Tales From Exit 22 by Al Batt

On the 67th day of Christmas, my true love said to me, “You need to get a better calendar.”

I told my wife, The Queen B, to not get her tinsel in a tangle, adding, “I’m chopping down the next tree I see whether it’s decorated or not!”

Then I went back to whipping up my world-famous fruitcake. The recipe for which is a secret, but includes generous portions of rubber bands, sawdust and crayons.

I love Christmas. If it weren’t for Christmas, we wouldn’t hear Burl Ives, deck the halls or hear, “I’ve always wanted one of these, but not much.” We wouldn’t know that the secret ingredient is sugar or butter.

The Queen B asked me to wrap the Christmas presents, but I was in the middle of a good book and declined her kind offer. She threatened that if I didn’t cover the gifts in wrapping paper, I’d be in big trouble. I wrapped every one of them. There was only one problem. She didn’t tell me to put gift tags on them so we’d know whom they were for. I was in trouble anyway.

A neighbor put up enough outside lights that the display served as a beacon for intelligent life from distant galaxies. A forest of lip lilac (mistletoe) filled his house.

Our lights are restricted to the Christmas tree. We have a real tree, but fake presents. The tree stays up as long as one needle remains in place. One year, I knocked the tree over. It was worth it to see the look of disappointment on the tomcat’s face when he realized that I’d beaten him to it. Dad once tried to pass a stick off as an antique tree. I don’t remember much of what was under Christmas trees. I remember who was around them.

Christmas songs bring tears in kitchens smelling like love and oyster stew teaches us that oysters are lima beans that learned to swim. An old Swedish tradition for serving rice pudding at Christmastime is to place an almond in the pudding in the belief that the one who eats the almond would be blessed the following year. We put an almond into every serving so that bliss would reign.

I remember the year of the great hard candy shortage. One of us chewed peppermint and the rest of us sat around and sniffed the air. That was the same year that I sat on Santa’s lap and told him that he should give himself some nose-hair clippers.

The cat got my wife a dead mouse. I can’t top that, but I tried. I shopped while remembering fondly when the number of shopping days until Christmas didn’t count Sundays. Why don’t stores leave their Christmas decorations up all year instead of putting them away for a few weeks? I’ve learned that when many people go into a store, it’s always crowded. It’s not hard to tell what people want for Christmas. Especially when they tell you over and over again. I hit the shelves hard. I traded the shopping cart for a forklift, but as the Rolling Stones sang, “You can’t always get what you want.”

A young man told me he’d like either world peace or a new car, whichever one was easier. I told him that I got him what he wanted for Christmas.

“A new car? You shouldn’t have,” he said.

I hadn’t. I’d gotten him a book. Turned out that he already had one.

When I was a whippersnapper, I’d get the cheapest version of what I’d wanted — a knockoff of a knockoff. I got an heirloom gift occasionally, something passed down from generation to generation. My mother said, “I’ll keep this for you and give it to you when you’re older, more responsible and appreciative.”

I could visit that gift, but I needed to make an appointment.

A couple of gift suggestions. Forgiveness. It’s always in the right size. Ask another to tell you a story.

Last year, I returned something to the Dollar Tree. I shouldn’t have purchased that big screen TV there. I wish you many happy returns.

I’ve gathered scissors, hammer, knife, chisel and cutting torch. I’m ready to open packages.

A neighbor, who doesn’t want anyone to know how soft-hearted he is, puts out lug nuts for the squirrels

One year, he celebrated Christmas with us. I asked him to say grace.

“I’d be happy to,” he said, followed by, “Thanks. Amen.”

“That was a little short, wasn’t it?” I said.

“He knows what I mean.”

Merry Christmas.

 

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