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Tales from Exit 22 by Al Batt

The city’s water tower held gravy.

It happens every Thanksgiving.

I was clumping along like sneakers in a dryer, lugging the fixings and the fixed from the car to the kitchen.

There was no tofurkey and fravy, but I’d just had my oil changed, so there might have been pumpkin spice in my motor oil. Once again, I was thankful that glitter isn’t an ingredient in gravy.
I thought of a time when all the shopping malls were thriving.

They were bustling enterprises of commerce. I had accompanied my wife to a mall, where she was going to do some serious shopping. She told me she’d be there for a while, and I told her I’d be in the bookstore.

I purchased a book and strolled to one of those loafers’ benches scattered strategically throughout the mall, often with large plants looming behind them. These places were havens for men. A spot without loud music and overly helpful salespeople. A perch that offered them a chance to people judge.

I sat down and began working my way through a well-written book of nonfiction. A fellow loafer hobbled over and plopped down beside me. He was from the generation ahead of me and was gleefully pessimistic as he grumbled about a stone in his shoe.

“How could I get a rock in my shoe in here?” he wondered aloud. “Probably an M&M,” he said, answering his own question.

“They’re everywhere.”

He made that sound men of a certain age make when they bend over to fuss with their shoes — a mixture of a moan and a groan. He made the sound again when he discovered that not only did he need to take one shoe off to remove a foreign object, but his other shoe had become untied.

“Why couldn’t the one I needed to take off have been the one that untied its laces? These stupid round shoelaces refuse to stay tied.”

I’d just read the same paragraph for the third time. I gave up and closed the book.

He bent over and untied one shoe and freed the tiny tormentor, which turned out to be unidentifiable. He sat upright and mumbled unintelligibly before bending over to retie the shoe. He sat up again. “The blood runs to my head.”

He offered that as his excuse to do those simple tasks in shifts before bending over a third time to retie the shoe that had untied itself.

He returned to the upright position and smiled. He had learned that there were days when tying his shoes had become his ironman competition. Life is getting used to things.

He looked over at me and smiled. “Good book?” he asked.

Why do I remember this? Because I’d jotted it down in a little notebook I carry. Why do I carry a little notebook? So I can write things down. My scribblings are gratitude prompts because I believe what Roy T. Bennett said, “Be thankful for everything that happens in your life; it’s all an experience.”

I don’t tie my shoes in shifts — yet. I don’t tie my shoes as often as I once did. I still have shoes that require tying, but I also have shoes with laces that I need not tie or untie. I slip into them. I like that—I like a lot of things. I’m thankful I do.

“The book is incredibly good,” I replied with a returned smile. I’m thankful I don’t need a reason to smile, but Thanksgiving is a big reason.

I’m thankful for too many things to mention, except mashed potatoes. I’ll mention them. Mashed potatoes are mashterpieces. Well, if I’m going to mention one thing, I’m going to mention others.

I’m thankful for Thanksgiving carolers. I’ve never seen them, but I’ve been expecting them.

I’m thankful that heredity runs in my family, and I’ve never eaten pumpkin pie when I had room for it, but I know what to do when I’ve eaten so much that I couldn’t eat another crumb. I ask for whipped cream on my pumpkin pie.

I’m thankful that my socks still fit after I’ve eaten the pumpkin pie.

I’m thankful Thanksgiving always ends in a “g.”

Keep moving. Be kind to others. Be thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Al Batt’s column appears in the Tribune every Wednesday.