I
Last night my daughter called from her home in Rockville, Maryland to say they were home from a Spring Break vacation to Texas.
“Would you believe it, they changed the school schedule, and it turns out the kids missed two days of school,” she fumes.
Eight, almost nine-year old Leah, pipes in, “Lucky me.”
I ask Leah if she knows what horseshoes symbolize.
“Luck?”
I tell her how my friend Lynne says if someone is very lucky that they were born with horseshoes on their butt. Leah laughs at silly old Nana.
Normally, good luck swarms around me, always has. Whether I recognized it or not is another matter. There are too many blessings I have taken for granted.
My thoughts shift to Joey, Leah’s cousin in Bournville, England who turned eight yesterday. I was lucky to be there to greet him soon after he was born and for Joey’s first six birthdays as well.
I am remembering the first time Joey came to visit us in our condo when he was three. He stepped into the elevator and said, “Normally I push the buttons.” At our kitchen island, he claimed a swivel stool and declared, “Normally I sit here.” I admire his confidence and ease in adjusting to new situations. He may not need luck with these attributes.
I think, “Lucky me;” normally my grandchildren warm my heart, and sprinkle enough memory moments across my days to keep me supplied with a stash to dip into, like emergency chocolate-covered granola bars on life’s trail.
II
I call my friend Lynnie, and she calls me Luck Butt. She says good things fall into my lap like pennies from heaven. That does seem to happen often, and I am thankful most times for things large or small, from landing a juicy contract at work to finding a parking spot on a crowded street.
Lynne’s mom died two years ago and she and her husband decided to move back to her hometown in Saskatchewan and remodel and live in her mom’s house. I miss her like a Skor Blizzard from the Dairy Queen on a hot summer day. I also miss our escapades lived out face-to-face instead of being reported in lengthy long distance phone calls. I miss being called Luck Butt almost as much as I miss earning my nickname.
If you have never had nerve pain, stop right this minute and call yourself Luck Butt. This mysterious stranger cruised in from parts unknown and took up residence, like an elephant sitting on my mid-section, two months ago. I echo what Deputy Dawg used to say in the cartoons, “Dagnabbit.” I am crabby around my normally up-beat, rosy edges as this uninvited guest overstays its welcome.
“Ouch!” I have thought, said, and whined way too many times day and night, with increasing intensity. Even laying in bed, minding my own business, meditating for heaven’s sake. A fiery saber slashes its searing sword from my groin (I hate that word), across my left thigh, round the knee cap and down the front of my leg. Getting up and down is the worst. Except for calling the doctor’s office. They tell me they can schedule a visit in June, when he returns from vacation.
Staring at the kitchen cupboard I see prescriptions with side-effects that make your head swim, literally, with fins. They sit alongside over-the-counter painkillers and gels of every brand, and serious looking brown bottles from the health food store. I check the calendar to see which therapist I am scheduled to see today. Then I ask my former benefactor from above to please remember that I am normally the one called Luck Butt.
III
Winter just doesn’t seem to get the hint this year. Our affection for you is over, kaput. The younger model who breezed in last month, hinting of fresh, scented, softer, more colourful delights has stolen our collective Winnipeg hearts. You are now past your “Best by” date, winter, and have us grumbling.
Snow and ice hangs on as spring fights to come alive.
Normally, flower and garden centres are buzzing with buyers filling carts and spilling soil in their trunks and back seats as they hurry home to plant their treasures.
Normally, golf courses are racing one another to open first and golfers are cursing goose poop as they maneuver soggy fairways.
Normally my condo walking group buddies are chattering away on hour-long treks through the neighbourhood, solving one another’s problems from where to find sandals on sale, to negotiating with MPI over car repairs, to the Manitoba and U.S. elections.
This year, ouch, parking lots are still gray and icy, even in front of my newest chiropractor’s office. The few joggers on the Crescent wearing shorts are dismissed as, “out of touch,” instead of normally being seen as optimistic.
And on a personal note, no one anywhere has even remotely considered referring to me as Luck Butt.
© Joanne Klassen
Winnipeg, Mb Canada
jklassen@write-away.net
Joanne Klassen has a book of personal reflections entitled, CREATIVE JOURNEY, compiled with Brian Hay, from 31 Transformative Life Writers from seven countries across four generations. It offers five minute meditations on 80 everyday topics. The book is set to launch May 4 at 7 p.m. in the Atrium at McNally Robinson Booksellers.
