In search of pantihose

aBy Jack Elliott
Correspondent

This is an emergency. It’s tomato staking and tie-up time and I’m fresh out of the necessaries.
No, not stakes. I’ve collected a whole supply from Scrounger- left over from last year’s cardboard and duct tape boat races, plus the ones people abandon on my yard when they decide driving them though my heart is more trouble than it’s worth
And it’s all my wife’s fault. Since the Pearl of the Orient stopped nursing, she no longer wears panty hose and every tomato expert worth their salt and pepper shakers, knows used panty hose is the best tomato tier-upper since sliced bread- toasted, buttered and with thick slice of tomato on it.
I cautiously suggested The Pearl might go back to work, for a few weeks each year to build up a stock. The reaction nearly gave the tomatoes frost-bite.
“You’re in the newspaper business, why don’t you run a want ad for some?” The Pearl queried, cautioning, “But don’t mention our phone number!”
I said I’d thought of that already, but even the ad department had minimum standards on what they would print.
“Why don’t you go down to the hospital and ask the nurses there for a few pair?” suggested the Pearl trying to off load the problem.
I headed right down the street, but a block short, I coasted to a halt. Visions of the Angels of Mercy lined behind the desk and taking bets on what emergency was prompting my visit this time went something like this;
“It’s another heart attack. Look at how he staggers!” says the excited new graduate as she anticipates her first cardiac arrest and use of the high voltage booster cables.
“Naw, It’s his prostate again. Let’s get out that half-inch diameter catheter. That’ll teach him to feature us in any more of his columns,” snorted Madame de Sade as she considered a piece of garden hose instead.
The old veteran just yawned and states the obvious, “It’ll be an enema, because we all know what he’s full of.”
Deciding to avoid that humiliation I try another tack. The gaggle of young ladies hurrying up the street are likely looking candidates.
“Excuse me for a minute ladies, have you got any old panty hose,” I blurted . Before I could apprise them of the reason for my request, the one on the left gave me a resounding slap.
“Pervert!” she spat and they proceeded to walk around my now stunned-into-silence presence.
“We should report him to the cops,” said one.
“I’ll bet he’s already on the sex offender list,” replied the other.
Still stunned I staggered down the street toward the Bakery. I figured maybe a cup of high test and a calorie-laden, forbidden, apple fritter, might restore my composure.
I encountered a more mature, sensible, female acquaintance, and adjusting my proposition, again asked about the availability of her pantyhose.
She blushed slightly, then in a husky voice replied, “Well, come on over to the house later on, Big Boy, and we’ll see what we can do.”
Relieved, my enthusiasm knew no bounds. “And my buddy Norm down in Barwick needs some too- to cover his giant sunflower heads to keep the blue jays off them. Would you have some really big ones?”
Her right cross had some beef behind it, but I did manage to pick myself up off the street unassisted. I didn’t bother pursuing her to clarify the situation.
So I guess, I have to make a public appeal. Used panty hose please. Send in a plain, unmarked, brown envelope. C.O.D.s not accepted, but you can pick up a few tomatoes later in the season.
And Norm, you better source your own supply!