The bell hadn’t even stopped ringing and Ms. Reeves already half turned from the board, red Expo dangling in her hand.

“Alright, juniors. ACT practice. Prompt’s fun and simple: What would you do if you had a million dollars?”

The room groaned in pieces. A chair scraped, somebody coughed.

Ms. Reeves snapped her fingers. “We’ve been over structure all week, so we don’t need to cover that again. What I need now is your ideas... Go.”

The class muttered, a few heads dropping to desks. Jayden had his hood up, arm fully stretched. “Intro—I buy a jet ski. Body one—I buy a second jet ski. Body two—jet ski hockey in my pool. Conclusion—I drown.”

A couple kids by the window lost it, slapping desks.

Ms. Reeves pinched her lips. “Jayden, that’s not a good essay. That’s… a cry for help.”

Alicia had her purple gel pen screeching across the paper. She sat too straight.

“I’d start with wealth as responsibility,” she said, projecting it like a debate team opener. “One: pay for college. Two: cover my friends’ tuition too, so we all make it. Three: invest in something that matters, like medical research.”

“Ugh,” someone muttered.

Marcus didn’t look up, shading another sword in the margin, cross-hatching the hilt.

“Money ruins people. Lottery winners tank. Rich kids don’t get life. A million’s not even much anymore.” He tapped the pencil once. “We’re screwed.”

“Language,” Ms. Reeves said, eyes already elsewhere.

Tiana spun halfway around in her chair, gum popping.

“I’m gonna write about leaving. First body paragraph: new car, red leather seats. Next: penthouse. Next: only chilling with people who treat me like I’m already rich. Conclusion—” she snapped the gum again—“I’m gone.”

Whistles from the back. She grinned with practice.

Then Ben, speaking into his notebook, “Intro's simple: money builds cages. First thought, owning it means it owns you. Second, freedom works backward, it's less not more. Third, the more you stack, the deeper the debt. Wrapping it up? A million's just a prettier prison.”

He went back to drawing circles.

DeShawn leaned back in his chair, grin wide. “Bro thinks he’s in The Matrix.”

The row cracked up. Even Jayden barked a laugh.

Ben just shrugged, eyes still on paper. “Better than drowning on a jet ski.”

That earned a louder laugh.

Then Luis spoke, every word dropping slow, heavy enough to flatten the noise.

“I’d buy my mom a house. One without all those locks. Fix my sister’s teeth. Fix the car that keeps dying on the way to practice. Conclusion…” he scribbled something, “…maybe then we could sleep.”

The room hung open, all of them waiting for someone else to decide how to feel.

Ms. Reeves clapped her hands—gave it a quick close, session over, nothing processed.

“Alright. That’s range. Pick your lane, build it out, five paragraphs.” Fingers snap. Back to business.

Pens hit paper, pages turned, the room pushing forward on routine while words hung unclaimed.

So glad you are feeling good! Me too!

The lesson in this article is not for everyone. If you believe that money is not important, or that it is evil even? Then bravo for you, says I! Move to a socialist country where the government will give you an apartment and a microwave, and hope they don’t euthanize you once they grow tired of giving to you, or once someone more oppressed needs that apartment worse. I assure you, there is a country just like that not very far away from where you currently reside.

Now then fellow capitalists, let’s get on with Money Management 101. I’ve heard it said that having money only amplifies what you already are. If you are good, money will help you do more good. If you are bad, it will allow you to do more bad.

So there is that. And with that said…

Anyone and everyone can have a million dollars. Here is how:

Spend less than you make.

Work longer, harder and smarter than those around you do, so that you will make even more money.

Hang around smart, hardworking people.

Do not borrow.

Invest what you can from every single paycheck, forever. Einstein called compound interest the greatest of mankind’s inventions. (For those unaware, Einstein was a really smart guy with a really big imagination.)

”But I can’t afford to get in the 401k at work,” you argue? “I live paycheck to paycheck!”

Then you always will live paycheck to paycheck, and you will never have a million dollars.

Smart people create good habits. Good habits create wealth.

Let’s take a minute to look at this big lottery number everyone is talking about, currently up to $1.7B:

Dave Ramsey (who, like Einstein is also probably smarter and richer than we are) says that, statistically speaking, “if you walk one mile to the store to buy a lottery ticket, you have a better chance during that one mile walk of getting hit by lightning… twice… than you do of purchasing the winning ticket when you get there. But if you invest $35 a week in mutual funds, ten reinvest all growth and dividends for thirty years, then you will have somewhere in the area of a million bucks at the end of that thirty years.… every… single… time.

So… if you choose to take that walk to the store for a lottery ticket… and if having money does, in fact, amplify what you already are… then I predict you will blow any winnings and die broke even if you do somehow miraculously buy that winning ticket. The old saying about a fool and his money has survived all these years for a reason.

Whereas if you choose to invest instead, if you learn to appreciate money and what it can do for you and those around you… well, for you I predict more riches than you will ever be able to spend, which is great news for you children, and your grandchildren, and your church, and your community, etc., and the gov’t. will never look to euthanize you and your large income tax contribution.

Thank you for your attention to this matter!

If I had a million dollars it would be in cash.

Id stuff my pockets with money,and perhaps some came out,it would be up for grabs.

I guess it would be up for grabs if i was high above the population.

But I would be on the street, not in my penthouse above the city.

So up for grabs would not be the proper wording, the money would be down for grabs.

Unless there's a wind that day and that changes everything.

Im not for one chasing money in the wind,but if I see another person lose money,I'll do my best to retrieve it.

A million dollars can go along way,especially if you join each bill to another.

Stretching your dollar takes on a a whole new meaning.

A paper line.

Following a paper trail?

Where would it start?

Would i launder the money on my clothes line?

I wonder how many people would borrow from that line?

The higher the currency on one side,you'd thing the line would droop.

Thousand dollar bills on one side,and small one dollar bills on the the other.

I would say in a day or two my money line wouldn't be drooping so much.

"My god, what year was that?" She asks the question with a grin I can hear through the phone line.

"Probably 1984. Maybe 1985."

"Wow. That's a long time ago."

I agree, but I don't tell her that I remember the day like it was last week. She moves on to talk about her husband and her son. She's a nurse, he's a union worker in a factory, and retirement is close. The kid is a sophomore in college.

They built a house along the banks of that river, but way downstream from the place we met. Learning from the mistakes of our grandparents, she found a homesite atop a bluff that, barring an incredible catastrophe, will be impossible to flood. She sent me a photograph. It's gorgeous.

The last time I saw her was not long after we graduated. She missed my mother's funeral, having not found out about it in time to attend. That's when she called me, nearly in tears, guilt-ridden about not having been there for me.

We've known each other since 1985, and she was the first friend I made at That River.

I'd been going there since before then, but it was always just me and the grandparents. Maybe a cousin or two from the spot next door, where my grandfather's brother had a place. That uncle died fairly early on in the river years, though, and visits became far less frequent. His widow held on to the place for a while, but she let it go because she rarely went.

I had a box of toys kept under the bed on the porch. That bed still sits on a porch Back Home, and eventually, I'll claim it for my own screened-in sanctuary. From the box of toys, I still have two, and they sit on a shelf in my office. One is a Carter Hall can filled with crayolas. This box kept me company until I made this first friend.

When I was 12 or so, I wanted her to by my actual girlfriend, but she declined. It's probably for the best that she did. We used to visit each other frequently; our houses were only a couple of miles apart after I moved to be near that river, and we'd ride bikes back and forth. I was passing friends with her little brother, but honestly, I always thought he was a bit of a shit. Turns out he didn't improve much into his adulthood.

She was always a solid B student, a solid second-string athlete, but an A-level friend in those formative years of early high school. The friend group she chose was parallel to mine without necessarily forming much of a Venn diagram. Everyone knew each other and got along, but none of our people spent time with one another beyond school hours or extracurriculars.

We stayed in touch throughout high school, though. Chatting, calling, seeing one another sometimes. Things just sort of fell away as things do after graduation. It didn't help us stay in touch when she took those first couple of years of college far more seriously than I did. She was working full shifts and overtime before I could even call myself a junior; of course, she didn't have to work full time at night to then go to classes during the day. I use that as an excuse, really. I mean, it's true, I did clock in from 7pm to 7am more often than not to then arrive on campus for 0800 classes, but I skipped an awful lot in favor of sleep, too. Truth is, I skipped an awful lot even when I wasn't tired. But I digress.

We chatted for nearly two hours as I drove back country roads. Surprisingly, cell signal held out.

She told me about people we know, people we knew, and people we wished we didn't. I laughed a lot, and she asked me how I was doing since the funeral.

I thought about that day we met. It was a day like any other, but here we are, ripples in a pond forty years later. Friends once, and friends still. On that day, so far away but still so close, caterpillars had formed swarms. They were writhing piles on tree trunks, and should have been gross, but weren't. Each was a beautiful blue and green, and tickled young hands when scooped from their hardwood nests. She screamed and laughed, and I chased her as boys do.

"I've been fine," I lied.

As boys do.

I sit high above the river

Please roll me down like a stone

Its the rushing of the water

That makes me feel not so alone

From the hilltop to the holler

From the grasslands to the sea

Why do we worship the dollar

And not the love betwixt you and me

They mark our graves when we go

Put a stone on our heads

This feels backwards to me

Rather become one instead

Yes its a place for mourning

Bow your head and say a prayer

But if i became a stone

You could grieve me anywhere

Im the shale by the roadsides

Im the rocks around the garden

Im never that far from you

And baby im just getting started

In the painted rocks the kids hide

And those polished in the 80s

Have you looked down when you leave the house

Cause thats where ive been lately

Im in the pebbles in your jewlery

And even the boulder that crushed my pap

You can find me anywhere babe

So please please please dont be sad

Even though my shapes changed

I am still delicate

One day we'll all be forgotten

And absorbed in the sediment

Streetlights flicker on again

And do i hear the dinner bell

Its the whistle of your mother

The one you knew so well

But theres a second noise and its not her

But its still your mother too

Mother nature’s shouting

Shes calling out to you

If i become a stone please

Will someone carry me

Far from where i laid down last

And toss me into the sea

Whether the waves take me

Or thrash me about the shore

I really want you to know that

You couldnt have helped me more

I join you on a picnic

To hold the corners of

The blanket that you brought with

To sit on with your new love

Collect me from the shoreline

And then whip me in the creek

You have to use the perfect angle

And count how many times you skipped me

In a quorum around stonehenge

And every block of the pyramids

You dont know how or why dear

All you know is that it is

Im the stone you played hopscotch with

And the rocks you threw at trains

Ill always be around you

My final form ive obtained

Im your moms old pet rock

And i decorate your hands

Im in every arrowhead

Of the owners of this land

Aztecs sacrificed on me

And now thats what i must do

Give myself to the earth

I remain to observe you

I was carved into the greatest art

But im also seen as trash

It may be all about perspective

Or its just about who you ask

I remember coming home when I was a kid to an empty house. The tv would be on the floor. Furniture would be turned over.

Apparently my mom got drunk and mad at my brother

I remember in 6th grade after Camp.I came home to an empty house. Thinking wow no one even missed me. Just my cat.

I remember I always wanted to go to the store with my mom and my sister. Always being told no

They would not come home until late at night because they would end up in some bar.

The cigarette smoke would be so thick

In the air. My eyes burning

I would close My eyes and try to sleep

Listening to the drunken storm in the dark

I used to have nightmares of my grandmother burning me with cigarettes

Dreams that my brother was trying kill me

Screaming banging on my mothers door

She would say it’s a dream go back to bed

But there were thing that were never said

In my twenties, I think my life was my stage, a stage I could not leave. I felt like my whole life was some sick performance that I had to prove I deserved to be on. I still feel this even at the ripe old age of 32. But back then, for many reasons we don't have time to get into, I felt like a cheap court jester trying desperately to make you smile so she could go to sleep at night knowing someone may have liked her, hell even love her. I needed people to love me, or else I did not matter. I became increasingly more exhausted just being me. I could not let people see me when I was angry, sad, or scared. I wasn't allowed to hurt anyone's feelings even by accident. I walked on this tightrope that I had designed for myself. Above a stage built for just me. I suppose this was a self imposed hell I thought I deserved.

After many years of healing and just surrounding myself with solid people, I finally have let myself be imperfect. It is still a work in progress. I still struggle being at all visibly frustrated with someone. I catastrophize that, that means our friendship will end. Just this morning while staying with my best friend I made her silence become a trial I put myself through. I made a whole play in my head, ways she might be upset, sad or angry and how I could've contributed to it, or if not me, someone else. It is a catastrophizing that I am prone too and I know my therapist would agree ;) . Yet, I don't want to be on this stage anymore. I'd like to come down. I have been taking a step each day since I hit 30 years old. I am taking the risk for people to see the raw me, the one that is emotional at times, one that can feel pain, but most of all someone who can burn with anger.

I'd like to take that risk. I think it is about time.

Every morning is a risk, the sun scorning my tardiness to her day, so she beats down when i work under her gaze. The pit in my stomach tells me every step is a chance for things to go awry. Instead I let my brain be empty and fill my stomach with life. I argue with the future, when i risk my gifts, her old friend bickers too. I'm glad I woke up, I'm saddened it was not sooner i chose to run towards the unknown, but then i did have something to lose, is it a risk if i've nothing other to choose.

Papa, my heart can't believe

That you passed on.

The most important man

in my life since I was born.

My father was young

and did the best he could.

But you stepped to the plate

and made sure that I was good.

My children got to know

how good it was to be your

great grand.

They had a chance to appreciate

their Papa, a great man.

Being the only girl by my dad was

Always tough.

Until ten years ago, being the only granddaughter was more than enough.

But I always felt special in your eyes.

Even though I wasn't one of the guys.

But we will mourn the same and I will never forget.

The love that you gave me

With no regrets.

I sent a message to God to please honor you with your wings.

So that you can appear

as my Angel in everything .

Please PaPa hug my grandma and that father of mine.

Please know that I love y'all

with a heavy heart until next time.

***I wrote this poem for my daughter whom recently lost her grandfather on her dad's side, lost her dad last year, and lost her grandmother the year before that. She was too upset to write it, so I wrote it for her.

“What you think, you become.” - Buddha

I have considered this quote for several mornings now, contemplating a direction to go with this prompt. I do not believe I have found a very good path forward with it, but neither have I “become it”, so there is that.

I think a lot about dogs, and have promised myself to do so even more in the future after finding this quote, in hopes of taking on their better, more loyal and intelligent character traits.

Ruff.

I also think a lot about tattoos... negatively, I must say. I can find no redeeming qualities in a tattoo, though I try, wanting to find one, as so many people are so proudly displaying them these days. (I have never seen a dog with a tattoo, for what that is worth. So see? I told you they were intelligent!) I have noticed that roughly 75-85% of young people and rednecks sport them, which I have decided is a good thing for society as a whole, as it makes it much easier to determine who are the high IQ people out there without having to bother conversing with any of them. It’s like that comedian says, “Here’s your sign!”

Since discovering this challenge, however, I am worried about the amount of time I spend concerning myself with the poor decisions of others, and fear that if The Buddha is right I might find myself plastered to some woman’s boob, or her ass someday, but then the naughty side of me thinks… wait! Would that be so bad? To be stuck forever to an ass, or a boob? And then I remember that yes, it would be so bad, as I next realize that I would be little more than a billboard on the ass or boob of a woman who has already disrespected her own body at least once, meaning I would likely have to suffer being suckled and slapped by a long train of tattooed men who are no wiser, and are probably even less wise, than the woman whose body I have the misfortune of being stamped upon. Eeee-gads, no!

Anyways, I’d best quit thinking about that. Pooky won’t like it.

And speaking of my Pook, I also think a lot about what will happen to her when I am gone, as I am no longer a kid. I am thankful to be one of those 15%-ers without a tattoo. Because of it I have had to sense to work hard, and to save. I have also invested what I saved, and those investments have grown, and I am happy that at least she wont have to worry about that. But what about all the other things that money can’t buy; things like companionship? And even simpler things than that, like how will she ever have a pickle on her hamburger without me, or empty the vacuum, or change out the soured hummingbird feeder water?

So, if The Buddha is right then, if I fixate long and hard enough on those things, does that mean I will be around forever for her? To open up the pickle jar?

At least it is a thought worth thinking, and worth becoming, even though it proves that not even The Buddha can be right about everything.

And on that note… is time to go feed the dog. The tattoo-less little guy has me trained well.

Ruff.