Czar Red #3

My father was the eighth son born to a poor Irish Catholic family; since he was old enough to hold his own spoon he ate quickly to ensure his brothers' didn't steal his meal . My mother’s house along with the few possessions her family could afford burnt up in a house fire when she was thirteen.

Wealth did not come easy when they were older either. My parents were married when my mother was still in high school. They lived in a trailer infested with bugs until I was four. In the winter, my mom made crochet snakes filled with beans to tuck in the door cracks to stop the wind. In the summer when she was pregnant with my brother, she sat in a baby swimming pool to escape the blistering heat.

They were dedicated to providing a better life for themselves and their children. A long the way they became embittered with the hard labor, the sacrifices, or perhaps, just became consumed by their own desire. They aren’t rich now, but they are sitting comfortably on the middle class couch of luxury.

I was never hungry or neglected and certainly never went without something important. I’ve always sensed, however, that my parents were too intimate with their money. They were too quick to scream at spilled milk and too slow to share. I never had allowance, although I did more chores than any of my friends. I didn’t get a car from them – not even a hunk-a-junk. I worked for three summers to buy my own with cash. I didn’t go to the college I wanted to because it wasn’t free and “mom didn’t even go to college.”

My parents were always generous with love which is of course much more important. However, they let their desire for wealth guide their life and their relationships and I was always forced to feel its presence.

When my brother needed a loan, I offered it to him – half of my summer’s income – just to prove that I wasn’t my parents. Its been a year already and no repayments and I haven't bugged him about it once. I'd rather help my brother in need than moan about the money.