Reminder: have a seat. I say "reminder" because it's at the end of the Bleat as well, and this alerts you to its existence.

Long-time patrons may wonder: what of the OAWF?

Newly-minted habitues may wonder: oh is this thing so sodden with lore and acronyms that you need the Enigma machine to figure out what he’s talking about?

The OAWF is the Oak Island Water Feature, so named for its baffling, maddening, and confounding inability to do what I want it to do, thus requiring endless work and tinkering and plans and hopes. It was put in place about 15 years ago, I think, and consists of a tank in the corner of the backyard, a waterfall, and a submerged tank that takes the water and returns it to the upper tank, by means of a pump.

That’s the idea, anyway.

In the center sits an enormous rock with a hole drilled through. Another pump and tube shoots up a jet of water that makes a pleasing sound and keeps the skeeter population down. The problem began when the lower tank sprang a leak long ago, and then the upper tank’s membrane also began to leak. A side pond that provided some additional ploshing sounds was almost useless from the start, and was eventually removed with much cursing and grunting. The original contractors have vanished, of course, possibly shimmering away as if they were transported to another field of endeavor where their skills were better suited, like caulking bathtubs.

Saturday I filled it all up and plugged it all in, which of course popped the GFIs, because the contractor who did the electrical work, and ran so many pipes and conduits you’d think he was wiring a Times Square spectacular, is likewise gone. IIRC he was ill-treated by the pond installer, and a lien resulted.

It has been cursed from the start.

To my astonishment, the lower tank pump worked. It has not worked in three years. But it belched and shoved water into the top tank, and friends, for a while, I was happy again.

It made the horrid gargle of drought after 15 minutes, so the lower tank is fubar’d. Now begins my moral dilemma.

I tapped the Angi app to find some water-feature repair guys. One of them called right away. I explained the problem. He groaned a bit. He said that was probably not going to be possible to fix, you might have to dig it out, build a bigger tank maybe, it was probably the liner, happened to him - a squirrel ate it.

He said he could take a look, but he had to warn me, it didn't look good. But he could swing by and see it.

I said that was fine, but did he have a trip charge, a basic estimate cost? He did: it was $89, which is what Angi's charged him when it forwarded the tip.

So I can just let it go, because the guy didn't seem to think this was a job that could be done, and he gets dinged the referral cost, or, I say to myself "I'm using his reluctance as an excuse," or I say "it's his problem, he's the one who struck the deal with Angi."

I wasn't aware this was how the service worked. Of course there had to be exchanged at some point, but charging $90 for a lead? I'm never going to use the service again.

Our new Monday feature! The Gazettes provide a look at the commercial vernacular from 90 years ago. Sometimes they look forward, and just as often as not they reach back decades for a familiar look.

Are any of these brands still around? We'll find out.

None of those fake Blue Gansetts:

Wht are the chances this operation's still around? Pretty dang good!

OUR JOURNEY BEGAN WHEN EDDIE B. BLOUNT STARTED AN OYSTER PACKING FIRM IN BARRINGTON, RI IN 1880. BY 1946, EDDIE’S GRANDSON, NELSON, PIONEERED THE TRANSITION TO CLAMS, ESTABLISHING BLOUNT SEAFOOD’S HOME ON THE HISTORIC WARREN, RI WATERFRONT.

Okay okay stop shouting -

TODAY, NELSON’S GRANDSON, F. NELSON “TODD” BLOUNT, LEADS BLOUNT FINE FOODS AS THE LARGEST FRESH SOUP MANUFACTURER IN THE COUNTRY. 

Oh no! That's the worst kind!

It’s 1938. Who’s helming?

Wait hold on a sec

We start at a radio station, where dead air is not a problem. (Note: this is a bad, bad print.)

The Shadow?

I guess the whole secret-identity thing is off the table for this movie.

We see the listeners to the show, and it’s a marvelous little piece of 1938:

There are the kids who write down the license number the Shadow wants, keen to hear their next instructions. Dennis the Menace energy here:

The Shadow has a picture on the wall of . . .

Himself! Of course.

Not only does he have a radio show, he has a radio column:

Amount of actually Shadowing done 17 minutes into the movie: none. He’s engaged in genial taunting of the police, ribbing them on his radio show, showing up at crime scenes and making witticisms.

In short, this is not the Shadow as we know him. How do we know?

That’s how we know.

Hey, drinking and smoking montage!

Anyway, it's a breezy mess and has nothing to do with the Shadow. Great end!

That will do for today, Bleat wise; Matchbooks and a Diner await. See you around.

Annnd, once again, the Diner.