A splendid question! Put to me by Grace Haukoos, in the middle of my tale of woe, when she asked, &uot;Why did you go to the luncheon in the first place?&uot;

What my answer lacked in splendor it made up for in simplicity: &uot;Because I’m a bit on the stupid side.&uot;

Not that it wasn’t a very nice little luncheon. Four kinds of sandwiches. I’d been told I could bring a guest, and she won a door prize. Oh, yes, the luncheon was one of those that explain investments to the pre-senile crowd; there were about 32 of us present.

I’ve been to several of the sort. Not that I have that much money to invest, but I always hope to lessen my complete ignorance of investing what I have. I mean 2.5 percent interest doesn’t make me feel like the world is my oyster.

Usually, once I attend the luncheon and get a list of brokers, the matter is at an end. This time there were follow up calls, and subsequently, I agreed to be talked to by representatives. And I must say they sent the best two young men, handsome, debonair, impeccably groomed, just the sort any parent would like to see the daughter married to &045; particularly if the parent were a Republican.

In no time at all they had me looking at an investment that would double my income. From the beginning, though, I had said that any investment I made must be approved by my attorney, a tolerant man willing to abide a client somewhat wanting.

The attorney nixed the proposition and that was that. I was a little sad about not doubling my income, but grateful not to have made a mistake.

The following Monday I received a letter from my bank revealing that my savings had been transferred to the company that I had been advised not to invest in.

My hysterical telephone call to the bank acquainted me with the &uot;fact&uot; that the savings were released in response to a signed and notarized request from me.

Now mind, I’m not implying that anything dishonest was intended in all this. Indeed the young man conducting the transaction explained to me that it was all just &uot;a misunderstanding.&uot; It is a trifle frightening, though, that I can sign a paper permitting what I have from the start said I would not permit.

I’m a little bitter about the notary, too. I don’t often have a notary visiting me. I think it would have been only courteous to have introduced said notary to me.

As this is being written, I understand that, thanks to the intervention of my attorney, my savings will be returned to me. There will, of course, be legal fees and I will have lost a month’s interest.

It does seem to me that since the bank is making more money on my investment than I’m making on it someone might have spent five minutes on a telephone call to ask if I had signed any such release. Especially since if I want to know my balance, it takes me from 20 minutes to a half an hour to get it.

I have to call an 800-number, and push one or two or three of the touch phone digits; there’s a choice of seven depending on what one wants to know. Difficult to do with a dial telephone.

Eventually when the robot speaking to me realizes I don’t have a touch telephone, I’m told with some disdain to hold on and someone will talk to me. Then, after a rather longish time elapse, during which bits of music of the sort played in a Dracula-type movie entertain me, a real person takes over.

After I give the real person my account number, my Social Security number, my date of birth and my mother’s maiden name, I receive the information I’m seeking.

One doesn’t like to be petty. I do appreciate the caution regarding giving out information about my savings. If the same caution could be exercised in regard to the savings themselves I’d be even more appreciative.

Right now I’m thinking that my money is probably less safe in a bank than it would be under my mattress.

It’s a little humiliating to write a column revealing myself as being such a pushover to the clever ones. And no, I have no use for the Brooklyn Bridge. I do know, however, that among my readers &045; for whom I have an unbounded affection &045; there may be others of my generation who are a mite wobbly about investments. If I can keep just one of them from making my mistake, it’s the least I can do.

I’m not telling anyone to stay away from investment luncheons, but the sandwiches are not really all that good.

Love Cruikshank is an Albert Lea resident. Her column appears Thursdays.