In a previous blog, I mentioned that I went four years without paying for a school lunch. I also shared that when the change I’d collected wasn’t enough for the snack bar, my backup plan was the actual school lunch—already paid for by my parents.

That’s where the lunch lady came in.

Her name might have been Barbara. And we had what you could call a “special” relationship.

Before I go any further, a few important disclaimers:

Yes, some of the things I said were rude.
No, they were not said with disrespect.
Yes, consequences were applied.
No, I never argued them.

Every comment ended the same way: me being sent to the back of the line, both of us smiling, and me saying, “Yes ma’am.” Honestly, I’m a little surprised I got away with it for as long as I did.

Also—for the record—I do not believe she (or any cafeteria worker) ever spit in food, added hair, fingernails, or other foreign objects. This was all clearly in good fun and understood by both parties.

Let me set the stage.

I’d walk into the lunch line, usually after checking my pockets to see if snack-bar dreams were dead for the day. Teachers would sometimes cut in line. That never really bothered me—though it bothered everyone else. On days a teacher cut in front of me, I usually gave Barbara a break.

Other days, though, I’d smile big and say:

“Good afternoon… (insert line of the day)”

The line would laugh.
Barbara would shake her head.
And I’d hear the familiar response:

“Eat it or don’t. It’s up to you. Back of the line.”

Fair enough.

Things Lunch Ladies Take Personal

• (When spaghetti was served, always the day after chili)
  “Is this spaghetti sauce just yesterday’s leftover chili?”
• “Can I have extra ____ but hold the fingernails?”
• “How much hair did you lose preparing this feast?”
• “Is your hairnet custom fitted, or does it come straight from a box?”
• “These carrots look suspicious to me.”
• “Are you sure that’s not a booger in those peas?”
• “That Band-Aid on your finger isn’t instilling a lot of confidence right now.”
• “How many hairs are you allowed to leave in the food before the health department gets involved?”
• “I’m pretty sure these Sloppy Joes came from the Ag Farm.”
• “Can I have extra gravy—but no spit, please?”
• “Is that chicken-fried steak, or a shingle from your house?”
• “Have you changed your hairnet since last Thursday?”
• “Do you really use that gigantic mixer back there? If so… what for?”
  (Still sent to the back of the line. Legitimate question. Those mixers are HUGE.)
• “How many dead bodies can you fit in that freezer back there?”

She earned bonus points for her response on that one:

“I’ve got room for one more.”

I didn’t have to go to the back of the line until I replied that I’d make lousy hamburger meat.

I’m sure I said other things. These are just the ones I remember.

If you had the pleasure of standing in the lunch line with me in high school and remember something I said, feel free to share.
Or don’t.
Barbara probably remembers enough for all of us.

A fun activity at restaurants for me is to look around and see if there’s anyone I can convince to pay my bill—just to see if they will. You might be surprised how often this works.

I’ll confess… I don’t do it nearly as often as I used to. Part of that is maturity. Most of it is that feeding a family at restaurants is expensive, and my odds aren’t what they once were.

If you went to high school in Guymon, you probably remember my early crowdfunding efforts.

From 1996–2000, a school lunch at Guymon High School cost $2.00. I can’t complain about the food. It was edible, and I usually ate it. I do remember being sent to the back of the line a lot for being mouthy to the lunch ladies. They took things very personally.

We had open campus for three of my four years, but my parents only paid for cafeteria lunch. Anything beyond that was on me. It wasn’t that I didn’t have money—I’d pretty much had a job since I was 13. Paperboy was my first real gig. I had money. I just didn’t like spending it. (Still don’t.)

When I first started high school, my mom would give me $10 on Monday, and it had to last all week. I could blow it on day one or spend $2 at a time in the cafeteria. After the first nine weeks, she realized this plan was flawed.

I would spend the money at the snack bar or McDonald’s, then go through the lunch line and charge my meal once I was broke. All I had to do was give them my number. Mine was 0003. I had a fairly impressive negative balance. Mary Jane—the very kind lunch money lady—would regularly ask if I planned to pay it off. I assured her it would be handled.

Nine weeks later, report cards came out. My parents cared about my grades, but before they could see them, the lunch balance had to be paid. Let’s just say my grades being decent probably saved my life. The lunch balance… not so much.

I should note here that I owed less than my dad did. He was an Algebra teacher at the school. We attended the same building, but I ruled it. I never asked what he did with his lunch money.

After that, the rules changed. My mom made sure my lunch account always stayed positive. Anything beyond that? My problem.

I wasn’t a fan of that arrangement—mainly because it required me to spend my own money. That’s when I learned the art of building relationships.

The snack bar was wildly popular: Frito pie, burritos, pizza, fries, corn dogs, sodas, candy bars. A solid (unhealthy) meal for under $4. I could do it cheaper because I drank the iced tea by the teacher’s table. I never asked who it was for. I just assumed permission.

Here’s where the magic happened. As students went through the snack line, they often got change back. I started asking for it. Not bills—never bills—but dimes and quarters. Some days were better than others. Fridays were slower, so saving was key. If things went south, I always had the cafeteria line as backup—unless it was enchiladas, chili, or turkey and noodles. Those days I gladly paid the $2.

If I waited until the end of the snack line, I usually ended up with $3–$4 in change. Occasionally I had to make special requests at tables. A few girls required me to sing for my money. In my mind, that’s how flirting worked. It didn’t bother me to be last in line. The lunch ladies and I had already accepted that as my assigned place.

Some might call this pathetic. Others might say ridiculous. I call it pure genius.

I went four years without paying for lunch and accidentally learned a skill that’s been useful ever since. These days, I usually pay for my own meals—but sometimes I’m still asking people for money. The amounts are just a little bigger than spare change.

Turns out, asking your village for help—whether you call it crowdfunding or begging—can be great training for the work I do today.

Well done, Guymon High School.
Well done, Mom and Dad.

He-Man is the one cartoon I faithfully watched growing up. I watched others, but this was the one I never missed. It’s probably time for another He-Man movie. The one from 1987 was dumb and not true to the cartoon.

I had a He-Man lunch box from T-1 through second grade. It had the thermos and everything. I rarely took my lunch to school, so owning a lunch box made absolutely no sense. I probably took it twice a year.

I did, however, use the thermos. I tied a rope around it and dragged it behind my bike. The rope rarely held. The thermos leaked constantly.

In 1990, my mom sold the lunch box at a garage sale for fifty cents. It was originally marked at a dollar, but as garage sales go, prices drop when things don’t move. You might think I was heartbroken. I wasn’t. I probably just wanted the fifty cents. I did not get it.

Years later, I would occasionally see the same lunch box in antique stores for $50 or $60 and remind my mom that she could’ve retired early if she’d just kept it.

Fast forward to the fall of 2003. I was home from OBU for the weekend and went to an auction at the Texas County Activity Center. Auctions are dangerous because there is a lot of stuff and most of it is junk you suddenly decide you need.

While walking through the tables, someone told me they had seen my lunch box on another row. I didn’t know what they meant, but I went to look anyway.

It was there.

My He-Man lunch box.

My name was still on it. The rope was still tied around the thermos. It was in the exact same condition it had been in when my mom sold it thirteen years earlier.

I registered to bid and waited three hours. When it finally came up, they sold the entire table as one lot. Apparently, I now needed to buy a table full of junk to get my lunch box back.

The bidding started at $50. Then $25. I waited. Finally, I yelled out $5. The auctioneer laughed. Bidding began.

I paid $35 for the table.

Afterward, I offered to sell the rest of the items for $30 to the person I’d been bidding against. She declined. Suddenly, she didn’t need anything on the table.

So to recap: my mom sold a lunch box for fifty cents in 1990. Thirteen years later, I bought it back for $35.

I have no idea where that lunch box is today.

Growing up, my sister Julie was a full-time daredevil with a part-time interest in survival. Nothing ever phased her — cliff jumping, driving way too fast, trying things that had no business being tried. One time when we were very young, she climbed to the top of our fort, grabbed a bed sheet, and jumped, fully convinced it would act like a parachute. It didn’t. Not even close.

During the summer of 1998, my friend Mathu, Julie, and I headed to Red River, NM for a weekend. My parents had already been there a few days, but I had to work or something and couldn’t go until later. The plan was just Julie and me, but I decided to invite Mathu along too. That was probably a surprise to my parents, but he was always around our house in those days. They were used to seeing him all the time, even when I wasn’t home.

One day in Red River, we decided to rent mountain bikes. It was that day my dad likely saved Mathu’s life… or at least his brain. In 1998, you could still rent a bike without a helmet, and Mathu didn’t want one. “Who actually falls off a bike?” he said. My dad made him wear it anyway. Good thing — because everything after this moment goes downhill. Literally.

It was mid-afternoon. The daily Red River shower had cooled everything off, which was great for us… except it also made the trails muddy. We were taking easy switchbacks down a mountain — nothing dangerous — until Julie spotted a shortcut straight down to the next switchback. And let me tell you… this shortcut was steep and stupid. We all stared at it. I knew immediately I wasn’t doing it. Mathu looked tempted.

Before we could talk it through, Julie was already gone — halfway down the mountain. I rolled my eyes, grateful she didn’t wipe out because I had no idea how I’d explain that one to my parents.

Mathu, however, was not going to let my little sister show him up. He took off before Julie could warn him about a rock she barely missed… and he never saw it. When he hit it, he instinctively grabbed the front brake. For those who don’t bike much, that’s the equivalent of pressing the self-destruct button.

He was going fast enough that the momentum flipped the back wheel over his head — not once, but twice. He landed directly on the helmet he didn’t even want to wear. It’s a miracle he didn’t break anything. Honestly, the rental bike came out of it better than he did. (Always better to destroy a rental than your own stuff.)

After confirming that only his pride was injured, Julie couldn’t stop laughing. I couldn’t either, but I didn’t tease him nearly as much — mostly because I’m a visual learner. I learned right then to stay on the marked path. Some shortcuts aren’t shortcuts at all. Sometimes they’re life-threatening.

Some people are natural risk-takers. Some are not. My sister takes risks constantly. People often think I’m a risk-taker too, but if the risk involves physical pain? Absolutely not. I’ll take the switchbacks every time.

Thinking back on that muddy mountain, Julie flying down the hill, and Mathu flipping over the handlebars like a human boomerang, I’m reminded of how often Scripture warns us about shortcuts.

Proverbs 3:6 says, “In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight.”
Not shortcuts — paths.

The path God lays out is usually steady, faithful, and step-by-step. It’s rarely dramatic… and almost never fast. But it’s always good. And most of the time, the shortcuts we’re tempted to take — the ones that look quicker, easier, or more exciting — are exactly the places where we end up face-first in the dirt wondering what just happened.

That mountain taught me something I’ve had to learn repeatedly in life: Not every shortcut is from God. Some of them cost far more than they save. Some hide dangers we can’t see yet. And some, like that rock Julie dodged and Mathu never saw, are only avoided by God’s grace and a very mandatory helmet.

The older I get, the more grateful I am for the “switchback seasons” in life — the times God kept me on the slower, wiser path because He knew what was waiting around the corner. His way isn’t always thrilling, but it keeps us upright. And it gets us exactly where we need to be.

A long time ago, I saw a T-shirt—later a meme—that said:
“Commas save lives. Let’s eat grandma. Let’s eat, grandma.”
To this day, that still cracks me up. I’ve always been terrible at grammar. If I slow down and think, I can usually stumble my way through it. But texting, instant messages, and emails? Those have turned me into a grammatical wild animal with no rules, boundaries, or Oxford commas.

The ironic part? I grew up with fantastic English teachers. Rock solid. The best of the best. Yet I didn’t earn an A in English until my freshman year at OBU. When my professor told me my essays were some of the best she’d ever seen from a first-year student, I nearly asked her if she was sure she had the right papers. Anyone who saw my junior high or high school essays would’ve thought a red pen had exploded on the page. I’m convinced Mrs. Parham had to tag-team with a second pen just to survive grading my work.

As painful as it was to get those blood-red papers back, the “no sugar-coating” approach paid off. College was much easier because of it.

Did I magically turn in flawless papers in college? Absolutely not. But my grammar and spelling rarely got me in trouble. Now my content… that’s a different story. But while my classmates were adjusting to professors who expected accurate grammar, I’d already lived through years of English-teacher boot camp.

I had excellent teachers all through school. I wasn’t a problem student—just a lazy one who enjoyed griping about homework like it was a competitive sport. The issue was that my parents never let me gripe for long. Their expectations then are the same message I’ll pass along now:

If you’re one of those people who complain that a teacher has “high expectations”… STOP. Stop it NOW.
Your child getting a B or C does not mean the teacher is bad. It might mean the teacher knows exactly what will be expected in college, in a job, or anywhere else in the real world. Honestly, I learned more from the B’s and C’s I earned than from the A’s. And yes, I had a few A’s. I wasn’t a complete disaster.

So here’s a much-deserved shout-out to the teachers who taught me grammar (or valiantly tried to):

• Mrs. Moore (3rd–4th grade)

• Mrs. Tipton (5th grade) — I still know all my prepositions.

• Mrs. Grove (6th grade)

• Mrs. Parham (7th & 9th grade) — She apparently didn’t get enough of me in 7th grade and followed me to high school. She also taught me yearbook for a year. Pray for her.

• Mrs. Brooks (8th & 11th grade) — She too came back for more. Thanks to her, I read almost as many books in Honors English as I did in Western Civ at OBU.

• Mrs. Hill (12th grade) — I was late to her class more than I care to admit. Every time I’m late today, I still hear her threatening Saturday school.

• Mrs. Roberts — Not my English teacher, but three years of yearbook under her taught me a lot about spelling, grammar, deadlines, and stress eating.

Disclaimer:
The spelling and grammar in my blog should in no way reflect the excellent education I received. I was taught exceptionally well. But grammar is like a muscle—you have to use it consistently or it melts away like ice cream on pavement. I’ve been out of high school for 25 years and college for 21, and except for grad school, I haven’t had much practice writing since. So yes… I’ve gotten lazy.