I’ll get this out of the way now. I became officially engaged — meaning I put the ring on Linda Mary Inserra’s finger — on Friday, Aug. 13, 1976.
It was Linda, me, and a bottle of Avalar Portuguese red wine at what was then Piero’s Restaurant on Rte. 1 in Saugus. If someone hadn’t mentioned that I chose Friday the 13th to do this, I’d never have noticed. I never really worried about those kinds of things.
The fact that Linda and I are still together 42 years and counting after we were married gives testimony to how foolish all this superstition folderol is. It’s bunk. It’s junk science. It’s — gasp! — fake news.
You could walk under a hundred ladders and the only thing that’ll ever happen to you is that you might get knocked unconscious if one falls on top of you. Then again, you could be walking anywhere in the vicinity of said ladder and it could fall on you too. Depends on which way the wind is blowing. Sometimes literally.
And how about the poor black cat. Talk about getting a bad rap.
These poor creatures are saddled with the reputation of being witches in disguise — a myth greatly exaggerated when a black cat rubs up against Darren in the opening credits of “Bewitched,” only to have her turn into Samantha, who was — you guessed it — a witch.
Black cats are also supposed to be bad luck, especially if you see one on Friday the 13th. I suppose a lot of that has to do with the fact that the color black, in general, denotes darkness, mystery and often evil. The villain always wore a black hat, right?
But I did a little research on this and, lo and behold, as cats go, the black variety is actually a pretty friendly and affectionate beast. Again, as cats go (not a cat person).
And here’s something for you: I actually broke a mirror once. Into smithereens. My luck didn’t change. Not even a little. Life went on. It always does. I didn’t even cut myself picking up the pieces.
Put me down as a non-believer. A superstition denier.
I’ve had conversations with people who swear all these omens, apparitions and hauntings are authentic — and that every extraordinary thing that happens in life is the result of some silly superstition. I’ve had people say they’ve seen the ghost that haunts their houses. Someone who used to work for the paper once wrote that the old Item building on Exchange Street was haunted.
Hogwash. There are no haunted houses. Only haunted people. The presence you feel in an old creepy house comes from the deep recesses of your imagination, not from some unseen force.
I mean, I walked through one of those ghost tours in Gettysburg and I’ll admit I could feel the history. I just don’t believe it materialized in human form.
And when I went to Independence Hall in Philadelphia, I could almost hear the voices. Almost. Ben Franklin was safely where he’s been for the last 230 years: in the ground.
Very often, during football season, I choose not to watch the Patriots. I do the same during hockey season with the Bruins. A lot of people mistake that for the usual superstition that they’ll lose if I watch and win if I don’t.
No.
I don’t watch them because I don’t trust myself to act like a rational human being if they’re losing. I’ve been known to behave badly if the game’s not going my way.
But if I do decide to watch, I don’t have any special talismans around me. No “Celtics” socks or “lucky” pants or anything like that.
Just me, my TV, and something that I can throw without breaking anything.