My parents were married on October 31st. Halloween. I was born the next year on August 13th. A Friday. Friday the thirteenth. I've often wondered, after a string bad days, whether or not that had something to do with my run of bad luck. But then, after many, many blessings in my life, it's hard give merit to the superstition. It is strange though, how I can pooh-pooh it off, laugh and joke about it, and then turn around and blame it when something doesn't go my way.
Over the years, however, I've learned to use it in stories, in essays, and in speeches. A number is just a number. Thirteen comes after twelve. I didn't realize I was born on Friday the 13th until later in life when I looked at a calendar of my birth year. I think my mother decided it was best I didn't know. But now, I kind of like the mystic of it. In studying my family--mountain folk of Appalachia, these people lived and died by their superstitions, their gift of second sight, and of course, by the holy scriptures. Somehow, they rolled it all into one way of life.
But I like to think I've turned this adversity into my advantage. There's nothing I can do about it. Not a thing. And now, I have a little granddaughter about to make her entrance into the world, and unless her mama goes into labor within the next week, she may well be born on her grandmother's birthday. And this year, it is once again, on a Friday.
What a blessed day that would be.
Blessings to you and yours.