“Rich Man, Poor Man” was a game I played as a child. The first button on my clothes was rich man - the second was poor man. Buttons three through eleven were beggar man, thief, doctor, lawyer, Indian chief, soldier, sailor, tinker, tailor. My last button foretold who I would marry. The game hasn’t changed, but my definition of husband material has.
As a child I thought a millionaire was a rich man. I didn’t know about taxes and income brackets. Now I think a rich man is one who’s happy with what he has - and, of course, isn’t against being happier.
In spite of my buttons, however, I married a poor man - still in college. I remember when we had less than three dollars and John was trying to find a sitter for a visiting professor. I asked him if the sitter was going to get paid. Since we couldn’t stand being poor, I thought we could sit.
The next button was beggar man, which today could be a fundraiser. Registering my phone number with the National Do-Not-Call Registry eliminated calls from telemarketers, but non-profit organizations aren’t eliminated. Whenever I get a call asking for a donation, […]

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