Column: Tales from Exit 22, by Al Batt

It was back in the day when I tried not to put my tongue on the pumphandle.

It was difficult not to do something that I’d been told so often not to do.

The Christmas before, I’d played with my new Etch A Sketch. I had so much fun with it that no one had the heart to tell me that it was an ant farm. I got an electric football game, too. You plugged it in and the players vibrated and then fell down.

This particular year, I wanted my own baseball glove. Not a hand-me-down. I couldn’t remember ever wanting anything so much. Einar’s Hardware had the perfect glove on display. The problem was that I wasn’t the only kid who wanted it. I checked at Einar’s regularly to check the limited supply, while dropping subtle hits to my family about my need for the glove. I didn’t want it. I needed it. It was on every list I’d provided to everyone who would accept a list.

One afternoon, I stopped into Einar’s and discovered that there was only one glove left. I’d reached the fork in the road. It can be a dilemma even when you’re not sure what “dilemma” means. I made an executive decision. I grabbed the glove and took it to the counter. There were no lanes — just a nice woman behind the cash register. “Are you sure this is what you want?” she asked. “It’s quite expensive.”

I wouldn’t be deterred. I handed over my entire pool of Christmas money. I didn’t get much change back. My wallet was left gasping.

I’d made something for my parents out of pipe cleaners, macaroni and walnut shells that looked just like something made out of pipe cleaners, macaroni and walnut shells. I gave something from the heart, but I wanted something from the wallet.

I felt guilty. With the surviving money, I bought my father a pair of cheap work gloves. They weren’t the good kind that would last. They were the cheap kind bought by boys who had spent their money greedily on something for themselves. I bought my mother a potholder. She had a plethora of potholders, but I could find nothing else in my price range. I should have bought better gifts for my parents, but I didn’t. The shopping experience had left me with a hollow feeling that even Ayn Rand couldn’t have explained away.

I walked out of Einar’s leaving two trails, footprints and slime.

I hid the glove in my closet. I needed time to think of a reason for its presence. I wrapped my parents’ presents in the funny pages from the Sunday newspaper. I made sure that one of Dad’s favorite comics would be evident on the outside of the package.

I placed their gifts under the tree.

On Christmas morning, I was given a gift to open first. It was the glove, purchased by my parents from Einar’s earlier than my transaction there.

I’m sure my parents wondered why I wasn’t as happy about my gift as they pretended to be about theirs, but they didn’t ask.

 

Christmas was

individually wrapped

His grandmother had died in November.

He loved his grandmother. She’d been in an assisted-living facility for some time. It was a nice place and he visited regularly. She’d told him that she was like the Titanic. She was sinking.

They ate lunch together often at the home. Each meal came with crackers. No matter what the main entrée was, the table was equipped with crackers. They were small, individually wrapped, saltine crackers. The little crackers were delicious. They were almost crispy and all around likeable.

He told his grandmother how good the crackers were. That seemed to please her.

At his family’s Christmas party, when gastronomic athletes attempted to set eating records, he was surprised to find a gift for him from his grandmother under the Christmas tree.

The family took turns opening presents so that everyone could ooh and aah at the thoughtful gifts. When it was his turn to open a present, he chose to open the one from his deceased grandmother. He wondered aloud when she had wrapped it and how nice it was of her to have thought of him so far before Christmas.

Opening the gift, he found that it was a box of little saltine crackers, each individually wrapped and acquired one at a time from meals at the home.

The best gifts come from the most surprising sources at unexpected times.

 

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