Tales From Exit 22 by Al Batt

I felt like a rose kissed by the morning dew.

Except for my sore throat, which made it difficult to even think in words.

The preacher came to call. He said with my sore throat, I should be thinking of the hereafter.

I told him, “Oh, I do that all the time. No matter where I am — in the office, in the kitchen or down in the basement — I ask myself, “Now, what am I here after?”

I once considered becoming a man of the cloth. I recall a neighbor saying, “A clergyman would be a good job for you. It’s one that anyone could do.”

Whenever a man says that anyone could do something, it means that he wouldn’t want to do it himself.

Most men don’t deserve a wife, and we’re lucky to find one.

When we were getting hitched, Reverend Fick asked the required, “If anyone can show just cause, why these two should not lawfully be joined together in holy matrimony, let him now speak or forever hold his peace.”

No one said anything.

Reverend Fick smiled at my wife and said, “I’ll give them a few minutes.”

Pastor Fick shared this bit of wisdom with me, “Men refuse to stop and ask for directions. Women refuse to stop giving directions.”

His premarital counseling was good but should have included thermostat setting and the choice of the side of the bed. The importance of finding a happy medium for the thermostat cannot be overstated as far its impact on marital happiness.

When a newlywed chooses a side of the bed, that’s a huge decision. That becomes his or her side for the rest of his life, whether at home, in a hotel, on a cruise, etc.

I sat at a table during a reception with a couple I’ve known all my life. They have been married for forever, maybe longer. You can tell a long-wed couple. They finish each other’s sentences. When he said, “Shut,” she said, “Up.”

A whippersnapper shared our table.

“What do you have to do to become a minister?” the youngster asked.

I said, “You have to get good grades in school, graduate from college, go to a seminary and follow that with an internship. Then a church might call you about a job.”

The girl let that sink in before replying, “What do I have to do to be queen?”

Back to the oldyweds, one who says “Shut” and the other “Up.”

One of them used to work at Herter’s in Waseca. Herter’s was an outdoor sporting goods store begun by George Herter in 1937. It sold gunstocks, canoes, game calls, archery gear, fishing supplies, hunting equipment, traps, snowshoes, “Grizzly Bear” pipe tobacco, clothing, decoys, snowmobiles and much more. Herter’s was a purveyor of small round rocks sold as ancient hunting weapons and published catalogs whose arrivals were eagerly awaited.

The wishbooks arrived well before Christmas, so there was plenty of time for a person to fall into a wishing frenzy. Other mailings came from Sears, Penney’s and Monkey Wards. They were Christmas catalogs — each one was a Santa Claus with page numbers.

At Yuletide, I dragged out the Herter’s catalog, a compendium of outdoors equipment and sporting goods supplies  — an eclectic mix that ran from fishing lures to camping supplies to duck calls to boats to eccentric books. I had a wish on every page. That was known as the shotgun approach.

Bob Russell of the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service showed me a passenger pigeon decoy that he’d purchased at a flea market. The passenger pigeon was once likely the most abundant bird species on the planet. The famed ornithologist Alexander Wilson estimated that one flock consisted of 2 billion birds.

Passenger pigeons became extinct in 1914. Herter’s made the decoy in the 1960s. The “world famous” catalog arrived regularly in our mail, and a pilgrimage to the Herter’s store in Waseca was a celebration of the unusual.

Herter wrote many books. The most famous of which is likely “Bull Cook and Authentic Historical Recipes and Practices.” One chapter was titled “How to Kill a Wild Boar with a Shirt.”

A friend who enjoys Herter’s books told me that they read as if Cliff of “Cheers” had written them. George knew everything. The same friend sent me his favorite Herter quote, “Being eaten alive by hyenas is less painful than you’d think.”

Herter was a promoter who could spin a tale. The name Herter’s is still out there, but the store is no longer in Waseca. I miss getting the catalog in my mailbox.

 

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