Interviewing The American Dream; An Immigrant's View

The American Dream is a concept that's interested me for some time.  Part of the impetus for beginning a blog was to take on the American Dream; its history, my dream and the dream of others.  To that end I decided to borrow from author/broadcaster, Studs Terkel.  Terkel wrote a series of books on various aspects of American culture which were essentially oral histories.  They are collections of interviews with Americans from all levels of society; the rich,, the famous and the common, each with his or her own experience.  For the most part Terkel left the interviews to stand by themselves.  I suggest a side trip to the Studs Terkel website.
This is the first in a series of interviews that will appear from time to time.  I started with the easiest, or one might say, the hardest interview of all; my wife.  An immigrant from The Philippines, she came to America in the late seventies.
You are an immigrant to this country. What is the American Dream to you? Of all the immigrants, the American Dream. That’s their dream.

You know this American Dream that people usually dream to buy beautiful houses, luxury cars. I never dream of that. Way back in the Philippines when I was in high school , in college, the economy was so good. I think that the exchange of dollars and pesos was like 5 to 1 as compared today the exchange is 1 dollar to 45. So during my high school days and college days the economy was so good and I think, I remember the Philippines was number one in the Asian countries for economy. It’s ranking number one. Unlike today it’s…I think it’s the 7^th and Singapore is very progressive, Malaysia and even Vietnam. But my father was a businessman and he was a marble contractor. So he was doing very well with the business. He was able to send all the 10 kids to college with his business. And it’s only one income. My mother never worked. She stayed in the house and managed the house and the children. So my father has a very good income. When martial law was declared, that’s the time  that my brain was working. My father does not know but I was thinking of going to America. 

What year was that? If I graduated in 1970, I was working in the 70s with architect Mercado and the wife was an interior designer. I was working in the Makati financial district and business was very good. Even the architects, my big boss was awarded as the father of condominiums because all of the condominiums, townhouses sprouted. And it was designed by architect Mercado and I was the accountant and I was earning well. But in the 70s I noticed that businesses were going slow because of martial law and my fathers business starting to go down. And I remember my father came at my office two oclock in the afternoon and he was trying to borrow money from me. And I was so shocked. My father used to be a businessman. He used to go to Macau just to gamble. He has extra money to gamble in Hong Kong. And now all of a sudden he came to me and asking money. So that’s the reason it worries me so much because my two brothers. One is an architect, he got married a year before he graduated. So there’s no way they’re going to help my dad. My other brother, Anton the same thing got married before the year they graduated from college and my father has to support them. My sister Lucy got married young, she just finished two years of associates in college. So who’s going to help my father? I think it’s me. But I never tell my father and my family that’s the time I called in all my friends, all my classmates in college. I said remember we went to U.S. Embassy and applied for professional’s visa to come to United States and I back out because I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to leave because I was happy living  in the Philippines.  And I said, ‘I changed my mind.’ Said ‘You want to come with me and we’ll go back to U.S. Embassy and apply’. So we applied. So that’s the start. That’s the reason why I strive hard to come to America to help my family. I never dreamed to have a luxury car or a beautiful house. Never. My dream was to help my dad. And, of course to get married in America. What else, I was single (laughs). So to help my dad and my family. And the one that was helping then was my sister Carrie. She was working in the bank. She was still staying with my parents and she was helping out. I was already married to Paul when the People’s Power was declared and I was right in front of the television and my mother in law was comforting me because I was crying right in front of the television seeing the People’s Power and I said ‘I really have to work hard here in America to help my family.’ So I was married. Of course I have a dream to have a house but not those big house. My dream is just, you know, I  have a roof over my head, not a big house and have a happy family. So that’s one part of my American Dream and to practice my accountancy profession in America. And of course I started as a clerk and I was so ambitious….I said ‘why should I be working as a clerk when I can do the books up to financial statements and I can get a higher salary.’ So my dream was to practice my profession in America. 

When we talked about the American Dream, you talked about a big house and fancy cars and that sort of thing. How did you come by that idea that people think that is what the American Dream is? Because as I have observed some of the Filipino community, that’s their dream. Big houses. Luxury cars. And investments in real estate. That’s what I heard from the community. Even non Filipino immigrants. Even European immigrants. They dream for big houses and luxury cars. That’s what I heard. You know I saw one program on channel 9 about those Russian immigrants in Los Angeles. They want nice houses and luxury cars. 

Talk about where you are in your life today. Did you achieve what you would consider your dream? Yes I do. I think. I believe that I’m not a CPA here in America but I believe I’m successful with my profession. I only work as a clerk for one year in America and after that I became a bookkeeper, I became an accountant. So yeah that’s my dream. I fulfilled my dream. In my profession especially. 

Did your dream at all change over the years. It seems that part of what you were trying to explain was to help your family. Did you succeed in that?

Ummm you know I did not help a big monetary rescue to my father because I got married after a year that I immigrated to America. And I have my own family and I don’t have a big income back then. So I wasn’t able to help big money to my father. But once in awhile I gave money. It’s not a big deal but I hope it helped. I don’t know. But they survived. I think another help was when my sister Carrie followed here. And I think the two of us helping my dad for small amount. It helps. It’s, it’s not a big money but I think it helps. 

The actual term the American Dream was coined in 1931 in a book called The Epic of America. I’m going to ask you to read the description. Does it change your idea of what the American Dream is?

This line ‘ It is not a dream of motor cars and high wages merely, but a dream of social order in which each man and each woman shall be able to attain to the fullest stature of which they are innately capable.’ This is true. It is not about cars and high wages. And it’s true that you know its like the recognition of your attainment. And uhh, you see like me, I’m a minority and when I proved to my employer here in America that I can do it. And they respect that. So it’s your attainment. But in the Philippines, I remember, its always all the male professionals are always in the higher positions. There are several females but they are all extraordinary. They graduated summa cum laude from the university. But during my time, its always the male executives in the higher position. I think here in America, that if you can prove you can do it they’ll respect, they’ll let you try to prove it. 

Do you think that Americans, immigrant or not would actually see Adams description as the American dream?  You know as I have observed, those Americans born here, they take it for granted. They take for granted that America is giving lots of opportunity. I remember when I landed here in 1979 at work, you don’t find lots of college graduates, American born. High school diploma, they have their job. But now I observe I think these American people realize that immigrants are working so hard. Especially immigrants with a degree are taking the jobs from them. So they’re studying now. They’re at school. That’s my observation. American born now are going to school. But 30 years ago, I noticed in the company I worked for they are not degree holders. 

What do you think most Americans think the American dream is? It depends on who I talk to. If I talk to a Mexican person, came here, not even have a high school diploma. They’ll tell me that I came here to earn dollars to send money to my family in Mexico because they don’t have jobs there. So it depends on the individual. If I ask like a Vietnamese who came here during their war, they have a different reason. If I ask an Indian who is a chemist or an engineer, of course they want the real American dream. They want to practice their profession here. And get the bigger opportunity. 

And someone who is born here? Americans take it for granted because they’re here. And they’re here, you know especially if they’re a graduate of the university here. They have no accent. I mean if they pursue enough to land a job related to their profession, they’ll get it. But immigrants from other countries, they work so hard because they were not born here. So the real American citizen, born here, that’s my observation that they take if for granted because they are here.  All the opportunities that America is giving. You know. There are some American born of course they dream to have nice houses, luxury cars. I don’t see that in everybody. I don’t see that. 

From a professional perspective your dream came true. Did it evolve at any time? Do you have a new one? Because I have the family, my only dream is to have my children finish they’re college degree, which happened. So you know I’m not so ambitious because for me I fulfilled my dream. I have a good job. I have a good family. I’m not dreaming of some more. I just want to have a good health. And a good health for the family and the success of my children. Just good health, a happy family. That’s it. I have a roof over my head. I’m driving a car. I don’t have a luxury car and that’s fine. 

We’re going through the greatest economic crisis since the Great Depression. How has it affected your life? It affects me because several friends, even not friends, are affected by this recession. One big example is, look at Mervyn’s, look at Circuit City. They closed. And its in the town that we’re living. I was affected by it. In fact I knew some of the employees in Mervyn’s. I’ve been going there for 20 years and they lost their job. And I knew them. It affects me because of them. You know lots of people lost their jobs because of this recession. And what causes this recession? It’s the war in Iraq. We paid billions, billions of dollars. That’s my opinion.

Monday Musings

"On Monday mornings I am dedicated to the proposition that all men are created jerks."

                                                H. Allen Smith (Writer 1906-1976)

This would have been Sunday coffee but a good chunk of my Sunday was spent in the ER turning this into a Monday offering.

I put the cane away about a week ago and I’m finally walking without support.  That’s not to say that I’m walking well.  Stairs are something of a problem, I’m not moving very quickly and that spring in my step is sometimes a limp.  Something like the Dennis Weaver character, Chester Goode in the old TV series Gunsmoke.  Gunsmoke was not only one of TV’s all-time greatest westerns it was one of the greatest series of any genre.  I was a loyal viewer for most of its 20 year run. Chester was one of the original characters along with Doc Adams, Miss Kitty and of course Marshall Dillon. Chester gave way to Festus Haggen, Doc Adams was replaced when actor Milburn Stone’s health went south and then in 1975 the show ended and I was heartbroken.  I don’t imagine that we’ll ever see a western TV series ever again.  It’s a genre that’s lost popularity and I wouldn’t doubt much of that loss is due to westerns somehow not being PC.  There was HBO’s Deadwood but I never could warm up to that show.  The profanity in Deadwood was not only a gratuitous turn-off it wasn’t even authentic.  If you’re going to go to lengths to try for some authenticity in the nuances at least get the dialog right.  

Football season has started and while I enjoy watching it, the gridiron sport does come with some baggage.

                Let’s consider the pre-game shows.  The cast usually consists of former coaches and players and a broadcaster who acts as moderator.  The problem is there’s no moderation.  There’s a lot of shouting, arguing, frenzied waving of arms and if Bill Cowher or Mike Ditka are involved, flying spit.  They speak in tongues, arguing about the pros and cons of the sluggo, max protect, cover two, cover three, Tampa two and tea for two and two for tea.  I suppose that there are some viewers who know what the hell these guys are talking about but my sense is most viewers are hearing something along the lines of, absentem laedit cum ebrio qui litigat or Ich habe mich verlaufen!  The latter phrase actually means, “I’m lost,” which is how I feel sometimes when I hear all that football jargon; and I consider myself to be somewhat football savvy.

                One of the silliest segments of the pre-game show is when the cast, all wearing nice suits, strolls out to a mini football field on the set to demonstrate a play or a technique.  Do these fellows not feel as ridiculous as they look, walking through a bunch of motions that to the viewer demonstrates something along the lines of, Ich habe mich verlaufen?

                One of these days I’m going to hurl when I hear a commentator describing a linebacker as a “warrior,” “going to war” with his teammates.  These guys play football; Pat Tillman went to war and with tragic consequences.

                In the absurd expectations department there’s the play where a receiver stretches out for a pass that just grazes his fingers while he’s creamed by a strong safety and fails to make the catch.  Play by play guy, “That ball looked pretty catachable”; color commentator, “Yeah Dick, he’s paid to make those plays.  He really let his quarterback down.”  Seriously, I’m glad neither of these guys is my boss.

                Tune in to ESPN radio some Saturday morning and catch the football handicappers.  They have the charm of a strip club barker, the subtlety of monster truck show ad and the trustworthiness of a congressman.  These shows do serve one useful purpose and that is they demonstrate the number one, main reason for football’s popularity; gambling.

                Is it at all possible for commentators to simply say, NFL instead of always saying National Football League; “It’s tough to be a rookie return man in The National Football League.”

                And finally there is the national anthem.  Not the anthem itself but the butchery it’s subjected to by pop stars who either get the words wrong (c’mon even school kids know the words) or try to stylize the tune.  Maybe it’s just me but I find that 19^th century tunes don’t lend themselves well to 21^st century stylization. Just have some respect and leave it the way it was meant to be.

There are some definite plusses to football season.

 I enjoy a Sunday when my son is visiting and we cook up some dogs and spend the afternoon watching the game together.   

It signifies a change of the seasons to autumn and I do love autumn.  Just this weekend we saw some of the signs of autumn’s onset; the local “pumpkin patch” is taking shape, Orchard Supply Hardware has the Halloween decorations out and taking a drive past a nearby farm some horses were grazing in the autumn haze under some trees festooned with orange leaves. 

Football reminds me of one of the things on my sports bucket list; attending a game in the Midwest preferably at Notre Dame.

And then there’s the game itself.  While I prefer baseball and its subtlety I do enjoy football.

Speaking of anthems, and I’ll probably get labeled a Communist bastard for saying this but to me the old Soviet National Anthem is the best of the anthems.  If you want to get the masses to shoulder rifles for the motherland play a few bars of the Soviet Anthem.  Da comrade, give me ration of vodka, few rounds of ammo and send me to Stalingrad where I’ll hold off enemy to the death.

With the return of mobility I imagine the consensus among those who know me is that I’ll be running within a couple of months.  Don’t bet on it though.  For some reason it’s lost some of its allure and I’m not sure that I’ll ever run another step again.  I need to take something up and that might just be….

Archery.  That’s right.  It’s something that I did back in my early twenties.  My then girlfriend Denise had to take a PE class for her college general ed. requirements and she took an archery class. 

Now let me digress for a moment.  PE as a general ed. requirement?  Yes at one time phys. ed. units were a requirement but in keeping with the fattening of America, no more.  In fact, a quick perusal of the S.F. State and San Jose State catalogs revealed that phys. ed. isn’t even offered.  About the closest I could find was dance.  Was P.E. a victim of budget cuts or was it determined at some point that it’s passé?

Yes, Denise took an archery class.  There was an actual range set up on one of the athletic practice fields; hay bales at the base of a hill.  She could have had her pick of any number of different P.E. offerings in those days but now, nothing; literally.  So she got into archery, went out and bought a bow and I went out and bought two on for target shooting and one for hunting.  The plan was to take up bow hunting and I went on a trial hunt one year with my relatives from Utah.  While I didn’t hunt because I didn’t possess a deer tag I did tag along during the hunts.  There was a certain excitement in stalking and trying to get close enough for a shot.  It is definitely more sporting than using a high powered rifle with a scope. Turned out hunting appealed to me about as much as the meal of deer liver we had during the trip.  I can get the same adrenalin rush and challenge trying to get a shot with a camera and let Bambi live another day.

            So on Saturday I found an archery shop complete with a range.  The owner of the place admired my old recurve bow and gave it his blessing that it’s in good shape.  In the next couple of weeks I’ll get outfitted with some arrows and see if I can hit a wall; then I can try to hit a target again.

After attending the barbecue cook off in Reno this year I asked my son, “What’s next up?  The air races?”  We agreed that it might be a plan.  Now, after the tragic events at this year’s event, maybe not so much.  There may not be an air race to go to as some officials are considering cancelling the event for good.  I won’t try to speak to the pros and cons of cancelling the air races but I can comment on some of the early opposition to cancelling the event.  The worn out comparison with traffic accidents has made an early appearance in the comments sections of news stories about the crash.  One fellow writes, “There are 100's if not 1000's airshows and air races with out incident. How many people die in cars over the weekend.”  It’s an argument completely without merit and it’s a close relative to the argument against gun control that says if we’re going to ban something because of fatalities we should then consider banning cars.  One clever fellow on Yahoo whose reach clearly exceeded his grasp opined, “According to the Center for Disease Control, more people die from dog bites than die at air shows. Shall we ban dog ownership?  I’m wondering if the Reno Chamber of Commerce will, down the road, complain that banning the races will cost the city millions of dollars.

Yeah it’s Monday and it’s during the one time of the year when you almost look forward to Monday.  The football fans all look forward to flaunting their expert opinions about the previous day’s games.  Of course some of that expertise was gleaned from listening to a retired coach on ESPN radio on the morning ride to work and then memorized to impress the guys; “Did you see that one play where the offense ran the sluggo against the Tampa two and blah, blah, blah, absentem laedit cum ebrio qui litigat.”

Happy Monday.  One down, four to go.

Skimpy Suits, Hairy Backs and Taffy

The house is being painted. Everything’s covered with plastic.  I could brew coffee or have some cereal or heat up a can of soup if I could get to any of that.  The pantry, you see, is sealed.  A lot of the light fixtures are removed but that doesn’t really matter because all of the switches and outlets are swathed in tape.  And even if we could cook a meal and had light to eat under, to quote Robert Duvall in Apocalypse Now, “You smell that?”  Yeah that would be the smell of paint which renders food as inedible as the home is unlivable.  But that’s all okay. We hired the guys and they’re doing what they were commissioned to do.  So we left for the weekend.  For the second weekend in a row we’ve taken a road trip; this time to Santa Cruz. 

For my out of state and international readers, and yes surprisingly I do have some, Santa Cruz is the Central California beach resort.  It has nice beaches, surfers, bronzed blondes wearing cocktail napkins held together by pieces of string that are otherwise known as swim suits and middle aged fellows with immense bay windows and hairy backs wearing Speedos.  By far its biggest attraction, bigger even than a hairy middle aged paunch, is the Santa Cruz Beach and Boardwalk, dubbed the Coney Island of the West and complete with carnival games, rides, fried and unhealthy carnival food and a wooden roller coaster. 

The wife and I aren’t doing the boardwalk or the beach this time around.  We have the dog with us and she’s canis non grata (that’s highbrow speak for dogs not welcome) at the beach and boardwalk.  Beyond that we’re not big aficionados of the rides anymore.  When we were dating, I did take her on the roller coaster, known as The Giant Dipper; scared the hell out of her.  The Giant Dipper was a tough old girl back then.  Not only did it have the usual drops, turns and a tunnel but it banged you around so that when you got off you might likely be nursing some bruises on your hips.  I hear that the cars are modernized now and the ride's a bit smoother.

Santa Cruz was one of my childhood dream destinations.  Once or twice every summer the family would pack up a picnic lunch and take the 60 mile or so trek down the coast.  It was a relatively short trip but when you’re a kid an hour in the car might as well be a trans-Atlantic journey.

Mom would fry some chicken and wrap it in foil; make some macaroni salad and it would all go into a Scotch Cooler with some Cragmont sodas like ginger ale, cream soda and cherry cola and off we went.  The Scotch Cooler was a barrel shaped cooler with a tartan plaid pattern and Cragmont was the Safeway house brand and both are antiques and memories now. 

The beach at Santa Cruz near the boardwalk is packed on a sunny weekend afternoon.  We would find a small, unoccupied patch of beach, spread out a tablecloth and some towels and dine on the chicken and macaroni salad served up with a generous side order of sand.  After lunch we would lie out in the sun and half doze in the warmth to the beach sounds of waves, gulls, squealing kids, the shouts of angry parents and a Giants game on a nearby transistor.  After some toasting in the sun we would take a dip in the frigid waters.  The beach is nice but the water can be very cold.  Its water that euphemistically you “get used to” which really means you simply go numb.  After thawing out in the sun it was time to stroll down the boardwalk, go on the rides and play the games.  There was the roller coaster, the wild mouse and the other thrill rides along with a fun house, the bumper cars and the cheesy haunted house with the strange smell, the jolting cars and the pneumatic mechanical monsters.  And of course there was the food; corn dogs and deep fried whateveritisyouwant.  The best food, if you could call it food, was Marini’s salt water taffy.  We never failed to go home with a pound of taffy in a green box.

For a young boy, walking down the boardwalk was something of an educational, eye opening experience.  There were all of those young women wearing relatively nothing and showing parts that a youngster just had never seen before except in pictures that he wasn’t supposed to lay his eyes on.  Remember, we’re talking about the sixties; a time that by today’s standards was relatively Victorian.  There was no internet, no cable and movies left many things to the imagination.  The big question for a young lad was, if they can show all of what they’re showing why are they all hiding something?  And just what is it that they’re hiding?  As a guy got into his teens it was more of an eye opener because he was getting a pretty fair idea of what those parts, hidden and unhidden, were all about.  When we got into our teens we jettisoned the parents.  I would take the drive down with my college girlfriend Denise who would wear relatively nothing and I guess provided an eye opening experience for boys of all ages.  We blew off the Scotch Cooler and the home cooked food and went for the boardwalk food.  I spent too much money missing kewpie dolls with baseballs and banging basketballs off a too tight rim and failing to win a stuffed animal as the carny grinned at each miss and each subsequent dollar plopped on the counter all the while leering at Denise.  We rode the thrill rides and we also rode the haunted house ride but we never noticed the strange smell or the cheesy pneumatic mechanical monsters because the ride was cool and dark and a good place to make out for a few minutes.

On this weekend we drove down Highway 1, catching the scenic coastal route in Half Moon Bay.  The little beach town, home of the annual Pumpkin Festival is getting ready for the fall season.  Pumpkins are appearing in the fields and some of the seasonal signage is out already.  We drove past the little town of Pescadero and then past Gazos Creek.  Gazos is a little coastal stream which has had a reputation of being a great fishing spot.  My dad and I tried it on a few occasions and you couldn’t prove its greatness by our results.  We drove past the town of Davenport which, on the childhood drives, meant we were finally getting to the end of the “long” drive.  Davenport is more or less one of those “oops I blinked and missed it” little towns that was built in the early 20^th century and existed mostly because of the cement plant located there. 

Pulling into Santa Cruz it seems as though not much has changed since I used to visit so regularly.  Of course it’s sprawled some and it is more modern but, and this is to its credit, it hasn’t grown up; that is there are no new high rises.  By all rights some large hotel chains could have decided to try to plant skyscraping resorts at the beach but that never happened.  Accommodations near the beach are mostly quaint privately run little bungalow motels.  The only amenities offered are a parking spot, a bed, a bathroom, a TV and the most important one of all, a location that’s walking distance to the beach.  A former co-worker used to vacation at one of these little places every year and had to make his reservation for August a year in advance. 

Since the beach wasn't in our plans we stayed at a nice Hilton in nearby Scotts Valley, nestled in the evergreen hills just above Santa Cruz.  Its dog friendly, cushy and full of amenities that are perfect for just relaxing and forgetting work and painters. There was a nice breakfast at a place called Aldo’s overlooking the Santa Cruz Harbor.  Aldo’s was recommended by Food Network’s obnoxious Guy Fieri but I won’t hold that against Aldo.  The lesson here is never take a birddog to a restaurant that’s frequented by gulls.

Before leaving Santa Cruz the temptation was just too great.  It was a primal migratory pull that made me drive to the old Boardwalk where it was still early enough to find street parking nearby.  I pulled up behind a Toyota that had just been parked by a woman who approached my window.  Would I mind leaving that space open and taking the one behind?  She was saving it for some friends.  Not a problem for me as I was only going to be there long enough to satisfy an urge.  As I walked past the woman I wanted to comment, “let me know how this works out for you.”  When I got back to the car my wife told me of the drama that ensued when a fellow pulled up to the spot and started to park as the woman tried to save the spot.  He was a large man sporting a Mohawk and so trying to save a parking spot on a busy public street didn’t work out.  Before we drove off I reached into the green Marini’s box and unwrapped a delicious piece of salt water taffy.  

Reno: Cash me out

Money won is twice as sweet as money earned.  ~From the movie The Color of Money

It's time to cash in the chips on our little vacation, luckily there were chips to cash, and head home, but in the spirit of those last few pulls on the slot machine a few last minute reflections.

On our way in to Reno, it was evident that the Biggest Little City has gotten bigger.  It’s developed its own sprawl.  Many of those doing the sprawling are expatriates of the San Francisco Bay Area who found that they could buy a huge home in Reno suitable for inflating the ego and impressing the friends and family.  They also found, once it was too late, that it gets hotter on the edge of a desert than it does near the bay and the lifestyle is different (not necessarily better or worse, just different) out here.  And so when they decided that they wanted to return to the Bay Area they found that they couldn’t afford to.  Too bad, so sad.

As we explored the casino at our temporary home, The Atlantis, I noticed some definite changes, the biggest one being the sound.  Oh yeah there are the usual gaming machine sound effects but something was missing.  I didn’t know what it was until I went to put a coin in a slot machine.  I examined the machine high and low and couldn't find a coin slot and then discovered, uhhh, they don’t take coins.  They take bills and then you play in increments of anywhere from pennies to dollars.  And if they don’t take coins they don’t dispense coins so that clanking of quarters in the payout box is gone.  Now you don’t get a flood of quarters you get a voucher that you exchange at a machine. Very disappointing.

So now you don’t see the blue haired woman or the fellow sporting a boiler and Bermuda shorts and dress socks drifting around the casino with a gin and tonic in one hand and a bucket of quarters in the other.  Just the blue hair, the boiler, the shorts, the dress socks and the gin and tonic; no bucket of quarters.

You also don’t see cashiers roaming the aisles of slots.  Even in Sin City mechanization has eliminated jobs.  Will the same phenomenon happen in the borellos?  Hmmm, maybe best not to go there.

At some point I did notice one sound effect that seems common in every casino we visited.  Sixties and seventies pop played non stop, 24/7.  The speakers played every bad song from that era, from Petulia Clark, to The Monkees to the Bee Gees.  There was a veritable orgy of Neil Diamond, it seemed his whole, horrid catalog.  Well I couldn't very well expect them to play The Grateful Dead and The Jefferson Airplane now could I.  Pink Floyd's, "Money" might have lent an ironic twist.

Every visit to Reno reminds me of my Aunt Bonnie from Salt Lake City.  She and my Uncle Al would occasionally meet us in Reno.  Aunt Bonnie had the greatest slot machine luck of anyone I’ve ever known.  She would put in a quarter or three and within a couple of pulls the slot machine gods would bestow a bucket full of silver.

Most of the machines don’t have mechanical reels anymore.  All video.  Makes me a little suspect.  Aunt Bonnie would probably take a look at these video machines and exclaim as she was often wont, “Oh bullshit.”  Then she would sit down and play; and win. 

It took about a half day of feeding the machines before I got as comfortable as I could with all the different permutations of how those things work.  I did win about an eighty dollar jackpot on a slot machine with some sort of big game fishing theme, “That’s a Keeper.”

One thing that hasn’t changed; inside of the first thirty minutes I’d already smoked a pack or two of cigarettes of the second hand brand.

One member of our little party asked the question, besides gaming what’s the industry in Reno?  A drive down Virginia Street revealed at least three costume shops; what’s that about?  There were a couple of lingerie shops.  A fair amount of tattoo and piercing parlors.  A couple of wedding chapels.  We’ve passed a pair of strip clubs.  All possible offshoots of alcohol consumption? 

And then there are the pawn shops and a few lenders offering loans against car titles.  Off shoots of alcohol and gaming.  One enterprising fellow has a combination pawn shop, t-shirt shop. 

From the “that’s just wrong department;” my wife and I were having dinner at a little Italian styled café in our hotel and noticed a couple who drifted over from our restaurant to the all you can eat buffet restaurant to grab some desserts to bring back to their tables.

I’m on vacation and probably shouldn’t be getting into politics, but….I’ve noticed more than a few housekeepers here in this hotel and the Silver Legacy where my son is staying and most if not all of them seem to be either Hispanic or Filipina immigrants.  Legal or not I couldn’t say.  With the unemployment rate soaring where are all the unemployed Americans?  I guess the point here is it seems to give some validity to the old argument that there are some jobs that white America won’t deign to take. 

And while we’re on employment.  Let’s see, we didn’t raise taxes on the rich a while back because they’re, as the GOP likes to say, the “job creators.”  They railed to the heavens that taxing the rich would stifle job creation.  Latest figures; no new jobs.  I’m just wondering when those job creators are going to stop sitting on their cash, reaping their tax benefits and start creating jobs.  Wait, I know.  Somewhere around the tenth of NEVER.

Looking around on a busy Saturday  last night one wouldn’t think we’re in a recession.  Could any of these folks be among the unemployed just hoping to win the next couple of mortgage payments?

A touch of nostalgia over the weekend.  With my son and daughter in law as they took their daughter around the midway at Circus Circus.  All totaled we spent a fair amount of money at the games trying to win her some stuffed animals with an equally fair amount of success; 4 plush toys.  Brought back memories of doing the same for my children.

Just what is it with dealers that they seem to have this werewolf quality about them. Playing 21 during the day I seemed to be doing quite well thank you. I wasn't getting rich but I was slowly getting ahead one five dollar chip at a time with some decent hands.  Sun went down and suddenly I got fed a steady diet of 12s through 15s. On those rare occasions when I drew 19s and 20s the dealer was drawing 20s and 21s.

And what is it with players who continually hit 14s and 15s?  I do thank them for drawing that inevitable 10 that would otherwise go to the dealer.

And then there was the fellow who railed at his wife for splitting tens.  There was plenty of that going around as well; taking a likely winning hand and turning it into two potentially losing hands. No wonder the casinos do so well.

Last night I found myself down to the last 4 or 5 chips in my pocket and the little devil on my shoulder whispered to me to pull out a couple of twenties and buy more chips.  I told him to go back to hell, went to the room gathered all of my chips that I'd kept out of harm's way and cashed them in. Gambling was done for the weekend.  Eighty dollars spent and a hundred eighty returned.  Not bad.  It wasn't an early retirement check but neither did I give my business to the loans for car titles entrepreneur.

In the days of my childhood Reno used to play off of its pioneer, mining and cowboy heritage.  This area was a product of the Comstock silver lode.  It seems the quest for quick and easy riches that were neither quick or easy has always been present here.  The wild west theme has more or less gone by the boards now.  In America, with the exception of guns, the wild west has lost its allure.

The last supper.  Our last dinner came down to a coin toss between the steak house and a nice dry aged 20 ounce Porterhouse or all you can eat sushi.  The rib orgy of two nights previous had about worn out what ever fortitude my intestines have had for awhile and so sushi won out.

And now it's time for the weekend's biggest gamble; getting on the highway.  Wish me luck.

Reno: A Piggy Tale of The Biggest Little City

PETA: People for the eating of tasty animals.

          Logo on a t-shirt at the BBQ cook off. 

Reno, the self-proclaimed Biggest Little City in the World.  I’m here with my wife and my son and his family to attend the wide world of pork.  No I don’t mean a Congressional spending session; we’re here for the Nugget’s Best in the West Rib Cook Off, a little relaxation and some gambling. 

It’s been about 20 years since I’ve been to Reno.  My children were still in grade school and a short stay at Reno was a nod to my wife for putting up with a few days of camping at Lassen National Park.  My wife is not at all fond of camping.  We swung down Highway 395, south along the Eastern California border watching lightning storms in the distance.  It was the first time that I had travelled that route and I found the rugged, isolated high country to be spectacular.  The only thing missing was a herd of wild horses.

When I was a child Reno was the family way station on the many driving trips that we took to visit my dad’s family in Salt Lake City.  We usually left the house well before the crack of dawn at the ungodly hour of 4 AMish.  The early start was to beat the heat of Caliifornia’s Central Valley as well as the desert heat east of Reno.  In those days air conditioning in the car, at least our car, was open windows.  In the midday heat the car essentially became an oven on wheels.  

1960s Reno

As we hit the Sierra Nevada, my dad would glance longingly at the Truckee River, pointing out the calm pools that looked to be prime fishing spots.  He never did fish the Truckee but I’m sure he would have loved to wet a line and try his luck for a few hours.  As we drove past historic towns such as Auburn and Placerville, dad would talk about the great California Gold Rush of 1849.  It was of course the first great wave to the Golden State of what would be many migrations westward to find riches in California.  These days they seem to be leaving California in droves.   As we approached Donner Summit dad would tell the tragic story of the Donner Party, punctuating the narrative with remarks like, “Gad, could you imagine coming through these mountains in covered wagons when there were no roads.”  He talked about the terrible winter of 1846 when that little band of pioneers found themselves trapped in the Sierra snows.  His stories about their trials and, well let’s be honest, the cannibalism, captured my imagination and inspired me to read at a very young age, George Stewart’s, Ordeal by Hunger, the classic history of the Donner Party.  I would like to think that today’s parents point out historical sites and explain their significance to their kids along road trips.  The cynic in me says, “Nah, they probably don’t have enough of a sense of history to be able to explain what happened anyway.  Plug in the portable DVD player, keep ‘em busy, and leave ‘em ignorant.”

Reno was the breakfast stop on the way to our overnight stop, Winnemucca, in the middle of the Nevada desert.  By the time we got to the famous Biggest Little City arch we were tired, hungry and chafing.  We would stop at a coffee shop where I could get a stack of pancakes roughly the diameter of manhole covers and my parents could get a more modest breakfast and slip away in shifts to feed the one armed bandits.  Before heading out my parents usually indulged my entreaties for a trinket of some sort.  On one of those trips I got a Reno pennant to add to the collection on my bedroom wall.  Another trip yielded a slot machine piggy bank.  I would put my coin in the slot, pull the handle and my coin would disappear into the machine, kind of the way the real ones work.  The only difference is mine had a little hatch at the bottom that allowed me to retrieve my coins.  The real ones just take your coins, and that’s it.

Early auto survival gear

We would pull out of Reno, point the Big Chevy Impala East and head into the desert.  For a kid driving into the dessert created a certain amount of excitement and foreboding.  I still had my dad’s stories of the Donner Party whirling around in my impressionable mind (The Donner’s didn’t exactly have good luck during their desert crossing either).  The desert was also the place where cowboys went to die of heat and thirst in the horse operas (also known as Western TV shows).  As we left Sparks we would begin to see the signs advertising Little America, a hotel in Salt Lake City.  It was also where we would see cars sporting the Desert Water Bags; a canvas bag that was hung from the hood ornament of a car.  It held extra water for the radiator in case of overheating.  Our trip this year won't include a desert trek.

My wife and I got an early start on Friday morning and landed in Truckee near the summit of the Sierra Nevada.  Truckee is a picturesque little town around the summit of the Sierra Nevada.  The original settlement of the town was known as Pollard Station in 1866.  In the late 1860s Truckee’s main industry was logging.  In 2011 logging has died down and if our experience is any indicator, the new industry is fleecing tourists.  We stopped for breakfast at a historic looking little place called The Wagon Train Coffee Shop located in an old brick building.  My wife’s modest sausage and cheese omelet, my two biscuits and gravy, 3 strips of bacon and 2 eggs and a cup of coffee each came out to thirty dollars.  Yikes!  I’ve paid less for a more sumptuous breakfast in San Francisco.  Gas was fifty cents more per gallon than in the high priced San Francisco Bay Area.

As we descended from the Sierras into Reno we passed the Truckee River and as my dad had done so many years ago I pointed out prime fishing spots.  We arrived at the Atlantis, mid-afternoon, and waited for my son and family to arrive and then off to Sparks for the rib cook off.

At the Cook Off it's carnivores only

Let me be very clear; The Nugget’s Best in the West Rib Cook Off is not for the health conscious, the vegan faint of heart or anyone with a religious edict against eating pig.  It is a carnivorous celebration; a pageant of pork.  The only nod to vegetables comes from the deep fryer; zucchini, mushrooms and mammoth, and very tasty, onion rings.  The contest is held in Sparks, just east Reno.  For the remainder of the year Sparks’ claim to fame is as home to The Mustang Ranch.  No, this ranch has nothing to do with horses but it does sell, uh, rides; in a manner of speaking.

But it’s in September that barbecue masters from around the country converge on little Sparks Nevada to vie for a first place prize of 7500 dollars.  Huh?  Is that all? Given the amount of work that the pit masters put in, not to mention the travel, the relative pittance of a purse speaks to the passion that these folks have for their barbecue.  For six days these folks tend their barbecues, from the simple smoker you can get at the local hardware store to huge custom built rigs on wheels. As you enter the closed off street you notice, columns of smoke, the smell of wood, from hickory to apple to mesquite, and of course the smell of meat, meat and more meat.  From my 6’1” vantage point I saw barbecue stands as far as the eye could see and beyond.  The contestants come from around the country but the workers manning the stands are locals, many apparently college students from The University of Nevada at Reno (Do they ever get any studying in?).

Pig is king at the Nugget Cook Off

Why is this pig smiling?

All varieties of meats are available but clearly the king of the contest is the swine variety.  The various signs display cartoon caricatures of smiling (and why are they smiling?) pigs and most visitors are carrying pork ribs.  For about seven dollars you get a four bone sampler of ribs that you can bathe in the various sauces, from tangy to sweet to fiery to sauces which start out with sweet and finish with heat. We got and shared samplers from Mike Mills and Willingham’s Memphis Barbecue (neither purveyor is actually from Memphis) to Texas Outlaws Barbecue which is not actually from Texas.  By the time that we had walked from one end of the street to the other and back, I’d consumed over a rack of ribs and looked forward with some trepidation to a night of labored digestion and meat sweats.  Was it worth it?  Sure, why not, I not only had some of the best “Q” ever but I marveled at the dedication and passion that folks can have.  Anyone who fancies owning a business, whatever that business, even if it’s a vegan restaurant needs to pay a visit.  And I’m not talking about pigging out on sauce slathered pig, I’m talking about getting a feel for the dedication that it takes to start an enterprise.  These are people with a manic dedication and pride in something they love and believe in.  This is what it takes to start a business.  It’s an obsession that makes you strive for perfection and compels you to bore your friends for hours on end while you regale them with tales of your hobby.  It’s an enterprise that you would do for free, and often do at the start, if you weren’t trying to make a living from it.

Sunday Coffee V

Sunday, sweet Sunday,
With nothing to do,
Lazy and lovely,
My one day with you.

                                Oscar Hammerstein (from Flower Drum Song)

A new building has been going up on one of the main streets in neighboring Pinole in the midst of a strip of fast food restaurants.  Thought it was another fat vat until I drove by yesterday and saw that it’s a Chase Bank.  Slippery by any other name…

Filling station dinosaur

Filled up the truck this morning.  Now there’s a ritual that’s undergone change.  Used to be you pulled into the filling station and drove over a little pneumatic hose that tripped a bell in the station garage telling the young fellow in a natty, if slightly oily, uniform of your arrival.  He would stride over to the driver’s side window, “Fill it up?”  You could usually tell a gas jockey was new if he took a couple laps around the car trying to find the fill pipe.  Gas jockeys didn’t just pump your gas; they cleaned the car windows, checked the oil and tires and checked out your girlfriend while doing the windows.  A lifetime of pumping gas was the threat levied on kids if they didn’t keep up their studies.  “If you don’t get a college education you’ll end up pumping gas when you’re forty.”  They were both wrong and right.  I got my degree and here I am at age 57; you guessed it, pumping gas.  I just don’t do it for a living.  Gas jockeys started going into extinction during the seventies oil crisis.  Full service turned into mini service into do it yourself which inevitably led to people driving cars with a dry crankcase and balding tires.

Distracted driving.  Since we’re on the subject of driving in the olden days, distracted driving had a completely different connotation if you owned one of the many cars with bench seats.  It was customary, as you pulled out of eyesight of your girlfriend’s parents for her to slide over to the middle of the seat.  Your right arm went over her shoulder; her head would rest on your shoulder and her hand on your leg, or elsewhere.  Kind of makes cell phones pale by comparison.

Because you can never have enough:  Listening to ESPN radio this morning.  LSU QB Jordan Jefferson had 49 pairs of sneakers confiscated by the Baton Rouge police.  The local constabulary was apparently looking for evidence tying Jefferson to a recent bar fight.  I don’t know about fight evidence but they seem to have found an athletic iteration of Imelda Marcos that's going to raise the eyebrows of the NCAA boys. I’ve had something of a running debate with a Face Book friend over what he calls the exploitation of college athletes, specifically football players.  According to him, the athletes make the schools millions of dollars not only for their performance but from the sale of jerseys.  At the same time, the athletes are strictly forbidden by NCAA rules to be compensated with money, goods or services and when caught violating those rules are subject to suspension.  All of this is true.  He calls it exploitation and specifically cites Terrell Pryor who was suspended for selling jerseys and getting free tattoos.  My take is this.  They’re being given the opportunity to get a free college degree, in itself worth tens of thousands of dollars.  All of these young men know the rules going in.  All they have to do is toe the line, show up to class and then go to the NFL and make millions.  Those who don’t go pro still can come out with a degree.  A number of these young men wouldn’t get a second look from a college if the criteria were strictly academics in which case they might otherwise be pumping gas all their lives.

Zero tolerance gone wild.  Breaking news that the world’s premier track and field athlete sat out the premier event in the world championships.  Usain Bolt false started in the 100 and was DQed.  The disqualification rule has changed drastically from my T&F days when each runner got one false start and was eliminated on his second.  Then the rule gave the entire field one false start.  Any subsequent false start would result in disqualification.  The current rule DQs a runner for the first violation.  Violations are electronically detected.  If I spend top dollar for a ticket to the worlds just to see Bolt sit out the 100 for what might have been a twitch, I’m not a happy guy.   

False start that deserves a DQ:  On the other hand at the women’s marathon championship there were TWO false starts.  Seriously?  How can you false start a marathon?  That deserves a DQ on the grounds of stupidity.

Is there anybody out there who can justify leaving a dog out all night like the folks up the street, letting it bark incessantly?  Just thought I’d ask so that I would know how cruelty to your best friend and lack of consideration for your neighbors can be rationalized.  Any takers?

The job creators:  A recent ABC news investigation found that four GOP presidential candidates have their campaign t-shirts made overseas and when asked to do some explaining none of the four came off looking very good (at least in my humble opinion).

Newt:  "I didn't order it. I didn't do it.”  Well that tells us that Newt’s no Harry Truman.

Herman Cain: "No, I wasn't aware it was made in Honduras," Cain said. "I was just aware it was Fruit of the Loom ... which is an American company.”  Technically I guess you’re right Herm.  The shareholders are American as are the executives.  The working stiffs are Honduran and American workers just got stiffed; by you, Mr Pizza Magnate.

Rick Santorum:  "It's tragic that so many products in this country are made outside of this country. You probably can find a T-shirt occasionally made here in the United States ... but it's harder and harder to do."  There’s a quality I want in a president.  It’s too hard to do, so let’s just punt.

Ron Paul:  "I wasn't aware of it ... but I wouldn't change it," said Paul. "I would argue the case that the market should determine it.”  Based on that logic everything gets outsourced or the American worker settles for the same pennies an hour exploitation as foreign factory workers.  Do we really want a social Darwinist for president?

These are the same old boys who are lambasting the current administration for not creating jobs while saying that they’ll step up and create jobs.  Not even in office yet and they can’t walk the talk. The title of the article says, Candidates Claim Ignorance.  Well, that about says it all.

And speaking of saying it all:  A fellow came into the Starbucks wearing a t-shirt proclaiming on the back; You’ve Never Met a Mother F***** Like Me.  Let’s go over the thought process here.  Fellow was looking for a t-shirt and thumbed through the racks.  Giants? Nah. Raiders? Meh. U.S Flag? Ahhhh, not feeling patriotic. Oh, look at this.  You’ve Never…..: This is the one for me.  I can proclaim to the world that I’m a stupid, offensive, lout in one concise sentence (bet he doesn't know the word concise).  

And just because I can't end this on the galactically stupid note above there were two dogs rule stories this week:

Ricochet the surfing dog has raised funds and awareness for over 150 human and animal causes.  In addition, the surfing canine hangs four (paws) and helps balance the board for disabled riders. 

And then there was Hawkeye, the Lab who laid next to the casket of his fallen master, U.S. Navy SEAL Jon Tumilson through the course of the service.

Home Values

“There is nothing like staying at home for real comfort.”

Jane Austen

“I have a problem with too much money. I can't reinvest it fast enough, and because I reinvest it, more money comes in. Yes, the rich do get richer.”  Robert Kiyosaki

My daughter and her husband will soon be getting their share of the American Dream, at least in the popular, traditional sense.  They’re just waiting to get the keys to their new home.  In their mid-twenties; he’s a fire fighter and she’s a stay at home mom with aspirations of teaching. They’re tired of renting and they want a comfortable home in a nice neighborhood where they can raise their children and settle down for the long term.

Their reasons for wanting to buy a home are refreshing, gratifying and reminiscent of my childhood in the suburban town of San Mateo California. It was a time when the home represented the American Dream of putting down roots and cultivating a stable life.  It seems that at some point between then and now the concept of the home’s role in the American Dream took a cynical turn.  A home became less four walls and a roof over your head and more ATM.

Now don’t get me wrong here, I’m not above looking at the local home values now and then and feeling a smidge more secure when they’ve gone up.  And when it came time to pay off my son’s college tuition we dipped into the equity because it made financial sense to take advantage of the lower interest rate.  But my wife and I have always held on to that quaint notion that first and foremost your house is your shelter.  It’s something you pick up in Psych. 1A.  You know that Abe Maslow thing about shelter being a basic human need; right up there with food and, well, sex.

This all reminded me of an article that I’d read in The New York Times about this time last year that announced the end of the speculation era in home buying.  Analysts cited in the article believe that the huge appreciation of home values that Americans enjoyed in the latter part of the 20th century are gone, never to return.  According to economist Stan Humphries housing values will now only keep up with inflation.  Another economist, Dean Baker believes that all of the money that was lost in the housing bust that began in 2005 won’t be recouped until sometime around 2030.  Its bad news from a strictly economic standpoint but maybe good news from a values standpoint.

Could it be that now when you shop for a home the considerations will be finding the roof over your head that fits your physical and practical needs as well as your bona fide budget?  Does this minimize the factors of ego feeding, keeping up with the Joneses and impressing the relatives, all made possible by creating fictitious, fluffed up incomes and a fantasy budget?  Maybe it means that you’ll buy one home; the one that provides the roof over your head and you won’t be able to fall victim to the urge to finagle some questionable deal to pull cash out of the thing that is supposed to provide the basic need of shelter for the purpose of going to Europe or buying stuff.

Much of this buying and selling of homes was done, as we now know by using heavy doses of moral and financial sleights of hand.  Buyers created incomes out of thin air and banked on the notion that by the time the balloon payment would come due they would be making thousands more per year, ignoring the fact that on the whole middle class incomes have been stuck in neutral.  Lenders did no more diligence than to make sure that all of the signatures were on the correct lines not bothering to check if buyers could actually afford the loans they were taking.  The most unscrupulous used fairy tales and the proverbial voodoo economics to convince buyers on the fence that they could afford the American Dream.  Deals were struck in a moral vacuum and based on hope and a gamble.

I recall the times when my parents applied for home equity loans which they used in order to make improvements on the house.  I recall them because I would sit for hour upon boring hour at the Hibernia Bank while my parents filled out paperwork as the loan officer actually sized them up as a good credit risk.  That loan wasn’t going to be a risk laden bit of unworthy junk to get bundled and dumped to some dupe of a company like AIG; the bank was actually going to carry it and the banker made good and sure that my parents were solid, responsible people with jobs and the ability to pay back a loan.  If you want to see that sort of thing in action you have to watch Jimmy Stewart in, It’s a Wonderful Life.  When my wife and I refinanced we never met a real person, never had to provide employment confirmation, and never had to worry about a loan officer calling my boss to make sure I was a solid employee who didn’t have one foot out the door and the other on the proverbial banana peel.  There was a time when I would apply for a loan and the lender actually called my boss to verify my employment status and income.  Intrusive?  Maybe but how intrusive is it these days when someone asks for your Social Security number and driver’s license?  Take my life; please.

I can’t recall the popularity in my childhood days of snake oil salesmen like Robert Kiyosaki, so called experts who peddle the notions that you should get rich by gambling with your abode and if you aren’t a rich dad then you should be ashamed of yourself for being a poor dad, while making no mention of the responsible contented dads (and moms) who manage to live without scheming and who provide the family with simple stability, security and comfort.  Over the years my wife has been approached by friends and acquaintances to invest in real estate deals, rental property and other flim-flams.  Her response has always been, “Why would I want to gamble with my house just to get headaches and worry about losing everything? Never mind.”  

There are some experts who have actually thought it through and determined that maybe the home as investment isn’t all that it’s advertised to be.  In his book, The Ascent of Money, economic historian Niall Ferguson makes just that case.  Ferguson, whose resume I put much more stock in than Kiyosaki writes, “Suppose you had put $100,000 into the U.S. property market back in the first quarter of 1987. According to…the Case-Shiller national home price index, you would have roughly trebled your money by the first quarter of 2007, to between $275,000 and $299,000. But if you had put the same money into the S&P 500 and had continued to reinvest….you would have ended up with $772,000.”

Or, in my own simple, economics ignorant opinion, if you had put your money in a mattress or a coffee can in the back yard and not gambled with the equity in a perfectly good home you would still have your own home in which to lay your mattress and a backyard to bury your money in.  I know it isn’t sophisticated but sometimes sophistication isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.  

We’re still reeling from a historic recession brought on in large part by the greed of buyers and sellers who mortgaged morality and responsibility for status and the allure of wealth.  There are many who are suffering for it but I have a hard time finding sympathy for people who helped take down a global economy.  My wife, bless her heart, is much more charitable in that respect.  She sees folks who are suffering in their own little purgatories and are paying for their mistakes.  I guess I’m not so charitable as I wouldn’t mind seeing those agents, lenders and buyers who played fast and loose with ethics, the law and the truth slip off the ledge of purgatory into hell.

My wife and I have lived in our home for over twenty years.  If and when we do move it will be with the idea of downsizing to something more manageable and we’ll do so with heavy hearts.  The treasure in our home isn’t monetary; it’s in the remembrances of the greater part of our lives together with our children.  This is a value hearkening to those of my own parents.  

In 1956 my parents bought a home in San Mateo, California. They paid somewhere in the neighborhood of 16,000 dollars for that home.  My mother died in that home and it was sold in 1989 only after my father was no longer able to fend for himself. They could have sold that home at any time during those 33 years and made many times over what they originally paid. But that was never in their plans. My father was heartbroken when he left that home.

Likewise, selling for a windfall was never in the plans of many of my parent’s neighbors. When I finally sold the house many of the families whose children I played with in the fifties when I was a child still lived in those homes. Those homes were something dear to their hearts. They were places not only where they lived but where they stored their memories; where marks on the wall showing the growth of a child or a scrawl in the cement were special remembrances. That 20 year old tree was where their son built his tree house.  To those people, as it is to me, the home is where you go at the end of a hard day of work. It is where you enjoy a meal with your family. It’s where you play with your children and grandchildren. It’s the place where you celebrate special occasions, decorate for the holidays and establish your own family’s traditions. It should be the place that gives you a sense of security and comfort instead of being a source of stress over what it will be worth in the next five years. 

There are two epigraphs that begin this post.  I would prefer to follow Jane Austen’s  sentiment than Kiyosaki’s.  I prefer a simple, stress free, comfortable life unconsumed by greed and the temptations of crossing the ethical border.