Friday the 13th

Usually, on a Friday morning, I’d be saying, “Thank goodness it’s Friday!” And while I’m certainly glad the weekend is almost here, today comes with one little complication: it’s Friday the 13th. I have a mild case of triskaidekaphobia, the fear of the number 13. I’m not so superstitious that I’m going to hide under the covers all day, though that does sound rather appealing this morning, but I do try to avoid the number 13 whenever possible.

I suppose I come by my superstitious tendencies honestly. My grandmother was an incredibly superstitious woman, and growing up around her meant learning a whole collection of things you simply did not do unless you wanted to invite bad luck, or something considerably worse, into your life.

For example, if you were walking with someone and came upon an obstacle, such as a post or a tree, you absolutely could not split it by walking on opposite sides. If we did, my grandmother would make us go back and walk around it together the proper way. Splitting a post was bad luck, and she wasn’t about to take any chances.

Sneezing at the dinner table was another matter entirely. If you sneezed while eating, you had to get up, walk to the door, and then return to the table before you could finish your meal. Failing to do so supposedly meant that a family member would die. That’s a rather drastic consequence for something as innocent as a sneeze, but my grandmother took it seriously.

Then there was the business of killing snakes. If you killed a snake, you had to drape its body over a fence. Otherwise, there would be a drought. I’m not entirely sure what connection a dead snake hanging over a fence had to do with rainfall, but apparently, in my grandmother’s world, the weather depended upon it.

Some of these superstitions were harmless little rituals, while others carried rather terrifying consequences, especially to a child. My grandmother’s grandmother was Native American, and the family always attributed my grandmother’s superstitious nature to that ancestry. I’m certainly not suggesting that Native Americans are inherently superstitious, but that was the explanation I heard growing up.

We even had an old photograph of my great-great-grandmother, one of those large oval portraits with the convex glass that bulged outward from the frame. She was dressed in black with a high lace collar, and her dark hair was pulled tightly back into a bun. To a young child, she was a rather frightening-looking woman. With her black dress, severe expression, and prominent, beak-like nose, I thought she looked remarkably like a buzzard. That’s why, in my childhood imagination, she became the “Buzzard Woman.” I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to cross her, and perhaps that photograph only added to the mystery surrounding the family superstitions supposedly passed down through the generations.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to appreciate those memories of my grandmother, even if I don’t necessarily believe all the dire consequences she warned us about. I still find myself thinking about her whenever I encounter one of those old superstitions. Some habits and beliefs have a way of staying with us long after the people who taught them are gone.

And then there’s that pesky number 13. I know perfectly well that it’s just a number and that Friday the 13th is just another day on the calendar. Nevertheless, there’s a little part of me that would prefer to skip straight to Saturday.

This week has already felt a little off, and I don’t need Friday the 13th adding any more excitement to it. Hopefully, the day will pass quickly and uneventfully, and before I know it, I’ll be home enjoying the beginning of the weekend.

Until then, I’ll try not to walk under any ladders, break any mirrors, or cross paths with any black cats. Of course, considering Isabella is a black cat, avoiding that last one is pretty much impossible.

Thank goodness it’s Friday anyway!