As an undergraduate at Penn State, I became involved with the campus newspaper, The Daily Collegian. Our newsroom was housed in the Carnegie Building, a venerable old relic from the early 1900s. I never gave much thought to the building’s name, figured it had something to do with Andrew Carnegie, who was a Rich Guy who lived Back When.

I did know that Carnegie Building had been the university’s first free-standing library building, and it seemed appropriate that the School of Communications should inherit Carnegie Building (the largest school of communications in the country, who knew?).

Fast forward a few decades and I’ve just finished a biography of Andrew Carnegie, who was, in his day… the richest man in the world, richer by far than the oligarchs we have underfoot these days. He was the son of a Scottish weaver put out of work by technical advances in loom design. The family emigrated to Pittsburgh in 1848, where they had friends and relatives already established in the United States.

Carnegie rose to great wealth through a combination of luck (tons and tons of luck), charm, genuine business smarts, and sheer ruthlessness. His schtick was making steel, and he happened into that business at a time when America was building infrastructure at a phenomenal rate. Railways, bridges, skyscrapers, military vessels… all required tons and tons of steel, and Carnegie cornered the market, largely because eastern European immigrants were willing to work under hideous conditions rather than starve. Then too, he benefited enormously from protectionist tariffs levied to keep the American steel industry from having to compete with established suppliers overseas.

The Sherman Anti-trust Act owes much to men like Carnegie who colluded endlessly to enrich themselves and one another at the expense of their employees and customers.

But at the age of thirty-seven, Carnegie stepped away from active business. He turned over his companies to managers, he started looking for a buyer for what would become his U.S. Steel stock (John Pierpont Morgan took the bait many years later), and he began giving away enormous sums of money. He made it his public mission to give away staggering sums, funding all manner of public and academic libraries, technical schools, university posts, museums, and “Hero Funds,” to support the survivors of those who’d lost their lives trying to save others.

He also became an outspoken and tireless advocate for peace, using his social stature to presume on six different presidents more or less at will. He became an object of ridicule in old age, because men like Teddy Roosevelt regarded peace advocacy as so much impractical ranting from clueless dreamers. This did not stop Roosevelt from asking Carnegie for huge sums to fund a year long big game “research” hunt, and Carnegie came through.

This book did not sit well with me, in part because Carnegie was so contradictory. Maybe fiction writing and reading–or the news trying to impersonate entertainment?– has conditioned me to look for characters who fit into simple functional roles–protagonist, sidekick, mentor, antagonist. But I was also struck by the fact that this one small man (5 foot 3) was worth much more than any of our present day oligarchs in constant dollars, and he chose to use his wealth to found more than 1700 libraries in North America alone. One of his charitable foundations was responsible for the grant that resulted in Sesame Street and the Children’s Television Workshop.

His influence is nigh incalculable, as both a philanthropist, and as an example of a capitalist who could justify taking lives (ten workers were killed when strikebreakers were brought in to the Homestead Mill) for the sake of… money?

In any case, I found Carnegie’s tale important both for the good he did and the evil he perpetrated, but his story isn’t well known. If we included his Gospel of Wealth in our economics curricula (essentially, Rabbie Burns socialism under the guise of noblesse oblige), would we be where we are? Would we be in a worse place yet?

The book made me think and question some of my assumptions, and that’s a good thing. What important life stories have you come across that either inspired or troubled you?

PS: Look who finally got a cover!

I have plowed my way into what I call a compression phase, when the to-do’s pile up, the unforeseen must-do’s crowd in, and it’s an especially good idea (and hard) to stay organized. I knew I was ramping up efforts in the certified therapeutic riding instructor direction, and I knew I had teaching-how-to-write gigs in early April and late May. (I am not at all sure how I ended up with book releases back to back in April and May, though. Very puzzling.)

I did not know yard guy and I would part ways, and that I’d have to acquire, learn how to wrangle, and build into the schedule use of, a riding mower, blower, and weed whacker (all electric because I said so). This will doubtless change how I look at my flower gardening this year (perennials, here I come), but the weeds will come along in fine style no matter what I do. I own a very fertile two acres.

And then allergy season turned into, “Caught you a virus, sister,” season. Then the internet service provider (the one available where I live) crapped out and we have no word when service will be restored. Thank the heavenly powers for the ability to hotspot from my iPhone.

All of which is to say, things are busy, and except for the bug I caught, busy in a pretty good way. I’m doing the stuff I love to do (writing first thing most days; the occasional lunch with writing, horsing, or life buddies; ending each day with good reading). The yard work is something I used to do and can enjoy again, now that I have the right tools. The instructor certification process has taught me a lot and put me in the company of wonderful horses and great people.

BUT as I make my to-do lists every night, I’m feeling a little daunted. Those lists are long, and they are getting that hyper-detailed, don’t-forget-anything quality that suggests anxiety and overwhelm. Boo, hiss, wurra, wurra on anxiety and overwhelm. Those monsters tend to be very bad for the writing, I must not let them rule the day.

So I started making another list, and in the grand tradition this one has five things on it. This is my “For You,” list. I put on it small gestures and moments I can build into the day that send the message: You’re fine. There’s time for you to take care of yourself. No need to push any harder.

Stuff like: Linger in the shower for an extra couple minutes. Pick a bouquet of yard flowers for the bathroom. Have one of those cups of tea just sitting on the porch steps talking to the cats. Stop at the battlefield overlook on your way home from lunch and just breathe for a few minutes. Post something that encourages another writer (because when we are kind, WE feel empowered, and well we should).

I might not hit everything on the For You list, but even looking for the places in my day where I can pull over and pause makes the rest of my activity feel less like an obstacle course to be completed, day after day.

What are a few little moments you could add to your day if it feels like the to-do list is stealing your confidence and peace?

To earn the therapeutic riding instructor certification I’m pursuing takes a lot of steps. One requirement is for volunteer hours at a certified therapeutic riding facility, another is student teaching hours. You must also spend time demonstrating your knowledge of horse care for both well and unwell horses. A first aid certification figures early in the process as does a test of professional standards applicable to the discipline.

The list is long and complicated, and one of the items near the end is a video of you “demonstration teaching” a particular riding pattern.

In the twenty minutes allotted for this exercise, you as the instructor are supposed to hit about a 100 points of riding pedagogy. How exactly do we cue the horse to shift from standing still to walking? Walking to trotting? Trotting back to walking?

Blah, blah, blah, and the video cannot be edited in any manner. You either nail this video, or you are denied permission to take the final tests. No pressure.

I am very fortunate that another barn friend is working toward certification at the same time I am. We were airing our frustrations recently–this process is demanding–and he asked me, “So what will you get our demonstration rider by way of a thank you gift?”

Huh? “Erm… I’ll have to give that some thought.” [Our demonstration rider deserves the very best Gran Prix jumper on the planet.)

My friend went off on a flight about gift baskets, gift certificates, maybe both, and of course the videographer deserves a thank you too. For her he had another bushel of keen thank you ideas.

I felt kinda slapped up side the head. He was thinking of thank yous, I was thinking of my next heartfelt bellyache. At another point in our discussions, he mentioned that he’d bought a bottle of champagne to open when he completed all of his pre-final test requirements.

Not for when he earned the certification, which he will do, but for when he was staring down the barrel of the final exam.

“What if you flunk?” I asked, because about a third of the people taking the test do flunk, and every one of those good souls completed all the preliminary rigamarole I’m still grinding away at.

“I’ve flunked so many tests in my life. I’ll take the stinkin’ thing again if I have to. They let you do that.”

My friend has cultivated something beyond a growth mindset. He has that, certainly, but he’s also looking for opportunities to be appreciative and grateful, looking for reasons to celebrate. Looking for solutions rather than focusing on problems and decks that feel stacked.

He has been an inspiration to me, in that we are both trying to solve a problem–how do I get this certification?–but his process is more joyous, grateful, and optimistic than mine. That might be partly personality, but it’s also an attitude that can be cultivated.

This is me, going shopping for some bubbly!

Have you ever been honkin’ along, just doing your usual, when somebody brings you up short with the example they set or the outlook they adopt?

PS: The (formerly) Elusive Earl is now available in print, from the web store, and from the usual retail suspects!

I forget where I came across this idea, but it has been on my mind lately: We are wired to value what we suffer for. This aspect of human psychology is at least in part behind hazing, boot camp, most fitness programs, freshman weeder courses, and the practice of sending young people on evangelical missions. If you spend 18-24 months having doors slammed in your face, living on a shoestring, homesick, and subjected to rigid social strictures, you are set up to conclude that the inspiration for all those miseries must be a pretty worthy part of life.

A pernicious corollary is the notion of no pain/no gain.

In my life, I can certainly see the “if I’m suffering for this cause, it must be worthy” mechanism at work in parenting. Nothing wrung me out emotionally, physically, or financially, like being a single mom. I don’t think I have another slog like that in me, not for any motivation on this earth… except maybe my grand kids? I got caught up in the same rip tide, though, with child welfare lawyering.

That is largely miserable work. An occasional child would be adopted into a good situation where even the birth parents regarded the outcome as optimal all concerned, but the opposite scenario–abuse in foster homes, children’s lives ending tragically, social workers betraying trust, judges making stupid decisions for stupid reasons–was too often the case. But I stayed at my oar for 25 years, thinking that it was “important” work, and I knew how to do it, so I should spare others from having to take it on.

What has been puzzling me lately is that this dynamic–if I’m suffering for it, it must be a worthy relationship/institution/cause–typically pops up in precisely the areas where maintaining some objective judgment, or keeping a healthy boundary, is particularly important. We suffer for family, for the company that employs us, for the church that never seems to have enough volunteers or money, no matter what its bank balance is or how many seemingly not-so-busy people attend services.

On the one hand, I can see where this retrofitting of meaning onto suffering saves us from feeling stupid and betrayed, but on the other hand, when we are being foolish and being betrayed, we need to see pointless or unjust suffering for exactly what it is.

Have you ever talked yourself into sticking with a painful situation because “the work/relationship/cause is important,” only to heave yourself free eventually, and realize you should have walked much sooner?

I’ve sent out my ARCs for The Elusive Earl, and he’s already on sale in the web store  and in print (Friday he’ll be available from the retail sites), but give me a couple weeks, and I’ll be putting together the ARC file for A Gentleman of Questionable Judgment!

I know the pandemic is truly in the rear view mirror because writers are starting to get together for conferences again. Not the monster cons of yore, which only about twenty venues in the whole country could accommodate, but nice little get togethers at the retreat or single-hotel level.

I agreed to participate in one of those gatherings near my home (DC and Baltimore are both handy), and arrived the night before I was supposed to present. I needed the time to get back in conference mode, where reading name tags without appearing to and listening over a lot of conversations in noise-bouncing rooms are mandatory skills. I also did not want to leave the venue to find dinner, which would have necessitated driving in suburban DC. That activity belongs on my un-bucket list, so I just invited another name-tag-wearing writer to join me at the hotel restaurant.

I did not in fact catch her name, She’s of mature years, a doctor on hiatus from the chaos of American medicine, originally from West Virginia, and very interested in Regency history. We talked and talked, about the parallels between the Regency’s notorious Six Acts and the current sitch. About older women being pushed out and taking healthy organizational culture with them. About too many older men facing a bleak terrain (partly of their own making) after retirement.

I came away from dinner having been pushed to listen reflectively rather than defensively, having been challenged to look for areas of common perspective and areas where my perspective was too narrow. I felt heard at times, and once I even laughed out loud. My conference skills are rusty. I can’t read people all that well, I’m not as schmoove with my small talk as I wish I were, but I was reminded at the dinner table that it’s good for me to sit down with strangers from time to time. Really good.

Of course, a conference is an ideal place to do that. I’m guaranteed some mutual topics of interest, my usual obligations are for the most part parked at home, and I’m safely in public the whole time. I was struck though, by how few places in my life, and in American life in general, are good places to pass the time with strangers. Six days a week, most of us either work or worship with the same people. Americans also don’t have a “local,” a watering hole that’s part club part hideout.

Why build a society like that, where it’s hard to find new connections, or is this a personal problem, that I can solve by joining a reading group or hanging out at the library? Hanging out at the basketball court in the park? Where do we have fertile ground for new connections that are safe enough to be inviting and novel enough to be interesting? Where do I find such settings–if anywhere–in my books?

Thus am I inspired to ask new questions and investigate new answers, because I had a lovely dinner with a stranger. When was the last time an encounter with a stranger brightened your day? Have you been the day-brightening stranger?

PS: I’ve already sent out the first batch of Advanced Reader Files for The Elusive Earl, book three in the Bad Heir Day Tales series, and the print version has gone live as well. If you’d like an ARC file, please let me know at graceburrowes@yahoo.com. I do have an ARC limit, but we’re not quite there yet!

I was well into adulthood before I understood how much my mother used movement, activity, doing stuff, to manage her emotions. Rage, anxiety, frustration, love… for Mom, all of it was expressed in action. She was infamous for visiting her adult children and re-arranging entire rooms of furniture without a nod in the direction of asking permission.

She cooked as if the Foreign Legion were in town and short of rations, and her house was always tidy. In later life–I mean her mid-80’s–when she had only one house and my dad to look after, she took three and four mile walks six days a week, and those routes had a lot of hills.

Welp, I did not get those energizer bunny genes. I (and I alone in my family) got the genes that make me a champion sitter-downer. Younger authors ask me the secret to my productivity and I want to say to them, “I have a natural capacity for physical sloth.” It helps that I like words too, though truly, my mother could not have endured the amount of sitting I do to get a book written.

But I know the road to senility is paved with comfy chairs, so I do try to get in a certain number of steps every day, and I do try to sit on a horse occasionally. I look after my flowers and so forth. But even the piddly little exertions I achieve are no fun (with the exception of horseback riding) and never get any easier.

So I have to be cagey about coaxing myself out of my writing chair. “C’mon, Grace. You just wrote a great rough draft of a scene. Lunch time has come and gone. Time to go for a toddle!”

I don’t wanna go for a toddle.

“Now, now. You don’t want to go to the home for feeble-minded authors any sooner than you have to, so up and at ’em Gracey-poo.”

I went for a danged toddle yesterday, and don’t call me Gracey-poo, Sister Mary Grace.

This goes on nigh daily, but of late, after a very sedentary winter, I scrounge up the self-regard to go for a walk, provided that me, my inner cranky toddler, and I agree that it’s to be a short walk. This is when the real strategy kicks in. I get started, and it’s not awful to walk my neighborhood, in fact it’s very pretty and peaceful. Long about when I can see the agreed-upon turn around point (a mere one thousand steps from my mailbox), the dialogue resumes.

“You did it. You got up and boogied, and this is wonderful of you. But you know, it’s only a couple more telephone poles to the bottom of the hill, and it is downhill, and there’s no headwind. Why not just do a couple more telephone poles?”

I walk to the bottom of the hill, and then the next two telephone poles are a level stretch, so why not do that too, and then it’s only two more telephone poles to the cross-roads…

By keeping my initial expectations very low, and jollying myself along by inches, I get in at least a thirty-minute walk, including some hills. If I said to myself, “You will walk two miles after the daily writing session. Three, two, one…” No walk would happen. Ask me how I know that.

Do you resort to self-management strategies? Offer yourself rewards or make bargains with your inner I-don’t-wanna? Do tell!

My property is bounded on two sides by good old farm country hedgerows. These innocuous looking strips of trees and bushes want you to think they will mind their own business, century after century, but that’s a flaming falsehood. Hedgerows are after world domination. Just leave one unattended for two years, and you’ll see the evidence.

So when I fenced the barn-side of my property, I knew enough to leave a wide strip of grass between the fence and the hedgerow. Mowing is the first defense against relentless encroachment. Very wise of me, except that when my old yard guy retired, and the new guy took over, I did not specifically inspect his work on that side of the pasture. He didn’t bother mowing the strip, and the hedgerow soon ate up the grass.

Several years pass, and I point out to yard guy that it’s time to get the hedgerow in hand. Too many dead trees ready to clobber the fence, too many saplings growing up through the fence boards, and yikes, the poison ivy is having a such a good time…

Yard guy quotes me big thousands to a) remove 270 feet of still-functional three-board oak fence and haul it away, b) bring in huge tree-eating equipment and reduce all unwanted specimens to sawdust (while alas, also killing my two baby apple trees), and c) rebuilding the fence with new materials.

I am furious. His neglect of a job competently done is why the hedgerow has become a menace, though granted, I did not inspect what I expected, because any damned fool knows… I thank him for the quote, tell him it’s out of my range, have a nice day. See you in the spring.

I fumed, I walked up and down that fence line. I said bad words aloud. Went into the hardware store, asked the nice man for the sissy-est electric power saw in the store. The puniest, littlest, most ridiculous excuse for a power saw, and he set me up with a pee-wee glorified hedge trimmer.

Here’s the thing: I am afraid of power tools. They are loud, sharp, and dangerous, and where I live, I could bleed out before anybody besides the turkey buzzards noticed a body by the road (writer’s imagination strikes again). But I was not going to pay that guy thousands of books worth of revenue to vastly over-do what amounted to a day’s clean up job.

I read the power saw manual (with a magnifying glass), fired up the saw, and got to work. Within about twenty minutes, I was thinking maybe I could manage a larger saw. I have repulsed the invading saplings, cut the poison ivy off at that roots, freed the fence of dropped branches, and generally given the hedgerow’s nefarious aspirations a middle finger. And when a tree dropped on the fence this week, I called the guy who tills my garden, and he knew a guy who knew a guy, and the mess was cleaned up for a modest price the next afternoon.

The punchline to this story was that when I got angry enough, when I felt sufficiently disrespected, I took a small step outside my comfort zone, and got a boost in self-respect (and arm muscles) to show for it. I problem-solved in addition to seething, and that felt and feels good.

The hedgerow still has plenty of dead trees to drop on the fence, and I am still scared of power tools, but if I’ve made my point to one over-quoting yard guy, then I am content.

When did you get mad enough to walk away? Mad enough to take scary steps? Mad enough to say the scary words?

I did not much grieve the closing of my law practice. The law wasn’t my first career (the piano holds that honor), and I had the happy prospect of writing more books to keep my focus forward. Then too, I had a trip to Australia and New Zealand planned for my first month free of the courtroom, and holy Ned, was that a wonderful excursion.

But in the past few months, I’ve become aware of grief in a different way. It started when I qualified for Medicare, and was faced with a decision along the lines of, “You have to make this change now, or you could be dinged for it for the rest of your life.” I do not like being told what to do, but if there’s a certainty in this life, it’s that old people need good medical care.

Then I had to have a back tooth pulled. When my four impacted wisdom teeth came out, that was just a weekend spent in the company of Tylenol and old movies. The most recent extraction was… you’d have thought I was losing some typing fingers, not a part of me that’s honestly expendable and invisible to others. The problem, I came to believe, was the sense that my molar was a harbinger of the Great Decline–a harbinger I could not minimize, ignore, or rationalize away. This upset me.

Now I’m aware of smaller griefs. Thinning hair, and hair that doesn’t do what I tell it to. The sad day has not yet come, but I am steeling my nerves for that moment when I must buy and use… bobby pins. The last person I knew who used bobby pins was my granny and she was literally blue-haired.

When I cannot hear what a riding instructor says in the arena, I must consider that the problem is not that she’s ten yards off and facing away from me while my saddle squeaks and the horse thumps along, but rather, that I’m losing my hearing. My mom did, (lost her teeth too). My dad kept his teeth and his hearing, but lost his hair. Just my luck…

I now owe it to those around me to operate with a chronic level of self doubt: Did I hear you correctly? Do I smell OK? (COVID delivered a hit to olfaction). Do I look pathetic running around the grocery store in my riding duds at my age?

We have no rituals for these merit badges of decline, no compensatory consolations that raise us in the eyes of society or in our own eyes, so I’m just winging it, one ding and dent at a time. Part of my response has been simply to acknowledge that yeah, bobby pins weren’t on the schedule, and hair that goes all Cookie Monster on humid days is an adjustment. Three pairs of glasses to get through the day, same.

Lots of adjustments, so keep that old courage and resilience and gratitude handy, Grace Ann. On the good days, the dings and dents are balance by lots of humor, a good sense of who I am regardless of the space suit going out of warranty, and an increased appreciation for all that’s still working and still reliably mine to claim. I am also especially comforted by my siblings, writing peers, and barn buddies. We are aging as gracefully as we can, dammit, and like toddlers and teenagers, we are entitled to the occasional moody, rebellious, or pouting day.

This too shall pass, as shall even the need for three pairs of glasses.

Has life presented you with small griefs? Have you found any consolations you’d care to share?

I allow myself one mid-day scroll through Facebook these days, and invariably, I log off in disgust. Endless numbers of Very Smart People wax Very Articulate about current events, most of their posts conveying panic and doom. Our brains are wired to pay attention to panic and doom, and thus the behaviors–both posting that material and reading it–are reinforced by our biology.

Away I go, another day dragged down by current events. When only four percent of the American public support our current stance regarding Ukraine, I have to conclude that those who rejoice in the present state of affairs are fewer and fewer (albeit quite vocal).

So here we are, afraid to look away, afraid to hope, and many of us, afraid to speak up.

I am also disgusted with myself. I know exactly what will happen when I log into Facebook–more daunting facts, even more daunting reactions to those facts, the occasional smug troll or clueless innocent troll. Botheration. Spending time there solves nothing and yields big tech all manner of personal data about me that they are merrily selling on every corner of Wall Street. Another hour wasted, Grace Ann, and for what?

What I want from the wise people commenting on the current scene is a) hope for better days, and b) an actionable path for bringing those days closer. The oracles don’t seem to offer much of either, but then, I’m looking for inspiration on social media, where the algos spread gloom and despair by design. Then too, the Very Wise People who can describe all the reasons we’re doomed weren’t wise enough to see this coming or find us an off ramp, so how wise are they really?

Not wise enough, says a grouchy me. So where to turn for inspiration? Welp, my parents come to mind, maybe yours do too, or your grandparents. My folks lived through the Depression, which for them lasted well over a decade. My mom was a nurse during WWII, my dad served in the Navy, and yes, he saw combat. They watched the Korea War, and sent a firstborn son to Vietnam amid the assassinations (plural) of the sixties, the white supremacist thuggery in response to the Civil Rights Act, and the criminal debacle of Watergate.

The first time I saw my mother cry was when President Kennedy was assassinated, and there was more and worse of that to come.

How did my parents cope with all that violence, upheaval, corruption, and hardship? How did they get up in the morning and go about their days in a world that repeatedly went mad?

Well, they did drink and smoke, and I am convinced that both forms of substance abuse were palliative. Drinking in particular was also social. Mom and Dad entertained a lot and those were well lubricated occasions. They cherished friendships, they worked hard, they respected each other, and they focused on the challenges immediately before them, despite the bad and worse news.

They kept going, they watched Walter Cronkite, and they folded the laundry and had the new graduate students over for dinner (representing, as best I recall, Finland, Algeria, Japan, and the US).

Our elders did what they could, day after day. My parents managed to raise their seven children and enjoy a long and peaceful retirement. Their “keep on keepin’ on” strategy worked, in other words, and I am taking a leaf from their book: Get up and deal with the challenges of my day, despite all the voices clamoring for panic and despair. Look after my friends and family. Read good books and write good books because that’s my happy place, and get the news in manageable doses from only highly credible, fact-based sources. I also donate where I think it will do some good, and try to listen more than I talk.

So how are you keeping your balance these days? Are any particular role models assisting with that process?

PS: Things to look forward to: Pretty soon, time for ye old ARC list for The Elusive Earl. I’ll send out to my regular commenters, per usual.

I have been thinking lately about what I need to be happy. My perspective is not, “How little could you live on?” though that’s always an interesting question, but more, “If you had all the money in the world, but still didn’t have ___________, could you be as happy as you are now?” (I’m pretty happy in recent years.)

This is a thought experiment, and my conclusions might vary widely from reality, but I think if I could not have regular, lengthy, quiet times of solitude, I’d quickly grow  miserable. My ideal companions are cats who sleep sixteen hours a day. Comforting presences without much noise or movement. Those stretches of hermiting are how I recover from stress, cope with new developments, germinate ideas, and ponder the big questions. I’d lose my balance and make dumb mistakes if I didn’t have my hermit time.

I need animals in my life. Cats work well, horses are a privilege. I love me a friendly dog, and the singing of birds just lifts my spirits. My property is also home to skunks, possums, raccoons (not my fave), and lots of small mammals plus the occasional shy snake. The neighborhood hosts a bear every few years, and white tail deer lurk in my hedgerow.

The sight of big trees, or greenery in general is a necessity that I take for granted until I’m out west, and homesick for verdure. My flower beds are a later-in-life joy that all the money in the world could not convince me to give up. Good books fall into the same category. My family, too, of course. I don’t see as much of them as I’d like, but they are with me in my heart, and I am with them.

I’m tempted to add the creature comforts–starting my day with the perfect cup of tea–but those come after the soul food. We are seeing more and more of the people who have all the money in the world, but when I look at those guys, I wonder, “Are you even happy, Mr. ManyBucks? You don’t look, sound, or act happy to me, and no part of me wants to be you or have your money.”

My wealth isn’t my money. I like having enough money to meet basic needs, and hope I always do, but my wealth is a healthy-enough body, loving family, and a life mostly on my terms with my modest comforts at hand.

What is your wealth?