My great-grandfather, born in the midst of the War Between the States, rose up through hard manual labor and modest investment from small farm subsistence to urban comfort, entering the 20th century with hope and promise. He was able to send my grandfather and also one of the hired men from the farm to university. At the age of 66, when he should have been able to enjoy the fruits of his labors, he was caught up in another age of speculation. From Wall Street to the White House, promises were made that sounded too much like those of our own times. 1929 brought an end to that era of speculation, and my grandfather moved from seeming wealth to poverty, home ownership to renting a portion of a farm house, doing odd jobs, and helping to fill the table from a backyard garden he tended until he was 93. Not the vision for his last 29 years that was promised by the developers and speculators.
But he was wise enough to see how he had been fooled. Wise enough to remind me, when I was a boy, that the only things you can really count on are the gifts of creation, the work of your life, and the wise use of what you produce by your own hands. Every thing else is speculation, no more real than a promised breeze on a sultry summer day.
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