His ancient pickup had undergone more oil changes than any vehicle in Iowa. That’s what legends are made of. I knew him because his son and I had gone to different schools in adjacent states together. He was a leaning man due to a limp and wore bib overalls as his garb of contentment. “How’s your good self?” I asked. He took it from there. He was typically a man of few … [Read more...]
It drowned out the sounds of many clarinets
“You live in the middle of nowhere.” The visitor who said that was from a big city. That caused me to reply in the traditional way, “Not really, but I can see nowhere from here.” I live not far from St. Aidan Catholic Cemetery. It’s near Bath, Minn., which falls in the category of a ghost town. The population is zero, but has 100% response to the Census. I visit there … [Read more...]
Rummaging around the last place I’d look
I rummaged around. It’s life on the planet Batt. I wasn’t chewing on life’s gristle or on a quest. I wasn’t looking for the truth. I wasn’t looking for answers. I wasn’t looking for Judge Crater, Amelia Earhart, Jimmy Hoffa or Waldo. I began my search as men typically do by saying, “Who stole my thingamajig?” Thingamajig could be replaced with whatnot, oojamaflip, whatsit, … [Read more...]
He’s still using rabbit ears
Once upon a time, long before “The Andy Griffith Show” went into reruns, there was an eastern cottontail with a dream. He had a name, but it’s nigh impossible for a mere human to pronounce a rabbit’s name, so I’ll call him the rabbit. Yes, the rabbit was a dreamer. But that’s like saying Fred Astaire was a good dancer or Babe Ruth could hit a home run. As he nibbled on some … [Read more...]
We can’t help it, eating is in our DNA
By Al Batt I spit sunflower seeds for distance. It was a contest. I did OK. I’d have done better, but it had been a dry year. I could have been in a pie-eating contest that day, but the two events had been scheduled for the same time. Pity. That was the year Emma Torvaldson hit a pie judge in the face with her signature lemon meringue pie after she’d finished in second place … [Read more...]
The attack of the fine fescue
By Al Batt “I want to sit up front with the adults!” I said that aloud while pushing a lawn mower this week. It didn’t matter. Nobody could hear what I said over the sound of the grass cutter or a mawn lower as Reverend Spooner, the unintentional creator of spoonerisms, might have called it. The importance of a well-manicured lawn is as small as the little end of nothing … [Read more...]