At a recent gathering of the clan, a relative “from away” was scanning through the king-sized family Bible in search of material in support of genealogical research. Amidst the death notices, birth announcements, wedding certificates, deeds to property long since changed hands; the pressed flowers, family photos and the like sandwiched between the pages of the Good Book, she discovered proof that at least one ancestor had a sense of humor.

It came in the form of a yellowed clipping from a newspaper not identified, although it would appear to be a Maine paper because there is an adjacent story datelined Portland. The article, without a byline, carrys the headline “Why He Couldn’t Come Across,” and claims to be “a true answer of a wealthy man to his bank’s letter calling his collateral loan.”

The reply, purportedly made available to the newspaper by the bank president, sort of confirms one’s suspicions that when it comes to the average bloke being besieged by the tax man and the repo man, the banks, assorted creditors and the various charities in search of a handout, there really is nothing new under the sun. The businessman’s lament:

“For the following reasons, I am unable to send you the cheque asked for: “I have been held up, held down, sandbagged, walked on, sat on, flattened out and squeezed. First by the United States Government for federal taxes, the excess profit tax and the liberty loan bonds, thrift, capital stock tax, merchant’s license and auto tax, and then by every society and organization that the inventive mind of man can invent, to extract what I may, or may not, possess.

“From the Society of John The Baptist, the GAR, the Women’s Relief, the Navy League, the Red Cross, the Black Cross, the Double Cross, the Children’s Home, the Dorcas Society, the YMCA and YWCA, the Boy Scouts, the Jewish Relief, the Belgian Relief and every hospital in town. Then, on top of it all, comes the Associated Charities.

“The government has so governed my business that I don’t know who owns it. I am inspected, suspected, examined and re-examined, informed, required and commanded, so I don’t know who I am, where I am, or why I am here.

“All I know is that I am supposed to have an inexhaustible supply of money for every known need, desire or hope of the known race; and because I will not sell all I have and go out and beg, borrow or steal money to give away I have been cussed, discussed, boycotted, talked to, talked about, lied to, lied about, held up, held down, hung up, robbed and nearly ruined; and the only reason I am clinging to life is to see what in hell is coming next.”

And all that was perhaps 100 years BT (Before Telemarketers). Imagine how aggravated the author might have been had he gotten collared at suppertime on a regular basis by one of those birds who never heard an emphatic “Not Interested” that he or she couldn’t mistake for confirmation that their rapid-fire robotic sales pitch should continue apace.

The account produced a smile, as intended by the unknown ancestor. But I am a guy taught long ago to get the who, what, when, where and why into a news story early on, in case some back-shop printer/butcher leaves things up in the air by whacking off the bottom of the story in favor of a filler about the gross domestic product of the Lesser Antilles. And so I thought that the accompanying story datelined Portland was every bit as much of a hoot, as well:

“A manhole belonging to the Cumberland Light and Power Co. at the corner of Preble and Portland Streets exploded at 8:15 this evening, shattering the windows in a drugstore and tenement nearby and breaking glass in a trolley car which was almost over the hole when the explosion took place,” the story read. “At 10:45, four more manholes on Congress Street blew up with an explosion that could be heard all over the city, 50 windows being shattered and two young women slightly injured.”

End of story. Newspaper readers of the day may have wondered what caused the explosions, but it was apparently not a consideration that bothered the reporter too terribly much. Perhaps manholes blowing up in Portland was a routine occurrence. Sort of like the mid-1950s when an arsonist was loose in the Fort Fairfield area and torched any vacant building not guarded by a shotgun-wielding potato farmer. A person would ask his neighbor if he had gone to the fire the previous night and the neighbor would reply, “Nope. I’m going to the one tonight.”

NEWS columnist Kent Ward lives in Winterport. His e-mail address is olddawg@bangordailynews.net.