As a kid growing up in Iowa in the 1950s I remember believing how finding a four-leaf clover would bring one good luck. There were even songs about it - I don’t remember the lyrics. With St. Patrick’s Day here I found myself remembering the clover I hadn’t thought about in years.

I was six when I first learned about the good luck clover. I was instantly hooked. My friends and I would typically be on the lookout for these anytime we hit the open fields or empty lots, where we would gather to play ball. 

It soon became a little obsession of mine. For a while, I would walk to school staring down at the sidewalk (I was told those found growing between cracks brought the most luck) and examining all grassy lawns as well as all weed-infested planters along the way. My older brother eventually noticed my strange behavior and wanted to know what was I looking for.

“Loose change”, I lied.

“In Mrs. Jackson’s petunias?”

“You never know”. He shook his head with a “just another Jimmy scheme” look on his face.

Like I needed competition in finding a four-leaf clover! There was no way I was sharing my good fortune with anyone!

Weeks went by and not one of us had found one. By now I’d already tried all known methods to find one, including using peek-a-boo (quickly looking at planted areas, trying to catch one before they hid again - yes, apparently lucky clovers could do that) or blinking three times and spinning clockwise ten times before trying to find one. BTW, this last one should never be attempted on a full stomach.

When I look back I recall I spent weeks and weeks really deep in my “four-leaf-clover-or-bust” mission. In reality, I’m sure it was only two or three at the most but, boy, were they intense!

Then one day it happened. 

I had just put down my lunchbox by a mixed grassy/weedy patch near school when I noticed the tiny, bright green miracle plant staring back at me. I suddenly realized I wasn’t sure what to do next. Did I have to pull it? Was it enough to see it to be the winner? 

I suddenly became aware that there were other kids around so I just reached out, ripped the little thing without much ceremony, and stuffed it into my lunchbox. Good luck was finally mine!! 

My friends were impressed, and not a little jealous. It felt good to be the hotshot for the next couple of days.

That is until  I heard that the three-leaf clover was even luckier than the one with four leaves, and another boy had found one on St. Patrick’s Day.

Three-leaves? St. Patrick? Who’s that anyway? I had invested the better part of what seemed like a lifetime to get that lucky clover and it turned out it wasn’t that lucky anyway?

“When’s that?”

“March.”

“But it’s May! I have to wait a whole year!?” That hit me like a punch to the gut.

The disappointment must have been written across my face when I got home that day because, as luck would have it,  my Dad had just gotten back from a sales trip and was relaxing in the living room when I came in. Caught up in my own thoughts I had not noticed him and was startled when he called me over.

“Jimmy! Come over here.”

Mom was in the kitchen but had already fixed him a coffee - his routine after days on the road. He was quietly sipping it.

“Hey, Dad.”

“What’s on your mind?”

At six years old I still felt I could tell my dad anything.

“My lucky clover is not so lucky.” With dejection, I took the now very limp little plant from my pocket, where I kept it wrapped in a handkerchief, and told him what I’d learned earlier.

My Dad held the little clover in his hand, gently extending each of the leaves. That was one dead-looking plant, and I suddenly felt sad for it.

“Well, I’ll be. A lucky clover, you say?”

“Yeah, but not the luckiest.” 

“ I don’t know much about three or four-leaf clovers, son. But I know you make your own luck in life.”

He could see his pep talk wasn’t working. 

“What I’m trying to say is that, as I look at this four-leaf clover, I think how lucky you already are. You have a family.” Then he tapped each of the leaves lightly, calling out our names. “See? A leaf per each of us. Family. You already are the luckiest kid in the world.”

I could see this was going to go from sappy to sappier once my mother came in so I nodded, and quickly took my leave.

“Hey, don’t you want your clover?”

“You can keep it, dad.” And I ran into my bedroom. I probably don’t need to tell you about the mixture of conflicting emotions I was experiencing at that moment. I think I cried - I still wanted to have the luckiest clover. Yet something in me did listen because from that point on I stopped looking for lucky clovers, or any lucky charms, for good.

Thinking back about that day I recognize how right Dad had been right. We make our own luck in life, and I believe lucky clovers are there to remind us of this. 

My dad had been right about luck, and he had also been right about family. When I raise my three-leaf clover today on St. Patrick’s Day, it’s my three children I’ll be thinking of, a leaf for each of them, and count myself the luckiest dad in the world.