Thursday, February 16, 2012

My obsession with early flowers continues.

When I lived elsewhere in the country, my friends would sometimes ask me what people from Appalachia are like. Reflecting upon my family members and their multitude of idiosyncrasies, I would often remark that my people are "superstitious to the point of paganism." As my dad once put it, "You don't talk about bad things because you don't want them to happen to you. You don't talk about good things, either, because then they might not happen." My paternal grandmother was as superstitious as they come, and a worrywart to boot, and it apparently rubbed off on him in force.

When I was filling out my application to Western and trying to get them to take me as an in-state student, I had to ask my dad when he'd last served jury duty-- and was quickly informed that when it happened, which would surely be soon, it would be all my fault. Someone's managed to duck his civil duty for years, it would seem.

I am not very superstitious myself; I've never seen any connection between my voicing my expectations (or not) or bad or good things coming to me accordingly. Still, though. I'll not state the obvious here, in hopes that I get what I want.