Over three decays ago my luck changed from bad to good on Friday the 13th. In the fall making one of our favorite Halloween treats no bake peanut butter corn flake cookies I felt so nauseated I have not been able to eat them since. Finding out a reason for the disdain of the sweet treat came shortly, living in LA in 1979 with our two little boys, amid my husband finishing broadcasting school, I found out I was expecting.
Taking the boys to buy new shoes and suddenly being drawn to purchase new cowboy boots this was defiantly a sign of our future destination. Researching several different television and radio markets he landed a job in my home town out west in Grand Junction, Colorado. The cowboy boot that looked so odd with California shorts fit right in the Rocky Mountains. Moving in February we celebrated Cameron’s, my second son's, third birthday in March with a new Calico kitty.
My family doctor had contracted a terrible disabling virus on a trip to Mexico so an associate took over my case. The morning of Friday the 13th my water broke at 4:00 a.m., we called the doctor, but he had plans to go fishing that day. He did not want to delay his trip and to assure a quick delivery he gave me a pill that induces contractions to put under my tongue. I told him “I will have this baby by 6:00 a.m.”, sure enough just after six o’clock Preston was born into this world. He was 6 pounds 13 ounces and Friday the 13th has been a lucky day for me ever since, but to this day he hates no bake peanut butter corn flake cookies.