Tales From Exit 22 by Al Batt

Dear E.B. White,

I was thinking that I hadn’t written you a letter in quite a spell.

I intend to remedy that by, as they say, putting some things down on paper. I find writing a letter is good for whatever there is to be good for.

We miss you and think of you often with fondness.

Much time has passed since we met in the library when I was just a boy. I read your book, “Charlotte’s Web,” and I whooped in joy. I was mesmerized by the way you leaned one word against another in a magical way. The librarian shushed me and gave me the PBQ look — please be quiet. Then I read your writings in “The New Yorker.” You have been my friend since then.

I’ll try to catch you up on what’s going on here. We are still centrally located as long as you live where we live.

My groundbreaking novel hasn’t been written yet.

The weather has been on the up-and-down side. Good, bad and indifferent. The weather is like our roads. They, too, go uphill and downhill. It has been wet, but we are having some sunshine piped in. We get too much and too little weather.

The mosquito crop was a good one. The corn and soybeans look to be nearly as good.

Most of the farmers in the area have given up milking cows. I see soymilk and almond milk on the supermarket shelves, so perhaps some of them have taken up milking soybeans or almonds. I’d think that using that tiny little milk stool would be hard on the back.

Trips to the basement haven’t been accompanied by panic. No tornadoes are good tornadoes.

I’m not sure how the fishing is. There is some fibbing involved in fishing. I shouldn’t comment on angling. I couldn’t catch an anchovy with a pizza.

A neighbor added onto his house so he’d have room for more junk drawers. He needed the additional space to store his ever-growing collection of twist ties. His goal is to set a world record for the largest twist-tie ball one day. We are all proud of him and save our twist ties for his effort. He is taking a mail order course on taxidermy. His wife has vowed to outlive him.

He’s like the fellow who ate paste when I was in school. He sticks to things. He had a rock in his right shoe. He was going to remove it, until he discovered how much sympathy his limp garnered him. He was our regular flag carrier in parades, but now he’s suffering from an enlarged navel. He went to the doctor for a check-up. He is on the verge of becoming all pants. After a thorough examination, the doctor said, “Well, based on my examination, the best thing for you is to cut out all sweets and fatty foods, give up alcohol, and stop smoking those cigars.”

The man said, “To be honest, Doc, I don’t deserve the best. What’s second best?”

We guess and hope. We do things in the spirit of hope. We look cheerful when we think we can get away with it. When we hear someone say, “I didn’t want to upset you,” it upsets us.

We perk up around sweet corn and pie. We can’t help it. We try to be buddies with our taste buds. We strive to overcome a fear of beets or lima beans.

We remember to never hit a hornets’ nest with a short stick.

People who are known to put a foot down or grow sick and tired stay busy working and trying to get out of working.

We mow lawns. Lives run on grass clippings. Mowing gives a yard a civilized look. An untidy lawn causes folks to become uneasy.

Love doesn’t conquer all, but it does put the dirty clothes into the hamper.

We dream big, but we keep some small dreams in reserve. We don’t want to be up the creek without a paddle, canoe or water.

We lose people. Some get too close to the cliff. Others are simply misplaced. We see people we’d nearly forgotten at local celebrations. We are happy to have seen them just in the nick of time.

You wrote, “I arise in the morning torn between a desire to save the world and a desire to savor the world. This makes it hard to plan the day.”

I awake to the same feelings. I’ll write again, the good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise.

Your pal,

Al

 

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