Tales From Exit 22 by Al Batt

Echoes from the Loafers Club Meeting

“This nice weather brings fond memories of the time I ran that marathon.”

“I remember that. You ran only 50 yards.”

“I know, but I made good time.”

 

I’ve learned

To check for toilet paper first.

Yours is never the weirdest family.

If you are worried about getting a disease from biting insects, don’t bite any.

 

Ask Al

“How do I find north when I’m in the woods?” Face south and then turn around quickly.

“How far do you live from town?” Three or four miles, depending upon the traffic.

“What would you do if the boat you were in started leaking?” I’d put a pan under it.

 

Tea time

I stopped at a fast food restaurant to get a cup of hot tea. It wasn’t my favorite tea, but it was better than none. The person ahead of me purchased a numbered meal and paid for it with cash pulled from a battered wallet held together by duct tape. The cashier gave the customer change. The man counted his change twice and was about to do it a third time when the cashier asked, “Is it all there?”

The man put his money away and grumbled, “Barely.”

 

Café chronicles

The old stove was battered. There had been a run on pancakes. My nose rejoiced. Why can’t more foods smell like bacon? I feel like I belong a little bit in many places, but the smell of bacon in a small town cafe tells me I’m home. A place where I find foods that I’d forgotten I’d liked. Foods that could be reasoned with — not too spicy. Patrons who remember what it was like before they were held up at the point of a gas pump. Men who are willing to teach more than they know. Where everyone gets a slice of the baloney.

“These pancakes are fluffy, yet crispy. Golden brown and delicious,” said a diner.

“You like them?” said the surprised waitress.

“Well, they could be rounder.”

 

His goal was to be the penultimate 

A fellow of my acquaintance graduated during the last year of a tiny school’s existence. There were three in his class. At the graduation ceremonies, the salutatorian spoke. Then the valedictorian talked. This fellow remained seated and quiet. Everyone knew his academic standing in his class. Last.

 

Those thrilling days of yesteryear

I was one of those little kids. You know the kind. To get my busy mother’s attention, I whined endlessly, “Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom…”

Mom took as much as she could stand before saying, “What do you want?”

By then, I’d forgotten what I wanted.

 

Have you ever wondered?

What age we are when we find it necessary to lick a thumb or forefinger in order to turn the pages of a book or magazine? A dampened digit does come in handy. I know that if my finger is wet, I am turning the page forward. If my thumb is wet, I am paging backward to check on something I’d read or missed.

 

Fattigmann forever

While visiting with a couple of my wife’s relatives from Norway, I learned more about fattigmann — a type of Norwegian fried-dough cookie. I’ve eaten the stuff, but knew nothing more about it other than I liked it. Fattigmann is eaten in the areas of North America where Scandinavians settled. The dough is made from egg yolks, egg whites, sugar, cream, brandy (optional), cinnamon, cardamom and flour. Vanilla and other things can be a part. Fattigmann means “poor man.” It’s from the ingredients that it gets its name. The joke is that fattigmann was so expensive to make, that making it would leave you a poor man.

 

That’s why they sell earplugs

I admit it, I don’t enjoy loud music. I try not to gripe about it, but I growl occasionally. When I do that, I recall a Robert Frost poem, titled, “A Minor Bird.” “I have wished a bird would fly away, And not sing by my house all day. Have clapped my hands at him from the door, When it seemed as if I could bear no more. The fault must partly have been in me. The bird was not to blame for his key. And, of course, there must be something wrong, In wanting to silence any song.”

 

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.