The Luck of the Octo

True story – these events happened last month.

My mother and I like going on “forays.” We’re Penna Dutch, and we live in an area where many different septs of the culture and faith live. Mennonites, Amish, Lutheran, Reformed, various derivatives thereof, Old Order, Plain and Gay (yes, that’s the actual term for those of us that wear “bright and gay” colors, like me), all living together in uneasy relative harmony. Because, as anyone knows, there’s nothing like the scrappy fighting a faaaaamily can get up to.

But then, there are the other times. A chance encounter, and a quiet meeting of lives. That’s where we shine at being the Simple Folk.

Three weeks ago, Mom and I went on a foray. We didn’t have time for a be-bop, where we wander from Mennonite produce stand to Mennonite greenhouse to Mennonite dry goods store. We have, oh, about twenty-five to thirty such places within twenty minutes’ radius, and it doesn’t take long to eat up three hours’ time, wandering around and taking in the “blumme” (flowers). No, this time we were on a hunt, within a limited time frame, so we targeted certain locations for certain goods. Each stand or greenhouse or grocer has a specialty, so we pop in according to our needs. Or wants, when one may be craving a custard pie. Or pudding bread so fresh it’s still steaming. Or gluten-free supplies you cannot find anywhere else.

But I digress. And now I’m hungry...

In this case, I needed parsley and fennel. Mom needed some more decorative plants for her pots, and had missed getting even one coleus, which she loves.

Simple, right? Well, there are difficulty levels – I needed fennel and parsley that hadn’t been doused with any insecticides. My plants would be sacrifices to the caterpillars I raise, therefore my search was narrowed to two specific places that I know are safe. And Mom heard one of the greenhouses had a three-for-one sale…

We were chugging along, with moderate success for the end of the season, when we saw a strange thing on the back road.

It looked like a lemonade stand.

On a back road? That’s not traveled much? At the end of the greenhouse season??

Now, I don’t know about you, but Mom is a sucker for kids trying to make a buck. A four-year old selling drawings at an herb show with Mommy’s stand, fifty cents each? Mom bought two, and requested the artist sign them. Girls making rubber band bracelets and selling them at their parent’s orchard for two bucks each? Mom bought five, and gave them to my granddaughter, and they’re still in her playtime pile at the house.

This one? Once we got closer, we realized Mommy was at the booth, and her brood of four was helping her sell… candles.

Here?

This isn’t the middle of nowhere, but it’s pretty close.

There’s a story here.

We pulled in.

I’m sensitive to certain smells, and Mom is sensitive to certain others, but you’d better believe we each found a candle. And in chatting as we were browsing, those obviously-rammy-but-these-are-customers kids did all they could to help, by pointing out handmade details, writing up the slips, getting new candles to replace the ones sold. Because Mommy needed this side hustle to help pay the bills, because she and Daddy were renting the farm at the end of the dirt road they set up at.

As we drove off, Mom was thinking ahead, and I wasn’t. “You know, they should be at our farm festival,” she mused.

I almost did an epic head / desk right there in the car, because Mom was right.

Our family’s original homestead still stands, the house and furnishings mostly intact from 1778. My fourteenth-great, John Jacob (yes, the song is about us), was given a tract of land by Daniel Boone after finishing his contracted indentured servitude. We have a farm festival there every year, and many of my cousins are there with me, volunteering our time and services to generate a cash inflow for the non-profit. Have a cup of mint tea, or buy a glass bead or two; that’s my contribution.

We have a dip candle activity with the kids, but I’m pretty sure we don’t have a candle seller among the merchants. Mom thought that should change, and it was like the universe heard that quiet thought, and was banging my head inside a bell to get my attention.

Yes, I sent her the information for setting up a table. I hope she comes, because I’d love to see her make out like a bandit. Her kids would get a kick out of the place, too.

It may change the course of many lives. Whether or not she takes the opportunity, check back with me come August. But I knew I must make the offer. I don’t know why, but it was important. I’ve learned to listen to those universal messages.

And then, it happened again a week later. This time, I was the one listening, because that first instance reminded me that I need to pay more attention to those whispered messages, that ring like a bell in my head.

That’s hard when you’re sitting in a hospital with your parents.

Dad has outlived at least seven, maybe eight, generations of his family. Genetic blood disorders and weakened blood vessels have taken their toll on cousins, uncles, everyone. The girls all died of brain aneurysms; the boys all died of heart attacks, or other heart ailments. Mom took a look at the odds, and decided that she would change his diet when I was a toddler. She wanted him to stick around to see me grow up, get married. Everyone before him checked out around 65, though my grandmother got to 71 before she checked out (playing the slots in Atlantic City, in case you’re interested. Yes, she was an “interesting” character.)

Dad’s 83.

The blood disorder almost took him out when he was a toddler, but till now, he’s been disgustingly healthy. Even the prostate cancer was a momentary pause, the weasel- though he did tell everyone he was going in to get his ears pierced, so I bought him a set of bindi to make his lie come true…

The inguinal hernia was more serious; that, and the umbilical hernia, needed surgery. But now, it’s the heart itself that needs a thorough scan.

The TEE in the morning wasn’t that difficult a procedure, really. The stent, on the other hand…

It was scheduled “next,” the nurse told us. There was only one patient between us, and going home.

It was soon apparent that the next patient was catty-corner to ours.

Mom was blissfully unaware, sitting aside of Dad, crocheting away. I was jammed near the base of the bed in the second visitors’ chair, being calm and quiet, since both parents were vibrating silently.

I couldn’t help but hear the other patient.

He was balking. He was whining. He was questioning the anesthesiologist – partially put under? No, he has to be fully knocked out! He didn’t care if that means they’ll have problems chasing the atrial fibrillation problem, he’s gotta be out cold! Call the doc!

Doc in, doc out. Anesthesiologist in, anesthesiologist out. Nurse in, nurse out. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Of course I was mad. This dillweed was putting my dad’s surgery farther and farther back!

But he was also terrified.

He was young.

His fiancee was the only one in there, and she was also young. Her face was a mask of fear.

I can smell fear on people, and though the hospital was trying its hardest to be antiseptic, I could smell it in the air.

And the universe tapped me on the shoulder.

I fought it. This was a big, burly guy, blue collar worker. What I was thinking about might not go over well…

The universe was insistent.

Aww, heckfire and tarnation, and Deity of Choice on a pogo stick…

Now for the fun part – navigating over to my mom, and whispering to a woman who is quite hard of hearing, that she needs to fork over the octopus she’s crocheting.

Luckily, Mom’s not loud when she protests, unlike the aforementioned “interesting” grandmother, who would’ve woken the whole ward with her cackling protests. “But, it’s not done! The ends aren’t sewn in! It doesn’t even have a face! Meredith, what on earth could you want it for?”

Do you know how hard it is to whisper to a woman who’s hard of hearing?

To her credit, Mom caught on. Even apologized later, “I wasn’t on the right wavelength yet, sorry about that,” when she clued in. She whipped out her giant sewing needle, the crochet hook vanished, and she wove in the ends that were left open for stuffing the head. It took her a bit, and we knew we were butting up against a deadline, because when that hospital bed started moving, all bets were off.

Why did we both feel that way? We found out later.

Mom, trooper that she is, finished and snipped and tossed it to me, and I immediately turned around, and crutched myself over to their cubicle.

Should have thought about what to say, shouldn’t I? Erm…

“Um, hi. Here, my mom just made this, while we’re waiting for the same surgery, and … well, you looked like you needed a giftie. Here.”

The looks on their faces…

“Sorry that he’s not finished off, he should have stuffing and eyes-”

I was assured that he was fine, he was cute and perfect just the way he was.

I also may have mentioned that octos always bring good luck, so good luck – and then I quietly withdrew.

I happened to notice that they spent a great amount of time tracing the loops of the crochet stitch, and following the tentacle curls, and it finally ended up on the fiancee’s shoulder, while both hands were intertwined with his.

Sometimes a caring gesture, at the right time, means the world.

They both calmed down. They would do this.

Things about their situation became clearer, as he was wheeled off, and as he returned. He could only be vulnerable with his fiancee, because when he was wheeled back, his whole fam damily came trooping in. Husky men, who don’t know how to do that emotions thing, so hide it behind good-natured ribbing. None of it was nasty, I was listening; but the underlying fear was palpable: they thought he was a goner. They were beyond relieved he was still kicking.

By then, the octo was hiding in her large bag, a secret between lovers. The guy’s family would not have understood.

He was flat from the surgery, but he was determined to bounce back. He was recovering well when he was again wheeled off, family following along, to stay overnight.

Fiancee had mentioned that they’d kept trying for a baby, but one thing or another kept getting in the way – buying a house, one of her family members dying, now this. As soon as they got to a point where they could think about trying, something happened.

Those octos Mom was crocheting? They’re the preemie octopus pattern, the ones that you give to a preemie baby for comfort, while they’re in the NICU.

For luck, I said.

Now, being the semi-hemi-demi goddess of octopi, I know for certain my octos are luck. But did I just start a thing, here?

I can see those two giving Mom’s octo to their future baby, and talking about this stranger in the hospital, who came in, gave a non-plush plushie, and vanished. But now he’s your friend, and octos bring luck, because you’re here, and Daddy’s here, so it must be true. And every time you see an octopus, remember, they’re lucky. It’s personal.

Did I just set up the next generation of octo protectors?

Speculation, I know. Projection, hopefully. I ain't getting any younger, and eventually, someone needs to take over my semi-hemi-demi position.

But in a dark moment, a small, quiet comfort.

A touch of lives, a moment of compassion, and gone again.

What remains?

Well, Mom’s in production mode.

See, she listens to the universe, too.

Three octos are complete, two more are in the process. I snitched one for the photo shoot, took pics of the others.

Because Dad will have some upcoming surgeries, and so will I.

There will be more people who need a touch of comfort.

Catch Mom flat-footed, twice? Not a chance.

Mom’s going in with a bag stuffed full of octos, just in case.

For luck.

For courage in the dark.