a bad joke. but a clean one

I remember as a child, my father who late in the evening, after several whiskeys and just before retiring to bed, had a habit of emptying the change from his trouser pockets. Then removing the pennies, he would wander around the house and delicately place them heads-up in any odd place, beside the third banister on the stair, next to his left shoe, peeking out from under the rug in the hall, etc. Then in the morning he would pick them all up again and place them back into his pocket. Once, I suppose as soon as I was old enough to realize the peculiarity of it, I asked him why he went through this ritual each morning and night. He put me on his lap and said to me, “Keith, a man makes his own good luck”.