The Donut Shop, the Lotto Tickets, and My Dad
A story about coffee, lotto tickets, and the kind of people you don’t forget.
I used to wonder why my dad suddenly got serious about playing the lottery.
It wasn’t about getting rich.
It was about something else entirely.
The Table
There was a table — actually a few of them pushed together.
Old two-seater dinettes. Metal pedestal leg. Worn tops. Kept clean and shiny by the owner.
And around those tables sat the same group, day after day.
Generals. Privates. Contractors. Electricians. Plumbers. Engineers. Even a singer.
Different lives. Different paths.
But in that donut shop, they were all the same.
They talked about everything:
- Politics
- Culture
- The news of the day
- Their families
Forty years of shared experience — sitting across from each other over coffee.
Once in a while, even the mayor of Hawthorne would stop in.
No announcements. No spotlight. Just another chair at the table.
What Changed
He had already been retired many years by then — long enough to have done everything “right.”
He’d worked a full career, retired around his early 70s, and expected things to hold steady.
On paper, they did — a small pension, a rental property.
But over time, the numbers shifted.
The 80s and 90s weren’t easy years. There were stretches — long stretches — where rental income just… stopped.
Nearly two years at one point with no rental money coming in.
He saved where he could — Folgers at home, bulk soap from Costco, coupons when they made sense.
Coffee wasn’t about quality back then. It was about cost.
These days I lean toward cleaner, organic coffee — and eliminating plastic and heavy metals is a bonus point in my book. But don’t miss the rest of the story… because the coffee wasn’t the only thing brewing in that little donut shop. There was a hold‑up, a pistol‑whipped owner, and a quiet kind of loyalty that says more about people than any headline ever could.
Meanwhile, everything else kept moving in the opposite direction.
Costs went up. Spending power went down.
He adjusted where he could.
He didn’t go out and buy a new car.
He kept driving what he had — his truck, and that old Chrysler LeBaron from the 70s. He kept the flip phone — no new phones every two years.
Soft plush seats. Heavy metal. Terrible gas mileage.
But it ran. And it was paid for.
That’s how he lived — adjusting, not complaining.
And somewhere in all of that, the lotto tickets showed up.
One at first. Then a few. Never more than five.
Not chasing anything big.
Just… maybe trying to make up a little ground.
The Routine
But it wasn’t really about the tickets.
It was about the mornings. The coffee. The people.
When I visited, he’d hand me a ticket too.
Like it was just part of being there.
And maybe that’s exactly what it was.
For those curious, information on lottery games can be found here: California Lottery.
What I Didn’t Know Then
There was a robbery once.
The owners — people who had been opening that shop at 4 or 5 in the morning for decades — were some of the hardest working people you could ever meet.
They weren’t just running a business.
They were part of everyone’s daily life. They were like family.
Easy to talk to. Always there. Always steady.
And one day, it turned violent.
The owner was pistol-whipped.
It shook everyone.
That donut shop wasn’t just a place to grab coffee.
It was part of their lives.
After that, my dad started going earlier.
Not for the coffee.
Not for the tickets.
But so the owner wouldn’t be there alone.
Years of mornings had turned into friendship.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just steady.
Reliable.
The kind you don’t have to talk about.
What It Really Was
It took me years to understand what I was actually seeing.
When income shrinks, people don’t just cut back.
They look for something else.
Routine. Connection. A place where things still feel normal.
The tickets were small. But the habit wasn’t.
And the people around that table? They mattered.
I wrote more about how retirement income really works here: When a Raise Isn’t Really a Raise .
He wasn’t chasing the jackpot.
He was showing up.
Much love,
Darla 💛 in the Desert