Shaded Communication

I could have known he was a curious customer when he called me and expressly chewed me out because the UPS driver ran over and killed his dog.

Yeah.  It didn’t make sense to me either.

Because I have no affiliations with UPS as far as I know of.

Well, I did get the brunt of it about the UPS driver.   But what he really wanted to give me thunder about was that I hadn’t called him with the exact time when I planned to have my boys on his yard.

Even though I had called him and told him the boys would be there sometime that day.

After his dog was killed that morning, he was antsy.  He didn’t want anyone driving in unexpectedly and running over his other dog, he said. 

I commiserated with him about dogs dying and listened as he told me at length all about this dog so recently killed.

It became a tedious conversation, and I began to wonder if his emotions were as wrought up as it seemed or if he was a bit sloshed and that was making them act that way.

At any rate, we got the go ahead to install the generator he was thinking about.

And then, when it was all set and running, he says, “I can’t pay it all at once. (Even though we had discussed this earlier, and he said he could) do you accept payments?”

So, we set up a payment schedule. 

And I didn’t hear from him for about a year.

Until the other day.

He called to say his generator sounded like a sick pig when it ran.  Admittedly, I had a hard time conceptualizing the two sounds as anything synonymous.

He was big on the warranty issue; said we needed to get out there and do the work under warranty.

Evidently, his curious traits hadn’t been lost on him in the past year.

He had piled some powdery manure almost up against his generator, and with any small gust, and all of the larger ones, it packed itself in and around the unit, stifling off any way it could run at all.

He had blown most of it out by the time we got there, the air filter was plugged solid, and after blowing that out, it ran fine.

But he insists our time be covered under warranty.

New #3

I asked Bryce to help me fetch the little guy back to our place so we could start bottle feeding it.

But as we rolled up in my truck, it was obvious the little fellow was unnerved, probably because we were using the truck rather than the four-wheeler that he was used to.

I had just rested my hand on his neck before he was up and running away, straight into the water.

Bryce walked in after him, to try to turn him back towards us, but our game was up.  The little guy took off towards the other side of the water, maybe 300 feet away.  I didn’t think he would make it, being weakened, and, I knew it would get deep enough that he would have to swim part of the way. 

But he made it, and, once on the other side and with the rest, he tried to nurse a little on his mama, as long as she let him.

We knew it would be better for him if he could stay with Mom, and, I hoped that if he kept trying to nurse, her milk might come back in.

So, we left him there.

Until Sunday evening. 

My good wife and I rode out to try to find him.  We rode both pastures, found the rest of the group, but couldn’t find him.  The weeds had grown so tall that it was a given we would miss him somewhere.

We were just closing the gates, getting ready to leave, when Jan spotted him a little way away from us.

We eased up beside him; he made no move to get away.

And I saw the flies where terrible about his neck.

And I saw new fang marks that were bleeding. 

And I thought I might be sick.

We got the truck and before Jan brought it out there, I got up close and pinned him down so he couldn’t get away.

We brought him here, to the place.

But I couldn’t even get him unloaded before Taz, the sweet daughter’s Alaskan Malamute, was leaping up at the back of the truck. 

I wasn’t sure what he was going to do.  Those dogs definitely have a killer instinct. 

But I also remembered how he treated some of our sick calves, otherwise written about in a post called ‘Taz’, and I wondered.

We got the little tyke unloaded, and into the pen.  We penned Taz for the night, just in case. 

The next morning, I let Taz out.  There was a white and black blur as he streaked towards the pen, whining and sobbing all the way.

And, we haven’t been able to get him away from there since.  He dug himself a little space to lay in, where he could keep his eyes on his little friend at all times on one side of the pen.

On the other side, he lays himself down right against the fence, as close as possible.

And, last night, it rained.  But that didn’t matter.  This morning, Taz met me, wet, but joyful at having shepherded his little charge through yet another night. 

He could have spent his night in the garage, warm and dry.  Because he hates getting wet or being in water of any sort.

And, then, I realized that life is like this.

That there are those, and sometimes a very unlikely those, who come to us in our darkest, most vulnerable times.  They see we need help in the worst sort of way, and they stand by, through the night, and in the rain, until we can get up and face life again on our own. 

I have hopes for the little fellow, between Taz looking after, and the sweet daughter bottle feeding him, it seems he has every chance to make it. 

The sweet daughter has named him Chuck, by the way. 

New #2

I suppose I drove a lot slower after feeling those scars.

And, I didn’t handle the little guy nearly so roughly, when he tried to leap off the four-wheeler.

Not that he did so often.  He seemed to feel safe where he was, and every once in a while would turn his head to look back at me, as we idled along towards the group of Mama’s and their babies.

I found the group belly deep in runoff water from the last few rains. 

I had heard about what happened next, but never experienced it or seen it firsthand.

But hearing about it doesn’t come close to seeing it, and, feeling it.

Almost as soon as we were within calling distance of the Mama’s, my little one perked up and looked their way. 

He was home; he knew these folks.

He scrambled off the four-wheeler, once we stopped, and looked out across the water to his Mama.

He called out to her.

Almost as one, the group and their babies answered.

They were a couple hundred feet out and they turned and churned the water as they made a McArthur style landing straight towards us.

But two Mama’s stayed where they were.

And one of them was his Mama.

He called, at first imperatively, then winsomely, and, finally, hopelessly.

He ran over to the group that was now ashore, hoping maybe his Mama was there. 

But the group didn’t know him.  They butted him out and away.

There was a kayak nearby, so I launched it and headed the two still out in the water towards the rest. 

Once they got there, my little guy smelled his Mama, and called again. 

But she didn’t acknowledge; she didn’t even look his way.

He ran to her, but she stayed within the group, and each time he got close, the group butted him out.

At last, he wandered off to the side, to a little depression with tall weeds, and, facing in the direction of the group so as not to miss anything, he lay down and curled up into a sad, hungry, and dejected tight little ball.

*****

I looked on, stunned, my heart sobbing, instead of throbbing.

And, then, I realized, we humans aren’t so very different.

New

He’s still a newborn.

He’s only been here ten days so far.

I happened by within minutes of his birth.

I was impressed with where his Mama had him, tucked in the leeside of a dirt embankment.

He was still wet, and shaky, and as I came by, he tried to get to his feet, but he fell down, like they always do.

His Mama was a first timer.  But in spite of that, she did very well.  She stayed right by him, and, when after two days, she needed a drink, she hid him well, and knew right where to find him when she came back.

The way this was going, I figured I wouldn’t need to be around much longer.  Things seemed to be taking care of themselves.

But then it rained.

Bucketfulls at first, then creekfulls, and, finally, gullywashers. 

Something must have happened during that time.

I wonder if the little fella got dismayed, a little, with the challenge of life.

He’d follow his Mom, for a way, and then it was like he gave out, found a little place to curl up in and that was that.

And, then, somewhere during that time, something vicious found him, all curled up, and at least a half mile away from his Mama.

The next time I saw him, he was a sad, wet little ball of black, lying in the fence row, with just a stub where his tail had been.

I picked him up, soon after, he didn’t run or panic.  He seemed to know I was there to help.

I draped him across the four-wheeler seat in front of me, and we found his Mom. 

And I almost got frustrated with him, then, in the days since.  Because he hardly ever is with his mom, and her milk is drying up. 

By this time, all his cronies were stuck to their Mama’s sides, no matter how far they walked in a day.

I got weary of lifting him up, dangling across the ditches or up the hill to the four-wheeler.

I thought bad thoughts about him, as he lay draped across in front of me.  Thoughts of, Pull yourself up and be a man, o,r do you expect me to be your conveyance for the rest of your life?

Until today.

I picked him up again. 

I draped him across the seat in front of me again.

We drove to find his Mama again.

And then I felt something.

On his neck.

Fang marks. 

On both sides and down by his throat.

And I slowed to a stop.

And we sat there.

Quietly.

And I realized, again, that the story isn’t always how it seems like it will be at the start.

Appreciation

I read something the other day that I’m still thinking about.

I read that one of the world’s wealthiest men and his partner were disposing of some of his wealth through philanthropy.

Which, in itself, doesn’t surprise me.

It seems there is some innate part of a man that feels a need to justify his position in life, however the means.

But I wondered, as I read what I did, if I wasn’t picking up on something else.

Something that is universal to us all.

At first, when I read what I did, I was disgusted.

One of the donations from the above referenced couple landed in the 100 million dollar range, and was given to one who is purported to be one of the richest female country music stars.

“Come on,” I thought.

“Could you make it a little more visible next time?” (sarcastically)

And, incidentally, said country music star had just donated 100 million some months ago to humanity and the cure for their various diseases.

But, after I had simmered down a bit, I picked up again on that little noise underneath all the hubbub and the distraction of the big numbers that were being tossed around like so much confetti.

I saw in the billionaire, the same longing I see in myself.

He wished to be appreciated. 

And, perhaps being blindsided by his immense wealth, it seemed he thought he could buy it, or, make bargain of sorts.

But I don’t think appreciation can ever be traded for or purchased.

Nor do I think the value of it has ever changed, since, say, when two brothers got in a fight about whose offering was the soonest to be accepted, or appreciated, by the one to whom they were offering it to.

It gave me pause, then, to think of all the different kinds of currency men have tried to exchange for a bit of appreciation through the years.

I wonder how many jails, youth detention centers, or drug rehabilitation programs are populated by folks driven to desperation because this deep inner need was never satiated.

Because the need for appreciation seems to be at the crux of our makeup.

Like my friend Justin said, “I don’t care so much what kind of business deal I’m made; I just want to know they cared about me.”

And, like our billionaire brother of humanity, we reach beyond ourselves over and over in an attempt to prove to ourselves that we are appreciated.

I believe we owe it, as a prerogative duty to our fellowman, to take time to show our appreciation for the quality we see shining out of their lives.

It takes very little effort on our part, and it is guaranteed to make a lifetime of difference.

Fateful Evening

They are both tall, and, they both have blonde hair, and, they are both beautiful.

They both were here to teach our children in school.

One, about 4 hours from home, the other, a little over 14.

They asked Mama Jan and I and another couple to help them make supper for their youth group one evening.

Discata, if I remember right.

And, afterward, we sat around until it got dark.

Then, they brought these glow in the dark plastic bracelets out.

They divided into teams by color, and made their home base out of the same color of bracelets, all put together.

And they started running, trying to circle the other team’s base to capture them.

It was a happy time.

Until I heard a terrible scream.

And,  I saw those two, staggering, sometimes against each other, sometimes by themselves.

And, there was lots of blood.

We got them into the light, where we could see a little better.

They had been running around the house, both of them, in opposite directions, and met with extreme force at the corner, where they had no chance of seeing the other in time.

One had a deep gash under her lip, extending up into her cheek.

The other had a front tooth almost knocked out.

Mama Jan and I quickly made a plan.

She and the other couple would take the one whose teeth were knocked loose (and incidentally her niece) to see if there were any dentists who could help at that late hour.

I would take the other, whose face was cut, to an emergency room.

The young men in the group opened their wallets generously to meet the late night fees.

I went south about 30 miles, Mama Jan went east about 30 miles.

After that, we lost contact with each other due to meeting the needs of those we had with us.

A young man by the name of Bob, if I remember correctly, who was not even a physician, did a tremendous job of sewing up the girl I was with.  He was so careful, so gentle.

He said there would be nerve damage, as deep as her cut was, and that nerves take a long time to heal. 

The dentist told Mama Jan a similar story, only that reconstructive surgery would be needed for the girl she was with.

It took about two years for the girl with the gash to start feeling again, and about the same amount of time for the other girl to get her new teeth.

And I wonder, now, if there was more that could have been done, that evening, to help so it didn’t feel so bad, so lonely.

Because it had to have been, for those two girls.

Quick Fix

I fixed the guest bathroom stool today.

It took all of three minutes to get it fixed.

The thing had gone to honking, chirping, and humming in a rather obscene way at the most inopportune times.

It almost always happened when someone shut a faucet off quickly somewhere else in the house.

Sometimes it happened when we had guests in the house.

Sometimes, it spited us and made the noise when one of our guests was in there using it.

For a while, all it took was getting up from the chair we were sitting on, and flushing it.  (or embarrassedly telling our guest through the closed door how to stop it)

That worked, sometimes.

Sometimes, after I had flushed it, all would be quiet, until I had walked a few strides away; then it would chirp in the haughtiest way, stopping, once I had turned to flush it again.

Finally, it got bad enough that a trip downstairs, around the coffee bar, down the hallway to the storage room, (often, in the dark) through the storage room to the mechanical room, and a decent stretch across all the luggage that is stored under the manablock was required to shut the valve off to it entirely.

This worked.  Until we forgot to turn it back on.

And one of the sweet daughters used that restroom.

We were quicker to turn it back on after that.

We’ve probably made those trips to flush it, or shut the valve off downstairs for a couple of months now.

I fixed the guest bathroom stool today.

It took all of three minutes to get it fixed.

To Those Who Write

I hereby open a document in which much of what is written is not proven, or even very well thought out.

Writing, for the purpose of this post, will include any type of writing, whether columns, poems, songs, articles, maybe even sermons, and, blogs.

I’m suspicious there are more of us than we think. 

I’m quite certain that the reason we don’t know about more of us is because of something similar that we all face.

That is, lack of confidence, or lack of courage to share what we have written.

And that is okay. 

Not everything you write needs to be published or shared.

I would like for what I write next to be an encouragement to those who write. 

There.  Now that I’ve sufficiently prattled on for seven lines, I got my main point out in the open. 

Which, I’m guessing, probably isn’t the right way to do it.

A writer is a noticer.

You may not think of yourself as such, but you are.  Some of us notice tangible things; some notice emotions, or the change of them.  Some notice the way a phrase says itself to you in a lovely way. 

You won’t or can’t have anything to write about if you haven’t first noticed it. 

And, you won’t write about it if you chew yourself out for being stupid and dumb for the way you are; if you compare yourself to someone who doesn’t write and call yourself weak or unstable. 

Not everyone is a writer.  Not everyone is a noticer.

Some are doers; some are leaders.  These folks are steady and stable.  Their lives consist of normalcy and regular diets.  Kudos to them, but, kudos to yourself since you aren’t like them.  Not being like them is why you write.

You need to have a place where you are comfortable jotting down random thoughts or ideas that you might write on later. 

You don’t need to share that place with anyone, and it’s perfectly okay to delete its entire contents from time to time.  As long as you start filling it back up immediately.

Write for yourself, first of all.  Write everything you want to, and as fast as you need to.  You can pare it down later when you go in and delete whole paragraphs, or verses, in one fell swoop.  When you don’t hold on to little sentences or lines here and there for dear life, but rather blow the whole thing off indicates you are willing for the big picture to be better; you haven’t succumbed to tunnel vision of one spot or phrase that seems so ‘special’ or unique to you.  And do you know what?  That’s a sign you might be a writer. 

Don’t write for the numbers.  I know, I know.  We all are human, and the numbers have a way of tugging at us.  But don’t write for them.  If you do, your stuff will soon take on whatever flavor you think the numbers want, and, it won’t be you, in the end.  Which is nothing short of a travesty.

I used to watch the numbers; tried to figure out what I needed to do to get it right based on the number’s feedback.  I found that when something went viral, it bothered me just as much as when it sank, with hardly a ripple, in silent death.  I choose not to know, today, how many or few will read this.  Because I’m writing for myself, first of all.

Next, write for a friend, or friends.  But don’t tell them you are writing for them.  That will bring the same pressure on as the numbers do. 

Pour yourself out in your writing.  Don’t worry about being politically correct.  Don’t make yourself find a moral or allegory for every piece you write.  It’s okay to write about the slice of life that is being served up, just as it is, to yourself on any given day. 

If you try to make it all so correct, then the folks who end up reading your stuff will be disappointed.

Because you know what?  We like to see ourselves, the dirtiest and the best, in what someone else writes.  We get a subconscious feeling that since they cared enough to write about their mistakes and good times, that, indirectly, they care about us. 

If it’s all so perfectly framed, that feeling of care is left for something that might pass every writing criteria, but is vegetarian at best. 

Every time you write, you volunteer to do so. 

Which is super. 

I’m proud of you for doing so. 

But volunteering starts and sounds a bit like vulnerable.  Don’t be surprised if your basic humanity will scream at you, just like mine is screaming at me right now, about how off course you are to mainstream humanity. 

But you know what?  Most of the time your basic humanity is governed by lies.  We need to be completely vulnerable to write at our best.

Writing, for you, at this point in life, is a necessity.  That doesn’t mean you have to maintain it for the rest of your life, or even the rest of the year. 

If you have dabbled in writing, you know that it is a sort of catharsis for you and your own wellbeing. 

Keep it up!  Definitely keep writing. 

And, don’t forget to encourage your fellow writers along the way, even if they have written years longer than you or are just starting out.  Every writer I know hits the vulnerability spot at some point or another, and, probably more often than not.  You, as a fellow writer, know exactly what that moment feels like. 

There are a number of good reasons to publish, should you choose to.  

One being that some of us like reading other people’s stuff, and how else can we unless they share it publicly.

Here are a several thoughts, should you publish.

Grammar, and proper sentence structure definitely make for easier reading.  But don’t expect to get it all right, every time.  It seems like after about so long, you sort of catch your stride, or get a feel for what seems right, even if you, like me, haven’t done the proper study to know what is actually right. 

The second area that you will grow into is your style.  Don’t castigate yourself for repeated ways of doing things.  This is your style.  It never hurts to be open minded about new ways of doing things, but your way is your way, and we read you for exactly that.

Another thing to keep in mind, should you wish to publish, is when. 

Don’t make the mistake I made. 

I blonded it totally. 

I was so enthused with what I had written (this personal enthusiasm is perfectly okay, by the way) that, after proofing it, I popped it right out there, and then realized I had a church meeting I was supposed to be at that evening.  It would have been better to publish after the meeting, to give a new project like mine, and yours, time to settle so you don’t come away with such a hot face.

*****

For the non-writer.

If any of you have read this far is nothing short of amazing.

Would you allow me to jump on my soapbox for a bit? 

Was that a resounding no, or grudging yes?

I don’t wish to misrepresent the Holy Writ in any way, but I think there is a certain area that some of us have been assigning the wrong definition to for some time.

It’s where it talks about the man who was going on a long journey, and he gave some of his ‘talents’ to servants.

It seems to me that he was handing out responsibilities, not abilities, there. 

I mean, face it.  If anyone had someone walk up to them and offer them some ability, (or talent like we tend to use the word) and that ability being exactly what they had wanted to be all their life, would you see them walking away, or taking it and hiding it? 

On the other hand, if someone walked up to you and handed you some responsibility to top off what you were already carrying, I can see why you might act like those folks did.

So let’s set the matter straight.  A writer has abilities you don’t have.  You have abilities a writer doesn’t have. 

And it seems to me that by the end of each of our lives, we each have been afforded equal opportunities to use our unique abilities to touch other people’s lives. 

Some do it with writing.

Some serve the most soul warming meals.

Some have a knack for rolling in the dough, and then just as quickly, they roll it back out to help others.

A writer would much rather hear how what they wrote made you feel than some corny remark about talents or abilities.  When you go on and on about how a writer has such great abilities, it actually encourages the writer to shut down; that kind of exposure is very negative.

But a quiet word, or short message of thanks does just the opposite, whether we or cook, or preach, or work in hospitals, or in nursing homes or . . . Do you get it?

I think we all need to purge that talent word from our vocabulary, whether we are writers or not.

Hmm.

I think I got off course somewhere and can’t think of a suitable way to wrap this up. It may be that I got off my soapbox on the opposite side of the one I climbed onto it.

What’s in a Prayer?

I pondered that question all day after I received a message that, from 6-9 in the evening, or somewhere thereabouts, we should pray for rain. 

We had been excessively dry; some of us hadn’t seen more than an inch of precipitation in the last year.

My mind went back to all the different kinds of prayers I had prayed.

I remembered the time when the pond bank I was walking into the water on suddenly gave way, and I was in over my head.  Literally.  I didn’t know how to swim, and as I began to suffocate in the brown, muddy water, I called out, with all that was in me, for a rescue.  I didn’t make a fancy prayer of it that day.  Nor did I start it or end it in the normal fashion.  In fact, as I bobbed up fewer times than I bobbed down, and my vision started to fade, I really didn’t pronounce any words at all.  At that moment, it became a heart language that screamed out a plea for life. 

Life came in the form of a quarter inch size twig hanging down from the trees surrounding the pond.  My immediate reaction was that it would never hold me, but the One I was begging for life from said, “Just get hold of it, and keep all of your body underwater except your face.”  And it worked.  Because the water took care of holding up my body then, and my face was all that twig had to support.  After a few moments, wherein I chewed up the air around me in great shuddering gasps, I was able to find footing and get myself out of there.

I thought of the prayers we prayed while at the bedside of my good wife’s dad, who had coded twice already.  Prayers of desperation, to be sure, but in this case, vesting what confidence we could in the doctors together with the one we were praying to. 

My prayers didn’t take a long time, in either of those situations.  Neither were they thought out very well.  You don’t spend a lot of time deciding which hand you grab for help in those situations.

I thought back to a couple of prayer meetings I attended as a young person.  One specifically where we all knelt, and anyone could pray.  What I remember most about that meeting, is that the individual prayers didn’t have ‘Amen’ said after them.  It was added at the end in the last prayer prayed by a previously designated person.  In a way, it seemed like we had prayed a long, 30-45 minute prayer that night, spoken by different people, but all one prayer nontheless, with that final Amen.

I remembered the prayers and the feeling of them when I had prayed them, some 10 years ago.  We were experiencing a drought much like we are now.  I remember seeing thunderheads building, just a few miles east of our place it seemed, and I remember how frustrated my prayers were, as I watched when those thunderheads moved away, to the east, every time.  I think, probably due to my lack of faith? maturity? I finally gave up praying, as sort of a silent treatment against the one I was praying to.

I thought of prayers I have prayed, off and on, over the years.  Prayers that, today, still don’t have answers.

I thought of a man, a few thousand years ago, who built an altar to communicate with the one who had been withholding the rain from their land for the previous three years.  I thought of the false prophets who also built an altar, and how they prayed too, but their prayers weren’t answered, and this one man’s prayer was.

And so, it was against this backdrop that I pondered what kind of prayer I would or should pray that evening.

The way I figured, it could go either way.  A group of prayers could be answered as one, or, a single prayer could touch the throne just as easily, and we’d have rain.

But then, another thought fluttered in from somewhere above me, like a bright colored leaf spinning its way down.

Maybe, there isn’t a right or wrong way to pray. 

And, to conclude we know how or why a prayer was or wasn’t answered seems quite presumptuous indeed, when compared to the thoughts of the One who hears our prayers.

And then, another thought fluttered down. 

Maybe, since love is something I deeply appreciate, when shown to me, maybe, then, since God is love, He gets and likes a little of the same feeling as I get when someone loves me, if I choose to give my love to Him.

Then it seemed simple.

Prayers could be a channel for me to send love to God. 

Not every time, obviously, because sometimes, when you are drowning in a muddy pond, you can’t think about love properly.

But on a day when I had time to think about it, I suddenly found myself wanting to pray, to send my love to the One who has been with me all along, whether it rains or not.

10 Minutes

If those ten minutes had played out differently, his name probably wouldn’t be catalogued in public libraries.

Neither would his writing style be studied by fledgling authors, some of whom study at the most prestigious universities.

He claimed his writing wasn’t what he was good at.

He did it, he said, because he had to.

And so, he followed the stories, wherever they took him, so he could fulfill his duty to the newspapers and magazines he wrote for.

He ended up rooming with his brother in Nevada, and for a while he gave up the trade of wordsmithing for mining silver, some 500 feet below the floor of the offices where he used to pen his stories.

The fates smiled on them; one day his brother happened down a mine shaft of which the first several hundred feet were claimed by another entity.

Beyond where the claim ended, though, his brother saw a sight that nearly paralyzed him. 

There, right in front of him, was the richest vein of silver he had ever seen.

He hurried back to the claim office with all the speed he could muster to file his claim on that section.  Needless to say, when the front shaft owners found out what was done, although completely legal, feelings became evident.  But they had to give it up, the claim was filed, and that was that.

The excitement of it kept the two brothers up for nights on end as they talked in rabid joy of their coming wealth and the splendor they could take advantage of. 

They made plans, ad infinitum, of whose debts they would pay off; whose lives they could enrich by helping out, here and there.

The soon to be millionaires were invited to a party in a neighboring town.  The party went well; so well in fact, that it was late before the one whose name we know so well set out, on foot for the nine-mile trip home.

And it was in the last few hundred feet that realization dawned on him with sickening insight. 

On the day they were to take possession of their claim, like it was for anyone taking possession, a person of their firm had to be on site, standing at the claim, when midnight struck.

He was a few hundred feet from town, and his claim, when he realized it was 10 minutes after twelve. 

He rushed to the claim to restake it, but it was of no use.  The front shaft owners were standing there, and had already claimed it.

His name was Samuel Clemens, or as we know him better, Mark Twain.

And so, he went back to writing. 

And if I must surmise anything, my guess is that should he have been on time, and claimed his millions, there would have been no need to write the now classic books and articles we read from him.

Because it seems that as wealth and good times smile upon a person, they soon fill up any need for the people in such a position to reach deep, and to find those things within themselves that sometimes surprise them, and the rest of the world, for that matter.