The Art and Business of Giving

 

I’m having a hard time getting back into a post-holiday routine. I did manage to go to a lecture on the continuum care campus where I live. Our TV channel that advertises what is happening each day billed the lecture like this: “Time, Talent, Treasures...This is the history of philanthropy in (our city). We are a success story of ordinary citizens and courageous leaders who never stop believing in our community and our future. From our earliest settlers in the nineteenth century until present time, our city has been blessed with a spirit of generosity in vision and action.” I wasn’t particularly interested in going because I’ve heard the speaker more times than I can count when I was a member of the senior hall where I used to live. But I went because it was Monday and I needed human contact after spending the weekend in self-imposed isolation. Sunday I never even got dressed and I don’t feel the least bit guilty about it because I did get the laundry done and I baked a loaf of poppy-seed bread. Don’t get excited about the bread. It came from a box and I only mixed it up because I had two eggs that I needed to used or risk letting them spoil. Yes, I had them that long.

Surprisingly I came out of the lecture without the cynicism I went into it with. When did I get that way? When did I start letting cynicism cling to my coattails? (And note to self: people don’t wear coattails anymore.) The young woman who gave the lecture is just trying to make a living by giving lectures and walking tours around our city and as I sat there watching her enthusiasm I decided that I’m a wee bit jealous. She’s created a one-of-a-kind career for herself and she’s young and thin and people like her. Me, I’m old and fat and probably an acquired taste and I would have loved being the only person in the city known for doing such and such---anything short of murder and mayhem.

As for the philanthropists she talk about they were the usual suspects…the people who built the hospitals, the library, the art museum. The people who started the Salvation Army and funded the zoo. If we had enough money, we too, could buy our way into the history books. Haven’t most of us dreamed about what we’d do if we won one of the Mega Million lotto jackpots in the news recently? But what struck me the most about our local philanthropists is they didn’t start with silver spoons in their mouths and none of them made their money off the backs of poor, working immigrants that way the titans of railroads, shipping and steel did in the 1800s. The same titans who ended up being known for their philanthropy like Andrew Carnegie. Does anyone even remember how he made his money before he gave 90% of it away to do things like building the Hague Palace of Peace and libraries, universities and colleges all over the world? In a nutshell, he got rich slashing the wages of the U.S. steel workers to undercut steel prices coming from other countries and ended up with 350 million dollars excess in profits to give away in his last 18 years of life, which would be roughly six billion dollars in the 2020s.

After the lecture I walked over to the Memory Care building next door to visit my brother and I brought him some more ink pens. A few weeks ago I bought him a memory jogging guest book for people with dementia and I attached an ink pen to the book with a ribbon. Ever since then when ever I’d visit I’d find that ribbon and pen just about every where but attached to the guest book even though there were other ink pens around. This day I found it attached to his telephone. So far, I’ve brought six ink pens to his room but he only seems to use the one attached to the guest book. I'm not sure if it's a dementia thing or a guy thing. My husband used to have a large collection of ink pens---numbered in the hundreds---but he’d do the same thing of zeroing in on one pen he like using and heaven help the person who used Don’s favorite pen and didn’t put it back on his desk. I preferred using mechanic pencils---still do---so it wasn’t much of a problem for me to leave his pen alone. When I moved here I thought I had brought enough ink pens that I’d never have to buy another as long as I live, but guess what went on my shopping list this week. My brother deserves new ones that you can tell at a glance if they are going to run out of ink.

The next day was our monthly Resident’s Dialogue Meeting otherwise known as Bitch and Pitch Meetings where the same old, same old is usually on the agenda. Except this day the CEO announced that he’s leaving that job to be a fund raiser for our parent company. He’ll be wining and dining the rich folk all over the place trying get them to give corporate donations to keep the lights burning in my little corner of the world. When our sister campus first opened in 1906 it had ten residents who were all retired ministers. Now, our two campus’ have over 450 residents and the single biggest donation to our CCC came from a farmer who donated six million dollars. A farmer! And the moral of that little story is to never underestimate a guy wearing bib overalls and a John Deere baseball hat. ©