Being of the “old school,” the subject of money affects me in a different way: memories of depression years, five cent apples sold on the corners, bread lines, cold winters without coal, hot summers without a fan, sweat shops and no money for trolley fare to go to the beach and cool off.
Money was important then, and important now, but for different reasons. My home has central heating, air conditioning, and I have a fine car. Warm coats and lined shoes even make walking a lark.
Then why am I not satisfied? Am I not better off than I was as a child? No matter how secure I may be now I still can feel those cold mornings getting ready for school, my mother warming our feet on hot water bottles; the unbearably humid summers, the water dripping in the pan under the ice box and the food inside hardly keeping because the heat seemed to penetrate through those doors; sleeping in a small room with one window facing a small courtyard and my two brothers and my sister and I taking turns for the bed nearest the window.
So why does money seem so important now? I can’t buy those years back. I don’t live that way now, and hope I never will. But were I to have ten times as much as I do now the memories would not be erased.
What would a dollar have meant to me 40 years ago? Count the ways.
What could a dollar bring me now? You know the answer.
What will a dollar bring me tomorrow? That’s anyone’s guess.
But I still cling to my security and the fear is still there. My children tell me, “Mom, you worry too much.” They’re right.
I now worry for them. In a land of plenty they will not want so why do I worry? Can someone tell me, please?
