The Thing About Luck: Chapters 12–16

It was kind of disheartening to spend all afternoon making chili and then see everyone scarf it up in eight minutes and call it too salty.

Mrs. Parker looked doubtfully at Jiichan, then said more decisively, “It’s out of the question. Look at the man. His skin is practically gray.”

Then they spent the next couple of minutes arguing about arguing. In the end, Jiichan relented and got into the passenger seat.

“I need to work,” he said petulantly.

The field looked barren, like a bomb had been dropped. It was the opposite of the flowing field the workers were cutting.

Thunder galloped through the cut field. He flushed out a rabbit and took off in pursuit.

The chirp of crickets accompanied the soft sounds of country music—the music a little scratchy from the cheap radio, the chirping strong and clear and seemingly coming from everywhere in the world all at once.

Mick cut a swath of wheat with a combine, then climbed into the bin with a moisture meter.

“Will someone drive me back there in the big rig?” I implored.

Mick appraised me with a harsh face.

When I turned back to Jiichan, he was pushing the throttle lever to five miles an hour.

I gingerly picked up the radio.

The land here was more terraced than the land on the Laskey farm.

Thunder’s paws went galumph galumph on the floor as he ran to fling himself at me.

I loved the light. It made me feel safer. I knew Thunder could see, but for me it was kind of scary. There was a slight illumination toward the road, so I headed that way.

In the distance the combines from the other farm threw more smidgeons of light my way.

I jogged forward, surrounded by the din of a seeming army of crickets.

Next I pushed the hydro handle, and a hydraulic propulsion motor moved the machine forward.

After driving for five minutes, I idled the combine to calm down.

I saw the stars, the sliver of the moon, and I thought wearily that tomorrow night I would be needed again.

Mick stopped shoveling and signaled me to turn on the header. I complied, and then I turned off the combine as he started shoveling again.

I eagerly clambered down to see if all the wheat was gone.

He squinted at me with scorn, either because I was bothering him or because he didn’t like me calling his work “pretty.”

Jaz looked at the intricate arrangement one last time and stood up.

Though there was no physical exertion involved, soon I was sweating profusely. It was like working my brain was causing me to sweat.

Though there was no physical exertion involved, soon I was sweating profusely. It was like working my brain was causing me to sweat.

Finally, he said, “There’s not that much to choose from. I guess Monty’s is best. It has decent food for the money.” That wasn’t much of an endorsement, but if that was the best place in town, so be it.

On the other hand, it was slightly better than the trail mix and it did stop my hunger pangs.

On the TV was a show about cooking fancy food. It had absolutely no relevance at all to how we cooked on harvest.

Then Obaachan announced, “Now I know what they feed at restaurant. Your jiichan explain. When you put the hate in food you cook, person who eat die. When you put love, person stronger. Mr. Monty put apathy into his food. I learn new word today: apathy. I think maybe Mr. Monty put two or three apathy in his food.”

They focused intently on their tower, occasionally discussing technical details.

My mother was lenient, my grandmother was strict.

I searched inside myself and decided that my need to keep cutting trumped my fear of being alone.

It’s very hard to determine what wabi-sabi is, because supposedly if you could define it, then you knew it couldn’t really be wabi-sabi. It’s kind of important to what it means to be Japanese, and yet hardly anybody knows exactly what it was. It kind of means that there can be beauty and nobility inside of a rough exterior.

“I make solemn promise.”