When I was growing up I, like most kids, didn’t really know if I was rich or poor, wealthy or not.  I just knew my life.  But as I grew a bit older I found friends who lived in smaller houses and apartments.  I found friends who lived in big mansions too.  I found friends who scraped by, friends who went to private school and summered on exclusive islands.
But I didn’t really know where I stood until the day we went to our housekeeper Libby’s home (that tells you something right there. I didn’t even know having a housekeeper put you in a certain economic class). All I knew was she had worked for us in Maryland when I was a baby and now was working for us in California after my mother had my younger sister.  

I loved her because she told me some day I would be able to beat up my older sister and that if I ate too many oreos I would turn into one.  I could think of worse fates.  I also liked that she lived in my room with me for a few weeks when my sister was first born.  I had a huge downstairs game room with a bunk bed. She slept on the bottom bunk, I on the top.  It was great fun.

I had never been so dumbfounded as the moment we drove up to her house.  In my eyes it was a completely run down house just this side of being a shack.  I really truly felt like she shouldn’t live there, that it was probably really dangerous and it wasn’t right. I thought we should have her continue to live with us. It was a shock to my 10 year old system.


That’s when I first realized not everyone lived like we did.  It was the beginning of me understanding money and being rich or poor.  But it took me quite a bit longer to even start to learn what it means to be truly wealthy.  I am still learning that one, again and again.