Open Writing

Old Sox has lived a while, and learned a few useful things in the process. One skill she has mastered, to the point where she hardly needs to think about it, is locating the sunny spot that will serve best for a long-term nap.

But as with many things in life, the things you know are just not always so. That’s the way it was one morning.

I had gotten up early, about five o’clock, because I had a leg cramp, which wasn’t going to let up until I started moving around. Sox doesn’t own a watch, so when I got up and turned on Mr. Coffee, she got up too. She and Mollie watched the show as I struggled into my clothes, then followed me into the still dark living room with my coffee in one hand and pop tart in the other.

Per our usual morning custom, I opened the venetian blinds and sat down to trim the pop tart down to their part. They sat and waited. But this morning was different. In front of the big picture window were two large well-lit areas of carpet. Sox took a quick look, sized up the situation, and took possession of the most promising spot. Soon she got up, with a puzzled look, and tried another place. Same result.

Not much warmth to be gained from lying on a patch of moonlight.

Long echo

I wrote a story about a guy and his expensive new hearing aid. I got it from a friend who is well acquainted with my hearing problems. He lives in Maryland.

Then I got a call from a Lebanon reader who told me the rest of the story about that joke.

It seems that there were two well known gentlemen from Lebanon who were part of a group who met regularly for coffee and conversation. One of them had a long-standing hearing problem. So all his friends were interested when he told them he’d just been fitted with an expensive, state-of-the art hearing aid.

After he had extolled all its virtues at some length, one of his friends asked, “What kind is it?”

To which he replied, after a quick look, “Nine thirty-five.”

One of his buddies thought that was so funny he sent it in to Readers Digest, and received the princely sum of twenty dollars when the story was printed. That was at least twenty years ago.

The same group still meets for coffee and conversation regularly. Both the guy with the hearing aid and the storyteller were there when my column was printed. They got an extra laugh.

I haven’t included any names, don’t want to embarrass anyone, but maybe the original storyteller ought to send this to Readers Digest.

A good story does have a long life. Even if it’s true.

The good side of insomnia

When my rheumatiz kicks up, I often spend a semi-sleepless night, because the only cure for my night cramps is to get up and move around. Not my favorite pastime. But it does give me the opportunity to monitor my outdoor ‘coon feeder,’ and see who shows up. The other night I kept a tally, and between midnight or so and six in the morning, I saw:

* Mr. Gray (our wild barn cat)

* A small possum

* A black cat who seems to be hanging around

* 2 large possums eating together, facing each other.

* Mr. Gray again.

* Tillie, my elderly raccoon friend

Not too exciting, but beats watching infomercials and late-night TV preachers.

Rats in the candy cage

During WWII, I worked for a while as a stockman at the big Woolworth store on ‘Dimestore Row,’ in downtown Indy. I was in charge of the fourth floor, which included the candy cage. My friend Fred was the stockman on the fifth floor. We were much smarter than the average dime-store employee, which was why we had so much authority.

The store sold a great deal of bulk candy. It came in 30 lb. cardboard boxes. The cage was a sort of room, enclosed completely, including floor and ceiling, with heavy hardware cloth, and kept locked at all times. I had the key.

We had trouble with rats, as did all of our neighboring stores. And the candy was a prime target. If a rat got in. it would gnaw through a lower corner and make off with surprisingly large amounts of candy.

Fred and I carried box-knives as basic tools of the trade. We prided ourselves as being quite expert with them. To haggle what looked like a rat-gnawed corner of a box was easy. And we both loved chocolate.

The rat problem with the candy began to grow, a little at a time. No one seemed to notice. If anyone had checked carefully, they’d have surely remarked on the rat’s preference for chocolate.

Eventually, Mr. Gloyne, the store manager, stopped by my domain for a chat one evening. He had been a manager for maybe 40 years, and this large-volume and nearly new store was the show store of the whole Woolworth chain. One of the finest bosses I ever worked for. Smarter than he looked.

He talked to me as if he were my grandfather. Finally, he brought the conversation around to the candy cage, its importance to the store, and solicited my thoughts as to how to deal with our rat problem.

He never accused me or Fred of any misdeeds, or spoke of any dire consequences. But the rat problem ended as quickly as it had begun.