I Was Rich Before I Made My First Dollar
You can have A LOT of money and still be poor.
Some of the unhappiest people I’ve met grew up filthy rich. My college was thick with ‘em.
I’ve known others who started their own business, became wealthy beyond their wildest expectations, and still never found satisfaction. Always comparing themselves to someone who had more.
Sad.
Of course, I’ve met a lot of poor and middle-class people who are full of anger and resentment. Life has done them wrong — and they’ll let you know it, if you make the mistake of listening.
I’ve made that mistake a lot.
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“Kelly?”
“Yes, Dad?”
“It looked like you were loafing on those sprints at the end of practice.”
“Sorry, Dad. I felt like I was giving it my all.”
“Well, that ******** kid (name withheld to protect the innocent) beat you to the goal line a couple of times.”
“Dad, I was playing both ways in practice plus kickoff and punt coverage. That guy sat and watched most of the afternoon. He was fresh and I was dog-tired.”
“No excuses, son. Don’t let me catch you loafing during conditioning again.”
“Yes sir.”
Dad was a hard worker. Out in the 100° sun all day, hanging off utility poles, holding up 40 or 50 pounds of heavy-gauge electric wire, wearing 20+ lbs. of tools, boots, harnesses, and specialty clothing.
Yet he somehow found the energy to come watch me practice football. Over and over again. Standing behind the wire fence that separated the parking lot from the practice field, by himself, taking in everything I was doing.
I don’t recall him missing any of my high school games. He never critiqued my game play. I guess he figured I was harder on myself than anyone else could be.
But he had plenty to say about my performances during practice.
He expected a lot from me.
***********************
“Kelly?”
“Yes, Dad?”
“The Widow Bodenheimer’s driveway is iced. I need you to go over and shovel it.”
“Uh, Dad, can it wait until tomorrow? I have a date in a couple of hours, and I’ve waited a long time to finally get her to go out with me.”
“Well, son, the quicker you get the driveway shoveled, the quicker you can see your date.”
(I’m glad Dad couldn’t see my eyes.)
“Yes sir.”
Dad never asked me to do anything he wasn’t willing to do himself. He volunteered to help men re-shingle their roofs or to help haul hay until he was well into his 40s.
*************************
“Kelly?”
“Yes, Dad?”
“How is Rick doing in school?”
Rick was a kid in my grade. Dirt poor. Large family. Struggled with reading and expressing himself. Nobody seemed to pay much attention to him.
But he always had a smile on his face.
“I’m not sure, Dad. I don’t have any classes with him.”
“Son, I want you to keep an eye out. I’ve heard some kids have been bullying him. Make sure they leave him alone.”
“How’m I supposed to do that?”
“You’ll figure it out. I’ll be checking on him later.”
Gee.
Thanks, Dad.
How’d you know I wanted to protect someone who didn’t ask for my help? And from guys who were low-key thugs?
“Yes, sir.”
****************
“Kelly?”
“Yes, Dad?”
“Don’t waste yourself, son.”
?????
“Sorry, Dad, I don’t understand.”
“Don’t wait for things to happen. Go make ’em happen.”
Finally. Dad and I are on the same page.
“Dad, I couldn’t agree more. I’m curious, though: what prompted this?”
“It’s because I’ve been watching you take risks and fail. I want you to pick yourself up and keep going. That’s when I’m proudest.”
???
“Dad?”
“Yes, son?”
“This is strange. You take zero risks. You don’t like to travel; you don’t like to leave your comfort area of Western Oklahoma/Amarillo. You scoff at new foods. You read books by the same author (Zane Grey). You always stick to the tried and true.”
“That’s right, son. My path is not your path.”
(I am not making these conversations up. They all happened.)
(By the way, Dad, I know we’re not the same. But all I’ve ever wanted is to be more like you; to make you proud. Why can’t you see that?)
*pause*
“Dad?”
“Yes, son?”
“I am going to travel the world. I am going to every continent. I am going to eat foods you’ve never heard of. I am going to places you’ve never heard of. Those are my dreams.
“And I can hardly wait.”
“I don’t doubt it, son. Those big books you bring home from the library? I see you reading them. Always hiding in your room concentrating on the strangest subjects. Your Mom and I can never get your attention. Lost in your own little world.”
*pause*
“Dad?”
“Yes, son?”
“You know what else?”
“What?”
“Your path IS my path.”
“But you just said…”
“Those things are important to me, Dad. I dream of travel and adventure.
“But those things are not the most important. I want to be just like you. With my wife, my kids, and those who need a friend or Dad.
“And I don’t want to be disrespectful, Dad, but I don’t think you get it.
“I want to be just like you.”
Dad walked away without saying a word.
(Yes, we lived in rent houses, and I slept on the floor, and I kept my clothes in a cardboard box until I was 9.)
(Yes, we lived right by the flop house and the half-way house. Tons of drunks passed out in our front yard.)
(And yes, Mom and Dad lived in a double-wide trailer house for 40 years, only leaving upon death or going into assisted living.)
But, no lie:
When I was with Mom and Dad, I was the richest kid in the world…
