The Truth About Luck: What I Learned on My Road Trip with Grandma by Iain Reid Read Free Book Online Page A

coffee?”
    â€œSure. But what did you call it?”
    â€œA goofball. I don’t know why, but that’s what I call coffees on road trips.”
    â€œI like that. Goofballs. Let’s get some goofballs.”
    We pull into a Tim Hortons on the main street of Smiths Falls, a town about an hour or so northeast of Kingston. “What do you want in your goofball, Grandma?”
    â€œMilk in my goofball, please. And here, take this.”
    Her hand grabs mine. My instinct is to pull away, but she forces a five-dollar bill into my squished palm with unexpected strength. I open my mouth to protest, but only muster, “Okay, be right back.” I push the note into the back pocket of my jeans.
    There’s only a short queue, so I don’t wait long. I order our drinks from a short, chinless man who is more interested in asking about my glasses than handing me our goofballs. They are ready, sitting right beside him on the counter, as we chat about the cost of prescription lenses.
    The coffees are (still) steaming hot when I get back to the car. They taste good. But they do nothing to get us talking. Maybe I should have invited the employee from the coffee shop to join us. It’s tricky to tell how long it’s been since we last spoke. I mean, I’m focused on driving. Other than the Hank Williams tape playing, it’s probably been twenty minutes or so, maybe half an hour, of obtrusive quiet. It’s Grandma who finally breaks it. “Oh, the tape player still works.”
    â€œYup,” I answer, turning it up a hair. “Still sounds pretty good.”
    She leans forward and pats the dashboard affectionately.
    â€œAmazing, you’re still hanging in there,” she says, patting the dash again. “Like me.”
    â€œYup, it’s getting up there. About twenty years old now.”
    â€œWell, I’d say that’s about ninety-two in human years. The old blue bird looks pretty good considering.”
    I’d forgotten; that’s what Grandma has always called this car. Grandma loves nicknames. The blue bird. My ninety-two-year-old car.
    INSTEAD OF THE major four-lane highway, I’ve opted for the slower, more scenic two-lane route. We’re on vacation, and efficiency isn’t our aim. Unlike Highway 401, this track doesn’t bypass each small town. It passes through them. The mention of the radio/tape deck seems to have uninhibited us. Grandma is speaking more freely.
    â€œThat looks like a new house. Over there, is that a new place?”
    As we continue on, Grandma’s interest in the local real estate swells. She mentions several more homes and asks specifically about the newness of three others. It’s always too late when I look, and I can’t confirm or deny their age. Although the vast majority of homes on this stretch of highway are old. “Which one?” I ask again, looking back over my shoulder.
    â€œWe’ve passed it now. But I didn’t recognize it. There seem to be lots of revived properties on this road.”
    Between the new houses in the old towns, there are green meadows and brown fields. Many of both. Some are impressively manicured and await seeding. Family farms still exist in this part of the country, and evidence of their workings is scattered around the fields like children’s toys — wagons and tractors, bales of hay, pickup trucks. Rusty swing sets occupy lawns. Tire swings hang from branches. Other fields are less polished. They are uneven, and instead of equipment are often shaded by groups of trees and bushes. We pass rocks and fences, streams and ponds. We’ve seen varying barns, the most common being the nineteenth-century log variety. There’ve been more farm animals than we could count — lots of cows, horses, sheep, even a donkey or two. Grandma mentions it all, reflecting aloud.
    â€œIt’s so green here,” Grandma says. “So green, especially for this time of