Whenever there is a chain of dreary events that arouses a vagrant thought in your head about a row of upended dominoes being activated, one needs to pause and reflect, then do something.

Since one needs a starting event, I'll begin with such a pickayunish thing as the hangnail. It was on my right thumb, the one I hit the typewriter space board with, maybe a thousand times a day. I ripped it off backward as I usually do, not being a hand-care model. Had to type several days in an awkward manner. My j, m, u, h, and 7 finger had to take over dash duty. No extra pay either.

Next, something, who knows what, knocked a pot of blooming petunias off a porch railing. Not another, less heavy, pot was disturbed in any way.

Then I began finding small chips of dried paint in my hair almost every day yellow, red, purple, etc. Well, nothing to worry about, although certainly curious.

~~A TV started coming on all by itself. At 2 a.m. when someone starts talking about biodiversity at the foot of your bed, it is eerie to say the least.

My flat-topped roof over one room, which has leaked and been fixed many times, leaked again in a fierce manner. It was fixed and then leaked again, worse. Another vagrant phrase drifted through my head ad infinitum?

A mis-a~~ddressed letter came back.

Another letter came back. Postage due.

My check book didn't balance.

Notice of raise in some dues came. Maybe I shouldn't list that; it is so common.

Michael Jord~an got below his usual 30 points in an NBA playoff.

A rubber band snapped off a rolled paper and smacked me in the mouth. Couldn't drink hot coffee nor kiss anyone for two hours.

Then came the Biggie. Driving along on a beautiful summer Sunday afternoon with my beloved sisters, all snuggled into our seat belts, we came down off Stono Mountain (St. Francois County), leveled off on a long stretch of highway. We had decided to turn left on Canterberry Lane now known as Canterberry Vandergriff Road, to see if the familiar old Canterberry ~~~~House still stood.

Knowing that I was going to turn left, I had my left-turning lights going lively, "ding, ding, ding, etc." I made the turn and was safely started down a beautiful country lane bordered by honeysuckle~ and sumac when Wham! something bashed into us.

My calm older sister said, "Well, I swan, what was that?" Trying to follow her example, I said, "It seems as if we've been hit by another vehicle." My other sister, wearing a complicated leg brace on account of early polio and sitting in the back seat of my two-doored car was already out of the car and bearing down on the 18-year-old boy driver like a grizzly omnivorous mammal, Ursus arctos. How she managed, I'll never know. Always one for action, though.

All the usual followed calling of the State Patrol, the ambulance, just in case, questioning of witnesses, display of drivers licenses. The patrolman looked several times at me as he was inspecting my license. My graying hair had turned dark since the picture was taken! He was discreet about that and I suppose verified me by eyes and weight, although the latter keeps changing too.

My car, smashed on the left side, was still drivable so in about 45 minutes everyone was on his way again.

There were some niggling little worries about the boy's insurance until I found out he really was insured as he had said he was. But what about this domino effect of these dreary events. Was it over? My hangnail was cured. See how well I can use the space board !

My car is all fixed up and looks as good as new. I drove it home from the repair shop, put it into its stall and as I was emerging, I saw a little chip of lavender colored paint coming down from the sky. It landed in my hair. "Oh, no!" I moaned aloud and then added ruefully, "I guess it isn't over 'til it's over."

I looked up to see if I could determine where from the sky this paint could be coming.~ And then I noticed it! My Hex Sign! It had fallen into disrepair. It was all paint-cracked and scabby looking. I could see bald places amongst shaggy pieces of paint still clinging. How could I have neglected it so.

"Oh, it's you," I said, suffused with superstitious relief.

The Daddy Hex, as mine is, is a well-known Pennsylvania Dutch Hex sign supposed to ward off evil spirits. Aren't they all? Sort of like daily horoscopes and fortune cookie predictions?

I put the hex sign up as a sort of decoration years ago. Usually take it down about every two years and give it a new paint job. To keep it active? But, well, how long had it been?

I didn't waste time trying to figure that out. Down it came. Up from the basement came sand paper, enamels, paint brush, and after a whole two days of refurbishing, the sign was back up. Who wants the bother of an m, j, u, h, 7 hangnail cropping up ever once in a while.

REJOICE!