Column: Tales from Exit 22

I recall being hunched over a pinball machine, working the flippers.

I was a teenager who wanted to reach in and direct the silver ball with my hand.

Life bounces beyond our control.

While speaking at the Faribault County Fair, I met a lovely woman from Blue Earth who was a graduate of Waldorf-Pemberton High School.

I went to school in Hartland. Waldorf, Pemberton and Hartland. None of those small cities has a school today.

Did the residents of these cities become so smart that they no longer needed a school? Was the education we received so poor that we could put our diplomas on the dash of a vehicle and qualify for handicapped parking?

My school’s teams were named the Cardinals. The fighting Cardinals played Waldorf-Pemberton. They were the Colts. Our colors were red and white. The Colts’ colors were, I think, black and blue, but I could be wrong. We were red and white because that rhymed with “fight, fight, fight.” We rode in buses and sang endlessly, “We are the Cardinals. Mighty, mighty Cardinals. Everywhere we go. People want to know. Who we are. So we tell them.”

We were precious.

Most of us have been called “old school” at least once. What is old school? A definition of “old school” is advocating or supporting an established custom, but it could mean an old school like the one I attended. The school in Hartland is now a residence.

Old schools had librarians who shushed often, taking the din out of Gunga Din. Kids were expected to be quiet while teachers spoke in capital letters. It was where we learned that not all of us were morning people. Class presidents were elected by an ancient process called rock-paper-scissors. Phy-ed classes consisted of dodgeball, a crime against humanity, wherein the class was divided into two teams — the quick and the dead. Picture day brought about a mixture of anticipation and dread. We knew that as long as there were refrigerator magnets, there would be school photos. The old school was where I was told, “If you don’t know, look it up.”

I had a nutritious breakfast each morning before school while praying for bad weather. I tried to daydream in school, but my mind kept wandering. My father called me a gifted child. He added that he certainly wouldn’t have paid for me. I loved my teachers, and I think my teachers loved me so much that they wanted to adopt me. I frequently heard one point at me and say to another, “I wish he were my child for just one day.”

I spend much time at reunions, occasionally my own. Reunions are like high-definition TV. Everything looks bigger and wider. Adults, who were children brought together by location and dates of birth, gather to reminisce, celebrate and commiserate. They’d seen one another at their best and at their worst, at their dullest and when they thought of themselves as the sharpest.

Reunions are where you hear discussions like this from two classmates who graduated long before cell phones were ubiquitous.

“I remember the year we played Waterville in our last league game. Minske sprained his ankle, so I played fullback and ran for 317 yards by halftime.”

The other man listened attentively. When a man listens attentively, it means that he is doing nothing more than waiting for his turn to talk. “I remember the big basketball game against Medford our sophomore year. I’d been called up from the B squad. The coach had a keen eye for talent. I scored 41 points in that game. The odd thing was that I made only two field goals. When the Medford players saw what a talented marksman I was, they fouled me before I could get off another shot. I made 37 free throws.”

The first man let that simmer before taking a deep breath and saying, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll take 200 off my yardage, if you’ll knock off 25 free throws.”

Reunions remind us that experiences make us happier than material things.

The Beach Boys sang, “Be true to your school.” We were, but the three schools closed due to lack of pupils. We made the best of what we learned in Waldorf, Pemberton or Hartland. Old schools, like athletic accomplishments, grow better with age.

Small schools accomplished big things. We could have all gone to Yale or Harvard — had we been accepted.

There is no fool like an old fool and no school like an old school.

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