A Little Boot
2024 is a leap year. I always wondered how February 28th and March 1st feel about their part-time, next-of-kin sibling who shows up every four years and gets a special name, changing up the mix, knocking months two and three akimbo from their non-leap year synchronization. I imagine suspicious side eyes and snide remarks in calendar world. I suspect that Leap Day is used to this treatment, embracing that haters gonna hate and understanding that the role of being different and special isn’t without cost.
Be strong, 29.
I love me some leap days. When I oversee the planet, it will be an intergalactic holiday to celebrate extra, a little fist bump kind of party for being all addy-on and bonusy. It’s hard not to feel some optimism in this February air what with Punxsutawney Phil not seeing his shadow, Mardi Gras, Ash Wednesday, Valentine’s Day, and President’s Day all huddled together in a few weeks. February honors African American history and it’s American Heart Month, both critical in terms of recognition, health, and awareness. Though it’s rarely discussed in open forums, February is also home to National Tater Tot Day and National Haiku Writing Month.
Oh, February
Still anchored in wintertime
Pole-vaulting toward spring
Mother Nature is moody in her thawing. Sunny and warm one day, then raging cold the next. People complain about this, but I find her antics endearing. My thermostat and feelings are wonky too, so here we are people, February throws it down for real and there’s not much we can do about it but hold on and be grateful that we’re getting an extra day out of the exchange.
As the daughter of a man who traded pocketknives and livestock as a side hustle, I learned the art of the deal, especially if one could get the “gooder” end. I’m intimate with the concept of extra. Some of it is what I get, but I also really love the term relating to what can be given as well. To provide for others more than might be expected or required is one of the delights of the love languages.
Of course, there are terms for these throw ins, where I’m from it’s boot, which means something offered up to sweeten the pot. I have an old oil lamp that Daddy gave me when I was eight years old which came to him as boot for a herd of goats. Although I wasn’t present at the transaction, I can confidently speculate how it went down.
“What else you got?” Daddy probably asked, his steel toed boot resting on the metal bumper of his Chevy pick-up, the ember of his Pall Mall burning orange on his inhale. The goats were already loaded onto the trailer and his wallet was still tucked in the back pocket of his khaki work pants.
“I don’t know. How about this oil lamp? I got it at a Flea Market. It burns real good.”
“Oil, too?”
“Nah, just the lamp,” the man answered, knowing that he had to preserve the dignity of the trade.
“Alright.” Daddy paid with a ten spot.
Nothing like country negotiation. I’m not sure why I have held on to that boot as I don’t have much need for an oil lamp, but I have it just the same.
Baker’s dozen offers up thirteen instead of twelve, making the recipient feel special and indulged upon. If I’m going to get more of something, I like a world where additional comes in the form of baked goods. If it happens to be a Cruller, then there is indeed heaven-sent mercy upon us earthlings.
Lagniappe, lanny-yap in New Orleans vernacular, means the same as boot or baker’s dozen with a twist of spirit as its definition says, “given gratuitously or by the way of good measure.”
Thank you, February, for the boot, baker’s, lagniappe, as extra should not go unnoticed or unappreciated. Getting something that wasn’t expected or deserved through a grateful filter makes American Heart Month take on a deeper meaning. I am decreeing this Leap Month as a time for all things extra.
***
A few years back, I had my first MRI. The “wide” machine was already in use, so I was sent to the regular machine. As a person who doesn’t do well in enclosed tombs, I had a stone-cold freak out when they wheeled me into that vault. The technician reversed me back out, dried my tears, and said in a deep North Carolina woods accent, “Honey, it sure enough is cramped in there but the doctor needs these images to get you better. How about I get a little wash rag and put it over your eyes? That helps sometimes. And I’ll keep talking to you to make sure you’re okay, and we can get this thing done and we can get you on out of here. How does that sound?”
“Okay,” I sniffled. That wash rag smelled like lavender and compassion and it worked. I made it through, and I will never forget that lagniappe sort of kindness.
I doubt that the policy and procedure manual for radiation techs referenced saturating scared patients with encouragement and offering up the miracle cure of blocking the visual field with a little ole wash rag. Yet, he rose above the acceptable minimum, and that small act made all the difference.
***
My inner cynic can steer me toward a view of the world where love and service are scarce, where others only want the “gooder” part for themselves, then I am reminded of the time I looked up at the church steeple down the street from our house just as a great horned owl balanced on the metal cross. Before I could get a shot of him, his lover landed to his left. So good. So extra.
There are countless other times too – ending up with an exit row seat, scoring close parking, a timely break in a thunderstorm, a lavender scented wash rag, an against odds cure, Crullers still warm from the oven – compelling me to wonder why I don’t put a little boot into my everyday practice called living.
