On August 15, 1899 (no accident that the day I’m writing this is August 15) Henry Ford left his job at Edison Illuminating Company (smelting hammer heads for seventy-five cents a week) to found The Ford Motor Company.

Typically, I would have spent a few moments redlining Google’s engine — searching various combinations of: “Edison Illuminating Company Henry Ford Smelting Hammer Heads.” But a certain degree of local notoriety comes at a price (meds for delusional mania cost a fortune!).

Burdened with the chore of slitting open each and every over-sized, wax sealed, gold embossed Memorial Day weekend invitation messengered to my door has left me precious little time for tomfoolery. (To the thoughtful reader who sent me the personalized, engraved Paloma Picasso letter opener from Tiffany & Co. — thank you. But my last name is “Travis.” Not “Travesty.”) I can no longer afford the luxury of factual accuracy with social obligations like these:

• One of the Lauren brood is hosting an All You Can Eat Bikram Yoga BBQ. To encourage the use of Fair Trade Certified™ Organic Stevia. And BioFoam® (soy-based) Surfboards. Their invitation was mailed.

• The 4th Annual Bait & Tackle Ball — to benefit children disfigured by the errant fishhook.

• A gala opening at East Hampton’s newest, most exclusive, avant-garde gallery — held inside a 4,800 square-foot tree house designed by Zaha Hadid. The titanium mesh structure is tucked into the canopy of the oldest, old growth Dutch Elm on The Ladies Village Improvement Society’s vast acreage. The exhibit will feature Bone & Bead Ceremonial Huichol Masks, Mosaic Tile Murals, Hemp Macramé Tapestries, and an animated film short about Talavera Washbasins — all original works by Ross School’s uniquely talented janitorial staff.

• A charity Polo match for various East End horse rescue organizations.

• My brother’s 59th birthday Crabfest™ at Red Lobster®. The RSVP for which is, “I will absolutely NOT be attending.” Ever since the untimely passing of Captain Phil on Deadliest Catch — I cannot support the consumption of Blood Crustaceans. I happen to adore King Crab legs swimming in a salty, butter-like brine. But the business of Alaskan crab fishing can turn deadly at the drop of a pot. I have to draw the moral line somewhere. I just wish it wasn’t at the entrance of a Red Lobster®.

Speaking of things that are just plain wrong, it has come to my attention that several of you feel “disoriented,” “confused,” and “lost” while reading my Our Town contributions. One reader in particular (my brother) went so far as to suggest I begin all my columns with a summary. Of sorts.

According to my brother, I need to add two or three paragraphs — at the very beginning — that explain exactly what my column is about. Otherwise, my brother has a difficult time skimming through whatever it is that I’ve written without becoming terribly mystified.

Our last conversation went something like this:

 ”Right off the bat you should say what your story is about — like they do in Model Railroader magazine.”

“I write a column. For a newspaper. Not a story. Seriously? You’re still reading Model Railroader magazine? I wasn’t aware that publication was available in large print.”

“Whatever! Your writing makes me feel stupid. And I can’t be the only one. Tell us everything about what’s to come — before we experience brain freeze. Which for me usually happens after the first or second word!”

“But don’t you think you’re more than likely enjoying a Slurpee® at the time? You do own your own machine.”

After reading the first paragraph of this column (Thomas Edison, Henry Ford, hammers…) my brother’s litany of seemingly unanswerable questions undoubtedly began piling up faster than the empty wrappers of Little Debbie® Chocolate Iced Honey Buns he’d been pawing at during the last 10 minutes of a Seinfeld episode he’d already seen several hundred times before.

“What the heck is this column about? The end of summer? How environmental lobbyists have dimmed the future of the incandescent bulb? Is this going to be about cars? All cars — or just Ford products? I hope he’s not going to examine how poor working conditions and pre-union wage caps in the late 19th century hammer trade helped nail down the foundation of Federally mandated minimum wage laws!”

Clearly having had a number of columns published (intact) by my deeply intellectual, innovative, creative, open-minded, trustworthy editor — I must be doing something right. Right?

Unless of course, my editor hasn’t actually read any of my columns…

And he’s simply letting out just enough rope — between rounds of golf — for me to…

There is that prickly (as yet unresolved) issue of why my previous column was never posted to The Sag Harbor Express’s website…

All those unanswered phone calls and emails…

And a voicemail left on my machine that sounded curiously like a small office of local newspaper people giggling — on speakerphone — before “someone” abruptly hangs up. Mid-chortle…

Nonsense. My brother has always known just what to say to vaporize any sense of confidence or wellbeing I might still be clinging to. He’ll be lucky if he gets a damn phone call from me on his birthday!

The man hoards cuckoo clocks. Hundreds of them. All in perfect working order. And all set to chime, chirp, click, and warble — one after the other — at eight-second intervals. Two minutes of me trying to get a word in edgewise between my brother going on and on about how he’s finally figured out how to make used coffee grounds look like the gravel between model railroad tracks and a cacophony of mechanical, maniacal, walnut Cuckoos puts me in a very dark place. (As if things could not get more vile, I’m repeatedly told (by guess who?) that the Common European Cuckoo — the same winged beast lurking inside all his clocks — is considered a “brood parasite.” They lay their eggs in the nests of other birds! Unacceptable!

Is it any wonder that after speaking with my brother I find myself crawling into the crawlspace beneath my porch with a pint of Häagen-Dazs® Caramel Cone ice cream, a crank-powered emergency alert radio, SPF 60 sunscreen, sunglasses, and a plastic bucket with tight fitting lid?

Which, according to the Town of Southampton’s recent, ominously threatening Hurricane Survival postcard — includes four key items we will all need when the category 5 storm (they are predicting in the form of an iron-clad guarantee) makes landfall any day now.

A while back I worked in the Direct Mail business as a copywriter when none of the real ad agencies were hiring. I know a few secrets for breaking through the clutter of “junk mail” (The filthiest word in the Direct Mail business — don’t dare repeat it!). Sending out an oversized, canary-yellow postcard with a blood-red banner splashed across the front that reads: “SURVIVAL IS EVERYONE’S RESPONSIBILITY” is not one of them.

The reverse of Southampton’s “postcard from oblivion” features a lengthy checklist of needful things for life post 70″ storm surge. They include:

• Sewing needle & thread (Only thing worse than a wet hem is a long one.)

• Heavy cotton or hemp rope (Is the discussion of nylon completely off the table?)

• Sunglasses & Sunscreen (I assume for when the eye passes over?)

• Inventory of valuable goods (At least that will be a very short list for most of us thanks to The Second Great Depression.)

• Family records (Only if your last name happens to be “Osmond,” “Partridge,” or “DeFranco.”

• Whistle (To piss off the neighbor’s dog — if he’s not already flotsam.)

• Paper & pencil (FEMA does prefer handwritten requests.)

• Dry cereal (Like, Lucky Charms®-dry? Or — God forbid — Kashi®-dry?)

• Tweezers (My home may have floated to Commack, but I’ll be damned if I’m plucked out of a tree with a unibrow!)

• Syringes (You mean the incredibly-illegal-without-a-prescription ones?)

• Moistened towelettes (Free at all participating McDonalds! Stock up now!)

• Assorted sizes of safety pins (Again with the tailoring?)

• Three triangular bandages (When they invent them.)

• Tube of petroleum jelly (If I can’t go there — neither can you!)

• Sterile Band-Aids® (Not the slightly used ones you normally buy on EBay.)

• Laxative (OK…)

• Anti-diarrhea medication (Why don’t we just scratch that last item?)

• Antacid (Which you will need after reading the final item.)

• Plastic bucket with tight lid

Statistically, hurricane season probably won’t peak this year until the 2nd week in September. So enjoy the rest of your summer. Which will be spent inside K-Mart hysterically trying to find triangular bandages.

PETER HAMILTON TRAVIS takes little to nothing for granted. He wishes to sincerely express his deep gratitude to The Sag Harbor Express for the opportunity to regularly contribute an Our Town column. And for reconnecting him to the magically delicious, rarefied treat that is: Sag Harbor.

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