Dime in the shoe, psalm on the porch
Our niece Tanya drove up to Atlanta for nursing school this week, her first time living away from home. Before she left I sent her off the way my uncle sent me: an old silver Mercury dime in her left shoe, the 91st Psalm read over her on the front porch, and a little red flannel bag in the glovebox with salt, a bay leaf and a picture of her grandmama.
She asked if the dime actually does anything. I told her it reminds her she's got people praying behind her. That's what it does.
She texted me last night: "Made it. Shoe's uncomfortable." Good. Means she's still wearing it.
Asking Hermes with knucklebones
The ancient roadside oracles used knucklebones, astragaloi, and I finally made a set. Four lamb knuckles from the butcher (he didn't ask, I didn't explain), simmered clean, dried on the balcony for a week.
Each bone has four sides that land differently. Throw all four and you get a combination, and the old inscribed tables match each combination to a short oracular saying. I keep a modern translation in my notebook.
My question: should I go to my cousin's wedding in Athens next year, given the cost? The bones gave a line about a traveler who will not regret the road. In fairness, I'd already looked at flights before asking. Hermes, patron of travelers and of excellent excuses, approved.