July 20, 2011:  Be honest, folks.  How many of you pony up $2.00 a week on the outside miracle that the Powerball is coming your way?  I refer to the $1.00 play I do twice a week as my semi-weekly disappointment.  Sure, I know what the outcome is.  Nevertheless, there is an outside chance that the Big Elvis will interrupt his heavenly golf game and throw me a hole in one.

Since the beginning of July, I have been reluctant to leave my house.  The reason is simple:  Ike (dog) and I want to be home when the doorbell rings for Publishers Clearing House with that four-foot check.  The two of us have practiced the "I-can't-believe-it, I'm-out-of-my-mind" dance into the late hours.  It could launch a whole new career being part of their commercials.

The one thing I did not inherit from Betty McGrath (my mom) was her incredible luck at gambling games.  She was uncanny in reading the tea leaves.  She even foresaw when she was going to win.  As a kid I'd go with her to the Eastchester church bingo benefits and she would say, "I'm winning this round," and, bingo, she'd take home a year's supply of Pop-Tarts.  She was a master at slot machines as well.

Betty was a contestant on a daytime game show called Camouflage.  She cleaned up, winning for five straight days.  The prize on the final round to be held that following Monday was a 1961 fuel-injected Corvette.  Needless to say, over the weekend I dropped into Saint Joseph's, lighting every candle in the house.

The show was to air in the middle of Ms. Landis's English class.  I talked her into letting me watch the show on the top floor in the old "rhythms" chamber of horrors where there was a TV.  Armed with an assortment of luck-producing objects including a rabbit's foot, a rosary, a buffalo nickel, and a box of Lucky Charms, I sweated the outcome.

The big question of the final round was presented, and my future car ownership was on the line.  Betty took the full allotted time answering the shrill buzzer saying "nada."  I fell to the floor, reaching for a paper bag to breathe into as I choked back the nausea.  My driving future had dissolved into a $200 dented used checker cab.

I waited for Betty to get home, with the saddest face I could muster instilling maximum guilt possible.  It was obvious that she purposely dumped a 4th-grade-level question.  Her response:  "It would have thrown Fred into a higher tax bracket."  I had no words; I went to bed ... for three days.

When Fred and Betty were stationed at Nellis AFB at the war's conclusion, she would take his officer's paycheck, hotfooting to the slots in Las Vegas, hours later returning home having doubled or tripled his check.

Betty was a thrifty coupon freak.  She collected hundreds of Green Stamp books, and the main distributor was Dotty, a manager at the A&P.   Not only did Betty catch up on the latest B'ville happenings at the meat counter, she was stashing stamp books in every nook in the house.  She'd cash them in once a year, and large mysterious packages would begin arriving at the front door.  I never asked what she got; an understandable answer was out of the question.

Simple isn't anymore; we possibly could be heading back in time due to the country's big financial muddle.

Green Stamps are not a bad idea; the banks should consider taking them as mortgage payments--they could be worth more than a future greenback buck.  Betty was on to something; I wonder if she buried a stash!

I miss her; where's the map?