empire

She sits across from me as she always did with grace, poise and indignation, the epitome of proper. The daughter of an Irish indentured servant married into German shipping money in the great expansion westward to California, my Grandmother had survived the Great Depression and two world wars and was the gatekeeper of the family fortune.

She regards me now, in this imaginary moment, with a fierce curiosity.

I am a child again, uncomfortable, wincing and evasive.

“Why,” I ask her, “were you always so stern with me? So disappointed, so unsatisfied?”

“My dear Alexander,” her reply is tempered and immediate, “You know just as well as I the answer to that question.  But let me be clear.  I love you, I have always loved you and it is because I love you that I want you to succeed, to understand the obligations and challenges of true success.”

She pauses for a moment, watching my face to see if I have in fact, finally understood the obligations and challenges of true success;  

when it is clear that I have not, she continues.

“Life is hard, the world is a cruel place and only the strongest and smartest can really ever hope to accomplish anything of significance.  Your grandfather and I, and my father before me, have worked so very, very hard so that you could have opportunities that we never had, just as your father works now, but you cannot squander what we have given you, you cannot waste it on folly and indulgence or you will never amount to anything, and all of our work will have been for nothing.”

“But aren’t there things more important than money,” I begin.

“Don’t be such a baby. You are so spoiled, you have no idea how fortunate you are, how hard we have all worked to bring you to this point.  Sometimes I think you would be better off if we just took it all away.”

“Go ahead,” I bluff, foolishly, “money doesn’t matter to me.”

“You see Alexander, that’s your problem; you have always given up too easily.  This is because you are weak with false pride.”

“Thanks Grandma.”

She swirls the ice in her highball savoring the condensation on the Indonesian glass.

“You should thank me.  you would thank me if you were more grateful and less of a dreamer.” 

“Dreamers can be capable of great things,” I protest.  

“Only if they actually DO something” she retorts,“only if they actually do something.”

“Maybe I’ll become a writer,” I mumble provocatively.  

“Oh dear God Alex have you not heard a word I’ve said?”