Luck Be My Ladies Tonight

by Doug Kaufman

Every day that goes by confirms my suspicions that my wife and two daughters are the luckiest females in the world.

Now, before any of my family or friends accuse me of being more egotistical than they already believe me to be, let me assure you: their luck has absolutely nothing to do with me.

How many four-leaf clovers have you found in your life? If you’ve ever looked down and discovered one, you know what an amazing feeling it is. More than one? Some would consider you blessed. Myself, I’ve never found a single one.

The Better Half? There’s a different story. How many do you want? She’ll go outside and find them for you right this minute.

Now, I’ve been accused of taking journalistic license with stories in the past. I’ll admit, I may have embellished the truth a time or two just to make a point, but as the great columnist Dave Barry says, "I am not making this up."

No matter what patch of lawn she’s near, my wife can, within seconds, find the first of dozens of four-leaf clovers. A median strip near a mall? That’s good for at least four or five. A soccer field sideline? She’ll find enough luck to outfit the entire team. Our backyard? You might as well be in Ireland.

I suspect that my daughters have inherited the Better Half’s abilities. The other day, the Oldest sat down in the backyard and found 112 four-leaf clovers in about 30 minutes. Even my 7-year-old daughter, the Middle One, finds lucky clovers at will.

For those of you who, like me, only see four-leaf clovers in magazines or in the hands of someone else, these mysterious green plants actually have symbolic meanings within their leaves: one leaf is for faith, the second is for hope, the third is for love and the fourth is for luck.

If you’ve never found a lucky clover, don’t feel alone: neither has most anyone else. In fact, the odds of finding a four-leaf clover have been calculated at 10,000 to 1 – not bad odds if you’re playing the lottery, but not the greatest if you’re hoping to find some luck.

Think of it this way. There are at least 10,000 three-leaf clovers to every four-leaf clover. By that calculation, my backyard contains more than 50 million clover plants. Unfortunately, I never seem to find anything other than crabgrass or proof that the dog was there before me.

When I walk through my yard, I notice one of two things: either the grass is too dry and needs water or it’s too high and needs mowed. That’s about the extent of it. And now that we’re heading into autumn, the leaves that fall will hide even that, so there’s not much chance I’ll be finding a lucky shamrock anytime soon.

One recent summer afternoon, I decided to get the kids and the Better Half involved in sort of a challenge – a luck competition, if you will. I marked off sections of the backyard into searching areas. Each of us drew a number from a hat that corresponded to one of those areas. At the signal, each of us was to go to our section and begin hunting for four-leaf clovers. After 30 minutes, we would stop and tally our findings, determining once and for all who’s the luckiest.

After about 20 minutes of unsuccessful ground-staring, I straightened up, stretched to relieve the backache and looked around. My son, having tired of the game after the first minute, was on his swing set, happily attempting to swing over the bar. The other three explorers continued their quests. As I watched them, even though each four-leaf specimen they found pushed me further down the family luck ladder, I finally realized something of extreme importance: I don’t need to be frustrated by an inability to spot an extra leaf among the clovers.

Watching my family laugh, play and enjoy one of the last summer afternoons together reminded me that I already have something much rarer than any four-leaf clover and for that I am truly a lucky man. No amount of four-leaf clovers will ever take the place of the pride and love I have for my wife and kids.

Conceding defeat (but secretly claiming victory), I took the whole family to get an ice cream cone. As we stood in line, I looked down at my shoes. There, half buried in the gravel, was something green, and as I bent to pick it up, I suddenly knew the euphoria they felt.

Sure, it was only a dollar, but if the kids start looking now, maybe they’ll be able to find their college funds hidden out there somewhere.

Doug Kaufman is a magazine writer and editor who lives in Tallmadge with his wife, Renee, and three children: Ally, Maria and Ryan.