It was that time of the year again. Or more exactly, that time of the HALF year — time for my six-month checkup at the office of Terrible Tony Tramontano.

In case you don’t know, Terrible Tony is the head hustler at his cardiology practice at our hospital. At least he’s the head hustler for short a while longer, because by November’s end he’s headed out. I’m not sure where he’s going, exactly, except — smart lad that he is — it’s south of here.

I wish him the best in his new locale and would like to send him off with the words of that great American philosopher and role model, Little Richard. They are, “The grass may look greener on the other side, but believe me, it’s just as hard to cut.”

But TT wasn’t present in my visit, as the honor had been turned over to Jessica Garnsey, PA. Aside from being a first-rate professional and wonderfully personable, Jessica and I are fellow members of that most endangered of American species — book readers. It’s great for me to have literate company, even for a little while, on my journey from the endangered lost to the extinct one.

My appointment started as uneventfully as always: I checked in at the window, went over my stats, said nothing had changed (or at least I HOPED nothing had changed), and then took a seat in the waiting room. After only a few minutes, my name was called and I was ushered into the Sanctum Sanctorum.

First on the agenda was being asked by the nurse to step on the scales, which turned out a lot more eventful than my check-in. Ironically, it had nothing to do with my weight.

As I stood there, the nurse fiddled with this and faddled with that, and then just stood there shaking her head.

I looked at her, shrugged, and gave her a look that said, “Huh?”

“The calibration,” she said.

“What about it?” I said.

“It’s not.”

“It’s not what?” I said.

“Calibrating,” she said.

She frowned, fiddled and faddled some more, and then said, “Hold on and let me get some help.”

While she was gone, I did what I always do in such situations — I mused. And what I mused about was all the this-here, fancy-shmancy, 21st century, whiz-bang electronic stuff we’re blessed with, versus their outdated, ugly, clunky, mechanical counterparts. In this case, the archaic counterpart was those old scales that were in every doctor’s office, gym and health service. You remember them, I’m sure — had more chrome than a 56 Caddy and weighed about as much. But they were accurate, rugged and easy to calibrate.

My musing led to its frequent conclusion — my griping.

“Yup,” I grumbled to myself, “great improvement, these scales. Not only need batteries, but two people to calibrate them. Look cheesy — just more plastic crap like all the other plastic crap that –”

My griping was cut short by the return of the nurse and her wing gal.

Two heads being better than one, after they’d worked their combined ju-ju, the scale was ready to do its sainted thing.

I got back on the scale, and guess what? It STILL wasn’t calibrated. They said it was, but I knew it couldn’t be, since it said I was ten pounds heavier than my last visit. But good patient that I am, I didn’t argue with them. What the hey, if they wanted to think I was packing more adipose than I was, let ’em.

Still, it rankled. OK, I probably had gained some weight since my last visit. For one thing, the most exercise I get is exercising my rights as a citizen. And for another, my diet, which used to be as strict as a medieval monk’s, has been long-since abandoned in favor of foodstuffs more along the diet of Diamond Jim Brady than Brother Domicus. So, yeah, I might’ve a gain of a couple, maybe even a few. But 10 pounds? No way!

Then it hit me: Of course, I weighed more — I hadn’t taken off my Crocs. They HAVE to weigh three or four pounds apiece, which would account for the dreaded difference. Besides, we’re going into winter — I NEED theat extra layer of blup to keep me warm when I’m getting my team ready for the Iditarod.

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A pocket of resistance

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The weigh-in over, it was time for the rest of the exam. There wasn’t a lot to it — take my temp, oxygen level and blood pressure, and then my EKG. So there I am, stretched out on the examining table, shirt pulled up, nurse taping those electrode receptors (or whatever you call ’em) on my chest. After that, she attached clamps to them, and then, she calibrated the machine.

Or more exactly, she TRIED to calibrate the machine. As with the scales, the machine was not cooperating. Frowning, fiddling and faddling, she gave it the Good Ole College Try … but with nothing to show for it, except the original Three F’s and one more — Failure. Finally, she left and returned with her wing gal. Then they started in with their medical mumbo-jumbo. But this time was different: Instead of the problem being quickly resolved, they did this, that, and the other thing, and were no further ahead than when they started.

Next they checked the wires, both at the machine and clipped to the terminals on my chest. More nada.

So I decided to lend my formidable cogitation skills to the effort. What, I wondered, could be causing this calibration cacophony?

Since I know nothing of that equipment — or anything electronic, for that matter — I considered the human factor: Could the nurses themselves be affecting the readings?

I ruled it out, since they’d already been with those machines for a bunch of hours, and had had no problems Could something about ME throw off the readings?

For sure, I didn’t have any electronic devices with me — matter of fact, the exact opposite was true: All I had in my pockets were simple, basic, EDC, old-time gear.

I took a quick mental inventory: In my left shirt pocket, four pens. In my right shirt pocket, a to-do list and a notebook of my latest jokes. Clipped on my pants, my pocket knife and a box cutter. In my left front pants pocket, my wallet, a bunch of coins for magic, some other coins for change, a magnifying glass and a handkerchief. In my right front pocket a nail clipper, a pair of 4 1/2″ Channel Locks, another magic trick, another handkerchief and my jasper good luck stone. And last but not least, resting peacefully in my watch pocket, my old-school, bright-red, horseshoe magnet.

I went over the list again and when I did, I had an epiphany. Maybe my magnet was last, but maybe it wasn’t least — not by a long shot!

As I said, I knew nothing about how the equipment in that office worked, but in the inner recesses of my mind, a wee thought emerged: Was it possible the hassles with the scales AND the EKG machine were caused by my magnet? There was only one way to tell.

“Excuse me,” I said to the pair of them, still hunched over the machine, mumbling I don’t know what under their breaths.

“Yes?” one of them said, seemingly annoyed — more I hoped at the machine than my interruption.

“Could a magnet interfere with the calibration?” I said.

“Of course,” she said. “Why?”

“‘Uh,” I said, “cuz I have a magnet in my pocket.”

Each one straightened and gave me a look that, while it couldn’t kill, it could have wounded.

Doing my best invisible act, I took out the magnet and slinked over to a chair on the other side of the room and put it on the seat.

And, lo and behold, the room was filled with two huge sighs of relief, as well as a perfectly-calibrated EKG machine. After that, it was a matter of mere minutes and the EKG was done.

Then as they were leaving, one of them turned back to me.

“Tell me,” she said, “WHY do you carry a magnet with you?”

“I dunno,” I said. “Maybe because I’ve always been fascinated by magnetism.”

She nodded.

“I see,” she said.

Her “I see” was NOT the “I see” of agreement and understanding. Instead it was the “I see” of adding one more oddball to a town that already has more than their share of them.

But that sort of reaction doesn’t bother me at all. Nor should it, since I’ve had over 75 years of getting used to it.