Due to extremely poor planning on the part of the city founders, Hartland is subject to Minnesota winters.

Despite the weather, I am a proud member of the Hartland Loafers’ Club. A Loafers’ Club is a familiar group in every small town and in every neighborhood in a larger city.

The club meets every morning. We do nothing. We talk about how we could do even less. Then we go home and rest.

We swap lies. The first liar doesn’t have a chance. He throws his fib out and the others improve upon it.

Such loose-knit groups are important not only in the social context, but also in the feelings of well-being of the members. My father said, “A man needs a place to go and something to do.”

The Loafers’ Club is where even slothfulness and fabrication can be good things.

We gather at the café where all the waitresses are hotdishes and grease is good. Where the food chain is missing a few links, the special is always the Heimlich maneuver and gravy is considered a beverage. It features authentic leftovers with less hair in the food and serves a mean bottle of ketchup. Don’t take any wooden pickles. Remember, if it doesn’t smell like coffee, it probably isn’t. When we have nothing to do, we like to do it at the cafe. We are a soap opera — “As the Bladder Fills.” We meander to the beat of a different drummer.

The men seated at the Loafers’ Club table vary with the day, but usually includes my neighbor Crandall. He has an endless supply of relatives who spend time at his humble abode. Crandall says that just thinking about Hartland gives him a lump in his throat. Of course, he might have swallowed another pickled pig’s foot whole.

Another member is Still Bill, you have to drive stakes by him to see if he’s moving, who was born with little ambition and worked at it until he ended up without any. He’d have to speed up in order to slow down. I’m not saying he’s lazy, but cobwebs don’t lie. My favorite quote of Still Bill’s is, “I’d like to see that. Too bad I’m not facing that direction.”

Others drinking coffee on the buddy system are Amazing Bob, the czar over at Saint Menard’s Hardware. Worrying Elmer, who manages the airport — Hartland International Airport, it’s for good pilots only. Crying Charlie, the owner of Fuel’s Paradise gas station with the motto, “Why pay less?” Possum and his imaginary brother, the owners of the Adult Beverage Emporium and Wisdom Dispensary. Gravel Gary, a hauler of extraordinary dirt. Hartland Harold knows things. He tells us the program on winter preparedness was canceled due to snow and gives ice fishing reports from Lake Inferior, where fish have never learned to swim and where Camp Wedgie is located. Pat Pending invented a smoke alarm with a snooze button and a bowling ball/clock for those who want to let the good times roll. The Two Eds — two Eds are better than one. Clapsaddle, a barber who sells dandruff for fertilizer. Doc Splint Eastwood, he’s had the same thing, only worse. When you ask these guys how they are doing, they’ll tell you.

The Hartland radio station, KRAP, is always on at the cafe. It’s almost on the AM dial, but not quite on the FM dial. It has all the power of a toaster — a good toaster, one of those that can handle four slices at once. We enjoy Albert Clipper, the weatherman who is seldom right, but never in doubt, Earl E. Reiser who gives the Hogs and Frogs Report, and Kurt Reply, the right-wing talk show host who reminds us to stop at the post office and pick up some Elvis impersonator stamps.

A Loafers’ Club wannabe, my neighbor Crandall’s neighbor woman, Marge, always walks in and stares at us, but we don’t look at her. We try to avoid the eyes of Marge. She’s a friend of Crandall’s sister Cruella, the proprietor of Motel Sicks, where the flu bug hit hard.

We are planning our big celebration of Hoodie-Hoo Day for Feb. 20, when we go outside at noon, wave our hands over our heads while shouting, “Hoodie-Hoo!” This scares winter away so spring can arrive.

There are those who say that my fair city offers more parking than traffic, but Hartland is my hometown and I have no desire to live elsewhere. The author of “Moby Dick,” Herman Melville, wrote, “It is not down on any map; true places never are.” Hartland is on some maps. It hasn’t made an appearance on a globe yet, but it will. It is always on my mind.

We’re keeping the sidewalks out for you. Remember, Hartland is well worth driving past.

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