When Hank Phillippi Ryan interviewed me at Malice I denied that I was in the least superstitious.
In my last post I realized that do have superstitious quirks after all. Maybe that's because I grew up in a household of great aunts who were an endless font of superstitions: if you drop a spoon, you're in for a disappointment, if you sneeze once you'll get a letter. I can't remember what twice was but it was "three times something better." And of course all the well-known ones, "Fine at seven, rain by eleven." (that was England of course where that prediction often comes true). Dark men, flights of crows, black cats--my aunts believed all of them would influence their lives. It seemed that everyday happenings all had some message of luck or prediction attached to them.
So it was little wonder that growing up I looked for portends. If the bus comes by the time I count to one hundred, I will pass the geography test. If I can get home without stepping on a crack , I can make a wish.
When I found that these simply didn't work, I lost heart. Grew up sensible, forward thinking, organized....
except I find that I do have my little superstitions still. Usually in times of great stress or distress. When my dear friend Lyn Hamilton knew that she had terminal cancer, she gave me a bracelet that we had bought together at an antiques fair in New England. I didn't want to take it but she insisted. So I put it on and refused to take it off, in the vain hope that as long as I wore it she wouldn't die. Unfortunately not even the bracelet could keep her alive in the end. It's silly what hopes we cling to, isn't it? I guess we still have that element of primitive man, sitting around the fire in the cave, trying to defy nature, to survive against all odds, embedded in us.
So are you superstitious?