Column: Tales from Exit 22

“See.”

That’s what my Grandma would have said.

My Aunt Dorothy had died. Memories filled my heart. Shortly after her death, two friends passed away — one succumbing to illness and the other to an accident. The world changes with each tick of the clock.

Grandma said that people died in threes. She spread the deaths over any period needed in order to substantiate her belief.

I was driving home from working at a county fair. A dark road stretched ahead of me. It was all different yet all the same. It was just south of midnight when I turned onto a familiar paved road. There in the middle of that road was a small creature. There was no other traffic, so I had no problem swerving to miss what I perceived to be an owl. I pulled over to the side of the road, parked the car, activated the 4-way flashers, and walked back to the owl. I attempted to be one of those who walks in when others walk out. It was a young barred owl. This is the raptor famed for its call, “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all?” Owls often hunt roads as they offer opportunities to snag mice and voles that are crossing the roads. It was likely a particularly good place for a young owl that had not mastered hunting skills. I could tell it was a young bird as it still had some downy feathers poking up like one of my misbehaving eyebrows.

The owl snapped its bill and hissed at me. I talked to the owl in comforting tones. I had already decided to carve out time between jobs to take the bird to the Raptor Center at the University of Minnesota if needed. Finding an owl can be easier than getting rid of one. The Raptor Center was a long drive but doing a good deed shortens the road. I considered Newton’s Law of Motion. “An object at rest will remain at rest unless acted on by an unbalanced force.”

I am as unbalanced as anyone and was determined to act on the owl. I picked up the owl and released it into the night. It flew across the road and landed in a tree illuminated by a farm’s security light. It flew like a healthy, strong bird.

I walked to my car. I felt good. I had saved a life. It was something I needed to do after the three deaths.

My mother said that we were put on earth to help others. She didn’t define others. I was pleased to have acted upon her good counsel.

The next day, I drove the same road. I was saddened to find the young barred owl lying dead alongside the road. It had returned to the road. It should not have done so. Another car had not swerved.

It was important for me to save a life, but I could not.

It’s not a perfect world.

I was counting my fingers.

I did that every day after junior high shop class. That is, whenever I took a break from considering having “This end up” tattooed on my forehead.

I learned much from my father. He taught me that whether I’m shooting a rifle, casting a line, or whittling, I should do it away from me. That’s why I watched TV. It presented a world far away from me.

I needed something to do while I took a breather from counting fingers. Addition was a mysterious concept.

I watched “The Andy Griffith Show.” There were 249 episodes featuring Andy Griffith as Sheriff Andy Taylor. It took place in a nearly Utopian town called Mayberry, North Carolina. All the answers were evident in Mayberry. I preferred the 159 episodes that were in black-and-white and only those highlighting Deputy Barney Fife. I couldn’t watch them all. Enough is better than too much. Barney was as bumbling as Andy was wise.

“The Andy Griffith Show” was as popular as the last day of school and has become the subject of sermons, books and college courses. I reveled in the hijinks of Floyd the barber, Otis the dry town’s drunk, Opie, Aunt Bea, Gomer, and Thelma Lou, Barney’s main squeeze.

I turned our ancient TV to Mayberry and my world contracted.

The actors were like real people, only more human.

What was the series’ charm? There were many. I’ll find more in the reruns.

We are not likely to produce a practically perfect world like that found in Mayberry.

But we can try.

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