Some habits are really memories in disguise

How My Mother’s Superstitions Survived Three Generations

A small moment when logic and superstition shared the same driver’s seat

Photo by Gio Bartlett on Unsplash

My mother once put a car in reverse because a black cat crossed the road.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

She backed up, took a different route, and happily added extra time to the trip rather than risk whatever misfortune that cat might have been bringing our way.

The funny thing is, she always insisted she wasn’t superstitious. She was just careful.

There is, admittedly, a fine line between the two.

The black cat wasn’t an isolated incident. Growing up, our household operated under a long list of precautions designed to keep bad luck at bay.

If salt was spilled, a pinch immediately went over the shoulder.

We never walked under ladders.

Hats were forbidden on beds.

And then there was one rule that has somehow followed me through life.

Whenever my mother and I were walking together and a tree, mailbox, or telephone pole forced us onto opposite sides, one of us had to say, “Bread and butter!”

Why?

I never knew.

What would happen if we forgot was never entirely clear. Would our relationship suffer? Would bad luck strike? Would the universe quietly add our names to some cosmic watch list?

I had questions. My mother had rules.

Looking back, I’ve realized that many otherwise practical, intelligent people have at least one belief that survives in spite of logic. My mother simply had more than most.

Years later, I ended up owning a black cat.

Not only did he fail to bring bad luck, he was one of the sweetest pets I ever had. If black cats are supposed to be agents of misfortune, mine apparently never got the memo.

The bread-and-butter rule, however, proved surprisingly durable.

I still say it.

Not because I think anything terrible will happen if I don’t, but because it reminds me of my mother.

In fact, I said it so often while my daughter was growing up that she now says it automatically. She doesn’t really know where it came from any more than I did. She just says it.

Even better, some of her friends say it too.

A superstition nobody fully understands has somehow survived three generations.

I’ve noticed that every family seems to have something similar.

A friend of mine from Panama couldn’t stand seeing a purse on the floor. She would practically leap across a restaurant table if she saw me set mine down.

According to her, putting a purse on the ground meant money would disappear.

For her sake, I would place mine on a chair or keep it in my lap. Some friendships are worth accommodating a few superstitions.

Then there were pennies.

Remember when finding a penny heads-up meant good luck?

Heads down was supposed to mean bad luck.

Personally, I picked them up either way. Good luck, bad luck — it was still money.

I do have one lingering superstition of my own.

I knock on wood.

If I say, “I’ve never had a problem with that,” my hand is already searching for the nearest wooden surface before the sentence is finished.

Do I actually believe touching a coffee table can prevent fate from overhearing me?

No.

At the same time, I have no problem opening an umbrella indoors before heading outside into the rain. And if I break a mirror, I don’t spend much time worrying about seven years of bad luck.

I’ve broken enough mirrors over the years that, by now, I should be living under a bridge while being struck by lightning on a regular basis.

So far, so good.

My mother was born in 1916, when many of these beliefs were accepted without much question. To her, they weren’t superstitions at all. They were sensible precautions.

To me, they feel more like family traditions.

And maybe that’s why they survive.

Most superstitions aren’t really about believing that a black cat controls your future or that forgetting to say “bread and butter” can somehow damage a relationship.

They’re stories.

They’re habits.

They’re tiny rituals passed from one generation to the next.

Most of all, they’re reminders of the people who taught them to us.

Rationally, I know none of these things make much sense. I don’t think a black cat is plotting my downfall. I don’t believe a penny knows which side is facing up. And I’m fairly certain my financial future isn’t determined by where I place my purse.

Yet every now and then, I still find myself saying “bread and butter.”

Not because I think it changes anything.

But because every time I do, I hear my mother’s voice.

And some traditions endure not because they’re true, but because the people who gave them to us mattered.