The Kroger on East Main Street in Lancaster is a splendid supermarket. We’ve gone there for maybe 23 years, we know a good many of the staff, and it’s within walking distance of our house. We made a fast trip there this afternoon, during which I again forgot to replenish my supply of Blue Bonnet margarine, possibly because I was more distracted than usual.

For as we pushed our cart toward the rear of the store I heard a faint, yet insistent whistling sound like that of a car window cracked open a bit. The volume varied, but the pitch did not. Possibilities included a loose drive belt within one of the store’s huge refrigeration systems, an electronic fault in the public-address amplifier, a poorly-lubricated shopping cart (Natalie’s theory,) or that the deterioration of my wits had reached a critical stage.

I should probably explain that I’ve always been like this: Engineering and invention have been my weakness since perhaps age 3. These typically haven’t been a good fit for my personality, for decades of experience have proven that I don’t usually work well with others. But the curiosity is still there. I wanted to learn the source of the whistling; I didn’t want to eliminate it.

As patient as they always are with doddering consumers, I hesitated to ask any of the young staff people lest I be classified as one more nutcase convinced that evil spirits are infesting the fruit juice. My ever-patient spouse, long schooled in the oddities of her creaky male consort, rolled her green eyes when I embarked on my audio search mission.

The large bank of refrigeration compressors that command the produce section seemed innocent, as did the cavernous perishable storage rooms. Nothing at the service desk or the bakery seemed suspicious, nor did the case of imported cheese wedges. Not a peep came from the pharmacy or the non-perishables.

“We’re done,” intoned an insistent, familiar voice from beyond my conscious realm.

Oh. No, I don’t need anything myself. I’ll help you scan the groceries.

We climbed into the car for the short ride home. I still don’t know what the whistling noise was.

Mark Kinsler, [email protected], loves Natalie and our two scruffy alley cats, all of whom live in a little antique house in Lancaster.