My Turn: Superstition? I was raised on it

While growing up, I thought I had the wackiest family on Earth. My mother appeared to live by instinct and depend on superstitions to get through each day. It seemed to me she had one to fit every occasion.

In some outlandish way these superstitions have penetrated my soul and are ingrained in my own thinking. My mother is long gone. But, when I recall her superstitious admonishments and dismiss them as ridiculous, I think twice before doing something she would not approve of and wonder if I will live to regret my modern thinking.

During chaotic mornings in our tiny apartment, I'd have one foot out the door to school, but a loose button meant a quick sew without removing my blouse. My mother always told me to eat something while she fastened the button.

One hurried morning I asked, "Why do I always have to eat something?" While focusing on the needle and my flesh, she said, "So I don't sew your brains." Who would argue? I had an exam that day and would not chance failure.

If I wore a shirt inside out, she predicted that I would have a surprise that day. Believe it or not, sometimes these omens came true. Another of her favorites: If you sneeze while speaking, whatever you are saying must be true. Dropping a knife meant company is coming.

She cautioned me never to step over a baby or young child. If I did, the child would never grow. As foolish as it seems, I would never take a chance and followed that rule with my own children. Too embarrassed to ever discuss my family's nuttiness, I sometimes saw that these same superstitions surfaced among my own friends.

My father, an Eastern European immigrant, fled his birthplace as a young boy in the early part of the 20th century. He arrived at Ellis Island with his own set of superstitions.

Growing up, I attributed his beliefs to the hardships he endured during his escape. He seemed to fear making plans. He made all advance arrangements, "with God's help." As in, "With God's help, we will go to the Catskills next summer."

When I married, before I moved into my first apartment, he brought kosher salt and bread for good luck. When I moved into my new home, I brought along kosher salt and bread. My father also feared the evil eye and never praised anything he deemed precious. Of course, that included me.

My husband laughs when I tell him about my family's beliefs. He claims these silly superstitions did not exist in his family. Yet, I remind him that when my daughter was born, his mother placed a red ribbon in the carriage to keep my daughter safe. After careful consideration, he admits he knocks on wood for good luck.

My family's superstitions and traditions live within me. Being part of this world, I have developed others. I never walk under a ladder and fear black cats crossing my path. If I should break a mirror, heaven forbid, I hope I will not have seven years of bad luck. I know I am not alone in my thinking.

Triskaidekaphobia is alive and well. Hotels and cruise ships omit the number 13 from elevator buttons. That informs me that there are others as superstitious as I am. I tell myself that believing in superstitions is ridiculous. But, this morning, I slipped on my lucky shirt, right side out, with no loose buttons, before I sat down at my computer. -- Sandra Friedman, East Meadow