The Raffle
What's luck got to do with it?
At age nine, I wouldn’t describe myself as feeling lucky. Chubby, yes; lucky, nah. Nine was when I first heard of the’ “Pretty Plus” line at Sears. It’s the age when I I heard someone else, likely a softball coach, describe me as sturdy. My cheeks were full. I was healthy. I felt fat. I’ve long been obsessed with how I look — or more importantly how people would describe how I look, and this was the year I first heard pity in the sounds of others describing me. Or if it was mom’s boyfriend doing the describing after a few Budweisers, what I heard was a sneer and some version of “lard butt.”
Anyhoo, this is about luck — really, I promise every single piece won’t be about my eating disorder or my seeking safety in smallness. Nope, imagine the theme of the Moth Radio Hour is luck, or I got a writing prompt to talk about winning — specifically about winning at the Pic-Pac, the nearest grocery store to our small town of Depauw, Ind.
My mom and I never won anything, which may or not be true, but since Mom said it often, it was the family air I took in. Besides, we’d not exactly had a run of luck of late back then. Dad died of colon cancer less than 10 years into their marriage, and six years into my life. Then Grandma showed up and took a bunch of my favorite furniture to play “fancy lady” or “secretary” in. We soon moved out to the middle of nowhere, just the two of us into a modified A-frame on 16 acres of mostly woods. Upon spotting a hay-feed frame from the Realtor’s car, I pointed and exclaimed: Look, a jungle gym! I was a burbs baby. Until then, outside for me was for Red Rover with the hoard of neighborhood kids or the New Albany Country Club pool. The closest neighbor with kids was a mile away, past an angry goat. No joke. Oh, and then that big lug of a boyfriend, Rudy, moved in, all funny songs and handy house fixes one day, all stinky feet and drunken fights with the wall the next.
I was constantly entering sweepstakes, as I wanted to make everything better. Also Ed McMahon and his big check seemed believable to an eight-year old. I had every radio station’s number memorized, determined to win tickets, never pausing to consider if a third-grader should really go to a Ronny James Dio concert. When we saw the Pic Pac Raffle, there was no question we’d enter. I talked Mom into it immediately, likely promising not to beg for Big Red (the soda) if I could get a dollar or two to buy raffle tickets. She folded hers like always —
in a fan so the pleats would tickle the picker’s hand.
Well, Lady Luck must like having her palm tickled, because we won that damn freezer. Only then did we realize, with the kind of Charlie Brown sense of humor we’d taken on to survive, that of course, we’d won something we didn’t need. What were the two, sometimes three of us (Rudy showed up intermittently and rarely with groceries) going to do with a full-size freezer.? We didn’t hunt, had no extra anything. Mom was working as a dental assistant by day, Census counter by summer and sometimes waitress at night — so we weren’t doubling up on the gallons of ice cream and steak filets. Our current freezer’s main tenant — by both importance and square inches — was Mom’s Merit Ultra Light 100s,. They shared space with the envelopes; our house in the woods came equipped with damp and shag carpet in the bathroom.
A get-rich plan was hatched with the speed known by every single mother and every child raised by game shows. We sold that sucker in the Penny Saver, and Mom got to exhale and I got to get my first pair of leather Nikes, with a pale blue stripe.
We started telling ourselves a different story, I think. Or at least I did. By fifth grade, I was feeling more at home in the country, making friends and swimming almost every day at the pool. I’d ride a bus from the school’s parking lot at around 11, and Mom would pick me up six to seven hours later, after work. If it rained — bonus — I could to hang out with the lifeguards, all of whom I had a crush on, especially Gary, who looked like Rick Springfield, minus the leather blazer and mousse.
By sixth grade, I’d set my mind to being popular, happy, less lonely, accepted, using the mixing of two elementary schools as a fresh start. I tried out for cheerleader, ran for student council, got a boyfriend and made friends I still text to on the regular — all in the first week — all in my Nikes. For the next six. years, every time I heard my name called over the loudspeakers or put on a cast list, telling me I’d made cheerleader, or homecoming or got the part, I was convinced that I — and I alone — had to make my own luck. If I was good and dedicated to improvement, things would be OK. It only took another four decades to learn I was never in trouble, the fates were never against me, and that maybe, I could stop taking it all so personally and just live a little. Maybe even enter the next raffle I spot.
Loved this piece, thank you for sharing it.