Friends

            Dad sent out a short essay that concerned a guy he knew.  Robert Petersen was a cattle buyer years ago who became the President of IBP. 

            I get the feeling that at least some of Dad’s fascination comes because of Petersen’s magnificent wealth.  He wrote how this man’s income was somewhere near $4,000,000 per year.  This is an astronomical sum, quite unimaginable to most people.  Dad said he contemplated what this man who shared his name thought of him.

            Why does Dad have some interest in the guy?  In Mr. P’s earlier career, before the huge salary, when such things as a few pounds on a mob of steers would be important, Dad knew him. Dad would even go so far as to count him as a friend.  Now, Mr. P would be considered, in our humble estimation, one of the “super rich.”  Someone who doesn’t have to worry about the price of gasoline, or the cost of college for his kids or even grandkids; he doesn’t have to worry about which kind of health care he can afford because he can pay whatever the cost without a thought.

            We sit here in the middle and look at the super rich (I don’t say that we look ‘up’ because my self-satisfaction does not allow me to make myself subordinate to wealth), not with envy so much as acceptance and dreaminess.  How nice it would be to simply buy whatever tool we need for a job instead of trying to make do with a hammer and vice-grips that works satisfactorily, but not quickly or smoothly, and the result is just a bit low-brow.  We try to imagine what it might feel like to be in their position, but we don’t worry about it.

            I get the sense that a man like Bob Petersen has moved out of our sphere of influence.  If you met Bob today, he would probably shake your hand and be nice to you. If he was not on his way to a meeting or a flight, or if nothing else was pressing at the moment, he might try to remember you. He might try to pick you out of the dozens of farmers from whom he bought cattle in NW Iowa during the 70’s and 80’s.  It’s even possible that he may remember you.  Who knows?  Maybe you are one of the ones that did something to make a mark on him.

            I’m going to suggest another person that Dad might bring into his mind.  I don’t know this person’s name because such people do not make it onto our radar.  These are the people in the US who don’t have homes or bank accounts, or life insurance or health insurance and certainly not investments. These are the people who can’t imagine their children going to college, the people who might ride a bike from Michigan to Colorado in November—not for the exercise.  This is a man, also named Bob, who sleeps in a homeless shelter—not as the night supervisor, but because it’s warmer than under the bridge.  This is the guy who hitchhikes from Utah to Ohio and back because he needs his birth certificate to get a passport so he can get a job in Canada—the land of milk and honey where there are a lot of construction jobs.  This is the guy who dozes in the booth of a truck stop, and does a bit of washing in the bathroom sink.

            The social distance between Bob and Bob is considerable.  Just as the distance between Bob and Bob on the bike in Nebraska in November.

            Now consider another class of people:  Those on the street of Tirana, Albania.  These are the shoeless children, who wear ripped clothing and have smears of grime on their faces.  They walk among the cars at the stoplight without seeing the people inside.  The drivers are just so many potential sources of a few coins.  They are in a dog fight with the other children to get money from the 1% of drivers who stick their arms out the window and put change in their hands.  These are the kids who slap each other when a person leaving the grocery store gives one a package of cookies.  They look like pigeons fighting for bread scraps.  The Samaritan wants the kids to share the cookies; the older child should dole out the food equally, or give more to the younger one out of compassion.  But the idea of the noble begging children does not exist here.  These are the kids who go “home” to the paper thin shack in the middle of 3 acres of garbage.  [I put home in quotes because I can’t imagine calling such a place a home.]  When I ride my bike by these places, I try to think what would be the worst part of their life.  Maybe it would be rain.  A person in such a situation would not be able to be dry—they wouldn’t be able to put on a clean pair of socks.  Maybe it would be boredom.  Or do they get used the boredom?  Used to it in such a way that we, as outsiders, can say such people aren’t troubled with their lives because they don’t know anything else?

            Think about the parents of these kids.  The people living in the trash pile don’t have to think about high cholesterol, they don’t have to think about the unintended effects of their anti-depressant drugs, they don’t have to worry if they should be paying taxes when they put money INTO their retirement fund, or if they will have to pay when they take the money OUT.  These are all worries that we, as the world’s super rich, GET to worry about.  This is our leisure time.

            With this essay, I am not trying to make anyone feel guilty.  Actually, I am simply writing what is going through my head, and I am thanking Dad for giving me more to think about.  I want him to know that he did not send his thought-provoking words out into cyberspace for nothing.