My City August 2021

Our beginning is found in the Genesee town that the hardiest folk call home. It starts with the plan of a wealthy man by the name of Oren Stone. Old Oren was handy, auspicious and dandy His product was good without fail. At Flint Woolen Mills, he finished his frills And moved them at once to sale. Blankets and hosiery, socks with gold toes were offered at competitive prices. But more loved than those, as the majority chose, Oren’s pantaloons were always the nicest. Made to fit every man, if they walked or they ran or a woman if ever she wanted, those pantaloons cared neither hide nor hair on whose hips they were devilishly flaunted. Now, for many a year, and without any fear Oren pulled in more than expended. But when Gorman came, it just wasn’t the same and the mill practically ended.

While spending his time, drinking wine on the balcony overlooking the stage, Stone had a slip and on his pants he dripped a river of wine, nicely aged.

“Why, you’ll have to go home,” said his wife with a moan. “You can’t possibly sit in a puddle.” But Oren got wise, with a lake on his thighs, ran back to his workshop to muddle. “Traxler, my man!” he said to his friend, “Our problem is soon to be fixed. Bring me the ingredients and please be immediate All must be properly mixed.” Once he received all he would need, Stone threw his pants in a vat. In with them he tossed a vial of high gloss and a can of southern goose fat. In went some wax, then some edible flax with a small touch of honey for taste; next, without falter, came a barrel of water – the mixture came up to his waist. “Now, please turn your back,” said Stone for effect “that I can add the secret of style.” With a pour and a swish, it was properly mixed. Stone wrote it all down for his file. “Now fish out those pants!” Stone said with a dance. “I think you’ll find they’re the best that I own.” “Why, they’re not wet at all,” said Traxler, so small “the pants are as dry as a bone!” “Aha! There lies the trick! The pants are incredibly slick and water, once out, can’t get in again.” With a twirl and with flair, Stone brandished the pair, “See, they’re great! Positively Neptunian.”

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“We’re losing funds, we’re on the run,” he chattered to his wife. “Every mill has taken a spill – we’re fighting for our life!” He took great pains and racked his brains trying to fix the problem. Nothing he found turned things around and he was about to hit rock bottom. Then at a play, Stone’s Opera House way the safest place in town, during “La Boheme,” toward the end an answer would be found.

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