The truth comes out about the Shetland pony

If you are reading this column, which you obviously are, you will know two things:

First, I did not win a gazillon lottery dollars.

Second, I didn't buy a lottery ticket.

Does this mean I am the only person in America who didn't buy a ticket? Does this make me an oddball? Does this mean I can't vote? Possibly -- quite possibly -- yes, yes and yes.

I have never bought a lottery ticket. Ever. The only lottery ticket to ever be purchased in the Sullivan family was my wife's doing. When our sons were young they were exposed to all the hoopla about lotteries. They were caught up in what appeared to be a really big deal. Everyone was a winner, right? So my wife bought a ticket that cost a dollar or two. It was a scratch-off ticket. The Sullivans were not -- I repeat, not -- instant millionaires.

How did our sons react? "That's it? What's the big deal?" Lesson delivered. Lesson learned.

As the Powerball jackpot topped a billion dollars this week, my good friend Mark made an interesting, and noble, observation: If he won a huge lottery payout, he would spend some of the money to build a decent homeless shelter for Cape Girardeau.

Most folks, I think, would like to be in a position financially to make a huge difference in their community and around the world, if the funds stretched that far. The homeless individuals I meet volunteering at my church's food pantry deserve better than we are providing. My friend's first thought was to help others.

I like that.

TV news coverage of the biggest lottery in the history of the world (adjusted for inflation?) has been crazy. It has been wonderful free advertising, and the result has produced longer lines of potential ticket buyers, which means bigger jackpots, which means more TV coverage.

And so it goes.

One woman interviewed on one of the TV news shows said, with a straight face, she wouldn't spend a dime on charities if she won the lottery jackpot. Then she laughed to show she was joking. She added, seriously: "Nobody needs that much money. Of course I would keep some for myself, but I would spend most of it on good causes."

I like that.

My view of lotteries became jaded when I was 11 or 12 years old. The merchants in my favorite hometown in the Ozarks over yonder decided to give away a Shetland pony to some lucky person who bought a raffle ticket. The winner would be announced in three or four weeks, leaving three or four shopping Saturdays for raffle ticket sales.

I wanted that Shetland pony. I wanted it more than the bicycle I got for Christmas in answer to hours of pleading with my parents and endless prayers to the Almighty, who, I knew, understood my most earnest desire and somehow persuaded my frugal folks to fork over the cash for a brand-new bike.

More than wanting that Shetland pony, I convinced myself that I was truly the only qualified recipient. After all, I lived on a farm. We had livestock. We even had a couple of horses. And, of course, the ever-present milk cow, Lulu.

We had a barn, for goodness sake. And hay to feed a hungry Shetland pony. And a pond with plenty of water. And lush pastures for grazing.

Surely, in their wisdom, the merchants in charge of the Shetland pony raffle would get this. They would clearly see that the pony in question, which was penned up on the parking lot of Ward's Supermarket, should be handed over to a decent farm boy. All my town friends couldn't keep a pony. Where would they put it? What would they feed it? Where would they ride it?

You can, I'm sure, see what a convincing case I had.

The big Saturday arrived when the winner of the Shetland pony raffle would be announced. Hundreds of people gathered in the supermarket parking lot. This was a big deal, which was obvious because there was even an amplified loudspeaker. That's how big a deal this was.

When the winner was announced, I couldn't believe it. Not only was the winner not me, it was someone I had never heard of. None of my friends had heard of that person either. What was this? Rigged?

It had to be. There was no other explanation for overlooking the plain fact that I was the only logical winner.

Years later I learned two things:

First, I learned that the Shetland pony was hauled back to the farm in central Illinois where it came from. It was not given away. The raffle winner couldn't take care of a Shetland pony. See, what did I tell you? So the winner got cash instead -- not enough to buy a Shetland pony, mind you, but enough to smooth things over.

Second, my folks never bought a Shetland pony raffle ticket. Talk about kick in the gut. So this is what my parents thought of my plan to have a Shetland pony? That's hard to take, even if you are 35 years old and have two sons of your own old enough to want a pony or whatever the prize is for the lottery du jour.

My mother, when the truth came out, explained that she had -- then and now -- strong religious convictions against gambling of any sort, and paying a dollar for a chance to win a Shetland pony was surely gambling.

I recall, too, that there was a consolation prize after the raffle winner was announced on that Saturday afternoon in my favorite hometown. My mother gave me a dollar -- a whole dollar! -- to go to the dime store candy counter and spend every penny on future tooth decay.

At the time, it seemed to me I had won the lottery after all.

Joe Sullivan is the retired editor of the Southeast Missourian.