Tales From Exit 22 by Al Batt

I listened to the radio.

The bed had been warm and my pillow cold. That perfect combination made it hard to rise.

I said a little prayer, counted my blessings and savored the calm before the coming storm of activity that each day brings.

I jumpstart my brain in the morning with newspapers, books and radio. Occasionally a magazine, but never a TV. I love learning early things without too many pictures, allowing my imagination free reign.

Plus there aren’t any reruns. Everything is new. The Greek philosopher Heraclitus said, “You can never enter the same river twice.”

It’s good to start the day knowing something new. That way, if someone said, “The first thing you know.”

You could respond with something other than, “Old Jed’s a millionaire.”

I’d fixed myself a hot meal — peanut butter on toast. Nothing new there. I give little consideration to breakfast options. It’s toast plus Kashi or Cheerios, yogurt, orange juice and PG Tips tea.

I dream of days that move with the speed of a building. People tell me that’s a dreadful thing to desire. Thanks to an ambitious calendar, most of my days fly by before I’ve realized they were here.

I look for something positive in every morning’s news. Some days I have to search harder than on others.

The news carried a story about a man who had trained his girlfriend’s rabbit, Wallace, to fetch a bottle of beer. This was a man whose days went by slowly. He had too much time on his hands. He built a small cart and with the help of raisins as incentives, the bunny pushed the beer the man’s direction. How did he get the beer out of the refrigerator and open the bottle? He had to train the cat to do that.

He didn’t really train a cat. That would be like herding cats. Cats move only when there are laps to fill. Why do women like cats? Cats are independent. They don’t listen, they don’t come when you call, they can be emotionally reserved and they don’t want to try new foods. In other words, qualities women hate in a man, they love in a cat.

Animals do amazing things all the time. Not all of them make the news.

One evening, at Hartland University, the local dispensary of adult beverages, a Holstein cow walked in, uddered up to the bar and ordered a beer and a bump. Without batting an eye, the bartender set a bottle and a glass in front of the bovine. The cow paid with a $20 bill. The bartender thought, “It’s a cow. She won’t know what drinks cost.” He gave the cow no money back.

“You know, you’re the first cow I’ve ever seen in here,” he said.

The cow looked at her empty hoof and replied, “At these prices, I’m the last cow you’ll ever see in here.”

A cow will work for you 10 years for an opportunity to kick you once.

May the bartender live 100 years, with one extra year to repent.

I worked for cows for many years. One year, my aunt lost her wedding ring while bringing lunch to me as I was mending fences. We searched everywhere for that ring without luck. I even employed a metal detector that I’d built — a Heathkit model. I found countless bits of metal, but no ring.

Three weeks later a cow walked up to me. She carried the ring in her mouth.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was like seeing a bloody turnip. I took the ring from the cow’s mouth, thanked her, whistled a happy tune and presented it to my aunt as soon as possible.

My aunt raised her eyes heavenward and exclaimed, “It’s a miracle!”

It wasn’t. Her name was written on the inside of the ring.

Cows might be smarter than men. I offer two examples.

A friend told me that after a day of frustrating work and travel, he told his wife that he couldn’t find his cellphone. His wife, on the other end of the line, told him kindly, “You’re talking on it.”

My wife occasionally asks questions filled with husband traps, especially after she’d reread her favorite book, “Women Are from Venus and Men Are Wrong.”

“If you could live your life over again, would you do anything differently?” she asked sweetly.

“Probably,” I mansplained.

“What?” she asked not as sweetly as she’d asked the prior question.

After minimum cogitation, I replied, “Everything. I can’t remember how I did anything.”

 

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