"If you're ever in Cody, Wyoming," I said to him lazily, "just ask for Wild Bill."
Well, I wish I could say that I was in the same boat as Vonnegut. Certainly, when I was younger, I dreamed of being a wealthy, bestselling author with houses in the Midwest and the coasts. When other kids would tell teachers they wanted to be firefighters or police officers or lawyers or doctors, I told my teacher, "I want to be a Nobel Prize-winning writer." I did.
Well, Vonnegut and O'Hare, who never expected to have any money, are extremely well-to-do. I, who always wanted swimming pools and cars and houses as a child, am a poet working three different jobs to make ends meet. I'm not complaining. I know that I'm lucky. I see homeless people on the streets of Marquette, and I REALLY know that I'm lucky.
Wealth, as we all know, is not a measure of happiness. Last night, I went out to dinner with my wife and kids. We laughed and talked and ate. It was a wonderful night, and there wasn't even a plate of caviar in sight. I felt really wealthy last night. Tired, but rich.
I would love to be able to buy my kids everything on their Christmas lists. I would give my left leg to be able to take my wife back to Hawaii for a second honeymoon. On my daughter's birthday this Tuesday, I wish I could have a new car sitting in the driveway for her, with a big red bow on its hood. I would love to do all of that for my family.
I can't.
What I can do is write a poem, telling my wife that her love is the pavement underneath my feet every day. Help my daughter with an essay for her English class. Run a race around the house with my son, letting him win. On Christmas Eve, set out the pile of presents (some of them maybe from Goodwill), knowing that my kids feel loved and wanted.
Saint Marty guesses he has a lot of treasures in his life, even if they aren't from the Swedish Academy.
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