A Pinch Of Salt

We were eating supper one night when someone spilled the salt.

"Gadzooks! Quick! Throw a pinch over your shoulder."

The culprit tried to comply.

But Great Aunt Mortance leaped and cavorted about in midair. "No! No! Use your right hand. Throw it over your left shoulder."

Would you believe it? There's an art to throwing salt on the floor.

Years of admonitions: Chew with your mouth closed, Hold your fork properly, Don't spill stuff on the floor, were completely undone by Great Aunt Mortance's drama.

"Quick child. Throw that salt on the floor before the Devil sneaks up behind you and brings bad luck."

Who can compete with the Devil? For months there was salt on my floor while the kids merrily kept the Devil at bay. Salt gritted under my feet. Tracked into the livingroom carpet. Holed up in the cracks and crevices waiting to salt my wounds.

What is it with salt, anyways?

So. Ok. It's been around at least as long as the Romans and Greeks for they're the addlepated thimblewits who started this superstitious nonsense of messing up a perfectly clean kitchen floor. They used to throw salt in your coffin, too, but that's not the point.

The Romans and Greeks believed that those little white crystals with the sharp tangy taste were holy, incorruptible, and had the power to chase away the Devil who does not like salt.

Balderdash!

That's as nonsensical as believing that my dog's toenail clippings will chase away cockroaches if I scatter enough of them on the linoleum.

It's a bunch of hooey.

Now, since salt is preordained to spill, I had the perfect opportunity to prove my point a few days later. It was suppertime and the salt up-ended. Truly, quite by accident, I assure you. My elbow knocked it over.

"DON'T TOUCH IT," I shouted as forty right hands prepared to pitch salt on the floor.

More calmly, I continued, "This salt throwing has to stop! It's a silly superstition. And just to prove it, since I'm the one who spilled it, I'm going to defy the Devil and leave it right where it is."

"You'll be sorry," One child said ominously.

A couple of days passed peacefully and I gloated. Used every opportunity to say: "See! All's fine and well. No Devil. No bad luck."

Then, for no reason at all, the fire extinguisher bracket broke. The cannister of flame deterrant dropped to the floor, bounced, arced through the air, landed on my favorite Dresden china figurine, Saint Anthony to be exact, and smashed it to chips and splinters.

Naturally, there were witnesses.

Eighty pairs of eyes, accusing eyes, swiveled in my direction, boldly trying to stare me down. I heard a mutter or two. Devil and salt were hot on the lips of several.

"Pshaw," I said loudly. "It's just a defective bracket. Has nothing, whatsoever, to do with the Devil."

A few days later, I tried again. It was suppertime and the salt spilled. Quite by accident, you know. The shaker sort-a slipped out of my fingers. Left a pile of small white crystals near my plate. "Don't touch that! We're going to lay this salt myth to rest here and now."

"You'll be sorry," one of the children said. It sounded as if he was already measuring the salt for my coffin.

The next day was perfectly peaceful. I gloated. Couldn't help myself. Said: "No Devil. No bad luck."

Then, for absolutely no reason at all, firecrackers stored in a tin in the corner detonated. Blew the lid right off the metal can. Dante's inferno couldn't have been worse than that combustion of sound. Roaring CRACKS. Booming B-A-N-G-S !!!*%&#! Thunderous, cannonading noise. And Saint Elmo's Fire couldn't have competed with the ball of light which sped around the livingroom. Suddenly, all was still.

Of course, there were witnesses. I heard dark and ominous mutterings about the Devil and salt. One bright cherub owlishly voiced his newly-formed opinion that firecrackers were the devil's tools and if I wasn't mighty careful that ole Devil would surely put me in an early grave.

It was a week before I regained the courage to try and prove my point again. I don't need to tell you it was suppertime and there was an accident involving the salt. Bravely, I said, "C'mon kids. It's a superstition. That's all it is. A superstition. Just wait and see."

"You'll be sor-ree . . . ."

"Don't you dare say that," I interrupted. "There is no Devil, superstitions are silly sayings used to scare people, and we are not going to allow our lives to be controlled by fear."

One day crawled by.

Then two. Then three. We tippy-toed around the house expecting the worst. The slightest noise, and we all spooked, cracking our necks as we looked behind us with apprehension for we all suspicioned that daring the devil was risky business.

Those first three days reluctantly gave way to more. One shoelace at a time. A week passed. Finally, a month was nigh and gone.

Nothing unseemly occurred. The last fire extinguisher never dropped; there were no more fireworks.

Still . . . .

I decided it was the better part of valor to remove all salt shakers from the house. Gave every last one of those little white crystals with the sharp tangy taste to my neighbor.

I would have told her, of course, that they were holy and incorruptible but she mentioned that her great grandmother was coming for a visit and I figured that, soon, she'd have enough pinches of the stuff scattered on her floor to chase away the Devil.

After all, salt and superstition is a generational thing.
A Pinch Of Salt © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan