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

year.”
    â€œYou’re right. It is green.”
    â€œIt’s quite . . . moggy.” I’ve never heard Grandma use moggy before. Sometimes she has her own words or pronunciations for things. I know what she’s getting at.
    â€œYeah, fairly.”
    â€œMore here than Ottawa.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThere are more swamps along this road than I remember.”
    â€œI guess it is green and swampy and . . . moggy.”
    â€œOh, yes.” She’s slanted in her seat, gazing out the window, her right hand up on the glass. “Lovely and moggy.”
    â€œNice to still see some of these farms, too, isn’t it?”
    â€œIt is, dear. I can remember when I first came out to Ontario, from the Prairies. I couldn’t believe what they called farms out here. They were so small. You haven’t seen farms until you see what they have in the Prairies.”
    â€œI’m sure you’re right, Grandma. These are what I think of when I think of a farm.” These small stone houses and scatterings of barns and wood fences. Lots of trees around. A few cattle, maybe a field of a corn. But even these farms, especially closer to Ottawa, are disappearing. “But the land is more valuable as real estate.”
    â€œMakes you wonder where we’ll grow our food,” she says. “These fields are so nice.”
    Our chatting has grown so continuous I’ve turned the tape down low. It was difficult for Grandma to decipher between me, the speakers, and the engine. She’d either ask me to repeat something or, more commonly, I could just tell by her void expression that she hadn’t caught what was said. We’ve been talking mostly about the scenery around us, which has become very rocky.
    â€œIt’s funny,” she’s saying, “we went for a lot of drives and little trips like this, but we never once went to Kingston.”
    â€œYou mean you and Grandpa?”
    â€œYes, George loved going away.”
    â€œYou guys used to take a lot of drives?”
    â€œOh, sure, even just for the weekend. We both enjoyed a change of scene.” She’s tacked her focus back inside the car.
    â€œDid you often go away?”
    â€œWe did, yes. We were just lucky we were able to. Some of my fondest memories are the small trips we made around Ontario.” I’m not sure if this announcement should make me feel more pressure to show Grandma a good time or just reinforce the notion that she enjoys this species of trip. “But,” she continues, “we never went far.”
    â€œStill nice to get away.”
    â€œAnd I often did the driving.”
    â€œNeat.” Shit. I knew it. She thinks I’m a bad driver. Maybe she wants to take over?
    â€œYour grandpa liked to navigate and I liked doing the driving.”
    â€œI can believe that. So do you want to drive now?”
    â€œWhat? No, no, dear. I’m happy to just sit here and look out there.”
    She sounds genuine. I guess I should just keep driving.
    â€œOnce, I remember it very well, George told me to pack up, that we were going somewhere as a surprise. I had no idea what to pack. We ended up driving five minutes away, to a motel in Bells Corners.”
    Bells Corners is really only a short stretch of road in western Ottawa. There are a few restaurants, some shops, and (apparently) a motel or two.
    â€œSo is that where you stayed?”
    â€œYup, for the whole weekend. Ten minutes from home. You used to have to sign in, in an actual book in those days, when you checked in.”
    â€œLike in Psycho .”
    â€œAnd after we signed in, the guy gave us a room way at the back even though it wasn’t busy.” I’m not quite sure what Grandma’s implying, and she must sense my momentary daze. “He read the address on the sign-in sheet and knew it wasn’t far.” My face is still blank, my wheels turning faster than the car’s. “He assumed