Tales From Exit 22 by Al Batt

I had an acute case of everything was wonderful.

It was a time before convenience was a necessity. Most stores were closed on Sundays and convenience stores were fondly referred to as, “A what?”

This left the world an inconvenient place, but we didn’t know any better.

It was long before I’d gained the ability to trudge along.

There I was, a boy rollerskating down an uneven sidewalk in front of a church in Algona, Iowa.

There was nothing odd about that.

The sidewalk was covered with maple seeds. Not enough to fill the cracks in the sidewalk, but more than I could have counted even on one of my best arithmetic days.

There was nothing odd about that.

I was singing the overture from “The Bugs Bunny Show.” You know it. It goes like this, “Overture, curtains, lights. This is it, the night of nights. No more rehearsing and nursing a part. We know every part by heart. Overture, curtains, lights.

This is it, you’ll hit the heights. And oh what heights we’ll hit. On with the show this is it.”

There was nothing odd about that.

I was wearing hand-me-down Key bib overalls (“The Aristocrat of Overalls”) with just one functioning shoulder strap.

There was nothing odd about that.

I looked dashing and somewhat debonair in a plain, white T-shirt and work socks. Work socks? I’d never seen the socks do even the slightest bit of work.

There was nothing odd about that.

The only thing that could have been considered odd, if you looked hard for something that was odd, would be that I was wearing only one skate. It was one of those strap-on skates, clinging to my Keds sneaker.

Anyone who knew the backstory, knew that there was nothing odd about me rollerskating with but one skate.

I owned only one skate. It was in workable condition, so it seemed a shame not to use it.

The single skate provided a different view of the world or at least of the uneven sidewalk.

I was seeing things in a way the rest of the world couldn’t see.

I was just like everyone else in that way.

That was a good day. Imagine the place you would most like to be while looking at your cellphone. That was that day.

Or at least it was until I encountered another traveler on the same path. It was the mailman, dutifully completing his appointed rounds.

He saw me zooming at him on one strap-on roller skate. I saw him, carrying a big bag of mail. It looked as if a nasty head-on collision would ensue. I tried to move to one side to avoid him. He tried to move to the same side to avoid me. I should have stayed in my own lane. I leaned this way and that, unintentionally decking the poor mailman.

I’m not exactly sure how we avoided hitting one another. It was none of my doing.

As I skated on, I looked back at the mailman sprawled on the ground. Envelopes fluttered down. I heard clearly that the friendly letter carrier had put me on a first adjective basis.

I thought about that day recently as I slaved over a hot toaster. I’d recently read a book titled, “Struck by Genius: How a Brain Injury Made Me a Mathematical Marvel.” The author, Jason Padgett, had been attacked outside a karaoke bar and suffered a brain injury.

Prior to the attack, he’d been working at a business named Planet Futon and the deepest furrow he had plowed in the math world was taking a pre-algebra class.

After the incident, everything looked different to him. The injury had given him “acquired savant syndrome.” The brain injury had made him a mathematical genius.

Suddenly, he was drawing pictures of pi and telling innocent bystanders that circles don’t exist. He’d discovered a language of the world most of us couldn’t understand. He saw patterns hidden from the rest of us.

I can’t say that I had a different view of the world after I’d nearly run over a mailman with my lone rollerskate, but I’m sure I did.

Everything changes us. It doesn’t take a brain injury.

Kathleen Norris wrote, “Prayer is not asking for what you think you want, but asking to be changed in ways you can’t imagine.”

After my Aunt Helen heard about my near collision with the mailman, she laughed and declared, “You’re lucky to be alive.”

I was.

You are, too.

 

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