I vividly remember celebrating Easter at Southside Methodist, my pre-school that held an annual egg hunt in the lawn in front of the church. There was always some level of competition for these things, but being the youngest of three, for some reason the Easter egg finding gene must have been nearly depleted by the time it got to me.

Let me set the scene. It was a beautiful day, breezy and cool, with the sweet smell of spring just beginning to waft through the air. Parents and children alike were dressed in their freshly pressed Easter attire. Frilly hair bows framed the faces of little girls and clip-on ties and jackets made the little boys spitting images of their fathers. All around pre-schoolers ran, with keen eyes and brimming baskets. Every now and then the sunlight would glimmer on a precious plastic egg in its secret hiding place, which most definitely was filled with something that at that time would be considered some jewel of a prize—like some jelly beans or if you were lucky, maybe a quarter. That egg didn’t last long before finding itself nestled in a new home of pastel grass that looked unmistakably cut from the fields of Candy Land.

Then there was me. My yellow seersucker dress favored the afternoon sky and my unruly blond curls. My basket was a sturdy one, woven tight with many festive colors. I stood under the canopy of a big oak tree and my parents’ watchful eyes. With one look at my face, you would have thought I was deeply strategizing my next egg find, but the fact of the matter was that furrowed brow on four-year-old Katie wasn’t one of tactic. It was one of sheer discouragement. And with one look at my basket, you would know why. It was empty.

Maybe it was the foreshadowing of the bad eyesight I would develop later on in life, but at the time, I considered it a result of bad luck. The other kids just got to the eggs before I did. Or they had a secret map of the eggs. Maybe there was a whole egg conspiracy going on that I wasn’t let in on…no, just bad luck. Although that is a sad image of Easter Katie circa 1989, the day did end somewhat well. I did happen on a few by myself, but funny enough, I would occasionally look down at my basket to miraculously find a growing number of eggs. I thought the Easter bunny was feeling sorry for me and my bad luck and was giving me a hand in this whole operation.

Well, years later I found out it was simply my dad sneaking them in when I wasn’t paying attention. Nice.

Luck is an interesting concept. Many people don’t believe in it, for the whole reason that you create you own destiny. At my ripe ol’ age, I would like to think that I have firm control over the things that happen in my life. I set my alarm clock. Then I firmly decide to hit the snooze button four …or seven times. I create a healthy diet, then firmly resolve to have a chai latte and some almonds for lunch. I vow to read my news books, then firmly choose to watch back-to-back episodes of Sex and the City reruns.

But somehow, some of the in-betweens just simply can’t be planned or really explained. It definitely wasn’t luck that filled my Easter basket all those years ago, but maybe it was luck that made the Panera guy mess up my sandwich, resulting in one free one for me. Maybe it was luck that got me the car I have now. Maybe luck just so happened to play a part in the past few good weeks I have been having. Who knows, maybe luck will be on your side when you bid on some silent auction items Friday, March 28 at Art After Dark. Yep there’s the plug.

No matter what your feeling on luck is, it definitely has a mainstay in our culture. For example, there are some fairly well known superstitions that involve luck, good and bad. Stir with a knife, stir up strife. Bad luck. Rabbit’s feet. Good luck. Friday the 13th. Bad luck. You’re a beginner you say? Good luck! Black cat crossing your path? Oooh, bad luck. Well, I just so happen to have a flock of black cats that live in the parking lot and adjacent grassy knoll in front of my apartment building. Seriously there are at least 24. Maybe even 36. I don’t know; they seem to multiply like cockroaches. There is another take, however, on that black cat superstition. In Great Britain, it is quite the opposite. A black cat crossing your path is considered good luck.

The good news is…I’m half English. Lucky me :)