Words from WW Blog

The Flintstones are not forgotten. They are resurrected everyday in the conversations between middle school students and their teachers, coaches, and administrators. Several times a day, I hear my inner voice sounding like Fred Flintstone as it trumpets “Yabba-Dabba-Do!”

But wait, the middle school rediscoveries of The Flintstones have a different twist to it. It’s said at the beginning of a response from the student to his teacher concerning the recent bad decision he made, such as jumping up hallway walls or breaking a pencil in two. Fred also re-appears right after a coach asks one of his players why she made a pass to a teammate who was sandwiched between two defenders, like salami slapped between two pieces of French bread.

“Yab-ba…”

“Yab-ba” is the shortened, uncompleted form of “Yes, but!” It’s the preface to the soon revealed excuse for irrational decisions. It’s one of the inherited curses that gets passed from one generation to the other. We said it! Remember?

“Yab-ba…he started it!”

“Yab-ba…I had it first and she took it away from me!”

“Yab-ba…it’s not my fault. My dog ate my homework because we ran out of dog food and he was really hungry.”

“Yab-ba…Yab-ba…Yab-ba…” Dab-ba Do!”

Admittedly, we were guilty in our adventures and escapades. Today’s culture has become proficient in not accepting responsibility. So often, it’s somebody else’s fault or simply a ripple effect of an unjust society that the person has been forced to be a part of and, therefore, can’t be held responsible for the lame decisions that bubble out of the person’s actions.

I guess I showed my hand in those last couple of sentences. The “Yab-bas” of life symbolize our resistance to being wrong, or falling short, of being held accountable for the errors of our ways. Whereas, on the basketball court not setting a screen for a teammate can result in a turnover or a missed shot (In other words, a momentary wrong decision that can be corrected in the next possession.), in the classroom of life, the “Yab-bas” lead to the passing of the buck to someone else.

I have one young man that I teach, the wall-jumper, who tends to make split-second bad decisions. A gifted athlete, I keep him accountable and do not let him get away with a “Yab-ba” excuse. His first response is that Fred Flintstone re-enactment, and I refuse to let him slide by. I keep on him until he faces up to his lunacy, until he says the words, “I’m sorry, Mr. Wolfe. I won’t do it again.” There are things going on in his life that weigh on him, disrupt his ability to have balance and peace, but jumping up a wall in a school hallway can’t be blamed on what he ate, his family, the weather, or the fact that he just wanted to see how far up the wall he could go before his descent back down to earth.

I talk a lot to my students about grace and also responsibility. Sometimes a “Yab-ba” moment can be talked about and I then choose to extend grace to the Barney in front of me. But grace that is always extended, as Dietrich Bonhoeffer would say, becomes “cheap grace”, grace that becomes the expected reply by an entitled offender.

One last thing! I allow my students to eat in my classroom, but when they don’t clean up after themselves we have a “Food Fast” for a day, a week, however long I decide upon. After all, I have our room hand vacuum, “George Cleany”, readily available. Yesterday, there was a piece of chewed gum on the classroom carpet. I told the class we’d be having a “Gum Fast” next week. Their response. You guessed it! “Yab-ba, Yab-ba, Yab-ba…that’s not fair! It was the other class.”

I wish I would have thought about saying this, but it didn’t come to me until I was writing about the moment of the discovered crime. I wished I would have said, “If someone pulls the emergency cord on a train, it affects everyone riding on that locomotive, not just the puller.”

But, alas, I didn’t think of those words that would fit neatly into a movie script until I pondered the situation more. Of course, they would have stared at me with cold-hearted, steely expressions on their faces, considering a classroom coup. That would be great drama, something that was never a part of each Flintstone episode.

“Yabba-Dabba-Do!”

Cotton balls have many purposes. One of them was placed on my arm to soak up the few drops of blood after some my life-flow had been siphoned away into test tubes after my annual physical exam. That’s one purpose. Another is gluing several of them onto the paper of a kid’s art project, as he builds a cute fluffy snowman, that will end up as another addition to the refrigerator’s front clutter.

My mom would use cotton balls to help remove her makeup and, in my infrequent uses of a razor for shaving, I would use them to dab up the blood emerging from my nicks.

And now a new purpose: Artificial AirPods. Since the ear devices and cotton balls are the same color, it is almost like having a knock-off Gucci handbag or over-priced Nike basketball shoes. Who can tell the difference?

This newly discovered purpose had arisen as a result of our middle school’s “no cell phone policy”. From the time the students enter the building to the time they leave, roughly 7:30-3:00, they are not permitted to have their cell phones. The phones had become too much of a distraction, not only in the classroom but also in the hallways, cafeteria, restrooms, at athletic contests, and band concerts. In many students’ minds, iPhones had become more necessary than curriculum, a computer, classroom discussions, and science projects. As a result, AirPods populated the ears of more students than the protection of gloves for their hands on twenty-degree days.

But no more. Many students twitched. A few thought they would surely breakout in hearing-hives or develop some kind of withdrawal symptoms that would keep the school nurse hopping. However, to their dismayed, protesting attitudes, they didn’t.

So I shelled out a buck-twenty-five for a bag of 200 from the local supermarket and offered AirPod placebos for a couple of students who were beginning to wonder if their parents would allow them to be 8th grade dropouts? The first student I offered the white fluff too refused the help. He thought it was an inadequate replacement for the unjust eviction of his usual ear resident. But another unadorned student nearby perked up and asked, “Can I have one?”

“Sure,” I responded, reaching into the bag.

“Me, too?” came another plea.

A minute later, most of the class sported a cotton ball in at least one ear. One boy, a sculptor in the making, shaped his into the form of an AirPod, the tail coming down from the ear to resemble a shrimp. One girl kept tapping on hers, as if she was changing the playlist to the next song. Another student rocked his head back and forth, as if he was listening to Drake.

The next day I didn’t even get to initiate the offer of cotton balls. Class members asked me! At the end of class, I had them assemble on one side of the room with their artificial listening devices inserted for a class picture. They thought that was pretty cool, as I used to say, and even put some attitude into their poses.

I’m not saying that cotton balls are a long-term solution. They’re more like Sweet ‘N Low for someone trying to kick the sugar habit. For a few days, in the midst of the AirPods-induced grief, they’re providing a lighthearted alternative. The novelty will soon pass and they’ll join the ranks of Chia Pets and Moon Rocks, items that were here for a while and then cast to the side.

Meanwhile, the absence of their AirPods has resulted in another problem, another wart, rising to the surface. They talk a lot more to one another! The drop in rap music inside their ears has raised the level of verbal relating outside their parted lips.

I guess that’s not a problem. It’s more like them getting back to being the amazing, precious people that they are.

It had been a long, quiet, restful 20 days. The Christmas break that seemed to resemble the finish line of an ultra-marathon, a lifetime away as teachers struggled to stay mentally hydrated for the home stretch. On Friday, December 16 at 2:50 PM, the herd stampeded out of the building, leaving their trash for the surviving staff members to deal with.

And this past Thursday, they returned. The hallways went from resembling a hospital’s quiet hours to a crowded airport corridor the Friday before Christmas. Students, who hadn’t seen each other, hugged and chattered. Conversations could be heard about where they had gone on Christmas vacations, what new device or video game was discovered to be wrapped up and waiting to be opened, the extreme-cold weather, new clothes, and new haircuts.

The new school policy about no cell phones was not being talked about. One teacher, observing the hallway events told me, “They were actually walking down the hallway with their heads up and talking to one another.” We had prepared for Cell Phone Armageddon, but it didn’t happen…yet! Our administration had planned far enough ahead so that parents knew, students had had time to whine and state the injustice of it, and the staff had a good understanding of what they should do in unique situations.

I’m buying a bag of cotton swabs this weekend for those students who are missing their AirPods so much they feel like they didn’t finish dressing, Like a Nicotine patch for someone trying to kick the smoking habit, I’ll offer cotton swabs that they can stick in their ears.

Adolescents are flexible. Most of them have a unique ability to adjust. They may moan, groan, and be dragged kicking and screaming, but they will adjust. Perhaps a three-week break helped in the saying goodbye to what and saying hello to what is. Oh, there were a few curmudgeons in thirteen-year-old bodies, whose mission in life at this point is to bring misery and suffering to those who have stood firm in expecting them to follow the rules. Those warts will stand out even more as the rest of the school year goes on, and not just to the teachers but also to their classmates.

However, the vast majority were glad to be back, ready to explore the new lands of educational adventure, and were at that point where boredom was starting to ooze into their daily wanderings.

And now the staff has laced up their Puma and New Balance instructional shoes, and have launched into the next ultra-marathon. This is the ultimate test. January, February, March, three months of cold, during which we will pray for a couple of snow days to be blessed with and a few timely two-hour delays.

Breathe in, breathe out. Don’t slack off. You’ve got to run the next leg of the journey tomorrow. Oh, and don’t forget to grade those papers!

When my coaching buddy, Ron McKinney, stood next to me and the two of us surveyed the basketballs being banged off the rim, the wall, the top of the backboard, or even hitting the wall after going over the top of the backboard, our minds brought up images of lop-sided scores that would be a part of our season.

That was a long sentence, but it took less time to write it than it did for half of our players to make their first shot…in practice…standing next to the basket!

On the other hand, Ron and I love coaching seventh grade girls in the sport of hoops. They’re so teachable, so enjoyable, so convinced that “they aren’t all that!” As we watched that first practice we knew it would be about teaching them the fundamentals of the game: how to do a pivot, how to play defense, how to do a crossover dribble (What am I saying!! How to dribble at all!!), how to do a layup, where to line up for a free throw.

Unlike other years, the turnout for girl’s basketball was abysmal. Twelve girls signed up, three of them after several pleas during the school announcements at the beginning of the day. Two of the twelve died not want to play on the interscholastic team, but just practice during the intramural period which began at the close of the school day. Interscholastic practice occurred after intramurals. Of the remaining ten, two could dribble, five had Triple-A memberships because they traveled so much, and at least three were confused about the rule that said they could only score on one of the baskets (although Ron and I were pretty certain scoring on the wrong basket was not going to be a problem because it meant a basket had been made).

So we began. After the first practice, we chuckled. They were really nice girls, but if we were using an analogy of reading ability, we would have said they were basketball illiterate. So we had to teach most of them how to read, so to speak. And we had six practices to do it. Six practices to teach them how to dribble, how to shoot, how to pass, how to play a man-to-man defense and also a zone defense, out-of-bounds plays, a press breaker, where our bench was, what to do if you were told to sub in for someone, how to rebound, what offense to run. You get the picture?

And we won our first game. Ron texted his wife afterwards: “Are you sitting down?” (pause) “We won!” It was not because we had a juggernaut. The score was 16-10 and three of our points came on a banked three-pointer. Two of our players had scored, the two who can dribble.

And then we won our next game, 23-20, and three players scored (Of course, one of them had 20 of the 23!).

And then we won our third game, 30-4, and five players scored.

After that game, Coach McKinney said to the team, as we met in the locker room, “I meant to bring a bell with me today and ring it (referring to that scene from The Polar Express) and say I believe, but I forgot the bell.”

Now, in our weird middle school sports schedule, the undefeated seventh-grade girls’ basketball team comes back this Thursday (January 5) after a three-week Christmas break. Three weeks! Ron and I wonder if we will need to back up the truck to the beginning again. Will they have forgotten everything that they’ve learned? Will they have picked up basketballs since the last practice on December 14th?

We may not win another game. Hey! We’ve already won three more than we expected. Win-or-lose, however, we are enjoying this group of young ladies who groan at our humor, are surprising themselves, and discovering that basketball is fun.

The definition of “resolve” is “the firm determination to do something”. It’s been rattling around in my head as another year begins. In my mind, it’s different than making a resolution even though they’re cut from the same word base mold. Resolve has a bit of grit to it, a heavy dose of perseverance. Resolution has been watered down by our culture, making room in the backseat with lame excuses and crippling binges.

Resolve is seeing that the battle lines have been drawn and there is no retreat, no option but to attack the situation and not even entertain the possibility of surrender. Resolve understands that there are foes that are visible and perhaps even more that are unseen.

My resolve is a short list, but offers a direction, a path, a plan through the foray. Sitting on my writing stool gives me some time to ponder, strategize, and allow the resolve to rattle around undisturbed in my head. Here goes!

I resolve to influence young lives, more specifically 57 eighth-graders whose education and maturing has been been entrusted to me. It was a mission that came unexpectedly, but has challenged me to admit that being 68 years old is not an excuse, but an avenue for leading a flock, albeit a flock adorned with nose rings, various hair colors, and addictions to their iPhones.

I resolve to read 31 books in 2023, roughly divided into these categories: 5 history-based, 5 theology-based, 5 mysteries, 5 classics, 5 current events-based, 1 daily devotional, and 5 that are in that category called “Other”.

I resolve to take care of my physical condition. I know, I know that’s a little fuzzy. What I have in mind that needs to be “firmed up in my determination for” is 50 pushups and setups a day, some kind of daily movement exercise whether it be long walks, slow walks, or building up my cardio without destroying my knees and hips. I’ve discovered podcasts this past year that are able to develop my mind and spirit as I get my steps in.

Speaking of podcasts, I resolve to develop other avenues for my writing to take form, whether it be audiobooks, podcasts, YouTube reading times, or some other new bone for this old dog. I will finish the fourth book in the Red Hot: New Life in Fleming series this summer, maybe sooner depending on the amount of preparation I need to put into teaching my eighth-graders. Hopefully, I’ll begin Book 5, which I envision as being the finale, this summer. I will continue to write my Words From WW blog.

I resolve to invest in relationships: family, friends, students, teaching and coaching partners, the people at church. Those relationships are not obligations, but ways that my life is enriched and blessed.

I resolve to kiss and hug Carol every day, and when the opportunity arises hold her hand as we take walks around the neighborhood. As she encounters struggles with her eyesight, I resolve to keep her safe.

I resolve to be generous with my resources, my time, and my service. As we have been blessed (not just financially), we look to bless others.

I resolve to love people and treat each person with respect and dignity, not just those who are cut from the same belief system as me. Encountering all types of people and various life perspectives is not something that I feel threatened by, but rather helps me identify why it is I believe what I believe.

Well, there it is. I didn’t set out to make a list of ten things I will have resolve about, but that’s what it came to, kinda like the 10 Personal Commandments. I think i’ll make a hared copy of this and post it in my study at home to look at. Hopefully, it will not discourage me, but motivate me, especially as I realize I still need to get my pushups done for the day.

On a number of Saturday mornings, when I’m heading back home from the Starbucks stool (that I’m sitting on as I write this), I pass a man and a woman, mid-fifties, who are walking along the curbs of Austin Bluffs Boulevard. Austin Bluffs is a four-lane street that borders the east-side of our sub-division. It is heavily traveled Monday through Friday. dead-ending a few blocks away at a hospital and just a block west of Liberty High School.

Both the man and the woman carry trash bags and are wearing gloves. One of them also has one of those grasping devices that picks up objects without the person having to bend down. They make their way down the street, spotting what passing motorists have discarded. I’m not sure how much of Austin Bluffs they cover. It could be a couple of blocks or a mile, but sometimes when I pass them by their bags are taking on that puffed-out look that indicates the amount of trash they’ve collected.

A couple of times I’ve lowered my car window and shouted a “Thank you” to the couple. They look up, give a “You’re welcome” reply, and then immediately place their attention back on the asphalt for what needs to be picked up.

I don’t know the names of the couple. I’m assuming they are married to one another, but they could be siblings or next-door neighbors. I’m assuming they don’t do this on Saturday mornings because they’re bored, but rather because they see a need, and a negligence. Instead of responding, like most of us would, with a question that points fingers at who did this and who’s going to take care of this, they felt the nudge to be the litter guys for a small patch of a very large city. It isn’t about compensation or recognition. The only compensation they receive is getting their steps in and having a nice workout. The only recognition that comes their way is an occasional car horn from a speeding car, warning them to watch out. For this nameless couple, it’s about seeing a need and knowing that they can help meet it. It’s about being willing to clean up other people’s messes.

Cleaning up messes that other people make is a calling. At the middle school where I teach and coach, we have an incredible custodial crew. They each have unique personalities that I enjoy bantering back and forth with. Each school day they go about the never-ending task of cleaning up after careless kids and getting the building looking good for the next day, when the same sweeping, mopping, scrubbing, wiping, and vacuuming will happen again. I admire their resolve, their grit, and their dedication. They don’t do it for the recognition. Most of what they do happens after the students have let the building, but, like The Peanuts’ Pig Pen, their dust trails linger behind them.

I launched into one of my students one day when he started to leave the classroom without picking up a couple of pieces of trash that he had left behind. When I asked him if he expected the custodians to pick up his mess, his response hinted at his entitled personality. He said, “That’s what they get paid for.” I did not respond well!

The world has enough mess makers. What we need is more “litter guys” who are committed to making our surroundings a bit more tolerable, even though they don’t have to.

On Christmas Eve, Carol and I went to one of the worship services offered by our oldest daughter’s church. It was nice. The Christmas carols were upgraded with a more contemporary version that were close enough to the original to still be recognizable. The praise team offered a hint of Trans-Siberian Orchestra to the melodies. We felt sufficiently connected to the Reason for the Season and hip at the same time.

The attenders were a mix of ages, young and old, visitors and regulars, many enjoying a cup of hot chocolate or coffee in the sanctuary that, thankfully, does not have carpet. (My mom would cringe at the thought of bringing a cup of coffee into the church service. Of course, she and Dad always drank Maxwell House from coffee mug in the kitchen at the table…with Coffee Rich creamer and a teaspoon of sugar. Never in church where the careless singing of choruses might lead to a drip on “Break Thou The Bread of Life” in the hymnbook. I digress!)

With Christmas Day being on Sunday this year, I decided to venture to downtown Colorado Springs and attend Sunday morning worship at First Baptist, a congregation 150 years old whose pastor and associate I’ve come to know. Although First Baptist is an older congregation, it is a church that has a number of young families, young adults, some racial diversity, as well as a mix of well-dressed adults and others in overalls and jeans. The small congregation in the smaller town of Simla on the Colorado eastern plains, where I speak once or twice a month, was not having a service this Sunday. Two of the families were traveling out-of-state, which would have left the number of us in attendance less than the fingers on two hands.

The service at First Baptist was great. They engineered the playing of “Silent Night” on handbells BY THE CONGREGATION. Very creative. The carols that were sung were traditional, accompanied by piano and organ. A fifthysomething woman stood up and interrupted the sermon to admonish the congregation about the decorated tree, a sign of apostasy and worldliness. The associate pastor who was speaking let her say her piece for 3-4 minutes, before she was lovingly helped to the exit. The pastor masterly transitioned from the disturbance back to the delivery, even drawing something from the lady’s rant into the morning message. It was so smooth, I wondered if it had been rehearsed, but when I could still hear the lady going-off from outside the building, I knew it hadn’t been.

The Sunday morning gathering was noticeably older than the Christmas Eve crowd. I mean, there was no one under thirty, except the associate pastor, and the average age was higher than the speed limit on I-25. You see, Christmas Eve is about families being together in a service as a part of the family’s activities. Christmas Day, when it occurs on Sunday, is about church families being together. The diversity of ages at one is noticeably missing at the other. Christmas Eve worship is about a church putting its best foot forward: quality music, free chocolate, a brief pertinent message, and clear directions on where the restrooms are located. Sunday Christmas Day worship is about being with others who have been travelers on the same spiritual journey with the worshipper, familiar faces who one would go to Cracker Barrel with after church…if it was open.

To be clear, First Baptist also had a Christmas Eve service the previous day at 6pm. Although I wasn’t at that one, I’m sure that’s where the young families had gathered. The Christmas Day crowd was composed of those who had not been awakened at an early hour by young ones, although several may have arisen due to their aches and pains.

Interesting. Going to church on Christmas Eve has become the tradition, and yet, Christmas Day is traditional. Christmas Eve is more fashionable and festive; Christmas Sunday is about the fellowship. Neither is better than the other and both meet a need.

The past few days have seen a severe cold spell sweep the country. Even the college football games set in traditionally warmer climates haven’t escaped the plunge. The “Frozen Tundra” of Green Bay has been re-enacted in places like Fort Worth and Mobile. I tried to find an attendance figure for the First Responders Bowl that Air Force and Baylor played in at Fort Worth, where the temperature went down to 10 degrees during the game. One site listed the attendance as “0”. Although the figure was a bit higher than that, it looked like there were more players on the field than people in the stands.

Such it is in mid-December. Unfortunately, the plunge into winter came as travelers made their way across Interstates and lugged their luggage into airports. Roads were closed (My youngest daughter, husband, and two little ones were glad that there was still room in the inn in Loveland, when they discovered I-25 was closed going north) and flights were delayed or canceled. The weather brought out the Grinch and Grump in many folk.

One lady expressed her anger on social media for anyone who was desperate for reading material. She blamed the airlines, the airport, the ground crew, and the customer service agents. In essence, she blamed anyone she could think of who had nothing to do with the fact that it was 20 below. She was irritated, kinda like someone eating the last cookie and then complaining that there aren’t any more cookies.

Inconvenience and interruption have a way of bring ing our the jeers, don’t they? I admit I’m a jeering Johnny if things I plan on get side-tracked. If I discovered the water for my morning shower wasn’t hot, watch out! Or, no morning cup of coffee makes turns Billy into a bully. It’s easy to turn grumpy.

However, the stories of Christmas jeer have been counter-balanced with accounts of Christmas cheer. Our youngest daughter’s brother-in-law and his wife, stranded in Wall, South Dakota, were taken in by a family for two nights while the interstate was closed. Yesterday, the Colorado Springs Rescue Mission fed more people a hot Christmas meal than they ever had. Lily Dubose , a 13-year-old who lives in Houston, has been collecting toys for kids going through hard times since 2017. Her heart for kids has been the pulse that has seen over 30,000 toys contributed.

There’s three cheers that have impacted a helpless, the homeless, and the hurting. Christmas may bring out the Grinch, but it also causes the Gracious to emerge in unexpected ways.

My nephew tells the story about a nun of the Pallottine Sisters who is all about keeping Jesus safe. The hospital that my nephew works at was begun by the Sisters in 1924 and is now the largest private employer in their West Virginia county. It almost did not come to be, since the first group of Pallottine Sisters would have been passengers on the Titanic, but their paperwork wasn’t in order yet, delaying their departure.

One of the five sisters who now provide spiritual comfort, prayer, and presence at the hospital, has taken upon herself the responsibility each Christmas of keeping the Baby Jesus safe. The hospital’s nativity set has been displayed for decades and is showing the signs of old age. The Baby Jesus as been around for so long that an AARP card could be tucked into His bed of hay.

And so the sister, well along in years herself, puts Him under lock and key each year until His “birth day”. For one day a year He appears in public, celebrating His birth, surrounded by all of the other participants of the Christmas story.

And then He disappears again, gently carted away by the sister to His place of residence for the next 363 days. If something would happen to the sister in the coming year, my nephew isn’t sure if anyone else knows where the Christ Child has been stored. In essence, each Christmas could be His last.

Depending on one’s spin of the situation, the analogies could be positive or negative. A person could take it in an adverse direction. That after Christmas, many of us put Jesus away in storage for the next year. We let the cuteness be displayed for a crowded Christmas Eve service or on the side table of the living room for the grandkids to play with, and then wrapped up and put safely away in a box, carried down to the basement.

Or we can take the direction that my brother-in-law (our nephew’s dad) took in the telling of the story to his Sunday School class. He ended it with the words, “So, remember to take Jesus with you, not just leave Him in the manger.” An excellent teachable moment filled with wise exhortation. Take Jesus with us and let His presence and person grow within us.

This past Friday was the last day of school before our Christmas break. It’s a day that has a weird blend of dread and anticipation stirred together. The dread is due to a few of natives running wild, pre-sugared before arrival and re-sugared as the day advances. The approaching couple of weeks of non-academic life tends to tempt a few of them to release their energy and excitement in unintelligent ways. The picture analogy that comes to mind is one where people riding a roller coaster keep their hands up as “The Beast” or “The Magnum” plunges toward their deaths. Whee!!!!!

On the other hand, the anticipation that flows through the staff is one that includes a respite from any 13 and 14 year old asking immediately after the assignment directions have been explained three times and displayed in bold print on the classroom screen, “What are we doing?” Teachers are ready to Saturday and the anticipation of keeping their comfy slippers on for like…the day!

The last day of school before the break also brings with it a few gifts from students and their parents as a way of saying “Thank you!” or, in some cases, “My condolences for putting up with our son!” My desk received a few offerings of chocolate, cookies, candy canes, Starbucks gift cards, and one interesting jar of pancake mix.

And then there was the lottery ticket!

The student, who I have in two classes, wrote a nice note and placed it in an envelope, along with a lottery ticket. It wasn’t a Mega-Million ticket, but rather one that could bring as much as $35,000 to the winner.

And it got me to thinking! Were the parents of the student hoping I’d win, take the money and take a hike? You know, so the school could get a REAL teacher into the classroom. Or did the parents fall one gift short of Hershey’s Pot-O-Gold box of chocolate as they were buying gifts for their child’s instructors, and had an extra lottery ticket laying around?

Or, did the student get into his parents’ stash of tickets, like I use to get into my dad’s loose change, and take just one. They wouldn’t notice that there was one less!

Getting a lottery ticket and a gift has a number of ramifications attached to it. A plate of cookies doesn’t cause me to have nearly as much mental anguis

And here’s the other thing. I don’t play the lottery. I don’t even know how I’m suppose to scratch off something on the card. It looks a lot more complicated than the scratch off card they used to give you at Kohl’s, that revealed what percent you would received off your purchase. This card, however, has rows of unrevealed riches, unrealized possibilities.

And so it’s laying on our kitchen counter at home, staring at me, itching for a scratch, whispering to my innocence. I can’t decide what to do, but I have to figure it our soon, I’m down to the piece of chocolate in my Pot-O-Gold box.