No Armored Cars At Cemeteries

“He’s the richest man in St. Michael’s Cemetery,” my father said to me about Old Man Ryan. The guy owned some rather important land, which had been sold to a rather important developer for some rather important money. But, sorry to say, Old Man Ryan found he couldn’t take it with him. There were no armored cars at the cemetery.

I don’t begrudge someone having money; I certainly don’t mind *me* having a little stockpile of dead presidents on green pieces of paper. The coin of the realm is always welcome in my little home by the side of the road. Like Dolly Levi, in the musical, snuggling up to her cash register, “It’s a little lumpy, but it rings.”

Yet, I wonder about these rich people whose wealth is measured in far more than they can possibly spend. Money is meant to be used, like food.

Maybe it’s a million dollars, maybe more, maybe lots less. But there’s no sense at all in having $50 million late in life when all you can do with it is have your accountant tell you how much you have. Scrooge McDuck was like that: large buildings full of money, but too cheap to have fun with it.

H. L. Hunt, the billionaire, went to his grave having never given a cent to charity; he was afraid it might somehow benefit the communists. Others worked hard until they died and I wonder if they ever thought of the vacations they missed because they put everything off in search of that extra million.