At the Battle of Spotylvania Courthouse, on May 9, 1864, he was dismayed to see his heaquarters staff ducking to avoid bullets being fired from a thousand yards away. When a subordinate begged him to find cover, Sedgwick said, "They couldn't hit an elephant at this distance!"
And then he was shot in the head.
Superstition's a funny thing. How many of us claim to scorn it, and then step around cracks in the siewalk, or avoid walking under ladders?
Here, it takes the form of my saying (to Barb's horror), "Well, it could be worse."
And then it gets worse.
Granted, it's going to get wore anyway (cancer's kinda irritating, that way), but it's eerie how the statement is usually followed by a sharp setback.
So I don't say it any more. And I carry a rabbit's foot.
Which didn't work out so well for the rabbit.
Just kidding; that's one thing I don't do, but, influenced my the dogs, I do turn around three times before going to bed.
I mean, can't hurt, right?
Hell is now in session here,
and won't be ending soon,
and surcease seems as near
as Burroughs' Mars, Barsoom.
The pain that outlives the night
is worsened by the day,
and tumours of such hideous fright
grow on, without delay.
I wish that I could call a truce,
that I could catch my breath,
but save my words, for what's the use,
I can't move the heart of death.
So I take the pierced hand of He
who offers to share the road with me.
And here, of course, is Stevie Wonder with...yep...Superstition.
Thanks to Carol Ashby, Blessed Are The Pure Of Heart is back on Kindle, and will be available in paperback soon.
Friends are everything. I couldn't have done it.