A MODERN FAIRY TALE

Once upon a time there was a family: a Papa Bear and a Mama Bear, who lived frugally with their 4 cubs in a modest home. Papa Bear had always worked and Mama Bear, from the time the youngest cub was 2, worked 2 part-time jobs in addition to taking care of the cubs and baking and cooking meals from scratch. Mama Bear bought all of the cubs' clothes and toys at resale shops and the only vacations they took were occasional weekend camping trips, along with a 1 or 2 week camping trip in the summer, when Papa Bear could get away from his job.

When the cubs got older Mama Bear got recertified to teach because she had done such a great job with her 4 cubs that they were all college-bound, erudite and well-spoken bears that she and Papa Bear were extremely proud of having raised. She reasoned that since she loved to teach teenagers, an age group that few seem to enjoy interacting with, that she could devote the rest of her life to teaching other cubs how to express themselves in an intelligent manner. Boy, was she wrong! The students she subbed for loved her, responding to her respect for them; the powers-that-be, not so much. After many years of filling out applications, all of which had multiple essay questions to answer, she became despondent when her words seemed to disappear into a black hole and interviews rarely happened; the only teachers who got hired had degrees so new the ink hadn't dried yet.

Meanwhile, the cubs were all in college and the only way Papa Bear and Mama Bear could help them out was by taking out a second mortgage on their family home, in addition to taking out parental student loans. Papa Bear continued to work long hours and Mama Bear added a third part-time job in order for them to pay all of their mounting bills; she even stopped dying her fur to same money, and tried to be proud of her silver and gray colors, telling herself she had earned them. Even their vacations shrank down from two weeks in the summer to just one week of camping, and the weekends to de-stress became fewer and farther between.

One day Papa Bear came home early with a cat-that-swallowed-the-canary grin on his face. Mama Bear was concerned that he had become unhinged after losing his job. Instead in a voice choking with excitement, he told her he had bought a lottery ticket on a whim, and had won ten million dollars! Mama Bear burst into tears that he would try to play such a cruel joke on her. But it was true! They had more money than either of them had ever expected to have! They called all of the cubs, leaving messages for them, and Mama Bear called her night job and said she was too ill to come to work that night. Because the real truth was that she was sick and tired of people treating her like a servant, expecting her to put up with their abuse so they could feel better about themselves, when all she was being paid to do was to sell them stuff.

Papa Bear and Mama Bear went out to dinner then talked long into the night about what changes to make in their lives. They called a friend whose cub Mama Bear used to do daycare for, and got investment advice. They resolved to pay off both of their mortgages and sell the family home, since only two of the cubs were still living there, and both were old enough to move out. They paid off all of their credit cards and repaid all of the student loans they and the cubs had already incurred. They bought a piece of land up in the north woods of Wisconsin near a lake, and moved into the small home that had a big enough garage for their 2 trucks and Papa Bear's canoe, as well as the boat he planned to buy.

Papa Bear and Mama Bear quit all of their jobs and moved up north. Papa Bear enrolled in a local college to get the degree he had never been able to afford to get earlier in his life. Mama Bear spent long hours at her laptop, producing novels of romance and sci-fi. Her sales reflected the number of books she was publishing as well as the time she spent promoting them. She still dreamed of one day becoming a best-selling author, but at least she no longer had quarters where her sales were so paltry that it wasn't worth it for the publisher to even cut her a check.

The cubs all graduated from their colleges and got jobs and apartments, to begin their adult lives secure in the knowledge that if they needed help, Papa Bear and Mama Bear had the resources to do so. Papa Bear discovered he had a flair for nature photography and began to sell his pictures to various magazines and e-zines.

And when all of the cubs came to visit for holidays, Papa Bear and Mama Bear would sit in the midst of the chaos of family that their love for each other had created, and smile private smiles to each other, knowing that they no longer had to fear dying at work, apart from each other, from the sheer exhaustion of trying to pay all of their bills.

And they all lived happily-ever-after.

The End.

Money Changes Everything?

We used to play the lottery when we first got married. Our combined income was about a third (maybe a quarter) of what it is now, and yet we found a few dollars to play the lottery. I've noticed it seems to be that way with games of chance-- those who have the least will spend their money in the hopes of winning more. And those who could afford to spend $5 or $10 or even $50 on lottery tickets don't play at all.

I hadn't played the lottery in years until this past week when the Mega Millions (is that what it's called?) was all anyone was talking about. So we stopped by a convenience store on our way home from date night (something we do weekly to the tune of $100, including babysitter) and spent $5 on lottery tickets.

We didn't win. Five sets of numbers and only two of the lottery numbers came up on two different tickets. I wasn't disappointed, didn't even blink. Actually, I forgot to even check the numbers the night of the drawing-- I pulled them from someone's post on Facebook. It was a waste of five dollars, really, and yet we gave into the excitement. The greed? No, because I'm not greedy that way. If I were... well, I wouldn't be a writer if money meant anything to me.

I didn't spend much time fantasizing about how I'd spend the money if I won some crazy sum. Not much would change, just as not much has changed in the twenty-two years since we were making 1/3 or 1/4 of what we make now. I've driven the same car for 20 years, I shop at the same clothing stores, I wear very little jewelry. Vast riches wouldn't suddenly make me a fashion plate, though my husband would most certainly insist I buy a new car. One that doesn't have a leaky roof, at least.

We go out to eat more-- or we did, before two babies entered our lives. Now it's once a week on date night, once every couple of weeks with the kids. That's a lot, compared to the early years when we might have gone out to eat once a month. I can't imagine we'd suddenly eat out every night if we won the lottery. That would grow tiresome, even if we hired a babysitter every night. Which I wouldn't because I like being home with my babies. Maybe a chef? But probably not that, either. I'm not keen on strangers in my house.

Maybe we'd travel more if we had a lot of money-- though with really little children, that also seems unlikely. At least for awhile. Bigger house? Probably not. Someone would have to clean it and, as I said, I'm not one to have strangers in my house. I can't imagine having a staff of people at my beck and call. It would make me uncomfortable.

I'd keep writing, of course. I'll never not write. But I love my computer, I love where I work (the nearby Starbucks), I love what I do. I love my life, mostly. Wealth wouldn't change much for me. Like Lisabet, I'd give away a lot of it. But first I'd pay off the kids' college funds that we've started for them and put money in the bank for them to be secure-- as secure as money can buy. I'd pay off our debts, put more in the retirement fund. Start college funds, build children's playgrounds, create grants for writers, buy a plot of land somewhere and start a writers' retreat. Stuff like that. I'd probably end up being a very eccentric philanthropist, giving piles of cash away like some dotty old grandmother doling out strawberry candies. Sounds like fun, actually.

I'm lucky and I know it. I'm lucky that my life is comfortable. That, even if I have bills and credit card debt, I have a nice house in a middle class neighborhood, plenty of food in the refrigerator and pantry, two cars to drive, health care and a Starbucks gold card with enough money on it to buy my daily coffee. I have clothes and a credit card to buy more. We can afford to take care of our children and buy them clothes and books and toys and too many treats. When they're a little older, we'll be able to afford to take them to Disney World and buy them matching Mickey Mouse ears. I want to take them to London and Paris, too. We can do it, if we put some money aside for a year or so. It won't be a hardship.

I am lucky. The lottery would not change or increase that luck-- you can pour water into a glass all day long and it will only get so full no matter how much water you pour-- and yet I can see the good that could be done with that kind of money. The good I could do with that kind of money. And I wonder why all those who are rich-- the 1% as they've come to be known-- don't realize that. Or do they? I know there are many wealthy people who give their money away. I read recently that J.K. Rowling is no longer a billionaire because she has given away so much of her Harry Potter wealth. Good for her. Warren Buffett has given away much of his wealth, too. There are others. But I think they're in the minority among those who own a fleet of cars and ten houses and gold-plated... everything. Those who think money buys happiness and so they buy and buy and buy.

I'll never get to show the world what I could do with a billion dollars-- or even a million. Not that I lack ambition, but my particular career doesn't make many millionaires and it's unlikely I'll ever be one of them. My luck doesn't run that way and I'm okay with it. But someone did win those many, many millions last weekend. Several people won a lot of money for doing nothing more than buying a ticket for a dollar. And so I hope they realize the wealth they've been given-- the luck they have fallen into-- is more than money, it's a chance to change the world and make it a better place. But what do I know? I don't have a gold-plated anything.

The Red Umbrella

Not all problems can be solved by throwing money at them, but problems caused by a lack of money dissolve like sugar in water when money is added.

Given a large fortune, of course I would take care of myself and those close to me first. (In real life, I used part of my inheritance to make the down-payments on single-story houses for my two stepsons.) Would a luxurious house, frequent trips, fine clothes and a world-class collection of art make me (and my spouse) happy? Not completely.

The world at large needs so much improvement. Spouse has talked about wanting to set up a scholarship program for poor but deserving Latino kids, much like that run by Carlos Santana in the U.S. She also has an interest in those who “fall through the cracks” of systems intended to help them, including those with physical and mental disabilities (to use a label which is often misleading). Those are the people she works with in her current job.

With our unlimited imaginary fortune, Spouse could fund all the causes dear to her heart.

I have my own plan. I’ll call it the Red Umbrella, a foundation for current and former sex workers. Note that this organization would not have the mandate of “rescuing” sex workers from the “degradation” of sex work. Its mandate would be to rescue them from the need for money, a different goal. There would be scholarships for those who want to study or train for any career, including administration and/or accounting (which could qualify them to run successful escort agencies). There would be several conditions: my minions in the sex trade would determine which applicants are really there, and not just money-hungry; scholarship-holders would be free to continue turning tricks while enrolled in academic or training programs, BUT they would have to maintain a certain grade-point average and report their incomes. Quality housing and child-care would be provided.

There would be programs to address the special needs of male and transgender sex workers.

The Red Umbrella would include an educational and lobbying component which would apply pressure to all relevant branches of government to legalize sex work and treat it like other jobs that are taxable and unionized. Health care and pensions should be part of the package.

Do I need to add that the Red Umbrella would sponsor political candidates who include sex workers' rights in their platforms?

The real founder of this movement (me) would not be visible in the media, if it could be avoided. I would do hands-on work while trying to keep my fortune out of the public eye. (This might involve extra expenditures.)

But the Red Umbrella would be all about visibility. Board members would give press conferences about the unsolved murders of sex workers, hire private investigators and keep these cases in the media to an extent that would embarrass communities -- not to mention local & federal police -- into action. (Note: this is how lynching stopped being a socially-acceptable part of the culture of the American South.)

Local chapters of the Red Umbrella would honour the memories of martyred sex workers by naming programs and buildings after them. (Elaine Flowers and Jewel Gambler are two that come to my mind, though even local feminists who oppose violence against women seem to have forgotten them.)

Of course, the ignorati might ask why I’m not using my vast resources to make a dent in all the “isms” (racism, classism, sexism, homophobia, hysterical religious intolerance, etc.). I would answer: Can you think of a better way?

Blackbird

The microwave dings and I pop open the door and carefully take hold of the little clay handles of the dish I always eat out of. I don’t trust these little plastic trays they put microwave meals in. Hell, I don’t trust industrial food period. After my road years I’ve always had a thing for meals made by my own hand or my wife’s. I don’t like to eat fast food anymore. I don’t like industrial food because it makes me feel lonely. A man eating a TV dinner is a lonely thing.

I lift the little clay saucer I use as a lid for the clay bowl, and a blast of spice hits my nose. It reminds me of A&W Root Beer hamburgers when I was a little kid in the late fifties, back when a trip to A&W was a big night out for a poor family and they brought the food to your car on roller skates. The burger came wrapped in colored tin foil and when you opened it up the onion-mustard steam was a heady whiff of the good life.

This is some left over curry from a couple nights ago. I shake out a gob of hot sauce and open a bottle of lemonade I’ve brought, made from real lemons and sugar. I look at the lemonade with pieces of lemon floating in it and the bowl in front of me and emotionally it feels just right. I know this food. I know it personally, because it comes from me. It has soul.

A guy comes into the break room from down the hall and he has some kind of Swanson pot pie. He pops it in the microwave and looks over to see what I have.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

‘So whataya?”

“Curry.” I say. “Leftovers, same old stuff.” Modest me.

“Yeah,” he says, “My wife is taking off for DC this weekend. Going dancing in DC with her friends.”

I feel my cheeks burn. “She’s driving herself to DC?” My wife doesn’t know how to drive, doesn’t want to. “She’s driving herself and her friends to Washington? Just like that?”

“Yeah, some big reunion celebration going at the Sheridan Towers.”

“How long does that take?”

“From Columbia?”

“You live in Columbia?”

“Yeah. It’s about eight hours from Columbia. Give or take.”

I’m trying to imagine what it would be like to be married to woman who knows how to drive and is so independent she can just pack the hell up and drive herself and some friends halfway across the country to go dancing for the weekend.

“You go to Savannah?” he says. “For Saint Patrick’s like I told you?"

“No, I couldn’t make it. You go?”

“Everybody goes to Savannah,” he says. “We were there; stayed in this hotel in town with room service and the parade and ate at this four star place that has these insane crab cakes. Jesus, these crabs, they’re like famous or something. You gotta go there.”

“Yeah, I do,” I mutter, pushing away my fucking bowl of leftover curry. Fucking crab cakes.

“Mega millions tonight,” he says.

“Oh, it is?” I toss my spoon in the orange gunk and cross my arms, waiting for him to get the fuck out.

“Got any?”

“Yeah,” I say “A couple. Good for the Hope Scholarship anyway. Keep my kid’s college going.”

“My daughters in Emory in Atlanta. Studying corporate law. Can you believe that shit?”

“Wow.”

“Condelessa Rice went there. Fuck. Like costs me a fucking fortune every year. Telling you.”

“Tell you what. Those big name schools.”

“Oh yeah. But they’re worth it.”

“That’s what I hear.”

“Kid in college?”

“Local, yeah. Augusta State.”

“Oh,” he says. “That’s good. State’s good. You get to keep an on eye on him.”

“Yep. Gotta keep the ol’ eye on him.”

“So you got a couple? Me too.”

“Yeah, just quick pick.”

“Birthdays,” he says. “That’s my system. So what if you win?”

“You mean the whole jackpot?” I stop and then I have to think. “Buy a fast car.”

“Ever drive a jag?”

“No.”

“The maintenance, shit, the maintenance on that thing kills me.”

“Maintenance.”

“Yeah, it kills you with a Jag unless you lease it.”

“Wow. That’s rough.”

“I lease it.”

“That’s the smart thing to do.”

“Oh yeah.”

He gets his pot pie or whatever it is from the microwave “Catch you later.” He says.

“You too.”

My balls are thoroughly busted.

I don’t even feel like eating anymore. I sip at my lemonade and stare at my cooling leftovers. Guys in suits pass down the hall with women, laughing and talking, off to restaurants to eat together.

Guys do this to each other. I suppose women do too. Guys experience the thrill of their wealth or the beauty of their woman, vicariously through other people, finding some poor loser as a mirror.

The jackpot? What would I do?

I’m sitting in the break room all alone picking at my leftovers and thinking. I’m not thinking about Jaguars. I’m thinking about my dad’s house.

My Dad’s family – version two – lived in an upper middle class house in south Minneapolis. It’s the house he died in. The neighborhood is moderately rich, the way only rich bohemians can make a neighborhood, with lush flower gardens, hand made sculptures, fountains, totem poles and personal flags. They knew each other as a tribe of successful hippies and got together for boozy feasts, costume parties and séances, like modern Victorians. Dad stood out among their ranks like a wise wizard.

His house would have been built around WWII or so. It has a kitchen with a breakfast nook that looks out into the backyard. It’s nice to sit there early in the morning with a book before the house wakes up, and Picky the cat would come and try to bully you out of your seat. There’s a formal dining room with a big table, paintings and a liquor cabinet where guests ate fancy meals Lavonne and Dad made for them. They drank wine and chatted about politics and ideas late into the night. Friends complimented the food, stood, patted their stomachs and groaned and crossed the hallway to the parlor room.

A parlor is an architectural relic from a slower and more elegant time designed for the sole purpose of civil conversation, before the days of Facebook and texting. Dad’s parlor has soft music playing from the classical station, sumptuous sofas and chairs to sink into, tables to rest drinks on, photo albums, a piano, an old pipe rack with a glass humidor that held fragrant pipe tobacco and cigars which Dad waded into when the insurance refused to treat his leukemia. (What the hell, nothing to lose now.) Knowing you’re doomed can be very liberating.

A house with a room to serve food you've made to guests who come to see you.

A house with a room just to sit and talk and only that.

And other rooms, I would have. A room to think. Rooms with books. All the lovely, lovely books. Walls of books. A harem like Solomon’s, of hungry books holding out their arms to me. Read me. Read me tonight, you promised.

I would go to the University, at last, finally and for the first time. And not for job skills or even to get a degree. I would take classes on wonderful useless subjects like English literature and Poetry and the history of film. And I’d talk with the professors and debate with my fellow students and live and swim in the world of great ideas and the great eternal conversation that is passed from generation to generation. Once in that world, I would find a way to stay there forever.

And I would get a car.

Not a Jaguar, but a camper van. The kind John Steinbeck had. A small one with a fold out bed, and table and a kitchenette. I’d drive into the mountains and hide myself like a forest animal. I’d make coffee on the little stove and spend the day inside my head reading at the little table under the pines and then taking out a yellow pad and a pencil and writing and writing where no one can find me.

But I wonder, is that a good idea? To want to be so alone?



That evening we go out to the little Masters Cinema where the tickets are two bucks a head, the only entertainment we can usually afford. On the way back I stop to buy gas and sonuvabitch, it’s over four dollars at last. A milestone has been crossed, I’m finally paying four bucks for gas. As I pump in fifteen dollars, trying to make it last until pay day, my wife and kid jump out and tell me to get another lottery ticket because it’s gone up to $640 million. I go into the station to pay for the gas and I’m standing in line looking at all the crazy junk they’ve got for sale.

Gas stations aren’t really in the business of selling gas, they don’t set the prices and they don’t make any money off gas. A gas station is a snack stand that sells gasoline on the side. They make money off snacks and drinks. As I stand there I’m staring at a car magazine with a yellow Jaguar and a tawny woman in tiny hot pants, unbuttoned, partly unzipped, draped across the hood, writhing in deep Sugar Daddy estrus.

I’m a little kid, my Dad’s family – version one – in a confused little house in Iowa. Mom and I are putting a puzzle together on the living room floor and the radio is playing a Hank Williams song. We put the pieces together one at a time, starting from the frame edges. A curved notch fits sweetly into another. Two dark shapes snap snugly and make a satisfying revelation. I can see it now, I can start to see the blackbird on the wing emerge. Another piece becomes the brush of a broom, the grin of a girl, the blue of the sky, the brown of a tree. It makes sense only a little at a time. Mom and I shuffle through the scattered pieces together building sense of the heaped chaos that lies between us on the floor as our lives are just beginning to crumble around us.

“Cash or Credit?”

“Credit. Give me a quick pick too”

When I come back to the car, my wife and my kid have gotten out and are laboring over the windows scrubbing them clean for me. I get in behind the wheel and watch them work. When they get back in, they look at me all grins and pride. They did it to honor me. They want to make me happy. They want me to be all right.

All right.



C. Sanchez-Garcia

A Thousand Beds

The thing about me is that a little bit of money excites me. And what I mean by that is: the other day, I got an unexected royalty cheque due to the German translation of my Black Lace book. Not a large amount, to most - 1500 pounds - but to me...well.

That's an enormous amount of money to just get, unexpectedly. I don't know what to do with it. Pay off a loan, most probably...or maybe buy a new bed. Because although I do get excited, I tend to get excited in a rather practical sort of way. I don't think of mansions, when it comes to money. I don't think of blowing 1500 pounds on a massive telly.

I think of a time when I might be free of any loans or bills, and am then able to buy a bed without worrying. Occasionally, I dream about having a cabin in the woods, and filling it with films and books. Or maybe one day I'll have enough money to only ever eat Marks and Spencers ready meals, instead of pizzas from ASDA.

To be honest, I can't even imagine what I'd do with millions. Give it all away, I think. I'm not sure I'd be happy knowing I could buy thousands of beds, when loads of other people out there have no beds at all. I'd remember too keenly what it's like to have nothing, and how easy it would be to stop someone else feeling that way.

So I'd perhaps keep enough for myself to have the cabin, with the floor to ceiling films and books and the Marks and Spencers ready meals. And Husband could have his jet ski, for the lake nearby. And then everything else would go to people like me, who dreamt once of the simple comfort money could bring them.

Yeah. That's what I would do, if I were rich.

One Dollar

By Kathleen Bradean

Garce posted this topic a few weeks ago, but with the lotto hitting a record high jackpot this weekend, it certainly became a timely subject.

I'm not much of a gambler, but of course I bought a lotto ticket. Not because I think I have a shot in hell of winning, but that $1 sure buys some nice daydreams. So what would I do if I found myself suddenly disgusting wealthy? Let's overlook the things I'd do for family and friends, because that's a given, and it's private. Let's talk about the fun stuff instead.

I'd buy a house much closer to the beach. Why, I have no idea since I live only three miles from the beach and yet rarely go there. I don’t do sun; I don't do sand; and the water off our coast comes down from Alaska and even in the depths of summer it's cold. Plus, I once almost drowned in a rip tide so I have a hard time even being in swimming pools now. And yet, I'd like a house near the beach. I'd probably use it to lure friends to visit. Or maybe a house in New Orleans that I could share with friends coming to the Saints and Sinners literary festival, and to hang out during jazzfest and maybe even carnival. A vacation home. I've looked into it, and that would easily cost a couple million.

I'd really like to replace the vintage linoleum in my kitchen. And the terrible lighting fixtures. Maybe buy a new bathroom sink. I think the house remodel would run about twenty thousand. Unless I got new carpeting too, but let's not get crazy. "But KB, you'll have a new beach house!" you're probably thinking. Having a beach house and actually living there are two separate issues as far as I'm concerned. Besides, this hovel is almost paid for. Why abandon it just because I have some bucks? Not to mention that I finally know where to find things in my local supermarket, I really hate packing, and parking by the beach is a total nightmare.

Oh! A housekeeper! Someone to come in once a week to dust and clean. Before I started writing, I worked a second job to pay for a housekeeper. I gave up the second job and the cleaning crew to write. I really miss that luxury.

A coworker and I went to lunch today. We talked about what we'd do if we won the lotto. He suggested a time share for a private jet. Not own one, because he'd never fly often enough to make it pay off, but sharing it with a few other people would be good enough. He used to work for a venture capitalist who had one, and he says there's nothing like being able to fly on your agenda, not an airline's. I wouldn't know about that, being a strictly economy class kind of girl, but I'd like to. How much would that cost? Not a clue. Let's guess ten million. And why have a plane if you don't travel? So tack on a fifteen thousand per year so I can finally see the English Cemetery in Rome and Istanbul and Prague (for a start). On second thought, maybe I could just try flying first class. Save myself the ten million and only (only!) spend another five thousand a year on commercial airliners.

But why be so tight with my funds? We were talking filthy rich, right? So here's what I'd do with a couple million. I'd buy a historic mansion or a house with guest cabins somewhere scenic but not too remote and open a year-round writer's retreat. I'd pay writers gobs of money to be the artist in residence for a week and open up the cabins for writers. High speed internet connections, silent groves for contemplative walks, cozy nooks hidden all over the place, maybe even a lighthouse, and a huge dining table for communal dinners where everyone could get together in the evenings and talk as only writers can. I'd be willing to throw down ten million for that.

The wonderful thing about daydreaming about this stuff is that daydream money can be spent over and over again. In real life, once that dollar leaves your hand, it's spent, and you don’t get it back. That's why it's more fun to go on a mental shopping spree. So far, I see that I've only blown about thirty million of dream money. In reality, I'd invest rather than spend money like that. Because when it's real, it becomes a lot more dear. So while I like my $1 day dreams, I'm not so sure I'd actually want to win. (If I win though, I'm going to pretend I never said that.)

Don't Change a Thing

By Lisabet Sarai

I've just struck it rich. I've won the lottery. A distant relative (too distant for me to grieve about) just died and left me her substantial fortune. One of my brilliant husband's clever ideas finally caught the attention it deserves from investors. The Weinberg brothers - no, make that Steven Soderbergh - read Raw Silk and decided it would make a great film. I'll never have to worry about money again.

What am I going to do with all this moola? What will I change?

Not much.

Thinking about Garce's topic for this week, I realized that there's very little about my life that I'd want to modify, even if I had near-unlimited cash.

I wouldn't buy a house. Been there, done that! At this stage in my life, having spent years chasing down contractors or fixing stuff myself, I love the freedom of having a landlord I can call when something breaks down. Sure, I fantasize about living in a ramshackle bungalow on the Maine coast, a gorgeous Victorian or even a Scottish castle, but I'd be satisfied with a week or so to savor those experiences - I don't need to own the buildings outright. Right now I live in an attractive apartment with more space than I can use (unbelievable as that might sound), in a fabulously convenient urban location. It has lovely garden, a swimming pool, an exercise room. Why would I want a house?

Definitely don't want a car! When we sold ours in preparation for moving to Asia, I felt as though a huge weight had been removed from around my neck. Sure, I enjoy driving around back roads and exploring new places, but I can rent a vehicle if I want to do that. No car means no insurance, no maintenance, no parking fees, no gasoline... You can have a couple of glasses of wine with dinner and not worry about killing yourself or someone else, or ending up in jail. Alternative modes of transit like subways and buses might be slower, but they give you a chance to interact with the world. A car insulates you from the rest of humanity. No, you can keep your Porsche or your Lexus, thank you very much.

So what else could that money buy? Clothing? I'll always be a bargain hunter - I learned at my Jewish grandmother's knee down in Filene's Basement. Jewels? I'd only lose them. Books? I can barely keep up with my current TBR list. Fancy electronic toys? I don't have an iPad or a smart phone, but at the moment I don't really miss them. And if I really wanted one of these modern must-haves, I could find the cash to purchase one without requiring that bequest.

Travel? Well, I guess if we had more money, we would do more traveling. We'd knock a few more exotic locales off our list of must-visit places. I'd go back to the U.S. more often to visit my family and friends. In honor of my sixtieth birthday next year, I'd throw a big party and invite all the people I care about whom I haven't seen in 'way too long. So yeah, that's one reason I'd like a bit of extra cash. But I might just do this anyway. You only turn sixty once.

If I were rich, I certainly wouldn't stop working. I love my job. I might spend more time writing if I didn't have to worry about making a living, but I value the variety in my current work life.

Probably the main reason I'd like to have more money is so I could give more of it away. I don't believe that cash can solve every problem in the world - intelligence and political will are far more important - but there are many causes that would benefit if I did happen to come into some cash.

Overall, though, I wouldn't change much at all. It would be relaxing not to have to worry about our big expenses, like health insurance. But honestly, the older I've become the more I've disengaged myself from material things. (Having to get rid of 80% of what I owned before our big move - and seeing how much we'd accumulated and how little we really needed - was a big factor in that transformation.)

It's a cliché but that doesn't mean it isn't true - money can't buy the things that really matter. I've got love, companionship, decent health, a roof over my head, friends, family, an occupation that lets me make a contribution to the world, a vocation (writing) that allows me to exercise my imagination. What else do I need? And if there were something major that I lacked, would money make a difference?

I doubt it.

(By the way, if any of you DO decide you'd like to leave me your fortune, please be assured that I won't refuse it!)