It’s barely warm out yet but I’m sitting here thinking ahead to the Fourth Of July.
It’s not that I want to rush the summer but I want to see the flags flying on all the houses in the little historic town I live in. And I want to sit on the lawn of the village green and watch the fire department and war vets walking aside the hand-waxed trucks, paying homage to this place, this state of mind, called America.
I grew up in a lower middle class neighborhood where we had tiny rental apartments, cheap cars, pizza parlors and Little League sandlots. I never saw a country club, a Mercedes, a ski slope or a fur shop. I never even saw a big house.
We didn’t have much as measured by the dream world lives we saw on TV, but we had a treasure that was far more valuable and powerful than anything we could buy with the dollars we didn’t have.
We had The American Dream.
We could look around at our nondescript community, think not only where we were but where we wanted to go, study hard, dream, work like hell and if we so choose, do what no one in our little world did: start businesses. Become American entrepreneurs. Change the way things are done, build better mousetraps — and as a byproduct, buy a home and a Mercedes, a share of a ski slope and a country clubEmail This Post