Phone makes pilgrimage to Land of Lost Socks
JERRY AULDS

One of our wireless, store-an-infinite-number-ofnumbers, redial-in-a-flash, mobile phones has gone missing.

We tried all the suggested electronic search and find tricks. We cut the juice to all our other phones, rang our number from a cell phone and waited for our sleek, little walk-around phone to ring out from its hiding place under the couch, on top of the refrigerator, in the garage, or maybe up a tree because a squirrel thought it was a giant nut that would last him through a cruel Arctic winter.

But not a peep from that stubborn, hide-and-seek electronic evildoer.

What kind of progress is this?

Nobody ever lost one of Ma Bell's clunky black handsets. Those black beauties faithfully remained on duty, wedged in that little cubicle in the hall of Grandma's house. Anyone requiring walkaround telephone room was either very rich or cadged extra cord from the neighborhood telephone company guy.

While we search, I have a vision of a "cat" burglar who swiped our phone and is hiding out close by, making long distance calls to the vet, and saying, "Bring it on" to every telephone solicitation from "six-pack abs" to the newest vinyl and concrete "looks just like marble" siding.

My bride, Dayle Bebee Aulds, releasing her highly suspect husband from suspicion, fessed up that our missing ringer-dinger "might" have beeped its last under the wheels of a passing car.

Lacking legs or wheels, pray tell me how our walk-around mobile telephone managed to go on a walk-about to the middle of the street, was my tart response.

Silence on the line.

When she finally answered my call, Dayle allowed as how the telephone "might" have been left on the back bumper of her GMC Jimmy where she "might" have put it during one of her many decorating projects.

Oh, never mind, I say. There's some other force at work here.

My theory?

Find that phone and I bet we find the "missing link," Israel's lost tribe and the Golden Fleece.

Jimmy Hoffa, please call home!