My Lucky Day!

Whenever I see a clump of clover in the middle of a lawn, I habitually stoop down and examine it, look- ing for a four-leaved speci- men. I've done this ever since I found out that these actually exist in the wild, rare genetic mutations of the workaday three-leaved variety.

Well, this weekend, while on a kayaking trip, I actually found one on the banks of the Snake River.

It wasn't all pretty and perfect like the bizarrely symmetrical versions that rear their plasticine heads ev- ery Saint Patrick's Day. The four leaves were thrown on the stem rather haphazardly, the fourth leaf tucked behind one of the others as if hiding from the world, but all were clearly attached to the top of the stem and there was no doubt in my mind that it was the genuine article.

I picked it immediately, showed it off to my fam- ily, and carried it to the car, where I laid it on a piece of paper and stowed it in a con- sole drawer. When we had arrived at the river that morning, the sky had been blue. By the time we left, there were plenty of clouds, but it was still bright. When we stopped at a nearby convenience store on the way home, it was getting a bit hazy.

Riding home, I pondered my newfound fortune. Did I have to actually be hold- ing the clover to reap any benefits? Or was just finding it enough? Would I be lucky for the rest of my life, or just for a week or so? Were non- symmetrical clovers even lucky?

When we got home, the sky had taken on a pinkish haze and the wind was pick- ing up. I folded up the clover in the paper and carried it into the house, planning to stash it in the same wooden box where I store all my par- ticularly auspicious fortunecookie slips. But when I opened the paper, the clover was gone.

I retraced my path on hands and knees. Twice. No dice.

Discouraged, I curled up by the window with a book. Mom dashed into Walla Walla to run an errand. My brother showed up and demanded his book back. Grumbling, I handed it to him (hey, I can't help it if he has exceptionally good taste in literature) and trudged off to take a shower.

Not long after, as I read an old magazine, I heard a grumbling, scraping noise, as if someone was trying to get on the roof with a ladder. It was the sort of thing my brother did for no particular reason on summer nights, so I ignored it.

The noise got louder. I looked up just in time to see a window glow blue, followed immediately by a rumbling, scraping noise that was loud enough for me to identify it accurately as thunder - very, very close thunder.

I dashed out to the living room and found my brother playing Guitar Hero, oblivi- ous to the fact that the storm was right overhead. (For safety reasons, I made him turn it off.)

Later, Mom returned home and drove us out to the edge of town. There was a large burned patch in a field of wheat stubble - the result of a single lightning strike. Behind another hill, a thick plume of smoke rose, tinted bright orange by a still-burning fire. Huge bolts of lightning flashed one after another, some as long as the horizon itself.

At that moment, I realized that I was lucky - to be inside the car, in one piece, with the storm fading into the distance.