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Gone antiquing

Our old neighbor Al Warnes had a knack for malapropisms that were unintentionally amusing.

For instance, "transplant" always came out as "replant" as in, "She got a kidney replant." And "rummage sale" was unfailingly pronounced as "rubbish sale." That last turn of phrase contains a tiny nugget of truth.

My wife and I have been doing some antiquing lately. I've discovered that antique stores are essentially huge, ongoing rummage sales. I've also learned that they are hazardous places to visit if you're of a certain age.

Once, when we were at an antique store, I saw a lighted sign on the wall and began to chant, "From the land of sky-blue waters!" My wife, unprompted, finished the jingle by crooning, "Hamm's the beer refreshing! Hamm's!"

That never would have happened if I was with someone from Generation Z or Generation Alpha Centauri or whatever young people are calling themselves nowadays. They are the type of people who, if you mentioned Alice Cooper, would ask, "Who's she?" They would also not know what you're talking about if you said, "Paul was the cute one, but John was the witty one."

After my wife and I had successfully and spontaneously recited the Hamm's beer jingle, I searched the internet to see how accurate we were. I hate to brag about knowing something that's six decades old and totally useless, but we nailed it. Rewatching the cartoon Hamm's beer bear on YouTube launched us on a journey down memory lane that consumed the better part of an hour.

I think that much of the stuff in antique stores is there because people couldn't stand to throw away something that had merely gotten old. I limit my time in such stores for fear that its proprietor might deduce my age, shove me in a corner and slap a price tag on me.

Another problem with antiquing is that you'll inevitably find something that evokes a deep memory. You weren't thinking about the item seconds ago, and you certainly don't need it, but the sense of nostalgia is so powerful that it sucks money from your wallet and deposits it in the hands of the salesclerk.

Whenever we visit our local Habitat for Humanity ReStore, my wife never fails to find a bargain that she simply can't pass up.

"Just because we stopped here doesn't mean that we have to buy something," I'll say.

"Yes it does!" she'll reply.

It has gradually dawned on me that "antiquing" is just another word for "shopping." And my wife has a black belt in shopping.

At some point in the distant future, the nifty new smartphones that cost a major appendage will be deemed old-fashioned and primitive.

"Ooh, look at this!" a future antique hunter will exclaim. "I remember my grandpa saying that he had one of these!"

"Wow, they really had it tough back then," replies her partner. "But it was all they had. They didn't know any better."

I recently become a fan of the animated comedy series "Shaun the Sheep." I introduced our 6-year-old grandson to Shaun, and he instantly became a fellow enthusiast. It's nice to share a passion that spans the generations.

You needn't understand English to enjoy "Shaun the Sheep." That's because Shaun and his flock converse by bleating expressively, and their farmer-owner communicates by mumbling incoherently. The farmer is cosmically inept. Things would fall apart if it weren't for Bitzer, the farmer's faithful sheepdog, and the farm's de facto manager.

My wife likes the farmer because he's such a feckless doofus. "He reminds me of someone I know," she'll say, looking at me meaningfully.

I like the farmer because he can't seem to part with anything. A prominent feature of his farm is a pile of old junk, although it could also be called "an eclectic collection of potential future antiques."

The creators of "Shaun the Sheep" pay meticulous attention to detail. Here's a rusty bucket hanging from a crooked nail; there's a timeworn pitchfork leaning against a weathered fencepost. It's eerily similar to how our dairy farm looked when I was a kid.

My stepfather-in-law, Duane, was a child of the Great Depression. He would haul a load out to the dump and come home with more stuff than when he left.

He once brought home a discarded clothes dryer and disassembled it, thinking that he could resurrect the appliance. No dice.

"But I saved all the screws!" Duane proclaimed proudly, rattling a mason jar of screws. "There's nothing wrong with them!"

Whenever my wife and I go antiquing, I keep my eyes peeled for mason jars of screws. Because if they aren't antique now, they will be someday. Just like me.

-- Jerry's book, "Dear County Agent Guy," is available at Amazon.com and in bookstores nationwide.