverly chuckles.

“It’s not a laughing matter,” John sputters, “if Franklin hadn’t flown that silly kite in a storm  and been knocked on his butt by lightening, we’d still be enjoying longer days.”

“True, Franklin had some strange ideas,” Beverly smiles. “But I liked his essay on improving flatulence fragrance.”

“Yeah, that would be a big hit here,” snarks John.

“Well,.. you can just find another john, John,” as Beverly removes the coffee pot and huffs back to her counter. “

“You may not like standard time, John, but you know that farmers didn’t like Daylight Saving Time either,” I reminded.

“Yes, and Arizona never changes its clocks all year round. A state you might want to visit very soon,” Beverly times her return to drop the check.

“But it gets dark quickly this time of the year early anyway,” John moans, “and then to lose another hour to night because of Standard Time…is just too depressing.”

“Well, as poet Henrik Nordbrandt writes,  “‘Året har 16 måneder: November december, januar, februar, marts, april maj, juni, juli, august, September oktober, november, november, november, november.’”  Beverly recites.

“What…”

“The year has 16 months,” I translate. “And five of those are November.”

“Plus the November election…?” John slumps despondently. “It’s going to be a very long, dark month.”

“Very long and dark indeed…”  we three intone and sip our coffee silently.

Jukebox song fades out.


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