The Truth About Luck: What I Learned on My Road Trip with Grandma

by Iain Reid

  Inside I find Mom at the kitchen table. Even when she’s seated, it’s easy to discern her diminutive stature. She’s around five feet tall and likely shrinking with age. Her short, undyed greying hair is still askew from sleep. She’s wearing one of Dad’s massive fleece vests over her clothes. She’s staring blankly ahead and grinning widely. “Oh, Iain, what a surprise. What are you doing here? Aren’t you going on your big trip today?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I just came by to pick up a few things. And it’s not going to be big anymore.”

  “I’ll put some more coffee on,” she says, standing to stack and carry the breakfast dishes over to the sink. “I just finished the last cup. Are you cold in here? I find it cold today, that’s why I’m wearing so many layers.”

  “I’m fine, but what’s so funny?”

  “What? I wasn’t smiling.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  “Really?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Oh, well, I guess I was just thinking of something that happened in the night — with your dad.”

  Here I feel obliged to stick my head into the freezer. “Okay, okay,” I say, grimacing, raising both hands defensively.

  “No, no. This was actually quite funny.”

  “Oh?”

  “At some point in the night I got up to use the bathroom. And when I came back, I saw all the covers were balled up on Dad’s side and he was all twisted up in them. He looked like a big cabbage roll or something.” She starts laughing now and takes a full minute, or two, to compose herself. “Anyway, I just hate crawling back into a mess like that, so I very gently started to straighten them. Well, you’d think he’d been tipped out of a dump truck. He swung his leg over and then half fell out of the bed and grabbed the side of the dresser. I mean, come on, how could I possibly have the strength to move your dad like that?”

  Dad is a tall man, well over six feet.

  “So you think he was subconsciously embellishing?”

  “Well, I’m just saying. It doesn’t add up.”

  “Interesting.”

  “He does have a flair for the dramatic when woken up in the middle of the night.”

  “True.”

  “I couldn’t fall back asleep ’cause I was chuckling about it, I mean real belly laughs. I was trying not to. I don’t think Dad fell back asleep for a while, either, just on account of the shock and my laughing.”

  “An eventful night, indeed. Where is the big guy?”

  “Who, Titan? He’s outside, didn’t you see him when —” Mom stands now, walking toward the door, concerned for her dog’s whereabouts.

  “No, Mom, not Titan. Dad. Where’s your tall husband?”

  “Sorry, yes, Dad. He’s at the feed mill getting grain.”

  Mom’s cat Pumpkin is now circling her feet. I hadn’t noticed him enter. “What do you want, Pecan? You heard me stand up, didn’t you.”

  “Pecan?”

  “His new nickname,” answers Mom. “You knew that, didn’t you?”

  “No, but I must say, Pecan is looking decent for an old cat. Much better than at Christmas.”

  My compliment aimed at her senior cat lifts up Mom’s face and head like they’re attached to hundreds of miniature balloons. “Oh,” she beams, “I know, I think so, too. It’s amazing. He’s doing so well.” She bends down slowly and scratches along his spine. “I have a secret weapon that’s turned his health around.”

  “I know, Mom. I’ve given him his insulin shots before, I know all about it.”

  “Well, yeah, there’s that, but I’m talking about something else.” She shuffles over to the fridge. She moves a few things around, humming to herself. “Here,” she says, “found it.”

  She walks back to me and holds up a plastic container an inch from my face. I have to lean back to make the label legible. “Yogurt!?”

  “YO-gurt,” she says. “Plain yogurt. He ab-so-lute-ly loves it. And I’m convinced it’s making all the difference. His coat is better, his eyes are better, his posture —”

  “Let me guess, better?”

  “Do you want to see him scarf some up?”

  “Tempting —”

  The door creaks open, and in walks Dad. I’m tall, but Dad’s taller and larger. I switch from looking down at Mom to up at Dad. He’s wearing an old ball cap, jeans, and a blue plaid jacket. “Hey, bud. What are you doing here?”

  “Just stopping by quickly to say hi — oh, and I might borrow a few things — and get caught up on Pecan, of course.”

  “Have you heard about the yogurt?” He says this earnestly, but simultaneously glances over at Mom and spots the yogurt container in her hand. He nods at the answer to his own question. “Well, I hope you don’t have to sleep here. Trust me, Mom won’t let you get a full night’s sleep.”

  “Oh, come on, stop it,” says Mom, putting the yogurt down on the table with authority. “I was just telling Iain all about it.”

  Dad removes his cap, scratches his head. He takes a step closer. “You should have seen what she did to me last night.” It’s obvious Mom’s restraining her grin by biting her bottom lip. “She grabbed me by the ankle and thrust me out of bed in the middle of the night as if there were a fire. My foot hit the floor. I could barely stay in the bed.”

  “Come on! I didn’t even touch you. I barely moved the blanket and off you went.”

  I’ve started to discreetly exit the kitchen, backing away gently.

  “Where are you going?” asks Mom. They stare at me as if I’m the sole arbiter and a verdict is needed.

  “Sorry, guys, I just came by to get a few things.”

  “Can’t you stay for lunch or a walk?” Dad’s standing over the fruit bowl.

  “No, I better not. I’m already a bit late. And I shouldn’t keep her waiting.”

  “Oh, right,” says Mom. “And I’m sure she’ll be happy to treat you for lunch somewhere.”

  “Well, probably, but the point is, it’s a trip for her, so really I should be doing most if not all of the treating.” As I’m speaking, I wander over to the liquor cabinet and tip a liberal portion of Dad’s favourite Croft Sherry into my metal water bottle. “I can’t be frugal.” I’ve already sloshed in about a third of the bottle when he notices.

  “What are you doing with my sherry?” he asks.

  “Oh.” I stop. “Well, it’s really not for me, Dad, it’s for her.” I tip another shot into my bottle, keeping my eyes on him. “She enjoys the odd glass. It’ll be a nice treat on the trip.”

  “She does enjoy a little sherry as a treat every now and then,” confirms Mom, bending down to pick up Pumpkin. “And it’s her trip.”

  Dad just raises his eyebrows, turning back to his fruit. “I suppose.”

  12:49 p.m.

  I’VE COME BY the farm to gather provisions for our trip. I should have planned this better. I should have started earlier. I didn’t.

  Considering these shortfalls, I’m satisfied with my hoard. Along with the dry sherry, I’ve neatly filled a dented blue Coleman cooler with a half-eaten box of Triscuits, a knob of old cheddar, three carrots, a few bags of pekoe tea, a stick of unsalted butter, and a pound of frozen ground lamb. I put some ice cubes in a Ziploc bag and toss them on top. Things are looking up.

  “You need anything else?” asks Mom. “We’ve got loads of coffee. What about honey? Or eggs?”

  “Wait, I thought you guys were going on a trip,” says Dad. “Why are you pillaging us?”

  “Yeah, we are — sort of.”

  “Whatever that means,” says Dad, retreating to his study, coffee in one hand, an apple in the other.

  “What does that mean?” asks Mom a few minutes later, when I’m ready to leave. “Sort of a trip?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “Thanks for the stuff. I better get going.”

  �
�Well, have fun!”

  “Right.” I pick up my cooler, feeling all my precisely arranged food tumble into disarray. “I’m off.”

  “Enjoy! Enjoy! Bon voyage!” says Mom, walking me outside. “You’ve got a nice day for it.”

  When I finish packing the car, I see Dad stroll out from the house, too. “I’ll grab the gate for you,” he says, putting on his cap.

  “Thanks.”

  “By the way, have you fixed your windshield wipers yet?”

  “Not wipers, Dad, wiper. It’s only one that’s broken.”

  “But it’s the driver’s side, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought you said last month you were going to get a new one.”

  “I thought I was. I intended to.”

  “What about your licence plate? You’re still just taping it?

  I nod.

  “Well, enjoy your trip,” he says, heading down to the gate. “Show her a good time.”

  I get inside and start up the car. I know, I know, I should have put on a new wiper and properly fixed the plate. I also should have mended the exhaust. It sounds more like a backhoe than a car.

  I start slowly down the lane, peering at the rear-view mirror. I’m fearful Lucius will reappear and dance in front of the car the way he is wont to do. The maniacal bird will strut back and forth, back and forth, for as long he feels is appropriate. It’s indescribably frustrating. Thankfully I don’t see him. Titan is sound asleep on his blanket by the verandah. He must be dreaming. It looks like his heavy legs are twitching. The sun is hidden behind one massive cloud that stretches lengthwise across the sky.

  From so far away, this cloud looks to be around the size of Ireland. Along with its girth, it has that unmistakable feeling of impending rain.

  IT WAS ABOUT four months ago when the idea for this trip was initially floated. It was late October or early November, near her birthday, maybe a week before. I was sitting at the Manx Pub in downtown Ottawa, nursing an ale with my older brother, Jimmy. It was a dreary fall night. I’d worn the Icelandic wool sweater my sister (who lives in Iceland) had given me for Christmas.

  The Manx was packed. The scratched wooden tables were full of glasses, white plates, and silver cutlery, and groups huddled at the door, waiting their turn to eat and imbibe. We hadn’t been seated long. I was already regretting my foolishly thermal attire. The bulky sweater was meant for the windy and wet Icelandic pastures, not a cozy pub well above capacity. Sitting across from me in his cotton T-shirt, Jimmy commented twice on how he’d hit the perfect internal temperature. I dragged the back of my hand along my forehead.

  For the past handful of years, when dealing with family gifts, Jimmy and I would receive separately, but we gave as a single entity. We were a gift-giving tandem, a beautiful hybridity of ingenuity and prudence. Perhaps what we produced was predictable and underwhelming, but we had each other.

  Often we made things. Twice we sat for self-portraits. Dressing up for the portraits made them decidedly giftier. I would choose and create our costumes. Jimmy would construct frames from pieces of scrap wood found at our parents’ farm. We would position ourselves about five feet from the digital camera we’d set up on a bookshelf. Two years ago we dressed as the main characters from Brideshead Revisited. I grew Charles Ryder’s beard. Jimmy carried Sebastian’s teddy bear, Aloysius.

  This year Jimmy severed our network. He selfishly decided it was time to expand his gift basket into his own private, improved basket. It was at the Manx that he broke the news. I (metaphorically) cupped the back of his neck, pulling him toward me, and (literally) urged him to reconsider. But he’d already bought his gifts. I felt ridiculous. What was I going to do with two (very) authentic Nicholas Nickleby outfits?

  Swirling the foamy beer around in his glass, Jimmy continued his onslaught, describing his already procured gifts. It was like listening to a graphic summation of your ex’s new, better-looking, richer, non-perspiring lover, minutes after she’s dumped you. Ultimately, I had to agree; most of the gifts were complete and thorough improvements over our shitty portraits. And besides, a solo portrait wouldn’t be the end of the world.

  Jimmy wondered who would build the frame. Fine, it didn’t have to be a portrait. There were lots of things I could get her for her birthday.

  “What about a scented candle?” I asked. “I feel like she loves candles. AND different scents.”

  “I guess that would be all right,” shrugged Jimmy. “You look irritated. Are you hot? Why don’t you take that sweater off? You look like a Maritime cod fisherman.”

  “I’m fine.” I was teetering toward combustion.

  Jimmy had starting texting. Or someone was texting him. The point is, he was focused on his phone. So I tried to picture her face when she unwrapped a heavily scented, waxy, pumpkin-spiced candle.

  A minute later I slapped the table with both hands. “Or what about if I just made something, like some sort of — biscuit — or a loaf! Seriously, man, I feel like she’s totally into loaves, right?”

  Jimmy used one eye to look up from his phone for an eighth of a second. “Loavesofwhat?”

  “I don’t know, like a lemon loaf or a banana bread.”

  Then he looked directly at me. “Do you own a loaf pan?”

  “I could buy one.”

  “But are you actually going to?”

  “You know what,” I said, tapping my temple with my index finger, “I saw this crazy tablecloth at the mall last week. It was brilliant, totally eye-catching. It was just remarkably zany, all covered in grapes and fruit and fucking pine cones. All kinds of different, unique, and very, very interesting shit. A real smorgasbord. I think there were vines and maybe some ivy. And it was plastic, right, which would be soooooo easy for her to keep clean.”

  Jimmy looked at me like I’d asked him to pull my finger.

  I pushed my glass away. This worrying about gifts was a new, uninvited feeling. I’d been feeling it for about ten minutes but was already unimpressed and resentful. I’d never understood the requisite stress others felt about giving gifts. I’d always just waited until a day or two before, and inevitably the magic would happen.

  And if it wasn’t for Grandma’s birthday, I wouldn’t have been concerned this year, either. My maternal grandma, now in her nineties, was at an age when each birthday could (realistically) be her last.

  Mine is a small family. None of my aunts and uncles are married, or have children. Myself, Jimmy, and our sister, Jean, have no cousins. Grandma is our last grandparent left. She’s our only elderly relative. Her own family was large, with many siblings, aunts, and uncles. She was born in the northern tip of Scotland in the room above the corner store where her mother worked. Her family moved to Canada when she was two years old. They settled in Winnipeg. Her dad, a baker in Scotland, found work as a school custodian in Canada.

  Her parents, her siblings have all died, most of them before what we would now consider old age. I think one of her sisters died in childbirth. George, her husband of almost fifty years, died in his eighties. That was more than fifteen years ago. Grandma is the last of her generation.

  Growing up, we saw a lot of Grandma. It was impossible for her to visit the farm without edible treats, usually in the form of doughnuts. If the school bus dropped me off and I saw her car, my usual slow stroll up the lane became an energy-expending gallop. She knew each of our favourites, and there was always a vanilla-sprinkle waiting for me in the dozen.

  She would regularly host family dinner parties where Grandpa would make Campari-infused cocktails for the adults and Grandma would construct unrestrained spreads involving “nibblies,” appetizers, roasted meat, veggies, potatoes, salads, wines, and always a dessert. Even at lunch, Grandma always had a homemade sweet. Grandpa had a sweet tooth. So did Grandma. Her cookies were thin and crispy masterworks. Of all her scratch-made pies and tarts
, I liked her lemon meringue, with its tall and curly peaks, the best.

  It was Grandma who would organize games before supper, most of which she had invented. One of her best concoctions was the aptly named “Funny Walks,” where each participant had to stroll across the room in such an unorthodox/unique/funny way as to make the others laugh. The more creative and absurd, the better. Grandma was the creator and Funny Walks master.

  Grandma was always delicately cheerful. She seemed to be laughing a lot but almost more to herself, never garishly, like she knew a deeper (and funnier) meaning to jokes and stories. I didn’t associate her with discipline or having a temper, but I was aware she was strict, and she would tell us if we’d stepped out of line. She was silly and sweet, but she was no pushover. She had a quiet toughness. Everything about her seemed steady and consistent, including that she was old.

  Oldness wasn’t a negative. It was just a verity I was aware of. I didn’t fear or resent it. Whatever my impression of old was, either you were old or you were young, and eldership included Grandma. It had to. She was my measuring stick for old. As I grew up, both physically and intellectually, moving from adolescent to teenager to adult, from student to professional, Grandma stayed old. We still saw each other, but less frequently. I left Ottawa for school and then work.

  I hadn’t been seeing much of her this past decade. Jimmy and I had been discussing her a lot. We’d get together and be talking about all the usual things, like sports, music, our work, or the 1970s BBC soap opera Upstairs, Downstairs, and before long we’d be passing our thoughts about Grandma back and forth like a cigarette. She was on the cusp of ninety-two. Ninety-two! Considering that cusp, she was in incredible shape, mentally and physically. Grandma was the LeBron James of old ladies born pre-Depression.

  She played golf in the summer, every Wednesday, with a group of seniors. She still actively followed professional hockey and cultural affairs and politics. She might be the only ninety-year-old in existence able to offer updated stats on the fourth-line centre for the Ottawa Senators and provide professional details about the provincial leader of the NDP.