Are you superstitious?

Yesterday morning, I threw salt over my left shoulder after knocking over the salt shaker while wiping down the table. It’s an automatic response, but I’m not the only one who does this odd ritual, to ward off evil spirits, am I?     

I became smitten with superstitions at an early age thanks to reading Greek mythology. Books with magical twists, characters, and worlds fostered my imagination. Many rituals were rooted in keeping people safe, like hand washing and not talking to strangers. Some stories that made people afraid had merit. If you spoke to strangers who (fill in the blank) you would suffer (fill in the blank again). The choice was yours.

Superstitions also prevented people from challenging authority, belief systems, and sacred ways. Consider those fables filled with falsehoods in order to explain the unexplainable.

Stevie Wonder warned us that superstition 'ain’t the way' in one of my favorite songs of his titled “Superstition” released in 1972.

My fun-loving, superstitious father, known for pranks, encouraged me to follow superstitions. Let me assure you, he wasn’t serious. Emphasis on the word “fun.”

Dad insisted visitors use the same door to enter and exit our house. Otherwise, it’d bring bad luck upon us. Thankfully, we only had three options: front, back, and garage doors. Two Buicks hogged the garage. Anyone with a wide girth would need to scoot sideways between the car and wall. Garden rakes, hoes, tools, three bikes, garage bucket, and forgotten junk filled the perimeter. The space smelled like fresh dirt spiked with oil.  

Only family, close friends and neighborhood kids knocked on the garage door. The way in through the kitchen. We had woods and a winding creek in the backyard where all the neighborhood kids would tromp and play. We came in through the garage, that absorbed our outdoor grime.    

Our front entrance greeted acquaintances, neighbor kids selling fundraiser candy, and evangelist strangers. Strangers who my dad on a whim would invite in to discuss and debate their beliefs. Dad enjoyed engaging them and wasn’t mocking them. Perhaps he felt sorry for the dark clothed folks in suits and ties walking around in the summer sun.    

Today, a few strangers stopped by inviting us to worship. However, we received our share of clipboard salespeople pitching us window installation, lawn mowing services or driveway paving.   

Last week, the bell rang on a weekday afternoon. I opened the door. A girl wearing a bicycle helmet gave me a tentative smile. She looked about eight or nine with messy hair.

Her hands were empty—no candy bars, raffle tickets or boxes. Was she looking for a lost dog?   

“Would you like to buy some lemonade or cotton candy?” she asked with a confident soft voice. She didn’t waste time introducing herself.

She told me both the blue or pink cotton candy and lemonade were a dollar. I watched as she made her way around the neighborhood. Her friends, not at all shy, yelled instructions and questions at her from the street. "Go to the next house!" 

Yes, I visited the entrepreneurs’ stand an hour later, bought a drink, and left a tip. The cotton candy machine was a smaller version than those found at fairs. Just seeing the pink sugary cylinder made me long for the sweet melt in my mouth funnel cake with powdered sugar.

**

Our current house has three doors and a gate to the backyard. Usually, I ushered friends in and out of the same door. Old habits were hard to break, I supposed.

Now, I don’t recall why we, or Dad, started this same-door superstition, but I know it applied to everyone — family, friends, neighbors. People accepted this odd custom because they understood that if they wanted to leave, they must comply. Friends who cared about leaving on good terms laughed and went along. It was our house, our rules.  

When I forgot the ritual, which I often did, I’d shrug it off. I didn’t really believe or take responsibility for exposing my family to bad luck. Bad luck was always on the prowl. Walking under a ladder, a black cat crossing your path, and breaking a mirror, all brought bad luck if you believed. And breaking a mirror caused a spell of seven years of bad luck. Linking some unexpected event to superstition wasn’t logical.

Yet, I haven’t abandoned those ingrained superstitions.  

Why risk it? Over the years, I have followed basic behaviors to ward off evil and cheat misfortune. I pocketed coins facing the right side up for good luck.

When traveling far, I wore a St. Christopher necklace and took my self-blessed penny. As a Methodist, I figured I was not guaranteed the same saintly protection as good Catholics. I lost the necklace and carried coins, and lucky pieces from my collection.  

Have you ever adopted a superstition after something magical happened to you? For example, you hit a home run with bases loaded and your team won the championship.

How do you recreate or repeat your fortune? Do you rely on what you were wearing, doing, or thinking at the time? Did your crazy socks get credit for the soccer goal? Did you whisper a chant three times, or do a dance after your team won? Were you thinking positive thoughts?  

Just for fun, I even adopted some zany superstitions of my own. I touched the car’s ceiling and made a wish if I ran a yellow traffic light. My wish was: Please don’t let me get a ticket. Does it work? Yes, a clean driving record stands as proof. What other wishes had I made? Probably meeting my deadline, or stumbling into a substantial sum of money. I can’t claim it always worked.

Superstition ain’t the way, but it’s been fun.

 

What have you rescued lately? 

“Let’s go look!” I said, after my husband told me he spotted something I might like. Something worth saving.

We drove down the street and stopped at our neighbor’s driveway. There stood a handsome oak rocking chair soaking up the sun. We circled around, admiring its plain design and the wavy wood grain. The arm rests were as wide as those old-fashioned school desks. Although it looked sturdy, it creaked when it rocked.

We could fix this.

We loaded our newest rescue in our vehicle, eager to bring it home. I removed the fur-covered cushions and found the rocker even more beautiful. The neighbor has dogs, and I imagined his two chihuahuas cuddling together in their special place. Next, I washed away layers of dust and cobwebs. Not too bad, as judged by only one sneeze.

Why was this beauty abandoned?

I had seen plenty of useful objects left curbside on trash day. I learned apps exists (of course they do) alerting people to unwanted free items that need a good home. But my plan has always relied on Ms. Serendipity (not an app), who appeared ah, randomly, and discovered wonderful pieces for me to adopt.

As for my latest treasure, it lives in the library, poised to catch sunbeams while I rock and read.

 

 

What’s your favorite comfort food at the 

all-you-can eat buffet?

For me, Jell-O salad in all its jiggly wiggly colorful glory wins. Red squares ready to be scooped up, or orange-flavored gelatin with whipped topping and fruit, mini-marshmallows, and coconut. Really, isn’t it genius to market dessert as a salad?     

You may believe that these buffets are on the endangered eating list. But buffets are out there my friends, as mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, fried chicken, and cherry pie as my witnesses.

Buffets are for those with enormous appetites and tiny budgets. In college, I frequented the cheapest all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet with my radio station friends. Let’s call my buddies Burt and Marcie. Burt was a big bear of a guy who took care of the transmitter and all the college broadcast equipment. He was smart, soft-spoken, and never one to rush.

Marcie was high strung with her thoughts moving at the speed of light. She was petite and her twig-like body was deceiving because she ate like a bird. In other words, she ate alot.

As for me, I was a student working at the radio station to get experience and a small paycheck. Inside, the savory smell of bacon and sausage, wakes us up. We leave content because breakfast is the most important meal of the day. It is my only meal that day. We slugged back with heavy bellies.

Although I enjoy brunches, I prefer buffets. The food and more so the people watching. Sure, brunches are more sophisticated—the menu, service and the clientele. But as long as I’m in good company, take me to the buffet.

However, as a teenager, I would have rather jumped off a cliff than spend what seemed like hours at the buffet with my relatives. For them, the buffet was a Sunday treat. For me, the experience was like eating a side order of embarrassment.

Those days are gone, but not quite forgotten.      

Last week, my hubby and I checked out the Hennings Market. It’s a throw-back lunch buffet featuring soup to a self-serve ice cream bar. Yep, over 100 items. Lunch is one price. Seconds are included.

We picked up the black plastic containers and headed for the hot bar. One thing I learned is to walk around the buffet prior to filling your plate. Scope out the scene. Have a plan of attack.

I avoid public salad bars, but this display looked fresh and appetizing with a large number ofdessert salads. A separate section featured Jell-O offerings, puddings, and slices of pie ranging from common cherry to shoofly. The choices made me feel dizzy.

Did I have a Jello-O salad? You bet and it passed the test, bringing sweetness with flecks of coconut.

 

 

 

 

 

Can we save monarch butterflies?

    Seeing the first monarch of the summer makes me feel both hopeful and sad. As I watch the majestic orange and black butterflies fluttering around the backyard, I consider their uncertain future as a species. Humans have poisoned, plowed over, or encroached on their habitat, making it more challenging for the monarch. Milkweed is less plentiful and it’s the only plant where monarchs lay their eggs and a primary source of food. (They also eat nectar from other plants.)  

    Did you know that not all monarchs migrate? Mother Nature decides what colonies will make the arduous journey, say the enthusiastic guides at the LaDew Butterfly House in Maryland. Ladew’s staff and volunteers are serious about their role as caretakers of native species of butterflies and moths and as educators for visitors, like me. Last July, the tour guides pointed out itsy-bitsy white butterfly eggs dotting the underside of milkweed leaves.  

    Monarchs that migrate embark on a 1,200 up to 2,800 mile journey from their homes in U.S. and Canada to the forests of Central Mexico. Migratory populations decreased by 59 percent in 2024, according to the World Wildlife Fund. Each year, their numbers decrease.

    Many butterflies are near extinction. The Poweshiek skipperling, once common in the Midwest, is one of the rarest butterflies. Nearly 1,200 of these endangered butterflies are back in the wild this summer, thanks to the John Ball Zoo in Grand Rapids’ program.  

    I grew up in the Midwest. As a young girl, a small white butterfly with papery wings and a cheery disposition, befriended me. Was it a skipperling? I am not sure.  But my winged friend, small and delicate, waited for me on the windowsill every morning and danced by my shoulder. One morning, the windowsill was empty, and I felt empty too.

    Of course, I didn’t know then that a butterfly lives only a few days or weeks depending on the species. Now, I realize that these precise creatures’ lives depend on us.  It’s up to us to ensure there are butterflies for the next generation.  

    **

 https://wildlife.org/mexico-monarch-numbers-plunge/

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/10/25/realestate/gardening-milkweed-plants-butterflies.html?unlocked_article_code=1.AU4.AwSl.5xhT4oLzqTdy&smid=url-share