By Scott Graber
It is Sunday, still dark, and I’ve got a small fire in the hearth.
The news this morning is still Gaza and Ukraine, although today’s paper is chock full of lifestyle stories about workplace etiquette, holiday food and relationships. Even the Wall Street Journal has its own fashion magazine that features full page photos of tall, thin, unsmiling women selling $6,000 Rolex watches.
I remember when, at 16 or 17, my father bought a Rolex watch at a Canadian Air Force Base in Zweibrucken, Germany. Up until that moment in my life I had thought we were poor. Well, maybe not as poor as the Gudger family in Alabama, but too poor to afford a wristwatch which probably cost $500 in 1961.
Up until that moment my parents were penurious, textbook examples of children who grew up during the Depression. They bought Savings Bonds every month, shopped at the Commissary and the talk around our dinner table usually focused on what we could not afford.
But something happened to them in 1961. I know that because my mother began to collect Swedish crystal; they had a former Wehrmacht officer paint portraits of me and my siblings; and they both bought Burberry raincoats.
When this transformation was taking place I was, myself, exiting the family for college and so I didn’t witness every manifestation of this disease-like mutation in their attitude about money. I was off to The Citadel where — in those days — there were a lot of boys coming from rural, impoverished South Carolina. Boys who were heading into the military where lifetime employment, and a pension, were more or less assured.
As some of you know I missed this particular boat by going to law school in Washington, D.C. And it was in Washington where I met, it seemed to me, young men who were interested in money, big money.
When I arrived I owned a single sport coat and two pairs of slacks purchased ($125) at Berlins for Men and Women on King Street — I may have also owned a hand me down Timex.
Most of my law school friends had multiple blazers purchased at Saks, Bloomingdales and (if one was on the margins) a discount clothier called Barneys. Many of my friends owned a Rolex (a graduation gift); a used BMW and often their parents had a second home In Connecticut.
These guys — we had one girl in our law school class — were bright and aggressively aiming for the law review. Membership on GW’s legal journal would mean an offer from a large, Manhattan based firm and that would translate into a salary that would cover a studio apartment on the West Side. They had arrived in Washington with a long term strategy that required money.
I had not thought much about money, or where I would practice, or if I would practice. In 1968, I had a commission and was sure I would go to Vietnam after law school and then, assuming I came back, decide what I would do with my life.
But if the truth be told I didn’t like money as a concept; and admired Eisenhower because he carried no legal tender on his person, and looked upon cash as a necessary evil.
OK, yes, I know that making money motivates all of us, and great fortunes sometimes morph into philanthropic foundations like Rockefeller Brothers or John Hay Whitney. And yes the accumulation of wealth (aka capitalism) is a part of our DNA.
But I lacked that gene; perhaps there was a mutation; but I just couldn’t contemplate a life of trading equities or grain futures in order to build a house or buy a Rolex.
While I was at GW, I met a co-ed (with great legs) who was not afraid, suspicious or contemptuous of money. And while I enjoyed a modest, small town practice and a “He’s gone to Africa” reputation, Susan set up annuities, indexed our investments and eventually hired a financial advisor.
Years ago, I read that one’s genes actually choose the person you think you’ve decided to marry. One’s genes — so the theory goes — understand your weaknesses; what traits you lack; and they seek out genes (in a potential spouse) that will ensure your issue will survive.
And so I never learned that language. And thanks to Susan’s genes, I remain contemptuous of my Rolex-wearing, Lexus-loving, Brioni-suited classmates who now take lunch a Le Cirque on East 58th Street.
Scott Graber is a lawyer, novelist, veteran columnist and longtime resident of Port Royal. He can be reached at cscottgraber@gmail.com.
