People don't always stick to the script

It was a pleasant fall day in Pinehurst that year, and as I headed to the post office to check my mailbox, I greeted and was greeted in turn by everyone I passed. Since there was no home delivery of mail in Pinehurst in those days, everyone stopped by the PO at one time or another during the day.

As I was approaching the steps, I was greeted by one of my favorite retirees, Dr. John Parsnip. “Mornin’, Robert. How are you?” he asked.

“I’m fine, Doc. How’re you?”

“Not so good,” he replied.

Momentarily at a loss, I stammered, “I, um —”

“Oh, no-no-no,” he said. “I’m not looking for sympathy. I just . . . I just . . .” And then he sobbed.

Awk-ward. I was nowhere near his age — he was like a father figure to me. How in the world was I going to comfort this elder statesman, this fount of wisdom who’d once recommended a horsehair mattress to me? Fully expecting to hear about the passing of Bruce, his Scottie, the best I could do was, “Uh, what’s wrong?”

“It’s my favorite niblick,” he said.

In case you don’t know, Pinehurst is a major American golf resort, but more than that it’s a golf community. Everyone lives, breathes, and plays golf in Pinehurst — except me, that is. So all I knew about a niblick was that it was a club. I just didn’t know what kind.

“What’s wrong with your niblick?”

“I lost it,” he said.

I was afraid to ask, but I did anyway. “How’d you lose it?”

“I flung it into the rough, and I couldn’t find it. Looked for hours too.”

“That’s awful.”

“It is. It’s irreplaceable. You can’t get ’em anymore. Now I’ll have to use a pitching wedge.” OK — I knew what a pitching wedge was, sort of.

“Why did you pitch your niblick into the rough?” I asked, instantly wishing I hadn’t.

“You don’t play golf, do you,” he said.

“Not really,” I said, “although I’ve taken pictures of golfers.”

“Not quite the same thing,” he said. “See, golf can be aggravating, and throwing a golf club is a good way to let off steam. As a rule though you don’t throw it where you can’t retrieve it. I always throw my clubs into the rough, but I’ve never lost one before.”

He glanced at his watch. “Well, I best be going — I’ve got a foursome waiting for me at the clubhouse bar.”

Suddenly looking forward to tomorrow, I rushed up the steps and, head down, hurried straight to Box 477. Finding just the water bill, I reversed course and headed back toward my car, vowing as I walked to never to say “How are you” again.

But before I got there, I bumped into Brendan Loupe, who said, “How’re you, Bob? And let me warn you — if you say anything but ‘Fine,’ I’ll whack you with Parsnip’s niblick.”

The incredible shrinking pound — when less isn't as much

When I was growing up, a pound was a pound. A pound of butter weighed a pound, and so did a pound of coffee. If my mother said, “Run to the store and get me a pound of coffee,” I knew all I had to do was grab a can of Maxwell House and I was good to go.

When margarine started appearing in American kitchens, it tried to imitate butter. In the early days it largely failed at this — except for the way it was packaged. If butter came in cartons of four quarter-pound sticks, then by gum so would margarine. And when margarine migrated to tubs, it continued to be sold a pound at a time. Over time I took comfort in that. A pound of coffee might have shrunk to anywhere between 13 and 10.5 ounces, but margarine was hanging tough.

Which is why I freaked awhile back when I picked up the newly styled tub of my regular margarine brand and saw imprinted on it, “New Shape, Still 15 Oz.” WHAT?Still? When did this happen? When did a pound of my margarine shrink? It could only mean one thing: The containers had shrunk and I’d never noticed. How long had I been a victim of this deceit?

But when I looked at other brands, I saw that 15 ounces was now the universal pound of margarine. It was as if a major historic event had occurred and I’d missed it. I was devastated. I’d noticed only because they changed the shape of its container, a change they’d decided to promote right on the packaging, in case consumers couldn’t tell the difference between round and square.

So I’m officially chagrined. My reporter’s instincts had let me down, and I can’t make excuses. It’s no good to claim I took it on good faith that margarine makers were sticking to the principle that a pound was a pound. In the margarine world, a pound is now 15 ounces — end of discussion. And the low-sodium version I buy? It’s “still” 13 ounces for the same price, because it costs money to leave out something!

We all know why food producers engage in this subterfuge — to conceal rising food prices, or to make price increases seem modest. But they’re not fooling anyone, are they! Well, maybe they are for a while.

But it’s not just pounds. Quarts have shrunk too. Not long ago I noticed that many quarts of mayonnaise were now 30 ounces instead of 32, but I won’t get into that. Bet you can’t wait until I do.

Let me conclude by disclosing that this is the first time in my entire career that I’ve used the phrase “by gum” in a column. Despite this little bonus, dear readers, the paper is still 50 cents — even if the broadsheet isn’t as broad as it used to be.