Nigel understood that what he was doing in recounting his everyday activities and observations was subverting most people’s understanding of what was possible for a person with his condition. He mentioned this frequently throughout the narrative—though he never used a verb such as subvert.
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There was surely some apprehension people felt while waiting for medical care, but people often chatted with the front desk or each other and in a small town, it wasn’t unusual to run into someone you knew.
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The Chair in the Courtyard
When I met my friend Rose she’d been a window for several years. She spoke lovingly about her late husband Bob and I soon learned he’d been her second husband.
One day over lunch Rose and I were reminiscing about our past lives and she told me this story.
She’d been very young when she married the first time, and she and her husband lived in a one bedroom apartment on the 11th floor of a small building, their windows facing a lovely courtyard.
After the birth of their first child they needed more space and planned to stay in their building but move to a larger apartment on the 9th floor that had recently been vacated.
But when Rose’s mother heard their plan she worried. ”It’s bad luck to move from a higher floor to a lower floor in the same building.” she told them.
Rose held no such superstitious beliefs, the new lease had been signed, and the movers hired. But to placate her mother Rose asked what they could do to ward off the bad luck.
“Take a chair from your apartment, bring it down to the courtyard and sit in it. Then bring it back upstairs.” her mother instructed. And as silly as they thought that was, they did it.
As I laughed at her story, Rose looked serious for a moment. “But that apartment did bring me bad luck – we divorced.” she said.
“But since then you’ve surely had your share of good luck as well.” I said.
And Rose smiled, “Yes I did, I met Bob!”
Rose’s mother, we agreed, had been right about that chair in the courtyard after all!
– Dana Susan Lehrman
Alright, ladies and gents, gather ’round. Today’s dissertation is on the peculiar phenomenon of superstition. You know, those little habits that make grown adults clutch a rabbit’s foot like it’s the winning lottery ticket, or avoid black cats like they’re Harvey Weinstein at a kindergarten graduation. Now, as a staunch believer in reason and definitely not someone who purposely spilled salt over his shoulder this morning (totally an accident!), I find some superstitions about as believable as a mime trying to explain existentialism.
But hey, let’s not be Ethnocentric snobs, eh? We all know the “official” definition: Superstition: a belief that defies logic and evidence. Yet, for many cultures; dreams, visions, and even that suspiciously shaped mole on your uncle’s neck are seen as omens, these little fortune cookies from the cosmos.
When a little one did I have any childhood superstitions? Well, let’s just say for my mother’s sake I used to avoid stepping on cracks in the pavement. Not because of some fear of bad luck, mind you, but because skipping those cracks felt oddly satisfying, like a tiny victory against the mundane and an ‘honor thy mother and thy father’ action. Plus, it annoyed the heck out of my mum, which, as any child knows, is always a delightful bonus.
As for adult Kevin? Let’s be honest, the only thing I truly fear is running out of coffee. Now, some might call that a healthy respect for hydration, but others might see it as a desperate need to ward off the evil spirits of dehydration. Who am I to judge?
Speaking of judging, let’s talk about family. My Nana, bless her soul, wouldn’t let you leave the house without a safety pin attached to your clothes. Apparently, it warded off the “evil eye.” Now, I never quite understood if the evil eye was a rogue eyeball just rolling around town looking to create mischief, or was it a metaphor for jealous stares? Either way, I sported those safety pins like a reluctant fashion icon.
Then there’s my friend, Dave. Top guy but rubbish as a grown-up (don’t tell him I said that) and utterly convinced that finding a ladybug is a sign of good luck. Now, I wouldn’t mind a bit of ladybug luck myself, considering the state of my dating life, but the last time Dave “found” a ladybug, it turned out to be a misplaced button from his shirt. Let’s just say his luck wasn’t exactly…blooming.
Look, the truth is, superstitions are a fascinating peek into the human desire for control. We crave order in this chaotic world, and sometimes, a lucky charm or a knocked-on-piece of wood feels like a tiny act of defiance against the unknown. Me? I prefer to rely on hard work, talent (questionable, I know), and maybe a well-placed joke or two. But hey, if you find comfort in a lucky penny, a four leaf clover or a pre-appearance ritual involving a particular sock, carry on. Just don’t expect me to join your interpretive dance to appease the footwear gods!
–30–
Beliefs about women’s health and the moon are particularly strong.
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Rye Playland, Rye NY
Growing up in the Bronx our nearest amusement park was Rye Playland on Long Island Sound north of the city in Westchester County.
As a kid I was often taken there by my parents, but my memories of those childhood trips are vague. As a teenager however, I remember Rye as a favorite summer destination.
On balmy nights the guys in our crowd who’d recently gotten their licenses and had been entrusted with the keys to the family car, would drive us up there – usually with a little hanky-panky going on in the back seat.
We felt we were much too old and sophisticated for most of the rides and amusements, but I remember we still rode the bumper cars. And I remember how the guys vied to impress us with their skill knocking over rows of wooden ducks to win the tacky prizes we girls proudly took home.
And I remember how we walked around the park on those magical summer nights, eating greasy hot dogs and sticky cotton candy, and with our teenage bravado I remember how invincible we felt!
– Dana Susan Lehrman
Hey there, comedy connoisseurs! Here I am here, fresh off a bargain hunt that left me with more questions than discounts. We all know the struggle is real when that cashier asks, “Paper or plastic?” But let me tell you, folks, things weren’t always this “eco-friendly dilemma” business. Back in my day (cue the dramatic music!), shopping was an adventure, not a chore delivered straight to your phone.
Now, don’t get me wrong, the internet is a beautiful thing. Need a spatula shaped like a cat? Boom, there it is on page 37 alongside a singing fish and a self-stirring mug. But here’s the thing I miss: the thrill of the hunt! Remember those weekend excursions to the mall with your mom, armed with a list and a dream? You’d strategically dodge neon signs and Cinnabon smells to find the perfect pair of toe warmers (don’t judge, it was the 90s).
There was a certain satisfaction in physically holding that item, comparing it to others, and maybe even negotiating a slightly lower price with a wink and a smile. Sure, online reviews exist now, but can they replicate the sage advice of a bored but attractive teenage female working the Gap who just wants to go on break? I think not.
Speaking of breaks, shopping trips were social events! You’d bump into your classmates, argue over who looked better in those ripped jeans (spoiler alert: it was never me), and maybe even catch a glimpse of your former crush at the Orange Julius stand. Now, the closest social interaction you get is the awkward exchange with your delivery person who wonders why you’re buying enough bubble wrap to build a house or worse perhaps enough to bury a body (it masks the smell pretty, pretty, pretty good).
But hey, let’s not get all misty-eyed for the bygone days of dial-up internet and neon everything. Online shopping is a lifesaver, especially when you’re in your PJs at 2 am). The convenience is undeniable. Plus, price comparison is a breeze, and those same neon leg warmers I coveted as a kid are just a click away (although, for the sake of everyone’s retinas, let’s keep those visuals in the past).
So, what’s the verdict? Shopping then and now is a tale of two vastly different experiences. We’ve gained unmatched ease and selection, but lost a bit of the social element and the joy of discovery through touch and feel. Maybe the future holds a happy medium: virtual reality malls where you can hang with your friends, haggle with a holographic salesperson, and still get your pizza delivered by drone. Until then, I’ll be navigating the digital aisles, reminiscing about the good ol’ days, and wondering if that singing fish comes with free shipping. See you at the checkout, folks!
–30–
Maybe my mother did not have the shopping gene or never shook off the Depression and Protestant ethos, but she seems to have passed that shopping ambivalence on to me.
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You know this quote.
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We lay in bed, listening to the wind scream around the sturdy little cabin
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