I'm not fond of Mondays. I'm in favor of doing away with Monday altogether and starting with Tuesday. Tuesday is not a bad day and with Wednesday coming up, we'll be "over the hump." Nothing seems to work right on Monday.

Last Monday, I was up early, as usual, and when I turned on my faucet to get coffee water, the thing went full force and wouldn't cut off. I had to hunker down, reach under the sink and cut it off. I'm still able to hunker down fairly well but I can't hunker up.

I thought I was going to have to e-mail somebody for help but I couldn't reach my computer. By getting a good hold on the sink, I finally got up, found a washer for the faucet and then had to hunker down again to turn the water back on. Stuff like that just doesn't happen on Tuesday. Sunday is usually the day your sewer stops up or your dog gets sick.

Regardless of what day it is, we are now all living in the appointment age. I'm old enough to remember when appointments didn't exist. These days, we have to get an appointment to see our doctor, our dentist and our mechanic. To get a haircut or get my oil changed in my pickup, I have to get an appointment.

I suppose that indicates that our economy is good but I lived through a time when it wasn't. At least, we didn't need an appointment for anything. Back in Blanket, my old home town, there was usually at least two mechanics sitting on a bench in front of Boler's Conoco station if you happened to need one.

My doctor could be found either sitting on a bench in front of Ernest Allen's drug store or sitting in his Chrysler in front with the engine running, diagnosing any strange noises he might hear. He had two cars. If the Chrysler checked out alright, he would go home and get the other one and diagnose it.

I often wondered if the medical school he attended also had a course in auto

mechanics. He was pretty good with both humans and cars. He always used the thumping method for his diagnosis of humans but I never saw him thump his Chryslers but he may have.

He never traded a car in. When he bought a new one, he stored the old one in Dossey's garage. When I was a kid, I would spend hours behind the wheel of those old cars, taking trips to far off places I could only dream about ever going.

When I went off into the military, the cars were still there. When I returned, both he and the cars were gone. I know where he went but I don't know what happened to the cars. Today, they might be worth more than he made in a lifetime of thumping chests and backs of our citizens.

Today, there is a restaurant occupying what was then Dossey's garage where he once stored his old cars. I have a lot of memories of the old place when I eat there and a lot of memories of Dr. Yantis and memories of his daughter with whom I climbed to the top of mulberry trees and ate mulberries, bugs and all.

We never worried about the bugs because her daddy was a doctor and I had no

doubt he could thump bugs too.

I guess that somewhere, he is still thumping folks and maybe a few old Chryslers too.

Harry Marlinís column is featured every Tuesday on the Brownwood Bulletinís Viewpoint page. E-mail him at pilgrimB17@verizon.net.