As Luck Would Have It

                                                                

The times when I’ve experienced bad luck could fill volumes. We can all relate.

This column was hatched while walking with my brother to check on the cows. Mind you, it’s not the most pleasant of story openers. In fact, the tale borders on revolting, but it was the precipitating factor in my thought process and must be included.

Hang on.

The cattle were settled for the night in a shed of deep straw. It’s calving season on the farm, and regular checks are always made. Bill shone his flashlight into their midst as we walked past the Charolais cows.

He sighed with relief. “Well, that’s the lot. Everyone looks settled for the night.”

Yet, to our surprise, the sound of hooves slipping on the frozen snow came from behind us. We turned, and a young heifer appeared in the flickering light. Moving with quiet purpose, she threaded her way into the group of sleeping animals, her head swinging back and forth as she searched for the perfect spot to rest her weary bones. Finding it, she flopped onto her side with a huff of air.

However, on the way down, her rump slammed into an older bovine. The mature cow lumbered to her feet with an irritated grunt. She towered over the young heifer. Then, cocking her tail with impeccable, unconscious aim, she ejected a torrent of liquid manure that spewed into the evening air and splattered thick upon the face of the young beast at her feet.

The heifer accepted this indictment on her choice of sleeping arrangements with good grace. She flapped her ears against the sticky flood, batted long lashes to clear her vision, and shook her head as the muck oozed over her forehead like lava rolling down Mount St. Helen’s.

Now, that’s bad luck.

“Bleah!” I muttered with revulsion—and a story was born.

My own tale of woe involved wet socks, an oven door, and an unexpected visitor. Sounds like an unlikely grouping of items, but stay with me.

For a brief time, when my children were small, we lived in an apartment building. Justin, one-year-old and the youngest of the troop, owned some pretty snazzy socks. He loved the bright colours and splashy Superman design that he’d stretched proudly over his feet that morning.

Unfortunately, being springtime, he’d followed his older brother outside and into a game of puddle-jumping. Did Chris, his older brother, surmise what might happen and secretly hope for the worst? Was this a thinly veiled attempt to add excitement to an otherwise boring afternoon? Was Chris a mastermind of mayhem?

You better believe it.

First, Chris leaped across the filthy pool. Sweet Becky cleared it next. Then, the older pair swivelled around to watch their little brother expectantly. Chris’s mouth worked up and down, and his beckoning hand was waved as he urged his trusting brother forth.

Justin peered doubtfully at the murky water, clearly considering his options. It was risky and looked wide and deep. He looked about, hesitating. Still, what would Superman do? After all, he could “leap tall buildings in a single bound”.

Justin gave a slight shrug, bent his little legs, and bounded high, hammering into the very middle of the puddle with a great splash of icy water that filled his boots to the brim.

Chris clapped his hands and cackled with glee.

Justin wailed disconsolately. His siblings dragged him inside, where he stood, a bedraggled mess.

The boots had been drained, but what could be done to save the grimy socks! I rinsed them under a tap amid his torrent of tears, wondering how I would dry them quickly. We had no clothes dryer to get the scraps of clothing back in operation, and the laundry room, down the hall, was occupied. I scanned the kitchen for ideas. Toaster? Microwave? Frying pan? Don’t be ridiculous, Helen!

But wait.

How about hanging them over the oven door on low heat? Yes!

The brightly coloured socks were drying quite nicely when the doorbell rang, and after turning them to ensure an even bake from heel to toe, I hurried to answer it. I’d only be a minute.

Unfortunately, it was the landlord, and I was held up longer than expected. Presently, an unpleasant odor caused my visitor’s nose to twitch. He sniffed suspiciously. The acrid aroma of evaporating swamp water, burning dirt, roasting foot sweat, and melting polyester drifted between us in a murky haze.

“Gotta go!” I yelled and slammed the door in his startled face. Amid a piercing fire alarm and a chorus of shrill shrieks, I rushed to save the sizzling socks.

In hindsight, this last tale is more about dumb mom ideas than bad luck, but so be it. The socks survived, although they were never quite the same again. The colours were muddied, there was a nasty scorch mark obscuring ole Superman’s head, and some of his trusty cape had dissolved.

Nevertheless, Justin was mollified by the promise of replacement Spiderman socks from the bulging racks at Zellers, and all was well. Plus, a lesson of dubious worth had been learned.

It is as follows: Small boys should think carefully before following the urgings of big brothers with known evil intentions. Maybe Superman wasn’t the best role model. Maybe Superman had a little brother called Sam who’d slammed into the side of a building or two as he strove to follow his big brother, and decided that being a hero wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Maybe Sam studied corporate finance instead.

I dunno. There’s a lesson in there somewhere.