The Westler Valley Voice
Opinion
— Editorial —
Utter Nonsense
I am a churchgoing woman, and I will not apologize for it. I say my prayers morning and night, I keep a clean house, and I have no use whatsoever for superstition. It is utter nonsense, and it is high time somebody in this valley said so out loud.
And yet I cannot walk the length of Main Street without tripping over it. Why, just last week I sat down to a perfectly respectable supper at the Main Street Café and got smacked square in the face with a pinch of salt. The woman at the next table had spilled a little and flung it over her left shoulder to keep the bad luck away. Well, it did not stay away. It landed right on me. Silliness in its purest form.
A certain neighbor of mine will not sweep after sundown for fear of sweeping her luck out the door, and so her floor sits dirty until morning. Grown men will not bring a new pair of boots into the house. They leave them out on the porch, as though the boots had not yet learned how to behave in a clean house. Mothers tie red thread around a baby’s ankle as though the child might blow away without it.
I have it on good authority that there is a man on the west side of town who drinks ginger tea at sunrise, forty steps out from his own front door, because he believes it will make his grass grow faster. Forty steps. Not thirty-nine or forty-one, mind you, but forty exactly. He counts out loud, every step he takes. His grass is no greener than mine, I can promise you that.
A decent person does not need charms and rituals to get through the day. A decent person needs an honest day’s work, a clean conscience, and a good night’s sleep. Luck is for gamblers and fools. Sadly, this valley has more than its fair share of both.
If we keep to the straight and narrow as God intended, there is no need for superstition. That is my final word on the topic, and nothing will ever change it.
— Letters —
Advice from Miss Bella Berta
Sound counsel for the troubled folk of Westler Valley
Dear Miss Bella Berta,
I take my supper at the Red Fox most evenings. It is a respectable place, or it would be, if not for the Three Blind Mice. You know the ones. You can smell them from a mile away.
They drink more than they pay for, they sing when nobody asked, and they are forever talking some poor soul into their foolishness. The other night they had a perfectly sensible young woman talked into going out cow tipping with them. Cow tipping, of all things! Mama Dickens wouldn’t put up with that nonsense, I can tell you that.
How are we supposed to be a decent town if we have to deal with troublemakers such as these?
Supper at the Red Fox
Dear Supper at the Red Fox,
You are not meant to deal with them. You are meant to finish your supper and go home without any issues at all, which is right where a decent person is after dark in the first place.
Men like that are not reformed. They are simply outlived. Leave them be, and sooner or later they will bother the wrong cow in the wrong field, and she will kick them square in the stomach. That is the only sermon those three will ever sit through.
As for the young woman, if she is foolish enough to follow them into a cow field, she will learn her lesson soon enough.
Dear Miss Bella Berta,
My daughter came home from her first weeks of school and has not stopped talking about a boy. From what I hear, he is a perfectly nice boy, and his only offense is his good looks. It seems that every girl at the schoolhouse has noticed.
She says his name like it’s a hymn. So do the rest of the girls.
She is far too young for any of this. My sister says to tuck a sprig of rosemary under her pillow to clear her head. What is a mother to do?
Worried at the Wash Line
Dear Worried at the Wash Line,
A handsome face is the most dangerous thing a boy can own. The cure is to see the shine knocked off him in front of her.
The next time the children play Dover Rover, see that the young man is sent running at the strongest pair of arms in the line. Once your daughter has watched him laid out flat on his back in the grass, she will find him a good deal less interesting.
And do not listen to your sister. A sprig of rosemary under a pillow is absolute ridiculousness. Simply turn her shoes toes-out by the door each night, so her heart walks away from him. That is not superstition. That is just good common sense.
Dear Miss Bella Berta,
I have worked the same farm outside town for many years. The master is a good man. Fair wages, early to rise, never a harsh word.
This week everything has gone sideways. The pig got out of her pen with nobody near her. The gate went bad all on its own. And the master has been in such a foul mood that he raised his voice at his own little girl, which I have never once seen him do.
I have worked enough farms to know a curse when I see one. What do I do?
Uneasy in the Barn
Dear Uneasy in the Barn,
There is no such thing as a curse, and I will thank you not to bring that sort of talk to The Westler Valley Voice.
A pig does not get out on her own. Something is broken and nobody has bothered to look. Go around that farm and give every gate and every hinge a good hard shake. You will find your curse soon enough, and it will be made of iron.
As for the master’s temper, a man does not come to a foul mood by himself. Look to his wife. A house that has gone sour always starts in the kitchen.
And hang a horseshoe over the barn door while you are at it. I’ve seen that done at many a farm. Seems like it’s the thing to do.