I do not buy lottery tickets. I do not buy raffle tickets. You can blame mythology, if you wish. Let me explain:
I grew up in the Unitarian Church, in an old old town near Boston, Massachusetts. The people that we knew did not gamble, for the most part didn’t drink, and didn’t smoke much either. We did not run around knocking on doors, asking people to believe what we believed. We didn’t buy designer clothes, and gleefully shopped at the church rummage sale. We tried to live lightly on the earth.
But, in fourth grade, my parents gave me an amazing Christmas gift. Two books, by the D’Aulaires, on the Greek gods and the Norse gods. Rich, pastel-drawn illustrations, and compelling storytelling filled these two books.
I still own them.
And they were my introduction into a world full of capricious, willful, badly behaved gods who were as selfish and foolish as the human beings in the world around me. Some were noble, some were not. Humans were occasionally given astounding gifts, even as others had their good fortune snatched away from them in a fit of pique from a slighted god or goddess.
So, while I suck at math, I have a reasonably good grasp of the statistical implications on how they work the lottery.
The chances of your winning are a lot like those of Zeus dropping a pot of gold in your lap. What may be given today can easily disappear tomorrow through theft, misadventure, or stupidity. Or other people’s choices and actions.
My participation in making community quilts for the local quilt guild is to help others that have not been so fortunate as I. Pay it forward, with time, and fabric, and love.