I saw the first butterfly of spring today, a white butterfly, so according to local custom I'll have good luck all year long. (If I lived in Devonshire, apparently, I'd have to kill the first butterfly I spied or face a year of bad luck.) I like living in a place with folk customs. Here in rural Kentucky, where I've lived the last few years, I can tell exactly what kind of winter it will be by looking at the wooly bears, and know if there's thunder in February there will be frost in May. If I brush my hair outside and a bird gathers it to use in a nest, I'll go crazy. Florida, my homeland, where I'll be returning in a few months, for good, doesn't have many folk customs. Of course, most things in Florida are transplanted exotics these days, retirees from New York, pythons from Burma. There's not a lot I'll miss about Kentucky, but I think I might pine for its sense of perpetual prophesy.
I'm selling my house. If you want a rural retreat, surrounded by woods, with deer and turkey and bobwhite and arrowheads in the fields and good neighbors who check on you before the tornadoes, let me know.