By Janet Hein

As I grow older every fall and winter brings a longing for summers past. A yearning for a peaceful time of reflection and thought that sometimes brings the haunting melancholy of missing those who are no longer with us.

It is at these times that my heart and mind turn to my maternal grandparents. For summers past and an aching loss go hand and hand with them.

I spent childhood summers on my grandparents’ ranch in northern South Dakota. Grandmother was Irish (as Paddy’s pig she used to say) which explains a great deal about my quirky personality today. She filled my mind with ill omens and strange superstitions.

You will never hear me sing before breakfast for fear that I will cry before supper. And if I find myself whistling her voice echoes in my mind, "A whistling girl and a crowing hen, both will come to some bad end." Gads! I know how the chicken ends. Who wants to take the risk?

Every step I take with one shoe on and one shoe off is a step of bad luck and I have nearly broken my neck hopping around like a wee toad trying to get to my other errant shoe.

Salt spilled at the table creates a mild hysteria that can only be cured by everyone (yes, even dinner guests) throwing salt grains over their left shoulders to avoid a fight. I’ve been known to drive six blocks out of my way to avoid the black cat about to cross my path. And ladders and I are just never seen in the same vicinity.

I worry every summer that the lilac bushes might bloom twice, foretelling a death in the family. And am relieved every fall when they didn’t. I’m so grateful to live in South Dakota where most people don’t even own an umbrella, reducing my fear that someone might actually open one in my house.

Last summer when a barn owl moved in on us I found myself racing to the computer (how did we survive before the Internet?) to see if that was some sort of omen.. You can never be too careful about these things. I’m happy to report that owls overall mean good things, but you mustn’t let them land on your roof.

I refuse to speak of a nightmare before breakfast and anticipate hearing from the living when I dream of speaking with someone who has passed on.

If my eye itches I am sure going to be pleased. If my nose itches I’m going to kiss a fool. If my palm itches I’ll be getting some money and if my foot itches it’s time to pack my bags because I’ll be doing some traveling.

Then there’s the sneezing thing. "Sneeze on Monday, sneeze for a letter. Sneeze on Tuesday something better." If anyone knows what a sneeze on Wednesday means I need to hear from them. With arrival of the autumn allergy season I need more days of the week to cover all my bases.

Which brings us to the medical cures. This one is meant as a funny story only and I don’t recommend you try it.

One summer I was cursed with warts on my right hand. Grandmother’s cure? I had to steal the neighbor’s dishrag and bury it in the backyard by the light of a full moon. The theory was that when the rag became moldy and rotted the warts would mysteriously go away. Sorry to say Grandmother was all wet on that one (no pun intended.) And I’m still embarrassed about the petty theft. For weeks I avoided the neighbor for fear she would see the larcenous guilt in my eyes.

Strange as it may sound, I love those superstitions that keep my grandmother’s memory alive. They make me who I am today, bringing me closer to my Irish heritage every time I remember them. My own son scoffs at me, but I know the seeds I plant now will be passed on to his children. It is, after all, in our Celtic blood.

Grandfather, as stoic and dry as they come, taught me things just as memorable but perhaps less colorful.

I can tell by simply looking at the smokestacks if it is going to warm up. If the flies are biting it will surely rain.

We watch our own cattle to forecast weather for us and they do so with the same predictability that Granddad’s did. Without fail they bunch in the corner before a storm or lay down en masse before a rain. I know it is important to check the farmer’s almanac before fishing and that my catfish bait is ready when it gags me.

Grandfather taught me to read an animal to anticipate its next move and that a soft voice goes a long way in diffusing a situation, with an animal or a person.

I learned from him that brakes on farm machinery and cars are more important to women than to men. That if you keep something for seven years you will use it again. He was the ultimate recycler and I know he would be proud of my prowess in the junk pile. My son thinks I can manufacture just about anything out of nothing. And the amazing thing is, it’s as magical for me as it is for him.

I can’t wait for my own grandchildren to come into the world. I have so many things to teach them. I was taught by the very best on how to be a grandparent. I know firsthand that the pearls of wisdom that I will give them will ensure my own immortality. DM