Once upon a time, my ancestor rode with Jesse James. Or so they say. "They" would be my father, who allegedly received this information from his sister, who allegedly had done extensive research into the Clark family tree. All sorts of fanciful notions have developed over the years based solely on my father's understanding of my aunt's research - a primary one being the mythology of our affiliation with a notorious outlaw.
It's been a great point of interest to bring up during a night of revelry, one that my drunken friends typically responded to positively.
One of my ancestors rode with Jesse James.
I recently was sitting around with my lovely mother (whose ancestors have done nothing notorious that I know of), pondering the recent manifestation in a series of manifestations of bad luck with The Law. And I pontificated aloud, "You know, if it really is true that one of my relatives rode with Jesse James, then I must be paying their karmic debt. I can find no other explanation for this never-ending saga."
And then it was revealed.
My mother said, "Kathy, I never told you this...."
What? I'm Rosemary's Baby?! You had an affair with the milkman and the milkman was Satan?!
"....but when you were born, you had a widow's peak."
Insert sound of crickets chirping here.
"It's a curse."
"Oh! Good! Well, that explains that! I'm cursed! Yay mom! Thanks for telling me. Better to know late in life than never at all I suppose."
We laughed about it. But I couldn't shake the feeling that in the back of my mother's mind, whenever anything bad had happened to me or because of me, she had attributed this bad thing to the Curse of the Widow's Peak. And I began to wonder how the lens through which she viewed my unhappy experiences had altered my perception of reality.
I recounted this story to my boyfriend, Danny. I obsessively analyzed the detrimental effects on my psyche that my mother imposed by believing I was cursed. I felt dismayed and daunted by the task of having to re-wire my psychic circuitry. Again.
Danny questioned the existence of such a superstition. I told him I had in fact google searched "widow's peak superstitions" and discovered that a widow's peak was merely an indication that a woman's husband would die before she did. I described another superstition I had discovered pertaining to hair: Cutting your own hair will tempt fate.
Well there we go! More points against me! I've been cutting my own hair for years! No wonder I am perpetually spinning my wheels in a quagmire of some kind or another.
Danny listened to my ranting in a patient and bemused manner. After a while he said, "Sweetheart, you're not cursed. You're good." And he began to list off the good things about me and in my life. At that point, his cat Bella, who was resting on my bed next to me, put her paw on my thigh. Danny noticed this and said, "There! You see! Bella rests her right paw on your right thigh! That's a good omen!" He proceeded to suggest that we create our own superstitions that denote good luck.
The trash is overflowing. Your day will be filled with abundant blessings!
The ants have discovered the cat food. You have many friends who hold you in highest esteem!
Your farts are abundant. You will be safe from harm!
There's no money in your bank account. There is no wealth but happiness!
I create these superstitions, and the ones to come, in honor of Jesse James and whoever rode with him.
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