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Tales from Exit 22 by Al Batt

There are legions of famous Minnesotans, and that includes you.

There are too many esteemed Gopher Staters to count, but I’ll mention a few: Bob Dylan, Judy Garland, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Sinclair Lewis, Charles Schulz (the creator of “Peanuts), James Arness (played Matt Dillon in “Gunsmoke”), Garrison Keillor, Prince, Jesse Ventura, Walter Mondale, Hubert H. Humphrey and the cook at Sherlock Holmes Elementary.

Our illustrious and highly underpaid school cook was the only one of that group of famous folks who provided me with a tasty lunch five days a week during the school year. I thanked her often on behalf of my stomach and taste buds.

Several eons ago, on a day hotter than a rooster’s armpit, a man, intent on starting on a path to becoming a powerful politician like Mondale or Humphrey (both were vice presidents), stopped on the gravel road going past the farm field where I was struggling to convince a piece of equipment to do its job. I watched as he got out of his car, which I identified as a Buick. It was back in the day when I could tell one vehicle from another. The day had been nowhere near copacetic, and I hoped he was the cavalry riding in to provide capable assistance. He walked the short distance to where I was. He carried only a leaflet showcasing his greatness, but it was enough for him to work up a sweat.

Thinking I was the Earl of Cornstalk, he reached out his hand. I, smelling of dirt, farm lubricants and teenage angst, offered mine in return. We shook and howdied.

He introduced himself (his name might have been Thistlebottom, but I doubt it) and declared his lofty desire for a public office.

“It’s a scorcher,” he said. “You should be out on the water.”

Minnesota is the land of 10,000 lakes. It says so on our license plates. Lakes make for easy and safe small talk. Our plates say 10,000, even though the DNR states Minnesota has 11,842 lakes of 10 acres or more. We were tagged with 10,000 because some humble license plate designer said, “Ten thousand is more than enough lakes.”

Thistlebottom pulled a small white handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his dewy brow. I didn’t yank my humongous red hankie from my pocket and help him.

He continued with the lake-driven conversation. “Do you get the chance to do any sailing?”

Sailing? I’d been to some livestock sales.

“Not a lot,” I replied.

“How about waterskiing?”

It was hard to do much of that behind a rowboat. I hoped he didn’t ask about surfing. I never understood some of the Beach Boys’ music.

“I’ve never water-skied, but I love to snowshoe,” I said.

That inserted a lull in the conversation, but he perked up, just as any prospective politician should. His smile was like a wave across a large slop pail.

“Are you old enough to vote?” he pried.

“I’m 17.”

His smile fell with a resounding thud.

I knew little about politics, but I knew that for every election, there is an equal and opposite reelection and that voting is like choosing your favorite mosquito in a swarm. And that meteorologists and economists are often wrong, but are right more often than pollsters.

“Is your father around?” he continued his interrogation.

I thought it was terrible he didn’t ask if my mother was around. She could vote just as well as my father, probably better.

“If Dad weren’t around, I wouldn’t be working this hard.”

It was then that a red-tailed hawk flew down from its perch on a utility pole and plucked a vole from the ground. The vole is the potato chip of the prairie because it’s a popular snack item for many predators. The two flew off together, with the rodent having plenty of legroom it couldn’t enjoy.

Thistlebottom took a deep breath as if he were trying to inhale what he’d just seen, before giving me a look that let me know he’d never seen anything like that before.

“If you’re running for office, I hope you can run faster than that vole,” I advised.

He bid me a good day and wished me well.

I doubted his sincerity.

Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday in the Tribune.