Superstition - Good Afternoon, Mr Magpie

It was here again the other day. I heard it before I saw it, that horrible noise, like a distorted football rattle, then it swooped down from next door’s tree to strut around my garden like it owns the place. The magpie. Hopefully, there’s another one coming along. Not that I’m superstitious. After a muttering of “Good afternoon, Mr Magpie, pass my best wishes to your good lady wife” I forget all about him and carry on wiping down the kitchen. I notice him fly away with a companion, “One for sorrow, two for joy”, that’s good.

It is just as well that I’m not bothered by cracks in the footpath. I can’t avoid them when I’m pegging out washing and so far, I haven’t come to any harm. They give the courtyard character and somewhere to brush away the shattered shell of the snail I didn’t mean to tread on.

I’m not worried by the number thirteen, but I wouldn’t want to have thirteen people round a dinner table or gathering. That’s the one thing I share with the queen. Actually, I don’t think I know twelve people who would join me for dinner. Well, after lockdown, maybe.

There are superstitious rules concerning cutlery which have existed from my childhood and probably made up by my grandmothers and other ladies of their generation in my family to encourage good table manners. Dropped cutlery meant unexpected visitors and if it was a knife, the visitor would be a man. I don’t believe I’ve ever witnessed this. I wonder what we’d get if I dropped a handful of teaspoons? No, I’m not experimenting. Anyway, it’s got to be accidental. There is a correct way to leave cutlery on a finished plate. Deviate from the acceptable and we’re inviting the devil, apparently. The devil doesn’t like salt. Spilling salt causes bad luck. Quickly remedy the situation by throwing a pinch over your left shoulder into the eyes of the waiting devil. To spill salt was considered to be wasting money, dating back to ‘salary’ times.

I once broke the mirror on a handbag compact. I still use it, very carefully because it has a sharp bit and I’ve had the odd nick. I should really buy a new one. I’m not aware of any bad luck as a result, certainly not seven years’ worth. When it comes to personal care, no nail trimming on Sundays, but I’ve no idea why not.

Is it just me with pillowcases? The open ends must always face the same way, usually towards a window and I won’t change bed linen on a Friday. Superstition or not?

Here is my haiku for that pesky bird,

Strutting so aloof

As if it owns my garden.

Arrogant magpie.

Thanks for reading, stay safe and well. Back soon, fingers crossed. Pam x

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Feathers - Superstitious? Me?

 

 

 



 

 

 

I knew that the small, white feather on the bedroom floor had escaped from the duvet as I made the bed, but for a fleeting moment I was happy to think it was a sign from my late father and I smiled.  Superstition, of course, but it gave me a few moments of joyful memories of my lovely dad and there’s no harm in that.

 

I was brought up to understand that peacock feathers are a bad omen and not welcome in the house. They are a sign of doom, even death, apparently. In Greek mythology  Argus, a monster covered with eyes, was changed into a peacock by Hera, so maybe that is where the superstition comes from. A peacock in full plumage with such rich colour is beautiful and majestic.  Even so, I heed to those who have gone before, just in case.

 

Magpies bother me and when I see one, or hopefully more than one, I have to say the rhyme. If it is alone, I say “Good morning, Mr Magpie” which should be enough to protect me, again just in case.  Magpies have stunning deep blue colouring on their wings. The only time I’ve seen a magpie up close is when the unfortunate, motionless bird was gripped in the jaws of my springer spaniel.  No wonder I feel doomed.

 

I found this paragraph in an article about the superstitions of feathers in Nature Center Magazine, written by Emma Springfield.  I’ve never heard of this before and as it made me laugh, I’d like to share it.

 

    “Feathers from a wren are used by sailors to prevent shipwreck. The wren must be chased, caught and killed on Christmas Eve. Then it was carried on top of a pole with its wings outstretched.  For a coin one feather was bought.  At the end of the day so many sailors would have purchased a feather that the wren was practically featherless.  It would then be buried on the seashore.  The sailor would keep the feather on his person in order to make it home safely.”

 

White feathers have been a symbol of cowardice. The Order of the White Feather was founded at the start of World War I and reinstated at the start of World War II, where white feathers were given to men who hadn’t joined the military forces and considered to be ‘conscientious objectors’.

 

The feather that came out of my duvet got pushed back inside one of the sections because I couldn’t bear to throw it away. It is the warmest, lightest, most comfortable duvet we’ve ever had because it is filled with goose feather and down. As a child I remember the Paisley patterned eiderdowns we had, the same as my grandparents, back in the days of sheets and blankets before duvets or continent quilts reached our shores. Our beds were never cold, thanks to the feathers.

 

I found this poem,

 

'Hope' is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—

I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.

Emily Dickinson

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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