price of every thing … real cost is toil and trouble of acquiring it
Based on the passage:
The real price of every thing,
what every thing really costs to the man who wants to acquire it,
is the toil and trouble of acquiring it.
From the book, An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations … better known as, The Wealth of Nations by Adam Smith (London: W. Strahan and T. Cadell, 1776).
Way back when I was in high school at Grand Rapids Creston, the high school that my Dad graduated from and the high school that my oldest son graduated from and a high school that no longer exists, I got in trouble for something.
This was odd because by the time I got to high school I pretty much knew where the line was and I rarely and I mean rarely crossed that line to where I got into trouble.
Sure there was the bucket of water out the window on to the band in the parking lot and the firecracker in the apple but those were isolated incidents of opportunity.
Anyway, I cannot recall why, but I was required to show up after school and with all the other students guilty of low level crimes, I was given an empty box and sent out to police the school grounds.
The school security guards were out there keeping us at until the time was served and we were all called to the back parking lot to empty our boxes of trash into the bins behind the school.
Along with the trash I picked up, I came across a pop bottle which in Michigan, could be turned in for a 10 cent deposit.
As I emptied by my box, the bottle got away from me and dropped into the bin.
“Oh nutz! ” I yelled and dropped my box and hauled myself up on the lip of the bin and started to dig through the trash, looking for the bottle.
I slipped off the edge of the bin and landed back on my feet outside the bin and I grabbed the edge, ready to try and hop up again when one of the security guards caught my eye.
He gestured to the bin.
“Think about it,” he said.
And paused.
“Is it worth it?”
When you consider the cost, the real price of every thing, what every thing really costs to the man who wants to acquire it, is the toil and trouble of acquiring it.
I left the Coke bottle behind.
There are folks today who will list all the benefits that we as a Nation enjoy thanks to the efforts of that man currently in office.
All the benefits.
All of them.
Sorry I am still working on it.
Back in history, President Eisenhower was asked to the list the contributions and accomplishments of Vice President Richard Nixon that had been made as a member of Ike’s administration and Ike responded … “well, if you give me a week or two.“
But as I said, there are folks who CAN list the accomplishments of that man currently in office.
And I will ask.
At what cost?
And when you consider the cost, the real price of every thing, what every thing really costs to the man who wants to acquire it, is the toil and trouble of acquiring it.
I have to ask.
Was it worth it?
Think about it.
Just one aspect of the benefits of the current administration.
windrow formations long floating objects shaped by winds and currents
Start with low tide.
Add a 20 knot breeze off the ocean that sends the sand flying over the still damp tidal beach and you get windrows.
According to the online Merriam-Webster, a Windrow is a noun meaning a row heaped up by or as if by the wind or long formations of floating objects shaped by winds and currents – are well known to sailors and oceanographers and are common in both oceans and lakes.
Windrows.
Long formations of floating objects shaped by winds and currents.
so so many names there is barely room on the walls of the heart
At the Commemorative Joint Meeting of the Congress of the United States, In Remembrance of the Victims and Heroes of September 11, 2001 at Federal Hall, New York, NY on Friday, September 6, 2002, Billy Collins, Poet Laureate of the United States of America read his poem, The Names, dedicated to the victims of September 11, and to their survivors.
The Names
Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night. A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze, And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows, I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened, Then Baxter and Calabro, Davis and Eberling, names falling into place As droplets fell through the dark.
Names printed on the ceiling of the night. Names slipping around a watery bend. Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream. In the morning, I walked out barefoot Among thousands of flowers Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears, And each had a name — Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins.
Names written in the air And stitched into the cloth of the day. A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox. Monogram on a torn shirt, I see you spelled out on storefront windows And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city. I say the syllables as I turn a corner — Kelly and Lee, Medina, Nardella, and O’Connor.
When I peer into the woods, I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden As in a puzzle concocted for children. Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash, Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton, Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.
Names written in the pale sky. Names rising in the updraft amid buildings. Names silent in stone Or cried out behind a door. Names blown over the earth and out to sea.
In the evening — weakening light, the last swallows. A boy on a lake lifts his oars. A woman by a window puts a match to a candle, And the names are outlined on the rose clouds — Vanacore and Wallace, (let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound) Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.
Names etched on the head of a pin. One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel. A blue name needled into the skin. Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers, The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son. Alphabet of names in a green field. Names in the small tracks of birds. Names lifted from a hat Or balanced on the tip of the tongue. Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory. So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.
According to Wikipedia, “As U.S. Poet Laureate, Collins read his poem The Names at a special joint session of the United States Congress on September 6, 2002, held to remember the victims of the 9/11 attacks.
Though, unlike their British counterparts, U.S. poets laureate are not asked or expected to write occasional poetry, Collins was asked by the Librarian of Congress to write a poem especially for that event.
Collins initially refused to read “The Names” in public, though he has read it two times in public since 2002.
He vowed not to include it in any of his books, refusing to capitalize on the 9/11 attacks.
However, “The Names” was included in The Poets Laureate Anthology put out by the Library of Congress, for which Collins wrote the foreword.
At the time the only book-published version of “The Names”, it contained a number of typographical errors.
The poem also appeared in the New York Times, September 6, 2002. Collins finally agreed to include “The Names” in his new and selected volume Aimless Love in 2013.”
Sunrise, 9/11/2026 – Hilton Head Island
I thought the image of the sunrise today was appropriate.
It came up, probably looking a lot like this on 9/11/2001.
But the time it set, the world had changed a lot.
In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye.
Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.
So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.
life is difficult found it hard to make my own complete and rounded
Adapted from the short story, The Happy Man as published in Here And There: Short Stories by W. Somerset Maugham (William Heinemann Ltd.: Toronto, 1948).
The Happy Man
IT is a dangerous thing to order the lives of others and I have often wondered at the self-confidence of politicians, reformers and such like who are prepared to force upon their fellows measures that must alter their manners, habits and points of view. I have always hesitated to give advice, for how can one advise another how to act unless one knows that other as well as one knows oneself? Heaven knows, I know little enough of myself: I know nothing of others. We can only guess at the thoughts and emotions of our neighbours. Each one of us is a prisoner in a solitary tower and he communicates with the other prisoners, who form mankind, by conventional signs that have not quite the same meaning for them as for himself. And life, unfortunately, is something that you can lead but once; mistakes are often irreparable, and who am I that I should tell this one and that how he should lead it? Life is a difficult business and I have found it hard enough to make my own a complete and rounded thing; I have not been tempted to teach my neighbour what he should do with his. But there are men who flounder at the journey’s start, the way before them is confused and hazardous, and on occasion, however unwillingly, I have been forced to point the finger of fate. Sometimes men have said to me, what shall I do with my life? and I have seen myself for a moment wrapped in the dark cloak of Destiny.
Once I know that I advised well.
I was a young man and I lived in a modest apartment in London near Victoria Station. Late one afternoon, when I was beginning to think that I had worked enough for that day, I heard a ring at the bell. I opened the door to a total stranger. He asked me my name; I told him. He asked if he might come in.
“Certainly.”
I led him into my sitting-room and begged him to sit down. He seemed a trifle embarrassed. I offered him a cigarette and he had some difficulty in lighting it without letting go of his hat. When he had satisfactorily achieved this feat I asked him if I should not put it on a chair for him. He quickly did this and while doing it dropped his umbrella.
“I hope you don’t mind my coming to see you like this,” he said. “My name is Stephens and I am a doctor. You’re in the medical, I believe?”
“Yes, but I don’t practise.”
“No, I know. I’ve read a book of yours about Spain and I wanted to ask you about it.”
“It’s not a very good book, I’m afraid.”
“The fact remains that you know something about Spain and there’s no one else I know who does. And I thought perhaps you wouldn’t mind giving me some information.”
“I shall be very glad.”
He was silent for a moment. He reached out for his hat and holding it in one hand absent-mindedly stroked it with the other. I surmised that it gave him confidence.
“I hope you won’t think it very odd for a perfect stranger to talk to you like this.” He gave an apologetic laugh. “I’m not going to tell you the story of my life.”
When people say this to me I always know that it is precisely what they are going to do. I do not mind. In fact I rather like it.
“I was brought up by two old aunts. I’ve never been anywhere. I’ve never done anything. I’ve been married for six years. I have no children. I’m medical officer at the Camberwell Infirmary. I can’t stick it any more.”
There was something very striking in the short, sharp sentences he used. They had a forcible ring. I had not given him more than a cursory glance, but now I looked at him with curiosity. He was a little man, thick-set and stout, of thirty perhaps, with a round red face from which shone small, dark and very bright eyes. His black hair was cropped close to a bullet-shaped head. He was dressed in a blue suit a good deal the worse for wear. It was baggy at the knees and the pockets bulged untidily.
“You know what the duties are of a medical officer in an infirmary. One day is pretty much like another. And that’s all I’ve got to look forward to for the rest of my life. Do you think it’s worth it?”
“It’s a means of livelihood,” I answered.
“Yes, I know. The money’s pretty good.”
“I don’t exactly know why you’ve come to me.”
“Well, I wanted to know whether you thought there would be any chance for an English doctor in Spain?”
“Why Spain?”
“I don’t know, I just have a fancy for it.”
“It’s not like Carmen, you know,” I smiled.
“But there’s sunshine there, and there’s good wine, and there’s colour, and there’s air you can breathe. Let me say what I have to say straight out. I heard by accident that there was no English doctor in Seville. Do you think I could earn a living there? Is it madness to give up a good safe job for an uncertainty?”
“What does your wife think about it?”
“She’s willing.”
“It’s a great risk.”
“I know. But if you say take it, I will: if you say stay where you are, I’ll stay.”
He was looking at me intently with those bright dark eyes of his and I knew that he meant what he said. I reflected for a moment.
“Your whole future is concerned: you must decide for yourself. But this I can tell you: if you don’t want money but are content to earn just enough to keep body and soul together, then go. For you will lead a wonderful life.”
He left me, I thought about him for a day or two, and then forgot. The episode passed completely from my memory.
Many years later, fifteen at least, I happened to be in Seville and having some trifling indisposition asked the hotel porter whether there was an English doctor in the town. He said there was and gave me the address. I took a cab and as I drove up to the house a little fat man came out of it. He hesitated when he caught sight of me.
“Have you come to see me?” he said. “I’m the English doctor.”
I explained my errand and he asked me to come in. He lived in an ordinary Spanish house, with a patio, and his consulting-room which led out of it was littered with papers, books, medical appliances, and lumber. The sight of it would have startled a squeamish patient. We did our business and then I asked the doctor what his fee was. He shook his head and smiled.
“There’s no fee.”
“Why on earth not?”
“Don’t you remember me? Why, I’m here because of something you said to me. You changed my whole life for me. I’m Stephens.”
I had not the least notion what he was talking about. He reminded me of our interview, he repeated to me what we had said, and gradually, out of the night, a dim recollection of the incident came back to me.
“I was wondering if I’d ever see you again,” he said, “I was wondering if ever I’d have a chance of thanking you for all you’ve done for me.”
“It’s been a success then?”
I looked at him. He was very fat now and bald, but his eyes twinkled gaily and his fleshy, red face bore an expression of perfect good-humour. The clothes he wore, terribly shabby they were, had been made obviously by a Spanish tailor and his hat was the wide-brimmed sombrero of the Spaniard. He looked to me as though he knew a good bottle of wine when he saw it. He had a dissipated, though entirely sympathetic, appearance. You might have hesitated to let him remove your appendix, but you could not have imagined a more delightful creature to drink a glass of wine with.
“Surely you were married?” I said.
“Yes. My wife didn’t like Spain, she went back to Camberwell, she was more at home there.”
“Oh, I’m sorry for that.”
His black eyes flashed a bacchanalian smile. He really had somewhat the look of a young Silenus.
“Life is full of compensations,” he murmured.
The words were hardly out of his mouth when a Spanish woman, no longer in her first youth, but still boldly and voluptuously beautiful, appeared at the door. She spoke to him in Spanish, and I could not fail to perceive that she was the mistress of the house.
As he stood at the door to let me out he said to me:
“You told me when last I saw you that if I came here I should earn just enough money to keep body and soul together, but that I should lead a wonderful life. Well, I want to tell you that you were right. Poor I have been and poor I shall always be, but by heaven I’ve enjoyed myself. I wouldn’t exchange the life I’ve had with that of any king in the world.”
Life is full of compensations.
You told me when last I saw you that if I came here I should earn just enough money to keep body and soul together, but that I should lead a wonderful life.
Well, I want to tell you that you were right.
Poor I have been and poor I shall always be, but by heaven I’ve enjoyed myself. I wouldn’t exchange the life I’ve had with that of any king in the world.”
