Cherishing Those Lottery-Like Moments

I've won the lottery all-life long.

I hit it when I was born. My parents were seasoned, for they'd already raised three other children. My mom said she was thankful for me, a healthy breach baby of barely six pounds. Because of my size and near jaundice condition, I remained in the hospital for four days while Mom got to go home.

When I turned six, Mom threw me a party with a few of my cousins, church kids, and some school friends. After games and food, we went outside. When Dad wheeled a brand new bike around the corner, I thought I'd hit the lottery. I had no idea I was getting it. I'm not sure where they'd kept it hidden. Maybe at my brother's? Church friend Jimmy Joe Weems said, "That's nothing," when he saw the bike. He hopped on it to show how he could drive it without training wheels. He ran into the gas pumps.

In fourth grade, we were assigned to draw something representing our birthday month. I did as Mom suggested and drew a flag for July. Mrs. Schneider picked my picture as the winner. I don't remember any prize for it except her saying it, but I felt like I'd won the lottery. It was nice to be praised. I've kept that flag all these years. 

In high school when I earned the honor of representing my school at Girls' State in the summer of 1983, I was shocked. I was not the smartest in my class, nor the second smartest, or the third. But politics fascinated me, even back then—and not just in election years. My essay caught the eyes of the judges, and I got to go.

I bawled when Mom drove me there, for I was so scared. I'd never gone to an event with all strangers and stay over night for four days. A girl from my church, Heather Mendel, was attending, but we'd be in separate groups. I knew our paths would never cross. In addition, the NBA finals were on TV that week. I didn't want to miss them. This was the year Dr. J earned his ring, and I heard about it on the radio that night. I think I cried myself to sleep because basketball was such an important part of my life back then.

Me: in back, 2nd from left. My roommate, Heidi Shanard: front row, green skirt.

I did enjoy the week though and reported back to the American Legion. I remember them saying, "We've never heard anyone enjoying this quite like you did, Melodie." Their response made me happy. Seems we'd both hit the lottery.

When I landed the job at Cheney, I felt God's favor again. How many first year teachers are lucky enough to live near a big city but enjoy the safety of small town life? Years later, Superintendent Don Wells told me I'd yelled into the phone with excitement when he made the offer. I was pretty excited, for I'd been driving all over the state for interviews. But when I drove to the top of the highest point in Sedgwick County and saw the little town in the valley, I thought this place might be the one. And it turns out, it was. I got to teach English. To kids. It was work, but it didn't seem like work once I got the hang of it. And I was an assistant girls' basketball coach, part of a winning program that went to state six years straight. I'd hit the lottery.

And now decades later, with my match.com husband and a little grand baby in our world, I feel once again that I've won the lottery. Dad is 91 and healthy. Our dogs, my favorite companions, are always nearby. Family seems nearby too thanks to FaceTime. Boredom and loneliness don't visit me much anymore. And I've got this writing gig going—this place to share my thoughts. Life seems good.

I call these blessings. Some would say, the favor of God. Others would say just luck. But tonight, hours away from the Powerball announcement, I'll call it winning the lottery because when my $2 ticket doesn't win tonight, I'll still be rich with these blessings, these memories, these relationships.

Money can't buy that.


What memories, honors, or events are priceless in your life? Ever bought a lottery ticket and fantasized what you'd do with the winnings?

A High School Teacher Who Influenced Me

In honor of teacher appreciation week, May 4-8, I am writing about one of my high school teachers. His involvement during my years at Hitchcock High School in South Dakota helped shape who I am today.

Frank Podraza was our principal and high school football coach. He did not hand out compliments. You earned them. And I guess I kind of liked that about him.

Frank Podraza: a South Dakota Hall of Fame coach

A few years ago, Coach Podraza was honored into the South Dakota Hall of Fame. I warned him this post was coming, and he allowed me to swipe some pictures off of his Facebook page to include in this post, so thank you to those who snapped these pictures.

My senior year at the 281 Conference Mid-Season Basketball tourney, we struggled an entire game that should have been an easy win, but they shut down our two big scorers, post Shari Hofer (not a relative of mine—there are lots of Hofers in South Dakota) and our point guard, Ann Westall.

I found success on the wing that night and made some shots. I'd never made 10 points in a real game in my life—and they were all field goals from the wing, 12-15 feet out. I was pretty proud of myself. I even sunk the basket that tied it up. We won then in overtime.

The next day at school, I expected Mr. Podraza to say something like, "You finally hit some buckets, Mel. Nice game."

sittin' in the halls of HHS: Mr. Podraza, his '80s look

 

But no. That is not the sort of thing he would say. No way.

Why? Because I had also had a shot at the buzzer at the end of regulation and missed it. And, according to him, I should have nailed that one too.

I had no come back. I remember being miffed only momentarily by his comment—because I knew he was right.

Now if you're a parent thinking, he was a jerk. Don't. He wasn't. If you're a youngster thinking, he's mean. Don't. He's wasn't.

What he stated was fact. That's Mr. Podraza. Always pushing. Demanding your best. And when you did your best, he expected continued improvement after that. He did it in a way that wasn't demanding or demeaning. And that takes tact, discipline, and a sense of humor.

Coach Podraza

As a teacher, Mr. Podraza, stretched me to do Algebra I and Algebra II and computers—back when they just came into the classroom. Read about my memories of his computer class by clicking here.

He put up with all my opinions, readily admitted a mishap, an error, or a misunderstanding. He didn't mind talking things through. He had a great sense of humor and a knack for making me laugh at myself because he laughed at himself too. The local pool hall, which he ran, was dubbed The Polish Inn.

Frank Podraza

I recall another time he put me in my place. We were upstairs by the banisters outside the business room. I had the habit of saying I couldn't do something, so one time Coach said something like, "Why do you always say that, Mel? Do you want someone to compliment you or beg you to do it? You're going to do it anyway, you know." Again, I had no comeback.

I'm known for getting on my soap box. Yes, even back then, but Mr. Podraza had a way of talking me down. Yet he made me feel important, that my ideas mattered, and that I was intelligent and capable. I had the guts to write the essay that earned my spot to represent our school at South Dakota Girls' State in 1983. I had the confidence to be the high school newspaper editor that lead me to do the same in college.

The encouragement he gave me during those high school years continues to impact me today—especially when I venture into something new. When uncertainty hits, I hear his words.

Mr. Podraza's note in my senior memory book

 

When it came time for my high school graduation party, Mr. Podraza came all the way out to our farm. (Like Mr. Wiens did so I wouldn't quit band. Read about that here). Driving 12 miles out in the country was a big deal back in the day.

But Frank Podraza attended because he cared about me. And I wasn't even one of his football players.

Thank you, Coach, for believing in me all those years ago when I was a know-it-all high school girl.


Do you recall comments from a teacher that made a positive impact on your life? What were you taught besides the content of the class? Any push you to do something you thought you could never do?

Mom's Pestering Pays Off

Mom never asked me if I wanted to take piano lessons. She just told me I was doing it. I grew up with musical sisters, so this was no surprise.

Practicing the piano was a daily event for me--usually after supper. I play it about every day now too as an adult. It brings stability to my psyche.

I started piano lessons in 3rd grade, the year I got eye glasses.

When I first started lessons, Mom would sit in the black swivel chair in the corner of the dining room quizzing me on the musical notes and symbols with flashcards. As I practiced, I would hear her flipping through her favorite reading materials: Good Housekeeping and The National Enquirer. She hid The Enquirer and other Hollywood gossipy magazines in the China closet.

Mom with me in front of the black chair she sat in when I practiced piano.

If I went on to a different piece too soon, I would hear, “That was not five times hands apart. Do it all again.” And I did. Probably with a roll of my eyes.

And if Mom was not in the house due to plowing up some field for Dad, my practice time was pretty short. Then the next week I would be explaining to Mom why I did not pass it at my lesson.

Oh, to be a little girl again with Mom around in her silent pride of watching me develop into something she was never given the chance to become. Mom could play a couple pieces by ear, but she could not read music, so it was important that her daughters knew how. I do not know if she had the same expectations of my brother, 20 years my senior.

Clarinet lessons at school started in 5th grade. I think I am a 6th grader in this picture.

As I grew older, my practice time increased. I had graduated from the Dozen A Day warm-up books to Hanon, a rigorous set of exercises. When I play them today, my young-girl frustration returns. My fourth fingers are still weak--especially the left one.

But Hanon enabled me to play tougher pieces. My teachers, for I only had two throughout the nine years I took lessons, were both meticulous. Maybe that is why people today call me picky.

my first piano teacher, Lillian Horn

Through their prodding, I seemed to become an accomplished pianist who earned superiors. No lower than a superior-minus one year, and on two different occasions, I earned a superior-plus. But I still do not think I am that good. I just practiced a lot.

I cannot sight read. I cannot play hymns. I cannot accompany a singer or a musician. I play only classical.

Yes, I play the scores whose pages are often blackened with more than an octave stretch, pass overs and unders, trills, and change of key. But really, I am not that good. It took me forever to learn a piece--but I did learn it.

I auditioned and earned the privilege of playing in front of my largest crowd ever: 1983 Girls' State in Mitchell, South Dakota on the campus of Dakota Wesleyan University. More about representing my high school there in future posts.

Here is the note telling my Girls' State counselor I got the nod to play.

The type of persistence piano playing teaches is like none other. See, for those who know my rat terrier nature, I blame it all on the piano. One has to be tenacious to learn Holberg Suite by Grieg. It took me two years.

Even with success, Mom would still say, “You sure didn’t practice very long. Go do it some more.” The older I got, the more audible complaining she heard. But Mom never really argued back. She was good at ignoring my whining and griping.

Then my senior year came, and she did argue back. “You’ve only got one more year. Next year, you’ll be at college." I was not even thinking of the senior recital I had earned.

Ruby Matson, my piano teacher ~ Heidi Krutzfeldt & Lisa Brisco with me at our senior recital

So, I kept on a-playing. Kept on a-whinin' too. Only now I also complained about playing the prelude at church, playing the offertory at church, playing the postlude at church, and griped that Arlene Decker and Barbara Gross, our regular pianists, wanted me to do her job.

This self-centered teenager did not understand that those women were actually complimenting me when they allowed me to play instead of them. And Mom just kept on saying, "You're not gonna quit."

I am so glad she did not let me.

And today when I can still sit down and play, rusty--really rusty, I can almost hear Mom holler from another room like she did when I was a teenager, “That sounds just beautiful, honey. Play it again.”

Thank you, Mom. It seems you and Dad gave me a name that suits.

me on my sister Brenda's lap--eyes on the keys of the piano that I first learned on

Did your parents ever make you do something you grew tired of? How do you feel about it now? Share how it has shaped who you are today by commenting below.