Essays and Rants


I am rich, but not wealthy.

I have no fiscal liquidity or hidden barrel of cash; my mattress is not stuffed with legal tender nor do I have a Swiss bank account.

I am on a fixed income; always more month at the end of the money and always a chance to invent new ways to stretch the food.

But I am rich. Rich in the things that make life worth living, even if it’s a white-knuckling roller coaster sometimes….I have people who live me, and there’s nothing better than that.

For a long time, I denied the need of anything more than “close association” with people.  I was a collector, not a participant.  Removed like that from emotional responsibility, I thought it would be easier when things went bad.  Much easier to simply doff my hat, pick up my toys and vamoose to the next town, the next life.

Life was a series of pages turning…a strange grouping of little one-act dramas to be performed then packed away into steamer trunks before moving along.

Lately, I’ve been cursed or blessed with nostalgia; memories weaving pictures on the back of my mind.  They remind me that life has been good, can be good again.

Money is not the true measure of a person’s worth….in the final analysis, we’re all going to leave this life as we came into it-naked and wanting our momma.

The true yardstick is simple; it’s all about love.

If you’ve loved honestly and are loved, you’re rich as can be.

Money is just paper to burn.

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