Column: Al Batt, Tales from Exit 22

My name is Crandall.

I’m Al Batt’s neighbor and this is my first annual Christmas letter. Al talked me into writing it. With him as a neighbor, I get a lot of corn from one wiseacre. I get out of breath listening to him. I grew up here by the many Elmer Greens growing next door. No, I don’t mean evergreens. Elmer Greens. Elmer had 16 kids. I used to go to the Woods and cut a Christmas tree each year — until Mr. Woods called the sheriff.

I’m drinking a mocha dinero excesso cost-a-latte to give me the energy to tighten the nuts on last year’s fruitcake. The cat has been using it as a scratching post. Fruitcakes have no expiration dates.

I have finally gotten used to writing 2010 on my checks and such, so that must mean that it is nearly 2011. I started clearing snow in July. There wasn’t any snow, but there was no competition either.

I still live on the road less graveled. I’ve realized that I’m older than I have ever been as gravity has become stronger and my nappetite is growing along with it. When I was a boy, I never thought I could wait until Christmas, but I always did. I have the Christmas tree up. Actually, I never got around to taking it down. I should write a book on time management.

I got a deer this year. I hit it with my sister Cruella’s Buick. The sad thing is that her insurance company wouldn’t pay for the processing. I don’t know why she’s been paying those premiums.

Ma and Pa are still speaking to one another. They stopped listening years ago. Ma listens just enough to what Pa is saying so that she can finish his sentences. Ma is still chewing tobacco. She can’t seem to quit. Pa doesn’t mind her chewing but he wishes she’d stop spitting on his good shoes. She never misses.

I’ve grown a goatee. My niece Cretia calls my facial hair a mullet that doesn’t know its place.

Aunt Creola sent me a check for $500. There was a note included that said when CD rates hit 20 percent, she would sign the check.

I’m still doing my own cooking. Well, not all of it. If I don’t grill, George will. George Foreman does most of my cooking for me.

This is the time of the year when I will have this discussion with one of my brothers, “What is this thing you gave me?”

“I don’t know what it is.”

“Then why did you give it to me?”

“Because you gave it to me last year.”

I don’t believe that visions of sugarplums dance in heads. I think there are visions of two-ply toilet paper doing the South Dakota sidestep instead. I put on elbow pads and a helmet, and went shopping. This year, I decided to be practical and give everyone toilet paper for Christmas. They’ll spend all day unwrapping the gifts. I wrapped them in the crime scene tape I got after my snowmobile got away from me and went through the bank’s window. I guess the sled wanted to meet its owner. I hope the toilet paper will be as big a hit as last year’s gift. I bought my family a giant container of margarine. They spread it amongst themselves. It’s Christmas — a time when you can never have too much butter or butter wannabe. They ate so much margarine, they couldn’t keep their socks from sliding down.

My hopes of being a free-range chocolate bunny rancher melted in the Dog Days of summer. I’m too poor to have mistletoe (lip lilac). I have athlete’s foot instead. That may be why I’ve been a single fellow for some years now. I’m saving up for a marriage license. Maybe one day I’ll meet one of the women of my dreams. I’m a catch. I’m a potential lottery winner.

The holidays have me looking down. That’s because people tend to drop cash this time of year. I tried to borrow money from my brother Cranford for an appendix transplant but it’s difficult to get somebody (even Cranford) to fall for that two years in a row.

Now for the mandatory sappy part. Tornadoes, floods, hailstorms and a winter storm of epic proportions. I hope 2011 brings kinder weather. I know that possessions don’t make a person happy, but neither does having them repossessed. So this Christmas, help the less fortunate.

Not all the gifts go under the tree. Thank you for being a gift to me. I hope that happiness is crammed into your dangling footwear.

Merry Christmas from your pal,

Crandall

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