I have never had a difficult time finding four-leafed clovers. I don’t understand why they’re considered to be so rare and mysterious. I just look down into the grass, and there they are, waving at me with their supernumerary leaves. It’s truly a gift. One summer, while I sat in a soccer field with a book trying to avoid the lame activities of the day camp I was coerced into attending, I found dozens of them, and pressed them all flat in a big poetry book so I could keep them forever. I had plans to try and preserve them somehow but never got around to it, and as time passed they got brittle and started to crumble. There’s a moral in there somewhere.
I found a perfect specimen in the lawn of our new house before we moved in.
I’m not sure whether the little guy brought us good luck – with all the crises and issues we’ve had here so far, I could accuse it of being a bad luck charm, but the fact is we’ve been happy in this house despite all the work and frustration, so I can’t say we’ve had a horrible time of it. Maybe the clover didn’t bring us good luck so much as dilute the bad.
I found a fresh one today, and I gave it to a friend who needs it more than I do. I hope that passing it on will help retain more of its lucky properties, and she’ll get the full benefit of the clovery magic.