Lucky Charms

When I was a child, my favorite color in the world was magenta. Not pink, not purple. Magenta. I wanted everything I owned to be magenta and made some definite progress in that pursuit.

My first "big girl" bike without training wheels, which I bought myself, was, you guessed it: magenta. I supplemented my fifty cent per week allowance with money I made doing chores for the people in my neighborhood. I did dishes, I cleaned windows, I pulled weeds, whatever I could get paid for. My goal was singular. I had set my sights upon the magenta and turquoise big girl bike with the frog on the seat and the daisy basket on the handlebars the moment I laid eyes upon it. It was my Excalibur. It would be mine. Oh yes, it would be mine. Somehow I managed to save the $85 (a whopping sum to my 6 year-old eyes) and it became mine.

It was my first major purchase. It was resplendent in its magenta glory, and the pride and unadulterated joy I felt when I got it home couldn't be spoiled. You literally could not have wiped the gap-toothed grin off my face. On my first Big Girl Bike Riding lesson, my dad held the onto the back of my seat to keep the bike steady and jogged along behind me as I pedaled unsteadily. Everything was fine until I realized that my dad was no longer holding onto the seat. I was all alone with no one to keep me from falling. When I whipped my head around and saw my father down the block cheering me on, the betrayal I felt was all-consuming. The bike immediately tipped over and I burst into hot, self-righteous tears. How could my dad let me go like that? He promised me he would hold on.

He explained that he only let go because he knew that I didn't need him anymore. I was perfectly capable on my own and the world (well, the neighborhood, anyway) was my oyster. I could ride around all over the damn place. I could even do it one-handed in that nonchalant "Yeah, I'm hot shit," way I eventually became so fond of. I felt powerful and omnipotent. All was forgiven. I reassumed my natural place in the world as Daddy's girl.

We enjoyed a special bond that incited bitter hatred from my sister and resentment from my mother. I was the spitting image of my dad and his sharp wit quickly became my own. Making my father laugh was the ultimate accomplishment. Nothing made me happier. So, when my parents split up a couple of years after I learned to ride a big girl bike, I was bereft. My dad moved out and I only got to see him every other weekend.

My father's struggle with alcoholism and depression threatened to overcome him in those ensuing months. He lived in a tiny apartment with hardly any possessions and barely enough money to eat. I was heartbroken to see my dad, my buddy, my partner in crime sinking into the depths of his pain. I needed a plan of action. At age 8, I brought him the paltry sum of money I had saved (mostly change and $1 bills) and proffered my rabbit's foot keychain (magenta, of course). He refused to take my money and was reluctant to take my rabbit's foot either, but I was insistent. "You need a lucky charm, Daddy," I said to him.

My father carried that keychain with him everywhere. My tough, blue collar dad had a magenta rabbit's foot perpetually hanging out of the pocket of his weathered jeans. I am sure he took all kinds of shit from his friends and coworkers, but on his keychain is where it stayed. A few years later, the rabbit's foot began to deteriorate and one day I saw that it was absent from his keychain. I never said anything, but I definitely noticed. That familiar stab of betrayal was back, but by this time I didn't cry. I kept my mouth shut and held my feelings inside.

Over the years, my dad and I had a tumultuous relationship at best. When I reached early adulthood, we severed contact completely for over two years. All those traits we share had driven us apart. Not only do I have my father's sense of humor and near-photographic memory, I also inherited his stubbornness and sharp tongue. I am ashamed of the hateful, reprehensible things I said to him in anger and cringe in memory of the way his vitriolic words cut through to my heart. If I didn't love him so deeply, I doubt they would have affected me half as much. But my innate stubborn ways precluded me from ever letting him know, which in my mind, was tantamount to admitting defeat. In retrospect, I suspect that he was so hard on me because that was just his way to force me to toughen up and get ready for the world. Even though it hurt, he knew that I had to prove to myself I didn't need him holding on to stay upright. I was strong enough to stand on my own two feet.

Eventually we made a tenuous peace and have gotten back to the point where we talk on the phone for hours at a time each week and laugh until our stomachs hurt. There is still an undercurrent of tension that occasionally comes to a head, but for the most part, I have my relationship with my dad back.

Last weekend I went to dinner at my dad's house. There was no special occasion. I just hadn't seen him in a while and wanted to hang out, maybe have a few beers and shoot the shit. I was hanging out in the garage, which he's converted into a workshop for restoring his antique car replete with flat screen tv, heater and stereo. I glanced up at the pegboard various tools hang from and noticed something unusual dangling in the corner.

It was my rabbit's foot. It's no longer magenta, time has mellowed it to more of a rusty maroon. Several bones now protrude where the fur has worn away. If I didn't know where it came from and what it meant, I would think it macabre.

"I can't believe you kept that all these years," I said. "I was sure you'd thrown it away."

"Of course I kept it," my dad replied. "It's my lucky charm."