My mother was a teetotaler.

Wednesday, November 28, 2001

My mother was a teetotaler. She had never had a drink of alcohol in her life. Not only was she a nondrinker, she didn’t approve of anyone else consuming it either. She would have made Carrie Nation appear apathetic about the problems of drink. Hartland has a liquor store. It is called Hartland University. People attend a kind of night school there and earn credits after work. Hartland has had a liquor store for most of the city’s existence. While I was growing up, it had a municipal liquor store. Many a fellow had a drink there and eased his conscience by saying that he was only doing it for the good of the town.

One day, when I was 13 years old, I had accompanied my mother to Hartland. The drive to Hartland and back was quite a commitment for a 13-year-old boy. I was a fairly normal 13-year-old, embarrassed to be seen in public with my parents. As with most of those my age, I believed my parents to be the goofiest set in existence. Mother parked our 1953 Pontiac Chieftain on the street near the rear of Sibilrud’s Cardinal Grocery Store. We had eggs to give to the folks in Sibilrud’s. Sibilrud’s bought the eggs from us and put the money towards the groceries we would purchase.

Mother told me the plan of attack. We would go to Hartland Hardware first as my father had given her a list of things he needed. My mother’s specialty was getting the wrong part for any piece of farm equipment. I followed my mother at a distance as we entered the hardware store, which we more commonly called, &uot;Einar’s.&uot; I had to follow at a distance in case someone around my age saw me with my mother – an act more humiliating than showing up in study hall in my underwear. The appearance in study hall while I was clad only in my underwear was an oft-repeated nightmare of mine.

Mother bought a few nuts and bolts from the clerk in &uot;Einar’s.&uot; I was hoping she would buy some nails, but she did not. My father preferred to employ nails of the well-used variety. To him, a bent nail covered with rust was indicative of experience – a desired trait in nails.

From Einar’s, my mother had planned a walk to Bell’s Greenhouse run by Harvey and Iris Bell. I always enjoyed my visits there. The Bells were such wonderful people and I liked to see their plants and hear the talk about gardening. They had a way of making you feel welcome.

Now our normal path when walking to the Greenhouse was to cross the street near the Post Office, walking towards Vivian’s Caf\u00E9, home of the addictive fried rolls, and then turning right past the John Deere Shop, past the Hartland Lutheran Church and then on to the Greenhouse. This was so my mother could avoid walking past the liquor store. I guess she didn’t approve of people who walked in front of liquor dispensing establishments -&160;at least in the daytime.

This day, however, my mother must have had too many things on her mind. She was picking up an arrangement of flowers for a funeral and that thought must have demanded all of her attention. We walked across the street and prepared to walk right in front of the Hartland Municipal Liquor Store. I was shocked and amazed. My mother never walked near the liquor store.

There we were walking in front of the liquor store when an odd thing happened. As I watched helplessly, my mother tripped on an uneven crack in the sidewalk and fell. I knew I hadn’t stepped on a crack and broken my mother’s back.

Now at age 13, it is pretty embarrassing just having parents, let alone having one who rolls around on the sidewalk in front of a liquor store. I wanted to just keep walking, but I couldn’t. She was my mother and I loved her. I tried to help her up, but she was laughing so hard, it was like trying to get a burlap bag of bobcats to stand up straight. She laughed at the absurdity of it all and she laughed so hard that tears rolled down her face. It seemed like everyone that I knew drove or walked by as I struggled to right my mother, who continued to laugh uncontrollably. The more embarrassed I became, the harder my mother laughed.

I learned a lesson that day. I learned that my mother was right about what she was always telling me – she didn’t have to drink to have a good time.

Hartland resident Al Batt writes columns for the Wednesday and Sunday editions of the Tribune.