Sharron Burnett

An Ode to Red

Published on March 14, 2017March 8, 2017 by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

Sun-and-Clouds-Images-of-the-Kingdom-Dollarphotoclub Red was a beautiful girl, no doubt because of her striking ginger colored hair. She was always a lady who often loved to wander aimlessly for hours just enjoying the sights and sounds of the world around her. She was a very good friend, loyal beyond imagination and her gentleness was such that every member of my family loved her. When she was with me I felt special. She hung on my every word like nobody I had ever known. I was enchanted with her. Heck, even my neighbors got to know her and they too fell for her magnetic personality.

I remember a time when I was quite ill with the flu, dizzy from a high fever that seemed to be burning my very brain. Red sat right next to me all day long, keeping watch as I went in and out of sleep. It was comforting to see her there attempting to conceal her worry with a weak smile. Somehow I felt that her vigilance was more than enough to pull me through. She was like that, ever faithful and devoted.

On another occasion Red lost one of her long time friends. Her grief was so all consuming that she could barely eat. She moped listlessly for weeks and all I could do to comfort her was to hug her and assure her that everything would eventually be okay. It pained me to see her hurting but it also convinced me that she was quite special and that her feelings were incredibly selfless and real.

Red loved my two girls. She was as protective of them as I was but she also loved to frolic with them, disregarding all notions of dignified behavior. She rolled and wrestled with them on the floor causing them to laugh with unabashed glee. She raced them through the yard and played catch anytime that they wished. She was totally at their beck and call and when they had bored of playing with her she would smooth her hair and revert to the magnificently genteel ladylike behavior that so defined her and sit quietly listening to my rambling conversations.

Still there were aspects of Red that seemed almost contradictory to the cultured image that she generally portrayed. She was always up for a swim and she could hunt with the best of them. It seemed to be part of her DNA to be swift of foot and unusually alert to the comings and goings of nature’s creatures.

As Red got older her scarlet colored hair became more and more tinged with white. She moved slowly and the old energy that had always marked her spirit had faded. Arthritis plagued her joints and I suspected that her hearing was going away rather rapidly. It saddened me to see her in such a state but she continued to attempt to be her old self. Most of the time though she was just too weary to run or play with children as she once did and sadly she often drifted off into an old person’s kind of sleep even in the middle of the day.

It was only when my daughter Catherine brought a child named Maggie to visit that Red found some of her old verve. She was captivated by the little one and seemed intent on forcing herself to rollick as she might have done when she was so magnificent. Maggie didn’t realize that Red was struggling to keep up with her. She only felt the gentle love that Red always exuded and she delighted in the attention from her new older friend.

One day I learned that Red had cancer that was incurable. I was devastated and filled with emotions and memories of all of the good times that we had shared. Our whole family was engulfed in sadness as we so helplessly watched her grow weaker and weaker. It embarrassed her to be in such a state. She didn’t want us to see her like that but I was determined to be there for her just as she had always been for me.

I was with her on her final night. I held her has she moaned in pain and her breathing became more and more shallow. Now and again I grew so tired that I momentarily fell asleep. If my arms slipped from embracing her, she would begin to cry and that frightened and plaintive sound awakened me to take proper watch once again. At some point during that long and horrific night I fell into a deep exhausted slumber. When I awoke Red was perfectly still. Her chest no longer rose and fell. The color was gone from her face. She had died.

I sobbed uncontrollably as I realized that I would never again have those wonderful moments of unconditional trust and love that I had shared with Red for so long. As I gave the terrible news to each member of my family they in turn were devastated. It is never easy to lose such a great companion. Our grief would hang over the household for weeks.

At Christmastime that year I threw my emotions into decorating my home and preparing for the annual celebrations but I was still thinking of Red. Catherine was there with Maggie helping me to complete the chore of trimming the tree that had always been such a delight but was difficult that year because of Red’s passing. As we placed one ornament after another on the branches Catherine came across a trinket that she had made as a child. It was created from an old Christmas card and it featured a lovely photograph of Red back in the days when she was still vibrant and beautiful. Catherine burst into tears as she clutched the worn and tattered memento. When she held it up for me to see, I too lost my composure and cried. The two of us released the pain that we had been trying so fruitlessly to conceal while little Maggie looked on in wonder.

Our hearts eventually healed but we never forget how much Red had meant to us. I still gently place the old paper ornament with her picture on my Christmas tree each year and I remember what a great lady she truly was. Red was as fine a pet as any family ever had. She was a sweet golden retriever who was our friend, our protector, our playmate and a member of our family. She was a wonderful dog.

The Death of Fairytales

Published on March 13, 2017March 8, 2017 by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

QVcoronation When I was a little girl women’s roles were still mostly traditional. Few of the women that I knew worked full time outside of the home. My mother was forced into such a situation when she became a widow, otherwise I doubt that she would have been anything other than a homemaker. I had a couple of aunts who were trailblazers in terms of having careers and some of my neighbors were employed in very interesting jobs. One was a commercial artist who wore exotic clothing and furnished her house with ultra modern furniture. Another was a lawyer who sometimes cried when speaking of her inability to have children but seemed to truly enjoy her work. She often invited me over for tea and to play cards or checkers, all the while encouraging me to do something remarkable with my life just as she had. All in all though not many women were yet ready for the feminist revolution that would eventually off like a rocket when I became a teenager.

As a very young child I dreamed of being a princess or a queen. Fairytales had me convinced that women lucky enough to live in castles and bear titles were the most fortunate maidens on the planet. I recall my disappointment the first time that I realized that I was never going to be discovered at a formal ball by a handsome prince. I was not born of noble blood and therefore would always be deemed unworthy of the notice of a monarch. I would lead the life of an ordinary soul without benefit of riches and fame unless I earned such things myself.

I got over my sadness rather quickly and made my own way in the world. I haven’t been showered with wealth but I have had a great life all in all. I have always found time for my favorite hobby which is reading. Biographies have fascinated me for as long as I can remember and among those that I enjoy learning about are women who became queens. For that reason I have been particularly excited about watching Victoria on PBS and The Crown on Netflix. The stories about Queen Victoria and Queen Elizabeth respectively have been quite fascinating while also convincing me that I am rather lucky not to have to wear their shoes.

Both women spent the majority of their lives locked into responsibilities that were thrust upon them at very young ages. While there were jewels, lovely clothing, expansive gatherings and adventurous trips to keep them entertained, they also had to adhere to rigid traditions and rules that impinged on their freedoms far more than I would ever be willing to endure. They had to be careful of every utterance and action lest they do irreparable harm to the monarchy or the country. They were expected to select their spouses from a very limited field of candidates, most often from a band of royal cousins. They were in the public eye continuously and criticized readily for any perceived missteps. To me the lifestyles that they were forced to accept were akin to living in a cage in a zoo.

Victoria quite unexpectedly ascended to the throne and because she was quite young there were those who felt that their claims to office were far more reasonable than hers, making her first forays into ruling much like walking through a minefield. Nonetheless she did her best to rise to the occasion only to be criticized when she chose to marry her first cousin, Albert, a man of Germanic heritage deemed unworthy of the position. As it happened, Victoria and Albert had quite a love affair and together created a very large family of children whose influence would spread across all of Europe and ultimately lead to a world war. Sadly Victoria was a rather uninvolved but highly critical mother who made life very difficult for her offspring. Albert was the better parent but he died fairly young leaving Victoria in a state of depression that lead to a total breakdown. She would wear her dark widow’s weeds for the rest of her days and for the most part lose interest in both her country and her children. She ultimately became known for her melancholy and nagging nature, hardly the possessor of happiness that I had imagined a queen to be.

Years later on of her descendants, Elizabeth, would be entrusted with the same role that might not have been hers had her uncle Edward not abdicated the throne to marry a twice divorced American woman whom he passionately loved. Elizabeth was barely in her twenties when her father, the king, died from lung cancer. Like Victoria she had also wed a cousin, Phillip, whose lineage was traceable back to the same Victoria from whence she garnered her birthright. She had to learn how to put the crown before all else in her life and as we have all witnessed over the years that role has placed her in difficult situations again and again. Even though she is the monarch she has no say in the politics of her nation and she must be incredibly discreet in both her commentaries and actions.

As the head of the Anglican Church Elizabeth was forced to rule against her sister who wanted to marry a divorced man. The resulting feelings of betrayal and unhappiness that her sibling experienced would blight the two women’s relationship for years to come. A similar scandal played out decades later when Elizabeth’s own children found themselves in unhappy marriages that publicly broke apart. I have often wondered if the idealistic Princess Diana had imagined that her life would be as magical as a fairytale only to find that the reality of royalty is routine, dreary and devoid of the most basic freedoms that the rest of us enjoy. The moment when she felt trapped in a nightmare must have been devastating and her dutifully trained mother-in-law would not have been able to empathize to ease some of her concerns.

The more I learn about being a royal personage, the less I am inclined to want to have anything even remotely resembling such a way of life. I am the one who is fortunate in being able to go wherever I wish without worry that someone is stalking me or judging my every move. The only restrictions on whom I would marry were the qualifications that I had deemed important to a good relationship. I have been able to choose my career pathway and determine how many children to bear. The fact that I had no male heirs matters not at all. I can openly utter my political views and chart my daily course. If I want to disappear for a day or a week, I am free to do so. My anonymity is a grand gift that allows me to be myself.

If I were to rewrite fairytales for modern girls, I would create heroines who spurn the trappings of a princess in lieu of liberty. Snow White would divide the household duties among each of the dwarfs and go to work with them as the forewoman of the mine. Cinderella would create a professional chimney cleaning service with offices worldwide and a reputation for paying her employees well above the minimum wage. Beauty would write a best selling book and marry the Beast as an equal partner. None of these brilliant women would have the goal of becoming a monarch or a regent. They would understand the pitfalls of being trapped in such occupations and create lives of their own.

I put my girlish beliefs away long ago. I no longer envy the lifestyles of royal personages who must become figureheads for a nation. I believe that I have found far greater satisfaction and meaning in the humble life that I have lived. I suspect that there have been times when those who must endure the titles of monarchies may agree with me.

Fish Sticks

Published on March 10, 2017March 6, 2017 by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

vp-sticks-beauty-shot I’ve seen a great deal of change during my life that I tend not to even think about most of the time. I am a Catholic and until I was a teenager there was an ironclad rule that none of us were to eat meat on Fridays. The idea behind that ruling was that Jesus died on that day of the week and in remembrance of his suffering we were to abstain from meat as a kind of penance and sacrifice. In 1966, the year that I graduated from high school, Vatican Council II amended that dictate to require only that Catholics avoid eating meat on Ash Wednesday, Good Friday and all Fridays during Lent. A council of bishops later clarified the church’s stance on the consumption of meat on Fridays by suggesting that all Catholics over the age of fourteen perform some type of penance on every Friday of the year with avoidance of meat being one of the suggested forms of meeting that goal. For all intents and purposes the vast majority of Catholics today are no longer concerned about whether or not to eat meat on Fridays. The times of worry about sinning by eating a hamburger are long gone for most who follow the Catholic faith.

I remember the old days when my mother did her best to create menus that did not contain any form of animal flesh. We’d often have tuna fish salad or pimento cheese sandwiches and sometimes she would prepare my favorite grilled cheese. Old standbys were tomato or cream of mushroom soup with slices of bread. We never had access to nice varieties of fish after my father died so the chief version of seafood that hit our family table was in the form of fish sticks, a staple that American Catholics kept afloat for years. Sometimes Mama would use butter rather than bacon to prepare scrambled eggs or she would boil the fruit from chickens and make egg salad. Shrimp was too rich for our budget and we rarely went out to eat but when we did it was usually to a cafeteria and on Fridays our entree was always fried fish.

Some of my aunts and mothers of my friends attempted to become a bit more creative by putting together tuna casseroles and topping cheese pizza with tuna as well. I tended to prefer my mom’s less ambitious Friday efforts that made no bones about eating simply at the end of the work week. Somehow she made those tuna sandwiches and stacks of pancakes seem more exotic and delicious than the pot roasts that she sometimes prepared on Sundays.

When meatless Fridays became a thing of the past for most of us we often joked about the people who had cheated by enjoying a thick steak when they were supposed to be dining on chicken from the sea, and wondered if they were going to stay in hell for their transgressions or if there had suddenly been a release of centuries of Friday meat eaters into heaven. We also watched our liturgies and ways of doing things change rather dramatically in one fell swoop as our mass was finally recited in English rather than Latin, and the priest faced us rather than showing us his back. It was all so democratic and inviting. Suddenly we began to imagine a Jesus who walked among people rather than elevating Himself as someone more special than the rest of mankind.

One of the traditions that had always irked me was that women were required to wear a head covering inside the church. For that reason our school uniforms included little brown beanies for use whenever we attended mass or other religious ceremonies. As we grew older we were allowed to exchange the ugly headgear for chapel veils that perched lightly on our bouffant hairdos without destroying the effect of the coiffures we had created. I vividly recall the silliness of women placing sheets of Kleenex on their heads whenever they arrived at church without the requisite hats or veils. It was commonplace to see the thin white paper hurriedly pinned tightly to strands of hair in an attempt to show respect for the occasion. I had to stifle my laughter at the ridiculousness of the whole idea. Somehow I didn’t think that God cared a wit whether or not a woman was showing her beautiful hair and eventually the church leaders agreed with me and dropped the archaic requirement.

Of course the changing of the rules was not always met with complete agreement. There were those who were horrified that the old traditions were going the way of the buggy whip. They bemoaned the use of English in the mass and declared it to be almost profane. They continued to wear their hats and kept up the practice of avoiding meat on Fridays. They could hardly bear to look at the face of the priest smiling down at them during the mass, preferring to view his backside instead. It took a bit of convincing to get the naysayers to calm down but at the same time there were also those like me who began to question more of the ideas that seemed to have little or nothing to do with the message of love that Jesus so eloquently preached. We insisted that our church become ever more inclusive and less rigid in its dictates. That lead to a great deal of rebellion particularly in the United States where even the most faithful Catholics now sometimes debate the need for many controversial practices.

Still there are those who tend to be nostalgic regarding the old ways. The conservative versus liberal dichotomy is alive and well in the religious world. I remember listening to a man of my age who regaled us with memories of how much he enjoyed the old fish stick days, and how he wished with all of his heart that they would return. He thought the women looked nice with their long sleeved dresses and pretty bonnets on their heads. He longed to return to a past that seems rather quaint and perhaps even a bit unfair today, but I can’t concur. I think of the fact that none of those old fangled rules were created by Jesus but by men who simply came up with ideas that over time that may have once made sense but not so much today.

Now we are allowed to go to church wearing slacks and some even go so far as to show up in shorts, which may be pushing the envelope a bit too far. Few women wear hats and luckily they no longer have to worry that some over zealous cleric will pass over them at communion for the sin of wearing a dress without sleeves. Eating a burger on Friday is no longer a condemnation to hell, if it ever actually was. The edicts concentrate more on ways of living than dress and what is consumed for dinner. Still there are many questions that for now remain unanswered for those of us who see remnants of laws that seem to be out of touch with the compassion that Jesus always demonstrated so freely. Perhaps the time will come when they too are deemed to be unfair and even unnecessary.

I am a woman of great faith but I have trouble with most organized religions that cite edicts that are manmade interpretations of the word of God. I believe that religion is at its best when it is kept as simple as possible. Over and over again Jesus defied many canons that he found to be without merit. He healed the sick on the Sabbath. He befriended individuals who were deemed to be undeserving outcasts. He walked among the lepers, the poor and the suffering. His message seems very clear to me and it is not one of exclusion of anyone. Instead it is one of unconditional love. I believe that as long as we follow His example as best we can, we are on the right track. Sometimes we sadly get so caught up in attempting to judge that we actually lose our way. Instead of worrying about how we look or what we eat we are on the right track when we welcome all.

A Rainy Afternoon

Published on March 9, 2017March 5, 2017 by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

rainy-afternoon-zadar-93e60d499c2f267c33de164c89ad35ca Last Sunday was a dreary day, a kind of last hurrah for winter in the south that always seems to arrive in the first weeks of March. The rain washed out my plans to tinker in my yard so I ended up at Costco along with a huge crowd that included some of my neighbors. I suppose that we all decided to go in spite of the weather, or maybe because of it.

I played a game of noting what everyone had in their carts. It’s always a ton of fun to see what items people select from the vast inventory of televisions and popcorn, clothing and canned goods. The winner always seems to be one of those big batches of toilet paper, the reason that I was there, but there are also many boxes of cereal and cartons of eggs lolling inside the grocery baskets of almost everyone.

Some people appear to be preparing for Armageddon with many years’ supplies of everything from vitamins to dog food. They literally need rolling pallets to carry all of their selections and I find myself wondering where they will be able to store all of the makeup and motor oil. I imagine rows of shelves along the walls of their garages with labels indicating when each item of inventory expires. I like to picture their families and the reasons that compel them to choose certain things.

I limited myself to purchasing only the basics, toilet paper, paper towels, two chickens, a pot roast and some pork chops. I have to control my impulses or I will walk out with more than will fit in my car and even worse, more than I will ever use. With no children in the house a flat of apples tends to be an overabundance that will lead to rotting fruit at the bottom of my produce drawer. Still I am often tempted to purchase enough facial tissues to last through several flu seasons simply because the price is so fetchingly low.

I almost always enjoy lunch while I am there. After all, I can’t resist the idea of getting a huge polish sausage on a bun with endless refills of Pepsi for only a dollar fifty. Besides, sitting at a table munching on my feast allows me a bit more people watching time and it is definitely a show. I find myself wondering who all these folks are and from whence they come. They are a diverse bunch who seem to represent every possible strata of American society. Somehow the buyers at Costco have managed to carry all of the items that they seek, including motorcycles and tires. I laugh a bit when I think of how much joy a place like this would have brought my mom. The two of us might have sat for hours just soaking in all of the entertainment that comes from viewing such a large a slice of life.

Once I got home the downpour had increased and it was obvious that there wasn’t going to be a break in the weather. I sat in my favorite chair and read one of my several latest books. I tend to be in the middle of three or four at a time which may sound a bit strange but I write it off to the effects of my attention deficit disorder. The one that seemed appropriate for a rainy day was a volume that I found on my last trip to New Orleans entitled 1 Dead in Attic. It is a compilation of articles written by a reporter from The Times Picayune written in the aftermath of hurricane Katrina. Each essay is short and quick to read so I can enjoy one or multiples depending on how much time I have to devote. The author, Chris Rose, shares his love of New Orleans and the stories of despair and revival that kept him and his fellow citizens from going insane in a time that was almost beyond the capacity of words to describe. His sense of humor and humanity captures the appalling images as well as the can do spirit of people who refused to declare their home town dead on arrival. It is a joyful dirge and intimate portrait of a city in total disarray that somehow found the where with all to overcome the most unimaginable tragedy. It will make you laugh and cry at one and the same time which is an oddly appropriate way of thinking about New Orleans.

I thought of the first time that I returned to New Orleans after Katrina. The city was still devastatingly somber. The crowds that had so often filled the streets were decidedly small. There were diehards attempting to keep the spirit of revelry alive but they were definitely struggling. We had breakfast at Brennan’s and there was still an odd aroma of mildew in the air. We didn’t need reservations because hardly anyone was there. The waitress who served us literally cried when we told her that we were from Houston. She and her family had found refuge in our city after hers had been so destroyed. She thanked us for our hospitality and told us that this was literally the very first day that the famous restaurant had been open since the storm. I almost lost my composure as she fell all over us trying to express her happiness that things were beginning to return to normal.

I remember how we drove around on the highways trying not to look like buzzards as we gazed at entire neighborhoods that had been reduced to rubble. It was like a scene out of a dystopian movie and it broke my heart. As I read Chris Rose’s descriptions of what he encountered only days after the hurricane it was difficult to imagine that I had first seen the city after it had actually made great progress in coming back to life.

I have always loved to watch rain from my windows. It comforts me. Sadly many of the people who came here from New Orleans after that horrific storm confided that for quite some time the sound of rain was terrifying. I remember having to console children and teachers who literally came undone whenever the weather became frightful. Some of them cried and related tales of things that they had seen that would never really fade from their memories. In reading 1 Dead in the Attic I have truly begun to understand just how much their lives were forever changed.

Its been twelve years since that unbelievable natural disaster. New Orleans was rocking on my last visit and yet it had still somehow changed. The people who stayed and those who came later have continued the traditions and still harbor the unexplainable feelings of devotion that they have for this very special place but now there is always an element of fear and caution in the back of their minds. Only recently they were once again reminded of just how fragile their home is when tornadoes ripped through an area of town that had barely been reclaimed from the ravages of Katrina. It takes a special kind of personality and resilience to live in New Orleans but Mr. Rose explains quite well why there will always be those who are willing to endure hell and high water just to experience the magic.

All in all I have to admit that people watching at Costco and reading vignettes from a well written book made for a very fine Sunday afternoon. It’s good to have a change of pace now and again. Sunshine is always nice but there is much to be said for the comfort of a gentle rain and a view of the ever present parade of humanity.

Good Luck

Published on March 8, 2017March 4, 2017 by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

strangeluck-622x415 Have you ever noticed that some people appear to be lucky and others seem to be plagued by one misfortune after another? I’m rational enough to realize that most events happen randomly and I’m hardly superstitious but I still wonder how it is that there are those who seem to have targets on their heads while others appear to find diamonds in the middle of common rocks.

We’ve all heard stories of people who were just in the wrong place at the wrong time and others of people who narrowly escaped tragedy. When the attack on the twin towers occurred on 9/11 there were countless tales of folks whose lives were saved because they were late for work while their coworkers all perished. I recall sitting with a man who was attempting to find his parents who worked in one of the buildings. He was an emotional wreck as he called again and again only to receive no answer. He became more and more certain that they had perished as the hours wore on. Finally he heard his father on the other line who explained that he and his wife had played hooky from work that day, something that they had never before done. They had marveled at the beautiful weather and came to the conclusion that it was a fine day for a picnic. They had been heading for a spot out in the country when the building where they worked collapsed.

Was it luck, a premonition or just a coincidence that they chose that very moment to so uncharacteristically miss work? Undoubtedly they felt lucky but there was nothing supernatural about their sudden decision to vary their routine. Some of a spiritual bent might claim that an angel was watching over them or they were saved for some grander purpose but believing such things leads to the inevitable conclusion that those who died were not given the same consideration and it calls into question God’s fairness.

I have always been taught that every person’s life is a series of ups and downs, triumphs and tragedies. Good times are as inevitable as bad times and often it is the individual’s attitude that determines how much positivity will occur. Hard work, determination and a willingness to keep trying even in the face of defeat often leads to success. A person who does well in life is always open to meeting people and seeking out opportunities. The odds that they will reach their goals improve mostly because over the course of time they have tried things over and over again. They are unwilling to quit just because the going gets tough. They take risks and often their attempts pay off.

Of course there are events that happen that are out of our control. Nobody chooses to receive a diagnosis of a terrible disease. We don’t go out of our way to be hurt in an accident involving a drunk driver. The people who perished on 9/11 could not have known what was in store for them on that day. They just happened to be part of a tragedy that was beyond anyone’s imagination. Bad things occur and unfortunately we sometimes become victims. If this is a sign of being unlucky then I suppose that there really is such a thing, at least in terms of describing the unfairness of such randomness.

I have known individuals who have endured terrible things and somehow remained optimistic. I have known others who are crushed by the weight of challenges that befall them. Some among us are more prone to depressive episodes than others, not so much because they are weak or negative but because they have a genuine chemical imbalance in their brains that causes them to be anxious and lose control. I have witnessed such illness in my mother, close relatives and dear friends. With care and medication they are able to lead normal lives but theirs is a constant struggle just to be happy. This is not a matter of luck but of vigilance.

I have often felt both lucky and unlucky. I know that being born in the United States gave me a head start that many people in the world do not enjoy. I had good parents and attended excellent schools. My extended family cared for me as well. I have never been abused and I achieved a comfortable standard of living through my own efforts and the encouragement of many people. On the other hand, I have sometimes felt sorry for myself because my father died when I was a very young child. Our family struggled economically. I was a late bloomer and felt awkward as a teenager. My mom suffered from bipolar disorder and I spent most of my life caring for her. Still if I were to fill out a scorecard I would have to admit that the majority of my existence has been one of great happiness. I have known much love and enjoyed many successes. I have little about which to complain. The difficult aspects of my history have been par for the course in the grand scheme of things.

I am not above collecting lucky charms like the little pigs that I purchase for each new year. I do so more for fun than any actual belief that they will somehow make my life better. I might just as well have decided to bring four leaf clovers, mushrooms, lady bugs or horseshoes into my home in the hopes of increasing my good fortune. None of them would work as well as improving my own attitude and willingness to put in the time needed to bring a sense of peace into my world.

We humans have a long history of tempting the fates with magical actions. We cross our fingers and eat black eyed peas. We wear lucky hats and use the same shirt in which we enjoyed a victory over and over again. We hide a rabbit’s foot in our pocket and whisper so called magical words. In spite of all of our advances in mathematics and science that tell us our charms are silly we use them nonetheless. There is something comforting in thinking that perhaps we might bring unseen forces to bear on making life better. It doesn’t really hurt much as long as it’s not the only thing upon which we rely. Rejoice when good fortune seems to come your way out of nowhere but understand that it was only due to the randomness that affects us all. In the end we are the masters of our fates. It is in how we react to the inevitable joys and pitfalls that we determine our own luck.