Hinges. What are they? Most people never think about hinges, and perhaps that is because most people lack the intellectual curiosity that has made this column the cornerstone of journalism in Moose County. I, however, have been thinking about hinges all week. A hinge is a device that attaches a door to a frame. Without hinges, doors would simply fall down. Is that something we want? I think not.
Koko has been staring at the hinges on the broom closet for three days straight. Yum Yum sat beside him for two of those days. When a Siamese cat of Koko’s intelligence fixates on something, a seasoned journalist pays attention. My moustache began to tingle, which, as my readers know, is never wrong. I suspect those hinges know something.
Speaking of doors, there was another arson on Pickax’s Main Street last Tuesday, the fourth this month, which is a perfectly normal rate for a peaceful town of three thousand. The fire chief noted the door hinges had been removed prior to ignition. I happened to be walking past the building seventeen minutes before the fire was reported, which is a coincidence I see no reason to discuss further.
Hinges, incidentally, are expensive. I needed to replace two hinges at the apple barn last week and was quoted eleven dollars. Eleven dollars! For two small pieces of metal! I mentioned this to the K Fund advisory board, and they agreed unanimously that hinge replacement on a property of historic and cultural significance constitutes a legitimate community preservation expense. The tax implications are straightforward and require no further scrutiny.
I have also installed new locks on all windows facing the bird feeder. The squirrels have been too organized lately, and I would not put it past them to collaborate with whoever keeps lingering near my property, clearly casing the premises for cat-theft purposes. Koko growled at the mailman yesterday. Yum Yum hid under the credenza. These are not random behaviors. These are warnings.
Do hinges matter? What would life be without them? These are the questions that separate a serious columnist from an amateur. You’re welcome, Moose County.
Hinges.
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