Ain’t No Fortunate One
As soon as the band began rocking out, that grin flashed across her face like lightning.
Some folks are born to wave the flag,
Ooh, they’re red, white and blue.
And when the band plays “Hail to the chief”,
Ooh, they point the cannon at you.
It ain’t me, it ain’t me, I ain’t no senator’s son.
It ain’t me, it ain’t me; I ain’t no fortunate one.
Elli’s papaw introduced her to Creedence Clearwater Revival when she was around age 7. She was always just like the gusto and grit of those songs and I think that’s why she loved them. As soon as the drummer began beating out the rhythm, ecstatic messages fired through her scrambled neurons and nerves to every muscle in her body, clenching and releasing and contracting again. Her body didn’t cooperate with her, but it was still strong as an ox, shooting out straight as a board, then collapsing limp. She kicked and stomped her legs, clutched her fingers into her chest, and shook her head as she squealed with delight.
I watched her feet as she jerked in her wheelchair. Sometimes her feet would slip off the end of the chair’s footrest and she’d slam her heels against the end. I didn’t want her to bruise or blister her ankles in her enthusiasm, even though pain didn’t faze her the way it did her siblings.