My Left Foot, part deux – my musical career

My left foot, actually my whole left leg is rather useless. It will hold the pant leg from blowing in the wind, but it won’t support me.

But it’s mine, and I have gotten used to it over the millennia. Polio is a funny disease, as in funny sheesh! It attacks the nerves that serve the muscles, weakens them and tries to kill them. The result is those muscles atrophy and dies since they aren’t getting stimulation. You’d think Mozart would be enough stimulation, but no. It would help if you had tiny nerves.

Other than looking like a stick, the two most prominent drawbacks to my left foot were slow-poke and pain.

One August, the YMCA held a hike to Kearney Lake for a picnic and swim. It was a scorcher of a day. The path was uphill along granite boulders, reflecting the heat like a brick in an oven. All the hikers set out together. Soon I was at the back of the pack. A few considerate hikers tried to stay with me but realized they’d miss the pre-lunch swim if they didn’t pick up the pace.

I trudged on for two hours, dragging my left foot, or in my mind, my Really Bad Foot. Arriving at noon, I was just in time to eat my lunch. I couldn’t swim and cool down because I had just eaten, and if I got my left foot wet, it would probably chafe in my brace.

Before I could enjoy the swim, the hikers started cat-calls of “make Stephen start early, or he’ll hold up the bus.” The YMCA leader agreed, and I trudged back down the hill. That was slow-poke.

After slow-poke comes the pain, inevitably, trying to keep up with people who don’t know their left foot from their right will induce excruciating pain.

I don’t know why counsellors feel hell-bent on telling children with disabilities to ‘be all they can be.’ Being all you can might just be reading a book at the library and becoming a rocket scientist or wealthy business financier, none of which requires hikes to Kearney Lake when you have my left foot.

Seeking a career in music, I joined a marching band in Grade 8 to learn the clarinet. My left foot was not required to play the clarinet. I mostly sat in a seat. The music stands held up the music, and I played with my fingers. That seemed like a safe choice of a musical instrument, that is until they announced the students were going to march in the 3-mile civic day parade. Thus ended my musical career with the clarinet.

Moving on, I tried drums, which seemed unlikely to participate in any walking exercises. I practiced drum solos like “Wipe Out” and “Roll Over Beethoven” night and day. My left foot took a dim view of this career move. It refused to help with the tiniest movement on the high-hat cymbal. Not a peep or a twitch. So to perform some fancy cymbal work, I had to take my right foot off the bass drum and work the high hat. If you’ve ever heard a drummer do this, you will know I was not destined to be Ringo Starr’s replacement with the Beatles.

Accepting my left foot for what it was – a smaller useless version of my right foot – I took up the guitar. I didn’t need a left foot for the guitar. After learning the requisite three chords, I had visions of becoming a rock or folk star. Then I observed that rock stars do a lot of prancing and dancing on the stage and stay up way too late for my left foot. I didn’t think this prancing enhanced their music, but the female fans seemed to love it. I resigned myself to being a home musician, plunking for my amusement. My left foot had its way again.

When I started to work in the business world, I discovered that my left foot was not only useless, it was an expensive pest. Remember the part about more minor: my left foot is two sizes smaller and double E width, almost unheard of in shoes under $150. A new pair of leather brogues are a $300 shopping trip since my left foot wants its own smaller shoe.

My left foot also shows a lack of frugality by forever ignoring the right side of its pair, except for the shoelaces. Thank goodness for using the laces, or I would feel the extra pair was a complete waste of money.

Lest I give the impression that my left foot is good for nothing, let me assure you there is no better barometer for the future: if it is cold anywhere within 100 miles or if it will be cold later, my left foot will let me know. My left foot can be cold on a hot day in July. The weather must be changing for the worse somewhere else.

It doesn’t seem to work the other way since it never anticipates summer or advises me when it will finally be warm.

I recently discovered another advantage to my left foot while in church. The priest told me I was destined to be St. Stephen of Charlottetown. Not doubting him, I kept my past sinful history and the stories about my bad left foot to myself.

However, it is impossible to hide during Mass since I have to sit in the centre aisle in a wheelchair. Do you think they will ever make space for wheelchairs in the pews? That is another story.

All during Mass, my right foot is tapping away to some Bob Dylan song rattling around in my head. My left foot, however, is piously and quietly listening to everything that the priest is saying. It doesn’t genuflect so well anymore, but it is attentive, and this looks good, especially compared with its wicked brother who cannot contain himself for an hour a week.

The way I figure it, when I get to St. Peter at the Heavenly Gates, I am going to lead with my left foot for the first time in my life. It will be putting my best foot forward, don’t you know.

Except where otherwise noted, this work is licensed under a Creative Commons License – Stephen Pate