Save Ottumwa Post October 19, 2022

This year, our grandson, Zane, has taken up a new hobby. He decided to get into motorcycle racing. There are many types of motorcycle racing from flat track to motocross. Zane decided to get into what is called Hare Scramble. This is racing dirt bikes through paths in the timber, up and down hills, and through mazes laid out over several miles. Zane has spent most of his free time mak ing a course throughout the farm and practicing on it. My wife and I spend a lot of time worrying about his safety when he is out zoom ing around the woods with nobody sure where he is during his hours of practice. He has gone to races all over the state and has done quite well. Sunday, a race was held about thirty miles from our place so my wife and I decided to go see what it was like.

It was a perfect fall day. The sun was shining, no wind, and the temperatures were cool with out being cold. We arrived in time to see the first class race. I am not sure of what the maximum age is, but there is apparently no mini

mum. There were doz ens of little kids racing little motorcycles. Many appeared as though they had not been walking for too many years but could really ride. It was fun to see these little bitty kids zooming around on bikes that sounded like a bumble bee in a beer can. The next class was slightly older chil dren on slightly bigger motorcycles. Most of these kids were at the age, they have no fear. Speeds were definitely faster, and the course was longer. There were more accidents as skill levels did not always match courage and determination.

The final race of the day in cluded what I would call professional rid ers. A person could tell these people had done this type of rac ing before. They went through places at speeds that seemed impossible. My wife and I watched at the starting line as they roared off toward the first tight corner. There was one crash there as two riders attempted to use the same space at the same time. They jumped up, grabbed their bikes, and were off again. Knowing it would be a few min utes before the first riders made their way to a nearby open field,

we grabbed our lawn chairs and went over to wait for them. One of the riders who was down in the crash at the starting line was the first to come out of the timber into the open field about a half mile away. The course in the field was a se ries of turns and twists up and down the hills culminating in a cork screw spiral before going back into the woods. From this van tage point, we could watch the riders for longer than anywhere else on the course.

The thing that impressed me the most throughout the day were the people. Everyone was happy, smiling, and friendly. Though people were there to compete, they would help each other when needed. Every one seemed to watch out for everybody else.

I knew very few people there but talked with many. Nobody got hurt, and I saw nobody get angry. When the day was done, people helped take down the banners, barricades, and trail markers. I was talking with the landowner when a couple of riders came up and thanked him for allowing the club to put on the event on his property. The only liter I saw all day was one soda can. (Yes, I picked it up.)

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My wife and I came away from the event feeling better about our grandson’s latest hobby. The dirt bike community seems like a great bunch of people and the sport is safer than it appears. The day was some thing different, but we enjoyed ourselves outdoors on a pleasant fall day.

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Russell Bandstra, MD Pella Regional Urology

We had been home for about an hour from our fall camping trip. When I heard the buzzer on the dryer sound off, I gathered the sheets from the bed in our Scamp. I put them in the wash ing machine, then retrieved the clothes from the dryer.

I dumped a hamper full of clean, warm clothes from the dryer onto the bed. First, I pull out any items that need to be on hang ers. Next, I like to fold the T-shirts, so they don’t wrinkle. Socks and under ware are next, and towels are last. When I had fold ed everything, I picked up a lone sock. “Dar nit!”

It was one of my fa vorite pairs of socks: they are short, beige in color, with Peanut’s characters on the ankles. Charlie Brown is holding the phone for Snoopy. One of the Peanut’s socks had a small hole, but I refused to throw away a pair of clean socks. If I’m going to toss a pair, I do it after I’ve worn them. If a holey sock gets washed – it

will be worn again.

One sock always gets a hole before the other. With most of my socks, I throw away the failed garment while the good sock gets washed, then put it back in the drawer, waiting for another matching sock to go bad. Then the survi vor gets a new mate. That’s not so easy to do with a theme or printed socks.

I shook the towels well, and I would have felt the sock if it was clinging inside a Tshirt. I’m reasonably sure I know the culprit: that sock-eating May tag dryer. I returned to the basement and checked the drum - no Snoopy sock. “Sav age beast,” I called the dryer as I shut the door, then went back upstairs to my bed room.

I pushed my hand inside the Snoopy sock. Looking it over, I smiled, “At least the dryer took the sock with the hole in it.” Ex pecting the worst but hoping for the best, I would place the lone

sock in the drawer –just in case.

Still holding the Snoopy sock, I took a single grey sock from the drawer. “I haven’t had any of these for years.” Then, as I tossed the single sock into the bathroom trash can, I began to ponder philosophi cal things and proper etiquette.

“What is the proper amount of time to keep a surviving sock when its solemate has been consumed by the dryer before admitting the lost soledure isn’t coming back?” Keeping that grey sock for years was undoubtedly beyond a reasonable period.

While holding my Peanuts-themed sock, I remembered my younger days when Mom and Dad always had a basket filled

with single socks.

It was an oval-shaped wicker basket, larger than most oval wicker baskets. As a kid, I thought thousands of socks were in that basket. I’m sure it was only two or three (maybe four) hundred as an adult. Dad had a standing agree ment: “I’ll pay a penny for every pair you match,” he offered. Many times, I thought I could make a fortune in that basket.

I presented ten pairs of socks to Dad. The socks had to be fas tened at the arch with a safety pin to col lect your pay. “We wouldn’t have single socks if you kids would learn to pin your socks together before putting them in the laundry,” he lec tured.

Dad reached into his pocket and pulled out his little green vinyl coin pouch. It was oval-shaped, like the basket, and when you

squeezed the ends, the middle would open like a clam shell. He poked through his coins and handed me a dime. But then Mom got involved. You see, Dad was somewhat colorblind.

Mom looked over the socks I had brought. “Son, this is a black and a blue sock you’ve paired togeth er.” Dad would never have caught that. She continued, “These are two different shades of brown; these greys don’t match, and the white socks; one has red stripes around the top, the other has orange.” I returned to the paymaster wondering why Mom couldn’t just mind her own business.

Saturday mornings, I was often determined to match several pairs. So I brought the sock basket to the living room, where my lazy siblings watched Saturday morning

Penny A Pair

(Just the Other Day cont’d

cartoons. “Anybody want to help match some socks and make some money,” I asked. Glued to the TV, they had no inter est in matching socks. Shaggy and Scoobie Doo soon gained my attention, and I also lost interest in the socks. But it was still worth bringing the basket to the living room.

I laid inside the basket on top of the socks. Then, resting my head on one rounded end, with my feet hanging over the other, I joined my brothers and sis ters watching TV. Soon the wicker edge felt uncomfortable on my head. I went to my bedroom to get the pil low and blanket from my bed.

When I returned to the living room, someone had taken my basket.

“You didn’t call ‘place backs,’” they declared. I would have to wait until the wicker edge was hurting their head, then seize the opportunity to reclaim my basket when they went for their pillow.

When that person returned with their pil low, they demanded I surrender the basket.

“You didn’t call place backs,” I said.

“I did so,” they argued. “Did not,” I insisted. Another sibling would vouch for them, “Yes, they did. I heard them.”

“I don’t care,” I said. “I brought the basket to the living room and had it first.” Now it was a matter of size.

Determined to keep my nesting place, I gripped the sides of the basket, locking my knees over the end. The larger sibling would flip the bas ket, with me still in it. Socks spilled every where. An argument ensued, getting louder and louder.

Eventually, Dad would come around the corner in his bathrobe, “You kids need to pip down, or turn that TV off!” Saturday was his only day to sleep in, and he wasn’t happy, “Why are these socks all over the place?”

“Instead of just sitting there, you guys could be matching socks while watching TV.” (Note that the ‘penny a pair was not offered’ as we had disturbed his slumber.) The lecture would always follow, “We wouldn’t have all these loose socks if you kids would learn to pin your socks together

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before you put them in the laundry.” Those were simple days.

I stood by my dresser, holding and study ing my sock. “Can a dryer eat two socks at once,” I asked Snoopy and Charlie Brown? They just looked at me. “I know people lose a sock in the dryer all the time, but I’ve never heard of anyone losing a pair at the same time. So I wonder, if you pin a pair of socks together, would it be impossible for the dryer to eat them?”

While I pondered these questions, my dog sat at my feet. “Dad, do you really

think those cartoon characters will answer you?”

“Sometimes they do,” I answered. I heard the washer clunk as it finished its spin cycle.

“Come on, Nova Mae. Let’s go put the sheets

in the dryer.”

When the dryer buzz er sounded, Nova and I went to retrieve the sheets and dumped them onto the bed. I fold the pillowcases first, then the flat sheet to free up space on the bed before tackling the fitted sheet.

As I spread the fitted sheet, I swore I heard a faint voice, “Hello. It’s for you.”

“Did you say some thing,” I asked my dog?

“I didn’t say anything, but I heard it, too,” Nova Mae answered.

the Present:

I felt inside the cor ners of the fitted sheet and found something, probably the Bounce dryer sheet. I pulled it out. “Would you look at that,” I said to Nova Mae. It was the lost beige sock, with Char lie Brown handing the phone to Snoopy.

I immediately went to the sock drawer, folding the two match ing socks together. “I should get a penny for this,” I said to my dog.

“I think you should get the penny,” Charlie Brown said. “Me too,” said Snoopy.