Tales From Exit 22 by Al Batt

It was one of those rare days in which we received only one season.

Summer!

The day was a scorcher. It was hotter than a pepper’s armpit.

It was a day that reminded me of the old blacksmith shop. That blacksmith shop was one of those places, like a barbershop, where loafers gathered to spit, whittle and tell lies. The blacksmith didn’t encourage them.

Junior Junior, he was named after his father, was the local know-it-all. He ran a discarded tire rescue program. He knew he knew everything, but no one else shared that opinion.

Junior Junior walked over near the forge and picked up a horseshoe, likely with the intent of criticizing its form. He didn’t realize that the horseshoe had barely lost the reddish-white glow of coming out of the fire. He soon had an inkling.

The horseshoe dropped to the floor with a clang. Junior Junior jammed his hand into his pants pocket while attempting to suppress a scream.

“A little warm, wasn’t it?” asked the blacksmith without a hint of sympathy.

“Nope,” said Junior Junior. “It just doesn’t take me long to look at a horseshoe.”

It didn’t take me long to look at that day. I love the outdoors, but it was a blast furnace.

I heard the Sons of the Pioneers sing, “All day I’ve faced the barren waste. Without the taste of water, cool water. Old Dan and I with throats burned dry. And souls that cry for water — cool, clear water.”

It reminded me that my throat was all parched and dry.

I opened the refrigerator to get a drink of cold water. A fruit fly flew into the refrigerator. I raised fruit flies in genetic studies in school. Each student had his or her own swarm. I’m an old fruit fly rancher from way back. Sadly, none of my flying herd survived the branding. I tried to locate the little bugger in the fridge, but he was unavailable. I wanted the fruit fly out of the refrigerator, but that didn’t happen. I shut the fridge door and the fruit fly went without a peep.

On ancient road trips to town, I’d ask that age-old question, “How much farther?”

I sometimes asked, “How many more miles?” or “How many more towns?”

On the Mayflower, they probably asked, “How many more nautical miles?”

I’m knot kidding.

My parents recommended that I stifle myself. We didn’t squabble, At least, I didn’t get to use my squab.

I did mumble, “Tarnation!” a word that I’d learned from a cowboy movie. That earned a frown from my mother.

Blah, blah, blah. I was incessant, only taking brief respites from whining to catch my breath.

On one occasion, after we’d made our stops, none of which thrilled me, we headed home.

I wanted to stop at the root beer stand, but my parents reminded me that chores and milk cows were waiting.

I whined more.

My mother, the sweetest person on earth, had reached her limit. I didn’t even know that she had one.

She told me to sit down and not make a peep until we got home.

Roses are red, violets are blue. I don’t want to hear a peep, coming out of you.

That shocked me. It shocked me so much that I didn’t make a sound when my mother slammed the car door on my finger.

Oh, the agony!

I remained silent for a few miles before I began to cry after the car hit a signless bump.

I want the record to show that I didn’t make a peep.

My mother freed me from the door’s grip and crawled into the back seat where she wrapped a monogrammed handkerchief around my injured digit and held me tight. My father turned the car around and headed to the doctor’s office. Chores and milk cows were forgotten.

We went to see Doc Olds at his office.

I was both happy and unhappy to see Doc Olds.

I liked Doc because he was nice.

I disliked Doc because he gave me shots and foul-tasting medicine.

My mangled and swollen finger looked worse than it was. It recovered. I still have that finger.

I didn’t make a peep.

That was so long ago.

I went years without making a peep.

Some people call it being stoic or having a high pain threshold. I was a peepless person.

Now when I’m ailing, I peep enough to make a baby chick envious.

Peep!

Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.