When I went to live with my new parents at age two and a half, my favorite activity was to sit on my new Dad’s knee and ask him to tell me a story about when he was little, like me.

My  favorite tale began with how he, Horace Dixie Broom, had acquired enough money, saved from doing neighborhood errands to buy a laying hen and enough feed to keep her clucking and laying eggs which he sold, using the newly gained capital to reinvest in other income producing activities, eventually accumulating enough cash to buy an acre of land on which to grow crops.


I began to suspect that the stories might not be true as the details kept changing; the details changed but the moral did not.

Always, there wa one detail that  in every story remained the same.  My father was a tither and a saver. And his ten percent of the week’s take went to his tiny little church in the tiny little town of Bonham Texas.

And I knew this to be true for he did it still. My parents owned a business but we also had a garden and chickens and concord grapes and a cornfield which we grew on a leased vacant lot. And I was the family sales manager.

Today, I no longer pick peas from the garden nor do I carry baskets of grapes through my neighborhood trying not to eat all the profits before they are sold. I no longer engage in such activities but I write about them and I use the memories and the knowledge to help me sell the products that I do have.

And I have a bowl of grapes on my desk which I will reach for right…now…   Ummmm.


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