Legend of Septimus

My Great Grandfather, Septimus, was a legend in my family. He was the 7th son of the 7th son in England. Legend has it that if you are the 7th son of a 7th son, in England, you are lucky, magical … or part werewolf! I am here to say he was lucky, and never showed any Werewolf tendencies.

When he was young, to make some extra money for his family, he was invited into people’s homes, recite a poem, his lucky black curls would be rubbed, and he would leave with a pence in his pocket.

One day, after he was married, he went to the pub after dinner. A beggar came up and asked for some money. Septimus watched the beggar study the Horse races and asked him what he was doing. The beggar said that he had inside information that a particular horse was favored to come in and win 16-1. He was going to bet the money my Great-Grandfather gave on that horse. Septimus thought to himself, If that beggar believes so strongly about this horse and betting all the money he has on it, why don’t I? So, he took the day’s wages and bet EVERYTHING on that horse, 16-1. Guess what? He won! He trusted his instincts, listened to his gut telling him to GO FOR IT, and he won enough money to Immigrate from Sheffield, England to Rhode Island.

He was someone to look to for his perseverance and out of the box (sometimes stubborn) problem-solving ability. We can all take lessons from his internal strength of character and willingness to never give up:

When he was 85, his license was taken away. Not deterred, he went out to buy a 6 ft racing bike and tried to ride it. Yes, he fell and broke his arm. The bike was returned to the shop. Not deterred, He took up hitchhiking and thumbing for rides to & from the grocery store.

He was so determined to live his life HIS way, that he was always thinking up a way of making it happen. His way kept him going until he was 101. He was healthy and strong by believing and striving. It is a lesson we should all aspire to. Keep moving, keeping thinking, keep finding new ways when things happen.

Even now, I can still picture Pop, as we would affectionately call him, push his chair back after dinner, stand up before the family and recite this poem in his thick, scruffy British accent. Makes me smile…