She admits to being superstitious

By Anastasia Harbuck

Published: August 22, 2008

A beautiful calico cat has taken up in the lot behind The Tribune’s office.

She’s a gorgeous creature - snow white with a little gray cap covering her ears and patches of gold, black and auburn all over her body. Though my attempts at making friends with her have so far fallen flat, that hasn’t stopped me from trying.

Being a professed cat-lover, I would probably try to make friends with her anyway, but every time I see the little animal, I can’t help but be reminded of the old Japanese superstition that a multi-colored cat brings good luck.

Our managing editor - Patrick Johnston - will probably tell you that it’s our own blood, sweat and tears that make The Tribune what it is, but it’s still fun to pretend that our little calico cat is bringing us luck.

Some superstitions are silly and some are downright scary. And, though I might not always believe them, that doesn’t make them any less fun to listen to and collect. I love hearing about superstitions and folk tales from around the globe.

An old Thai superstition dictates that eating an angry cobra will improve poor vision. A superstition from Botswana tells that if a honey-hunter doesn’t share honeycomb with a honey-guide bird (a small bird that leads people and animals to bee trees) that the honey-guide bird will lead the honey-hunter to a hungry lion.

One of my favorite superstitions from England says that a white cat - not a black one - brings bad luck.

Superstitions are as unique as the regions they come from. The South is no exception - we’re a superstitious lot!

Just having a chat with my parents over supper one evening about the superstitions passed along to them from their own parents and grandparents proved that.

A few of the “sups” they shared with me included some scary omens like:
If you hear two screech owls calling out to each other in the night, lay a broom lengthwise across the threshold or bad luck (or death) will follow.
If a rooster crows during the daytime, someone will soon die.
If a mockingbird tries to fly through your window, beware of bad fortune.

There are also some cheerful light-hearted ones like:
If you see a redbird (cardinal), company is on its way.
A broom cannot be moved from a house.
If you sleep under a newly-made quilt, you will dream of your future spouse.
Shine a mirror’s reflection into the mouth of a well and you will see the face of your wife or husband-to-be.

Southern music - and especially rock ‘n’ roll music of Southern origins - hasn’t escaped superstition either. Though, sadly, in those instances superstitions entwined with stories of bands and musicians were neither cheerful nor light-hearted.

Jerry Lee “The Killer” Lewis was a 1950s rock ‘n’ roller nicknamed as such for “killing” any act that followed him.
Lewis is probably best known for his manic piano-playing and singing that produced such hits as “Great Balls of Fire” and “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Going On.” The Killer came into the world on Sept. 29, 1935 in Ferriday, La. He was born at home, as were many children in those days, and the first sound he heard - according to legend - was a stray dog howling right outside his mother’s bedroom window.

Lewis’ Aunt Stella tried to chase the dog away, but the animal would not go. The family considered it a dark omen on the child and, indeed, Lewis’ life was fraught with controversy and tragedy.

He married his 13-year-old cousin before his divorce to his first wife was even finalized, his fourth wife drowned in 1982 and his fifth wife died in 1983 due to an overdose. His 3-year-old son, Steve Allen Lewis, drowned in a swimming pool in 1962 while son Jerry Lee Lewis Jr. died in an automobile accident in 1973. Perhaps Lewis’ greatest struggle was his internal one - constantly torn between his music and his faith.

Raised up in a strictly religious household, The Killer could never quite shake the assumption that his music was in league with Satan or, in his own words, “If my music hadn’t served the Devil, then I sure gave him a good shoeshine.”

The “crossroads superstition” in rock ‘n’ roll can be traced back all the way to bluesman Robert Johnson who supposedly, armed with a black cat’s bone, “sold his soul to the Devil” at a Mississippi crossroads in the 1930s.

Bands like Cream, Led Zeppelin and Lynyrd Skynyrd have all paid tribute in song to Johnson’s barter at the crossroads and each have followed in Johnson’s tragic footsteps. But no rock band does the crossroads curse seem to hang over more than The Allman Brothers Band.

This Macon, Ga. band, famous for songs “Melissa”, “Ramblin’ Man” and “Midnight Rider,” put “Southern rock” in the spotlight and influenced groups like Marshall Tucker Band, Lynyrd Skynyrd and The Black Crowes. But the band’s history is haunted by sad coincidence.

In Nashville, Tenn. in 1970, Duane “Sky Dog” Allman was taken to a hospital for a drug overdose. Things didn’t look hopeful for the 23-year-old guitarist that was the heart and soul of The Allman Brothers Band. Bassist Berry Oakley prayed over his friend, asking God to give Allman one more year of life.

Allman made an astounding recovery, but exactly one year later on Oct. 29, 1971, Allman was killed in a motorcycle accident at a Macon crossroads. About a year and a couple weeks later, Oakley would meet the same fate, dying in a motorcycle accident at the same crossroads of Inverness and Bartlett Avenue in Macon.

Although Jimi Hendrix was born in Seattle, Wash., in 1942, the guitar extraordinaire could trace his Cherokee roots (of which he was very proud) back to Appalachia. An old Cherokee superstition seemed to haunt the “Voodoo Chile” throughout his short 27 years of life.

Hendrix was named Johnny Allen Hendrix as a baby, but his father changed the boy’s name to James Marshall Hendrix when he was just 4. According to the Indian superstition, a child named twice will have his soul split in two - one going to heaven when the child dies, another going to hell.

Rock ‘n’ roll has a sad superstition of its own called “The Club” made up of musicians that passed on before their 30th birthdays.

This is sometimes called “The Club of 27” or “The Curse of 27” due to the many young musicians that died before or while 27 years old. Several rockers of Southern roots like Buddy Holly of Lubbock, Texas; Janis Joplin of Port Arthur, Texas and Otis Redding of nearby Dawson, Ga., each met their end before their 30th birthdays.

Redding stunned the world with his frantic performance at the Monterey Pop Festival in 1967. Only a few months later, he would die in a Wisconsin plan crash. Probably his most well-known song, “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay” was cut three days before his death. Joplin’s story might be even sadder.

When she died of an overdose at the Landmark Hotel in Hollywood, Calif., in 1969, she left just enough money in her will for her friends to “have a drink on Pearl (Joplin’s nickname).”

However sad, scary or funny, superstitions were made by our ancestors so they could have at least a little control, by doing or not doing certain things, over their tumultuous lives and world. Now, during our age of science and technology, they’ve been passed along to us. Though many scoff at superstitions as being old-fashioned or childish, it’s good to procure these tales to keep as part of our heritage - but never to let superstitions rule our lives.

After all, I’d be just as grateful if a solid-colored cat had taken up in the lot behind The Tribune office - she helps keep those pesky squirrels and birds away from my car.
Send your own favorite superstitions and stories to , give me a call at 687-3506 or drop by The Tribune for a visit.

The creepy rock ‘n’ roll stories were referenced from the book “Take a Walk on the Dark Side: Rock and Roll Myths, Legends and Curses” by R. Gary Patterson.