Skinning ignorance

In the days before refrigeration was commonplace in stores and restaurants, it was said
that oysters were only available during months that contained an “R.” Whether or not this was
true, I never knew, but took this for granted since they said it was.
Once, while seated on the “Sons of Rest” bench in front of the filling station, Fred I-Jolt
(not his real name) mentioned a desire for a mess of fried oysters. A couple of his peers
reminded him of the “R” rule and stated that it would be impossible to find them at this time of
year.
Until now, B. L. Sloan (also not his real name) had remained silent; but hearing this, he
raised what was, to him, a pertinent question
“Why not?” “It’s Argust ain’t it?”

The United States Postal Service was established in the 1970’s. Until that time, the Post
Office was a wholly owned subsidiary of the U.S. Government. One of the popular services it
offered was Postal Savings. Customers could invest and receive a modest rate of interest while
the Post Office used these investments as operating capital.
During the early 1940’s, we were engaged in war against Germany as well as the Empire
of Japan. Everyone was encouraged to invest in war bonds to support our troops fighting to
defeat these aggressors.
One afternoon the “Sons of Rest” convened with the subject of war bonds, as its main
agenda. “Good investment,” said one. “The best,” said another. “Keeps from raising taxes,”
said a third.
Harlow Thurston sat deep in thought throughout this discussion and said nothing. The
sitting chairman of the “Sons of Rest” finally asked his opinion of war bonds and received this
reply.
“I ain’t gonna put my money in war bonds. I’m afraid the government will go broke.
I’m putting my money in the Post Office.”

Many afternoons would find Ben Alsbrooks stretched out on the “Sons of Rest” bench
with his hat pulled over his eyes and apparently in a deep slumber. One such day, a motorist
screeched to a halt at the intersection and yelled to Ben; “Which way is Waretown?” Ben did
no more that point in the general direction. The irate motorist then asked in a loud voice, “Why
in hell don’t you erect some signs around this Podunk town?” Ben raised his hat; glared at the
stranger and replied, “Don’t need ‘em, dumb-ass. We know exactly where we are~”

These are only three of hundreds of true stories gleaned from the minutes of the “Sons of
Rest” club. Of course, names have been changed to prevent embarrassment to anyone.
The “Sons of Rest” club was active for many years when I was a youngster. The charter
was reluctantly surrendered when the filling station ceased operation. It was during sessions
with these masters that I attained my self-assurance, poise and intellect. It is truly a shame that
the authoritative leaders of this club never harbored political aspirations. Under their leadership,
chartered “Sons of Rest” clubs would be nationwide and every American would benefit.
John Sellers