Many of you may have read the book: Rich Dad, Poor Dad, which was Robert Kiyosaki's treatise about the life lessons he learned between the two most important men in his life. It talks about how differently each man approached the subject of money and assets, and the way in which they were either controlled by it, or took over the wheel and drove it themselves.

I had something a little similar, a rich grandmother and a poor one. But instead of uncovering the key to living a fulfilled life from my rich relative as the writer does in his book, it was my poor relative that taught me the true lessons of life.

Note: This is a long post (over 2300 words) and I like to do these at least once a month. I expect very few people to actually read it, and I could have broken it up into two posts, but chose to leave it as one in order to give Google, Bing and Yahoo more data to chew on. I want to add it to the blockchain as a way of honoring my grandmother. I know she'd be proud! :)

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Rich granny was born in Texas, and never knew a day of privation in her life, having everything handed to her and doors that were closed to others, seemed to open on command for her. Her son became my dad, and the farm she was born on was more of the well-appointed version, which set the family financially above the working-class employee that catered to her every need. This was a woman raised with a true sense of entitlement, with a top-down viewpoint of the working people who were born to serve her, or to spend money at the family businesses.

Her baby-soft hands were used to the finer things in life, and never accustomed to being used for manual labor. That was done by those other people who were beneath her, and she made sure they knew it every single day.

At the dinner table her and my grandfather made snide remarks about the poor people in their church. They bragged about what they had and laughed at the working-class who tithed their meager earnings twice a week to the church so they could live an affluent life. I got a look at the real people behind the "christian" facade and didn't like what I saw.

When Little Things Mean A Lot

Poor granny was born in South Carolina, and worked with her hands. She put in long hours and was raised with a good old-fashioned protestant work ethic. Her daughter became my mother, and she was the embodiment of southern decency and charm. She always looked out for the needy, and shared whatever she had whenever passing strangers needed a helping hand.

Her firm and calloused hands were accustomed to hours of what she called "honest work" on the farm which made use of the strong work ethic that she passed down to her kids.

Eventually, both left the farm and moved to urban areas, but the each kept to the ways in which they were raised. Even though we lived in the city, we were raised with the values my mother was taught on a country farm. I was raised a virtual hermit due to my poor granny being suspicious of the "city people" and how they might influence my life.

Any kids who wanted to come over and play were grilled by her: "So why do you want to be friends with my grandson?" They were each interviewed and screened, while she hovered around these uncomfortable kids protecting me from being tainted by whatever malady she imagined the "city folk" were infected with. Many kids feeling the eye of Sauron upon them, left and never returned.

She and my mom believed in the principle of working us kids almost to the point of exhaustion as a way of making us too tired to hang with the city kids and possibly get into trouble. It worked, and to this day I've never been arrested, and never been in any kind of trouble with the law.

Attention to detail was taught through repetition. Ever wonder why I go back and correct spelling and grammar mistakes in my blog posts? It goes back to the way I was raised. Take dish-washing for instance. We all did it, and when done mom came to inspect them. She'd run her hands over each dish, and if she saw one missed crumb or felt even the slightest greasy feeling on a plate, they were all tossed back in the sink and the washing began again.

You couldn't just fix that one plate either. The punishment was to re-wash them all so you were less likely to mess up next time. So it was drilled into us to check for the little things, because if you didn't, you weren't getting any sleep.

Me and my sister were kept up for hours, often past midnight, washing and re-washing the dishes until they were perfect. Only then were we allowed to go to bed. Sweeping and mopping the floors were the same. One didn't merely clean around the furniture, you moved each piece and cleaned underneath. Even the bottoms of the table legs were checked for any food particles. If she found one, the entire floor had to be done again, and again, and again until it was perfect.

She'd take a wad of bubble gum and stick it under the kitchen table, then fail the kitchen without telling us it was there. She'd yell down to us "what are you missing?" and we'd wrack our brains trying to figure it out. This cause us to methodically go over everything in a process of elimination, and after the 12th kitchen cleaning, we'd find the mystery wad of bubble gum preventing us from going to bed.

There were school nights where we were kept up until 5 AM, finally allowed to go to bed, only to be awoken at 6 AM to get ready for school. Lemme tell ya, getting only one hour of sleep will teach you the importance of paying attention to detail. Lest you think this was some aberration, almost all of the southern parents in our neighborhood raised their kids in this way, thus me and my sister would check each others work, and were thrilled when we passed at the first attempt.

It meant we could go to sleep on time.

The Neanderthal At The Dinner Table

Every summer, I was sent to my rich grandmothers home in the faraway suburbs in an adjoining county. Dinner was something you got dressed up for and the bewildering array of utensils surrounding my plate made eating a chore.

Things had to be done in a certain order, and I was viewed as the uncouth barbarian unaccustomed to consuming a chicken leg with a knife and fork. I'd picked it up with my hand as I'd done many times at home, and that hand was immediately slapped, with a knife and fork being offered instead.

Liquids were to be consumed at the end of the meal and not during it. Didn't this stupid working-class kid know that? My half-brother tried to coach me on how to tackle the formalities of the different courses about to be set before me. I was actually told to raise my pinkyin the air when drinking tea. I don't know why.

I was caught once with notes written on my hand to remember the instructions for a complicated meal. The first time the set a plate of squash in front of me I looked on in horror. I didn't know what it was or more importantly, how and in which order to eat it, not to mention which utensil to use.

Having a meal with rich grandmom was like being at a formal dinner with the late Queen. I would sneak glances at the others in order to figure out what to do if I hadn't been tipped off in advance. I came to dread mealtimes as they were work to me and completely unenjoyable.

I was always happy to go back home where we ate fried chicken with out hands, and didn't eat cheeseburgers with a knife and fork.

An Angel At The Door

Poor granny would always tell me to be kinds to strangers, quoting that Bible verse about not knowing if the stranger at the door might not be an Angel sent by God in human form. She always opened her door to/ any stranger in need, and many times passing hobos spent a warm night on a cold day, and she'd stuff them full of food until they were ready to burst.

People would stay for just one day or sometimes even a few weeks or even months. Many became regulars traveling some circuit throughout the country known only to them. They must have shared news about her home being a welcome place for hungry travelers needing a place to lay their heads.

That's simply the way she was.

Not once was there ever an incident of theft or inappropriate behavior. The crosses on every wall told them what kind of person she was. And she was genuinely sorry to see them leave. A few became longtime friends of the family, and took an interest in me this little boy who was being raised cloistered away from the other kids as if living in a monastery.

Food Is Life

Not asking for seconds at dinner was considered rude in my family as if something was wrong with the meal. A hurt and puzzled look would come over my poor granny's face when someone pushed away from the table and announced they were done.

When I got older, the look in my grandmothers eyes would cause me to take them aside. "Um, no, you're not done. You're going to ask for seconds, is that understood? Because if you don't, you will break my grandmothers heart. Got it?" That usually did the trick and a look of relief swept over her face.

And did I say the portions were HUGE? Because they were. Giant mounds of mashed potatoes like fluffy mountains dripping with butter. Not one piece of chicken, oh no, that's not going to do, but multiple pieces to get you started. Because she was southern, there'd be large bowls of grits awaiting you for breakfast with strips of bacon stacked in layers and a fully-packed omelet (or two) among others.

Her banana pudding was divine, built with thick gooey goodness in her home kitchen. Meals were run like a military operation, with everything being bought in bulk. I kid you not, she'd think nothing of baking almost 100 pies for Christmas and making sure every guest went home with several.

Me and my sister would be pressed into service weeks in advance. A production line would be set up and we all got to work, used to the routine after years of practice. She made the best apple pies in the world, not to mention a killer coconut custard and a tasty pumpkin pie for the ages. You'd have thought you had died and woke up in culinary heaven, such were the delectable smells which tickled your nostrils.

I can still hear her whistling with joy in the back kitchen, having gotten up early and working those ovens like a pro. She loved to cook, but even better, she loved it when people enjoyed her food, it was almost like a vote in favor of her.

And if you really wanted to make her day, you asked for thirds. When she was having a bad day and needed a lift, I'd coach my friends not to eat all day and then come over to fill up. She'd circle the table as the plates were getting empty, and with a voice of concern, ask who wanted seconds. With a knowing look from me, they'd all say yes, and she'd beam with pride.

But the real acid test was when they'd ask for thirds. She never prompted this, as it was a rare surprise for her. After they'd finished with seconds, a knowing smile from me was the signal to request thirds, and they did. I'm getting emotional as I write this because it meant so much to her, she scurried around filling their plates wearing one of the biggest smiles on her face that I'd ever seen in her life.

Beaming with pride, she talked about it to her friends for weeks, so proud that her cooking was so appreciated. Once, my buddy Robert came over and I'd forgotten to prep him beforehand. After one serving (which was the size of two normal meals) he was genuinely stuffed and couldn't eat any more. Her offer of seconds was met with a head shake no, and a widening of her eyes. Thinking quickly, I said: "He's full grandmom, but he would like to take seconds home with him, RIGHT ROBERT?" One look from me and he got it, crisis averted. :)

"I'll make a plate for you" was a common refrain for bewildered guests who happened to meet her. In this case "a plate" actually meant several of them, with a full cake and a pie to boot. Oh yeah, bro, you're leaving with Something.

Them seconds (and thirds) aren't going to waste. She'd fill their arms with stuff and them walk them to their car making damn sure that food was packed in with them. I'd laugh after they were gone at the folly of them trying to escape and make a clean getaway without taking seconds. Then it was time to prepare for the next batch.

All of this I think stems from the strong protestant faith of this deeply religious woman (in a religion where we're not allowed to be "religious" in the strict Catholic sense of the word with all the pageantry and stuff).

Sharing your home and your food was as natural to her as watching the Sun come up in the morning. I think it was also driven by the deprivations she encountered while growing up, and the willingness to ensure that others in her life wouldn't have to go through the same.

My grandmother was an amazing woman and lived her life in the service of others. Watching the absolutely FLAWLESS funeral procession of the beloved Queen Elizabeth started reminding me of her. Both women touched the lives of so many people, and my grandmother opened her home to those in need and healed their hearts with a good meal.