In our long ago childhoods, that question was asked daily by stunned frontier townspeople, after the masked man, having foiled a bad man, shouted “Hi ho, Silver!” and rode off on his white horse, Silver, with Tonto (Jay Silverheels), his American Indian sidekick.

They lit our days. In those days we still thought “Injuns” were bad guys with hats full of ornate feathers who killed old Custer and the entire 7th cavalry, then retired to work for Jack Warner at his studio. I actually worked with one on “Gun Smoke.” He used to have lunch at the Farmer’s Market.

OK, seriously. My aging fans, many of you who are still with us, and who listened to the 1949 radio show, know all this because that masked character went on to live in movies and television. The movies kept “masked men” alive, even though the Lone Ranger’s mask had eye holes cut in his, and his white hat never got dirty. You knew he had blue eyes, and everybody knew who he was.

But you remember when masks were for stagecoach bandits who wore fancy colored hankies their “all night ladies” gave them. Real bandits just blew their noses into the tumbleweeds. Ask Clint Eastwood.

OK, enough of that. This is about serious stuff.

It was kind of a shock when a fellow survivor of those days, wearing a red baseball hat sans mask, stopped me today as I wheeled my basket into the local supermarket, collared me, and loudly belched out, “Where’s old Silver, Lone Ranger?” Of course I was too bit embarrassed to admit that I wear a mask when I go to the bathroom three times a night.

Eventually I got my list completed at the market without spotting even one other “Lone Ranger,” and I could hear old folks whisper, “Who is that masked man?”

That’s the way it goes now, in the aisles at the grocers and even at the pharmacy window at CVS, full of Waterville faces with noses and mouths in full view, even though our old nemesis COVID is still flying around.

And now here we are with, of all things, bird flu. Bird flu?? I mean, has anyone in these dark, rainy days backed you up against the enormous windows of the Paul J. Schupf Art Center, grasped your lapels, and with wide eyes scanning passersby and hoarsely whispered, “You get your bird flu shot yet?”

And does it include my new bird Paco, who sits atop my MacBook Pro looking down at me, his lips quivering, eyes popping and seems to query me, “Bird flu? Birds get flu? I’m a bird am I not? Not as red as a cardinal or blue as a jay, gigantic as a seagull, but I’m a bird … am I sick? Do something … take my temperature!!! You paid 300 bucks for me, and I’m not even getting high tea!” I quickly read him an article in the New Yorker, the one he chews on, about pet birds cruelly imprisoned in cozy homes who don’t get flu.

I’ve stopping eating the fresh, delicious, well-cooked chicken at the barbecue stand in the market, where the 17-year-old counter boy told me, “Don’t worry J.P., our chickens are safe.” Today I went to ask him again, but they said he’s out sick.

Tonight I’m having canned peas, mashed potatoes, salad and nonalcoholic beer.

What have you heard about canned peas? Anything?

J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer.