To Each His Own

I consider some precautions unnecessary.  It's no use, for instance, warning me about Friday the thirteenth.  I'm completely unruffled by black cats, broken mirrors, and songs before breakfast.  This is not to say that I'm not superstitious.  Of course I am.  But I'm superstitious about my own ideas of relevance, not everybody else's.  After all, from whose experience shall I profit if not my own?  Failing to throw salt over my shoulder never hurt me.  On the other hand, not completing whatever crossword puzzle I may have started does.

I don't know why it does, mind you, but each time I have failed to finish a puzzle, some ghastly thing has happened.  A party gets canceled.  Or I lose my purse.  Or I break my longest fingernail so that I have to trim all the others to make them look even, thereby giving myself an unwarranted reputation for being a nail biter.  It happens every time I tell you.

But the sweeter side to my superstitions is that they play fair: they give me a chance.  The crossword superstition doesn't care how long I take, as long as I finish.  I'm currently working on last year's puzzle for August 25.  Nothing has happened.  Fate knows I'm in there, trying.

Then there's the solitaire superstition.  I know twenty different games of solitaire, and if I play them all and win a majority (eleven or more), something wonderful will happen.  The children will behave, or the milkman will accidentally leave an uncharged-for extra quart.  I won thirteen games once, and somebody treated me to a dinner at a posh restaurant.  Don't tell me it's just coincidence: I don't get to posh restaurants that often.

Occasionally, as a reward for my diligence, a superstition will set me free from further efforts on its behalf.  Take, for example, the superstition I held for twenty-one years.  I said it in 1946, and I said it for years to come: the next time the Red Sox win a baseball pennant I'll get married.  Happily, I mean.  I had to add that last bit later, because I'd gotten married once, but it hadn't worked out.  We broke up, and you know why.  I hadn't waited for the Red Sox.

Then, in 1967, Boston did win the pennant.  For three years Bill Stevens had told me, "I don't want to get married."  Now I turned to him and demanded, "Are you really going to defy Fate?"

"Defy what Fate?"

"My fate.  The Red Sox just won the pennant."

"So?"

So I explained.  And I concluded my explanation with "...and if you don't marry me, you know someone else will come along this year who will, and the superstition will belong to you.  Then I will be happily married and you will be stuck with a twenty-year wait for the Red Sox."

Put like that, Bill decided not to take chances with Fate.  Or with me.  At any rate, I became Mrs. Stevens.  I don't know who has the superstition now, but they have my best wishes‑-the Red Sox are definitely worth waiting for.  You just can't buck destiny, that's all.