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.