There, now we have a month of good luck ahead of us. Or so I hear.
Rabbit, rabbit. Some of you may have said that first thing this morning. And for those still slowly rising – get to it, it could bring you good luck all month long.
Rachel Martin, interviewing Martha Barnette on NPR
Timothy and I always said ‘rabbit rabbits’ —I’ve no idea where we picked up the second plural ‘rabbits’ — on the first of the month. We laughed out loud at each other when we both did it on the first of our first month together (very likely our first June living in Ealing Broadway). I never thought to ask where we each picked it up from; I don’t recall my parents saying it at all. Tim, as a connoisseur of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, may have known FDR was a devoted rabbit-luck fancier. President Roosevelt not only said (or legend says he said) “rabbit rabbit” on the first of every month, he carried a lucky rabbit’s foot in his pocket during his first campaign. Yes! You can see it in his presidential library in Hyde Park, in upstate New York.
Tim and I rarely saw real rabbits, anywhere we lived. Acton had foxes (which we did see once in a while, and heard while they celebrated spring by yipping and barking). Seaside was too sandy and small. San Diego, forget it: too suburban. The rabbit in the top of this post? Badlands National Park, photo taken by Timothy so early in the morning, the rabbit was probably half asleep. (I was.)
But whenever we did, Tim would immediately crook his fingers over his front teeth and proclaim: “It’s only a bunny!” He also did this the few times I made stewed rabbit, feeling very Home Front when I did so.
Indeed, aficionados of British documentaries about World War II may know rabbits in this rather different context. This little ditty, “Run Rabbit, Run,” was a massive hit for the comedy duo Flanagan and Allen in 1939. (A warning: this is dangerous ear-worm territory.)
It really was my lucky day…
I didn’t need to set the alarm clock to sing about rabbits this morning: I was awake with the larks. (I did say “rabbit rabbits” to the cats, but of course, they didn’t say anything back except “Breakfast?” via big, toothy yawns.) I laid out clean clothes — a tee-shirt and jeans — to change into after doing morning meetings and yoga wearing a warm sweater and fur-bedecked yoga pants. Put my hair up carefully, checked my favorite mask (with cats!) was clean, had a good breakfast. Why such a fuss?
It was vaccination day! Not only did I get to take a scenic drive to Centralia, I would get to sit in long queue of cars, full of mildly anxious adults, and nervously double-check I had my appointment card as we inched forward. Oh, and I had a special gift for the nurse-technician who actually did the shot: a New Yorker cartoon by Edward Steed, that shows a doctor about to wallop a patient with a beehive, as he says “This may sting a little…”
I’d saved it since January, knowing that someday, eventually, I could make a couple of weary medical professionals laugh right before they jabbed my arm. And I was right.
(P.S. This life-saving vaccine was administered in the Lewis County Fairgrounds’ cow barn, past the horse barns and the rodeo arena. Thanks to all, especially the volunteers. If you’re in the neighborhood and need a vaccine, be sure to drop by!)