The following story is an excerpt from a letter written to a fellow collector. Any incorrect technical information therein is the direct result of a gross lack of education on the part of the letter writer, who was later set straight on many matters related to insulators and electricity. Incidentally, the verb "to skulk" usually means "to lurk about in a stealthy manner". However, to collectors in our immediate area it simply means "to search for" or "to seek". So with this information in mind, our story begins...

Many insulator collectors have had the experience of skulking for insulators in their natural settings, by walking railroad tracks or by following telephone and power lines. However, there are a few of us who have always been afraid to skulk insulators in this manner. We of the "chicken" class build our collections simply by purchasing insulators at shows and swap meets, or from fellow collectors.

To this latter class of collectors I belong. Yet, I have always envied the strong-hearted individual who fearlessly stalks line crews requesting insulators, or who relentlessly tramps the hillsides in search of their treasures. And I have an unspeakable admiration for the truly courageous person who actually climbs a pole (one out of service, hopefully) for that great find. But, alas, my heart practically fails me at the mere thought of trying any of these methods. So I must be content to pay out my hard-earned cash for my acquisitions. Until recently, that is.

The second day out on our vacation found us in a small Arizona town. We had stopped to take a picture of several power poles that were loaded with many different kinds of insulators. Just then my heart nearly stopped beating, for there on the ground, not three feet away, were several porcelain power insulators lying in the dust. We could see that they were being replaced with heavier equipment. There were also a few glass insulators lying there with heavy pieces of wire attached to them. All I had to do was to get out of the truck, walk three feet, pick them up, and put them in the back of the truck. For the life of me I couldn't think of a reason not to. So I did.

My heart was beating wildly! I had actually FOUND an insulator. Not just one, but several. My joy knew no bounds! As we gathered up several of them, our daughter kept repeating an oft-quoted expression of a fellow collector, "to skulk is divine".

Just then I spotted several more insulators across the street. By now my husband was cursing the day I had EVER laid eyes on an insulator, but at the same time he was beginning to be caught up in the emotional thrill of skulking. So he ran with me across the street, and we selected all we could carry. We brought our bonanzas back across the street and managed to load a few of them into the truck with the others. Suddenly, while we still held a couple of insulators in our hands, a quiet but firm voice behind us said, "May I have your names, please?"

My heart froze. It was the town postal clerk. We had unwittingly parked right in front of the Post Office in our frenzy to get the insulators. He had a pencil and a note pad in his hands, and he meant business. But before we had turned around and seen his khaki trousers, his run-down shoes, his Hawaiian-print shirt and pocket full of pens and pencils, the blood-chilling sound in his voice made us think that he must be the chief of police of all of Arizona!

As soon as my heart started beating again, I asked him why he wanted our names. He replied that we were stealing telephone equipment and they'd had quite a bit of trouble with that around there.

"It's not telephone equipment," I stammered. "It's power. And I'm not stealing it."

"Do you have permission to take it?"

"No. "

"Then you either have to get permission, or you're stealing it."

I quickly glanced at my husband, hoping for reassurance and a possible answer. But when I saw his pale face and blank, staring eyes, I knew I could not depend on him for ANYTHING at that moment. So I quickly retorted, "Well, we've never had to have permission before. And besides, these are the old insulators." I had quickly scanned the insulator in my hand for any mark around which I could build a story. On it was the date 1971. "See this date? It says 1971. It's an old one. Besides, it was used for twenty-three thousand KV's, and the ones they are putting up are for sixty-nine thousand KV's." I searched his face for some small sign of respect for my tremendous knowledge of electricity. (The figures I had given him I had just picked out of the air, but I was sure I'd heard such voltages quoted often by a fellow collector.)

He seemed impressed. But he still was ready with pencil and paper, and asked again for our names. I told him that I didn't have to give him our names, since we were doing nothing illegal. He then replied that he had written down our camper license number. Therefore, if we were not stealing, we had nothing to worry about. (He was obviously shaken, as we had a TRAILER, not a camper.) But just at that moment, another man came out of the Post Office and started toward us with that same look of pseudo-authority. This must have awakened my husband and put some sort of fear into him, for he suddenly swore in his own inimitable way and said, "Well, let's go put the - --- things back then, if that's how they feel about it!" And at that, we both hauled our new finds back across the street and threw them into a hole which had just been dug for a new pole. Back we came, revived our daughter (who had long since nearly died from fright in the cab of the truck), and away we drove. 

Fearing road-blocks and a jail sentence, I was nearer to fainting than I had ever been in my life. I had seen enough TV programs to know ALL ABOUT those small town police departments! But my husband reassured me that we would escape with what trove we had managed to put in the TRUCK; and, much to my surprise, we did! But as we drove out of town, my husband pointed out some more insulators lying at the side of the road. I just looked at him and in a very weak voice muttered, "I don't care if they are cobalt blue E. C. and M's; I'm never, Never, NEVER going to skulk again!" 

EPILOGUE

The moral of this story is, that if you skulk insulators, for goodness' sake, don't do it right in the middle of town, especially right in front of the Post Office! Incidentally, I, even to this day, have not so much as looked for an insulator at the side of the road. If they aren't at a show, or in an antique shop, or suchlike place, then I won't be bothered. I guess it's that recurring nightmare I have of a chilly voice from behind me asking for my name.