“Mom! Oh, no! Mom! Bird poop!”

Growing up, Mom’s standing rule was for us to change out of our school uniforms just as soon as we got home. I don’t remember why I didn’t obey on this one day in the spring of 1967, but a big bird named Karma took care that I would never forget.

We were in the backyard at our home in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. I remember standing near the large tree that shaded our picnic table, when: Splat! It was more of a sensation than a sound, but it was impossible to miss.

The aforementioned school uniform was made of wool. Not exactly a wash-and-wear material. Mom sent me upstairs to change into “play clothes” and said I’d just have to go to school out of uniform the next day.

She would send a note to the teacher.

Oh, boy! Getting to wear something other than scratchy wool was a treat. And I had just the dress. Green paisley.

I was in third grade at Sacred Heart Elementary School and had lucked into having a “lay teacher,” Mrs. Maroun. I remember her as being kind, but not a pushover. She read Mom’s note and complimented my green dress.

By the next week, I was back in uniform. But only during school hours.

Funny that my only other experience with bird poop was just a few years ago. (Not counting windshield droppings, of course. That’s nearly a daily occurrence.)

Just weeks (maybe days) away from retirement, it was the final “remote” of my career. In a nutshell, that meant getting up ridiculously early and meeting up with a radio crew to broadcast live from the park.

While the publicity was a welcome boon, getting up that early (and not sleeping well the night before) was no fun.

We planned to meet up at my office at 5:30am, so I pulled in around 5:15. Leaving the back door open, I went into my office and suited up with my two-way radio, name badge, and the like.

As the minutes ticked by, I started to worry.

Did they remember where my office was located? (It was in a separate building from most of the theme park’s offices.) Would we have time to set up their equipment and get on the air on schedule?

I slipped through the side gate to check that a table and chairs awaited us. They were in place, right near a power outlet. Back by my office, still no sign of the radio crew. It was a chilly morning, with dew on the grass. Over my park uniform (not wool, thankfully), I was wrapped in a black park-logoed windbreaker.

Standing out by the road, to ensure the crew would pull into the correct parking lot as our set-up window swiftly closed, I heard that familiar sound.

Splat!

There it was, from shoulder to elbow. Bird poop. Again.

I dashed back into the restroom by my office to give the sleeve a good scrub.

Hellooo? Paula? We’re here!

Of course, that was the moment the crew arrived. They’d grabbed the equipment from their vehicle and were ready to go.

When I explained my wet jacket sleeve, the reaction was immediate and enthusiastic:

Oh, wow! That’s good luck!

We got set up in the park and on the air with mere minutes to spare.

Good luck, you say? A quick Google search nearly four years later indicates that folklore, indeed, tells us bird poop brings good luck and prosperity.

Come to think of it, never having to get up impossibly early for another radio remote – coupled with never having to wear a uniform again – might just have been worth the double dose of bird droppings over the course of half a century.

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