The More Things Change

“Ricky, Tiffany, here’s Section 93A. It’s beautiful and historic, the resting place of Spangleburg’s finest.”

Gravesite huckster Hank spoke true: stately oaks, spreading maples, hosts of taxus, flora, verdant beds of ivies shaded, cloaked the potent obelisks and stately mausolea of ancestral Spangleburg.

Tiffany: “Marvelous! Where do we sign? Ricky worked so hard to get us here.”

The credulous couple headed office ward, brandishing pen and fat checkbook.

Silence reigned at 93A, except for subterranean murmurings:

“Who? Ricky? Tiffany?”

“Major appliance dealer. TV ads 24/7.”

“There goes the neighborhood.”

“Never mind. Let’s just ignore them for—”

“A thousand years.”