Here’s an announcement I heard at the Portland Jetport. “Someone has left a belt at security. Please come and claim your belt.” Does this concern you? If they’ve already got your belt, can there be any question what they’ll have next?

My speaking business once required me to fly about the country on a fairly regular basis, and there was a time when I could tell you stories about air travel. At 6 o’clock on another morning I was the first person in line at the Bangor International Airport. The baggage inspectors had just assumed their stations and, as one snapped on a pair of rubber gloves, I heard a startled old man behind me whisper to his wife, “My, these fellows certainly intend to be thorough.”

But flying is unpredictable; you realize you don’t have the stamina you did when you were 75, and when sleeping in airports and eating Subway sandwiches three times a day isn’t as much fun as it used to be, you quit. In my case, I simply fizzled out.

So what would you do if you were called out of retirement? The Maine Organization Of Storytelling Enthusiasts asked me to tell stories at the Portland Public Library at 7 p.m. on Wednesday. You might know that the MOOSE frown on reading stories. But they must be aware that I am now a museum piece who can no longer set his mouth on automatic pilot while thinking about what to say next. You’ve seen them wheel aged baseball players out onto a field where they toss out the ceremonial first ball. But I’m afraid I’m expected to bat and run the bases.

In a last-minute attempt to prepare myself for what might well be my last speaking engagement, I looked through several hundred old radio rants until I found three dozen I thought I could muddle through in front of a dozen people. A few of my best stories were so dry that only two people out of a hundred would laugh. So if I mess up on the 14th, friends who know me will figure that they just didn’t get it.

The comments below did not fit into my planned program for Wednesday, and if you read them you might see why.

 Most everything has been done before, so I am proud to have a unique friend named Dave who claims to be the only man in Aroostook County to get his head caught in a hydraulic potato barrel hoist.

 Albert Pertinen, a football player for the Boston Red Shoes, made the Guinness Book of Records by completing the past season without a serious injury. He will be awarded a trophy at the Sports Hall of Fame banquet in September for being the first football player in America to play an entire season without having broken knees or cartilage repaired. A disgusted spokesman for the American Orthopedic Association has named Pertinen “Wimp of the Year.”

 Are you ready for The humble Farmer question of the week? A minister who is about to officiate at an outdoor marriage ceremony, held next to a lighthouse, finds that a stiff offshore breeze is blowing his tunic wildly around his head. He solves his problem with 18 or so inches of duct tape. This marriage ceremony took place in A. West Palm Beach, Florida; B. Malibu, California; or C. Port Clyde, Maine.

 When I was sitting in the Knox County Courthouse hoping to be selected for jury duty, people were asked to stand if they or a close family member had been involved in an incident involving alcohol. Twenty or so stood. The judge asked one man, “Was it you or a family member who was involved in this incident?” and the man whined, “It was me, and I still think I was innocent.”

 I can remember finding a brand-new book called “Caring for Your Baby and Child” at a lawn sale. I mentioned to the woman selling it that the book was in awful good condition. She said, “Yes, after I had the kid, I never had time to read it.”

 One hundred years ago, people in Spruce Head knew how to save. Ralph Cline says that his Great-Grandmother Bennett was so thrifty that each spring when she cleaned out the cupboards she’d swallow any medicine that was left so as not to waste it. To appreciate the extent of Great-Grandmother Bennett’s suffering, one should remember that back then, most popular medicines were black, gooey and 85 percent alcohol.

 Over the years I’ve only spoken to a handful of organizations like MOOSE; that is, of storytellers. But I do remember that Jackson Gillman once brought me down to the Harvard campus for a conference of his hippie raconteur friends.

Jackson laid it on pretty thick with my introduction, saying, “You have never heard anything like The humble Farmer.” I took the mike from his hand and said, “I have to agree with Jackson. This is probably the first time many of you have even seen a storyteller who eats meat.”

Correction: This column was updated at 3:33 p.m. on June 10 to correct the spelling of Jackson Gillman’s last name.

The humble Farmer can be heard Friday nights at 7 on WHPW (97.3 FM) and visited at his website: