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WHAT’S SO FUNNY

DEAR ANN LANDERS: Actually I was one of those fortunate enough to

know you as “Eppie,” but in this case I think it’s best if I address

you as your millions of readers did.

As your newspaper syndicate editor for most of the ‘70s and ‘80s,

I read your columns before the public saw them. It was my job to make

sure your copy went out “clean,” without typos, and you trusted me to

do that, although when I started I was not long out of college and

looked as if I’d been raised by wolves. You even let me help you

revise your drug-abuse booklet, ignoring any possible irony.

Back then I was always late to work in the morning, so this letter

is in keeping with the Sherwood you knew.

I was shocked to hear of your passing last June 22. Of all the

columnists who worked in the Chicago Sun-Times building back then --

Mike Royko, Roger Ebert, Sydney J. Harris -- you seemed the one

untouched by time. You had had the answers for your readers for

almost half a century. I sometimes considered you corny, like the

Lone Ranger, but no less righteous and indestructible.

We weren’t in touch during your last years, but I found myself

thinking of you a few Mondays ago, at a high-school orientation

meeting for eighth-grade parents. I’ve got a daughter starting next

year.

Now I never wrote to Ann Landers when I was in high school. Too

proud. And I never wrote you when my son Keaton was in high school,

because ... well, we were both male, I figured we’d just butt heads

until we got through it somehow. But this time around I was going to

write, using all my saved-up old-friend status; that way my letter

would get special attention and a quick answer. I wouldn’t have to

wait like the riff-raff.

And now you’re gone. And I’m faced with high school again, looming

up through the fog, an ocean liner coming right at the family

rowboat.

As you know, Eppie, there are a lot of emotions and glands and

hormones and whatnot surging around during the high school years.

There are also recreational opportunities involving mind-altering

substances. And there are boys. Don’t get me started on boys; I was a

boy. You can’t trust a boy. And there’s the daughter herself, who

already may suspect that Dad has nothing in his head but rules,

repetition and dust.

So my question to you, Eppie, and if there’s some medium whereby

you can answer me I’d really appreciate it ... my question in regard

to helping my daughter get through the next four years, is ...

What should I do?

-- LATE AGAIN

IN LAGUNA