Money: A Love Story


“I spent most of my life making money for someone else,” Eduard Pennington said. “It wasn’t just one day, one week, or even one year, but at some point I realized I wasn’t just wasting my talent, I was wasting time. I enjoyed my time at the corporation, and they treated me better than they should have, but I wasn’t getting younger. I just got tired of doing it for someone else, and through a series of painfully slow, very boring investment platforms, I eventually had the money to do it for myself.”

Some people feel the passion when they hear tales of romance. I get the same charge hearing someone passionately talk about making money. I might be lonely in this corner of the world, but when I hear anyone talk about how they made theirs, I’m not the least bit envious. I’m inspired.  

Eduard Pennington is, was, and always will be a regular schmo. There was probably nothing fancy about his clothes or his car when he was a middle class employee, and nothing changed after he became the multi-millionaire next door. When we speak to him, we notice the confidence of a life well-lived, but we don’t hear the smug arrogance those of us who grew up on cartoons might suspect from such a character. Eduard Pennington is, as depicted in the 2010 book, The Millionaire Next Door.  

“When we look back on our lives, we remember the good, the bad, and the ugly,” Eduard said. “The years I spent working for myself were the highlights. It was so stressful, in the beginning, that it affected my health, and the idea that I made such an idiotic mistake leaving the comfy confines of the corporate world to do this kept me up many a night. I also worked so many hours, getting my business off the ground, that it took a toll on my relationships with my wife and my kids. I still regret missing out on some vital parts of their youth, but other than that, those were the best years of my life.”

Money is not the root of all evil. It is neither good or evil. It is contained wholly within the specimen on which it acts. We define it, and it defines us. If we are bad guys, the pursuit of money can make us worse. If we are good guys, the pursuit can make us better. In its finest form, money is a byproduct of human ingenuity, hard work, and entrepreneurial risk-taking.

“You can get rich working for money, my dad once told me,“ Ed said, “but you can get stinking I-hate-you wealthy when your money starts working for you. Money is power,” Ed added to his dad’s saying, “and power buys you freedom, and that freedom permits you to do what you want to do.”

In the middle of the decade Ed spent working for himself, his company eventually turned a profit. He began delegating most of the authority, and some of the work, to his employees as the profits increased. He trusted them to run the company the way he saw fit, but the resultant free time did not suit Eduard Pennington. He grew anxious and itchy, and in the the process of trying to find something more productive to do he “almost accidentally” developed a device (pre cell phone era) to help make the work of his employees easier. He did it for the money. He did it for the profit, and he did it so well that his company’s profit margin began to dwarf that of his nearest competitors’. After years of pounding them, the competition came-a-knocking. Eduard quickly patented the device, and he shared everything about it with them. He then permitted them to pour through his accounting books to determine the ins and outs of how he was beating them. They waked away believing the difference was this device, and they bought it. Then, their competitors bought it, and so on and so forth, until the device took off. It wasn’t long after the competition incorporated the device into their business that they couldn’t imagine how they got along without it.  

“Word got around, and they came-a-knocking,” Eduard said of a number of entrepreneurs who walked into with bountiful checks in hand. “They knocked loud and hard. I couldn’t believe the numbers they were writing down. I should’ve seen the bidding war that ensued, everyone said I should’ve seen it, but I didn’t. I was wholly unprepared. The problem for me was, they didn’t just want the device. They wanted my whole company. My company, my little baby, and the thing I built from a little granular idea was now a number. It was a gigantic number, for me, back then, but it was still just a number.

“I hated them for putting me through this, and I loved them at the same time,” Eduard continued. “Ten years into this company, and I never wanted to do anything else. My plan had been to see this company to its bitter end, my end, my retirement, or whatever came first. If I told you the number they wrote down, you might consider it an easy decision, but this was my whole life, my routine, and my identity that they wanted to buy. It was the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make, but I just couldn’t imagine, in my wildest dreams, ever turning down the kind of money they were offering.

“I took a month of long-sweaty nights mulling over the plusses and minuses of selling my company. They thought I was playing a card. They thought I was being strategically patient. I wasn’t. I was making sure giving up what I spent ten years building, was the right decision. I hired corporate analysts to project the growth of the company ten years, twenty years out, and I paid advisors, lawyers. I even contacted other owners in my industry to see what they thought.

“Even with all that, I still regretted selling it,” Ed continued. “I regretted it before I signed the documents, I regretted it after, and I regret it to this day. I don’t think I would’ve done with it what they did. Maybe I would’ve, I don’t know, but they took it to another level. God love them, they knew what they had, much more than I did, and I knew a lot, but they took it to the stratosphere. They gave me a lot for it, but if they ever decide to sell, they’ll probably get fifty times what they gave me, based on what they did.”

Eduard Pennington lived the last thirty years of his life The Millionaire Next Door. He took two extravagant vacations to celebrate the prize of his ingenuity, and he bought a verified and minted Babe Ruth-signed baseball to give his reward a tangible quality. Eduard then took care of every one of his immediate family members, in ways big and small, and he made sure they never had to struggle in life the way he did. Then, he did something revolutionary with the rest. He invested it.

“I went boring,” he said. “Boring, old blue-chip stocks with high dividends, bonds, and real estate. I have no creative investments, other than maybe the Babe Ruth baseball, and no sexy, innovative stocks are in my portfolio. My plan was to live on dividends, interest, and appreciation. My financial plan was to go so boring that you might fall asleep before I’m done telling you what I invested in, but that was my plan.”

There are a number of reasons I find Eduard Pennington’s story so beautiful, but one of them is purity. He pursued the American dream from his nook of the world, and he found it. His journey did not involve backstabbing, fraud, or deception. It involved some appreciation of his business, but that was thanks mostly to his hard work and ingenuity.

Eduard Pennington was a good man who worked his fingers to the bone, and he learned so much about his industry that he developed a revolutionary product that eventually went international. He surrounded himself with good and honest men and women based on merit, and they proved their value to his company for a decade and beyond. If you’re reading this with the notion that somewhere around right here in this article, the other shoe will drop to expose some of Eduard Pennington’s character defects, this isn’t that story.

The streamers and Hollywood would never pay one dime for Eduard’s tale, because he loved his wife and children, he didn’t cheat anyone, and he never hurt anyone. He wasn’t a bad guy, and they want bad guys, because we want bad guys. Bad guys are the angle, the promise they make in their summaries, and the selling point to get us to click on their movies. We want tears and pain from the side characters, and a ruthless bloodlust from our main character. No one wants to read a story about a man who loved his wife almost as much as he loved his mother. No one wants to read a story about a nice man who never faltered in his dream to make the most honest money he could, that’s just boring.

***

“Money is not the root of all evil,” someone far smarter than us once said. “Money provides definition. When a bad guy pursues money, it can make them worse. A good guy pursuing his dreams can become a better man in the pursuit.” The idea of money is intangible quality with no definitions of its own. We define money and money defines us.  

Once he took the money and ran, some might suspect that Ed did it all for the money. That seems so obvious to us now that it’s not even worth discussing for many of us. Yet, Eduard loved what he did, and he regretted getting out. “My friends and family said things like, you’re still a young man, and with that money you can do whatever you want,” Eduard said. “I thought that was right and logical and all that, but the truth was I didn’t want to do anything else. I still don’t, but I couldn’t turn the money down, because I didn’t want to be known as the person who turned that money down. I didn’t want people to there goes Eduard Pennington, the guy who turned down big money, and right after he did it, his business fell apart. Every industry, hell every business, goes through cycles, and it was possible that the value of my company could’ve gone down. It didn’t, but it was possible.”

Eduard Pennington did it all for the money. He worked for someone else, because they paid him. He opened his own business for the expressed purpose of making more money, and like all upstart businesses he skimped and saved during the early, desperate years. He even dipped into his nest egg to see to it that his employees were paid on time. He didn’t do this because he was a good man. He did it, “Because it was good business,” he said. “I interviewed and hired every single one of these talented men and women, and I paid them top dollar for their skills, because I knew they could make me more money. I don’t care how loyal your employees are, if they find someone who is going to pay them so much more than you, that will test their loyalties. It’s just good business to find the market for their talent and pay them more than that.

“Why else do you do anything in business?” Eduard asked when asked if he has any concerns that we might view him as a greedy capitalist. “I spent most of my life making money for others. When I went into business for myself, my goal was to make as much money as I could.

“Let me amend that slightly,” Ed said. “If you do it solely for the money, you’ll end up miserable. If you love what you do, and you’re good at it, money is more than a byproduct of all of your efforts, it’s the reward. If you’re not getting paid what’s the point?”

Fighting Coyotes


“I had a mean case of the coyotes,” Riley Frandsen said to explain his unorthodox, yet natural means of protecting his property. I didn’t need a guide or interpreter to tell me what that meant, but Riley was so stacked with anger and frustration that I felt compelled to provide him a launching point:

“What does that mean?”  

“They were going to the bathroom in my yard, all over my yard. It was so disgusting. They ripped my garbage apart and threw it everywhere, and they were scaring the hell out of Murphy,” Riley said, stressing the latter point as if it was the most important. “Murphy, here, was afraid of going out in the backyard,” he added patting his nearly 100lb. setter while holding my gaze. “I’m serious. When he left this little patio, he did so only to go to the bathroom, and then he wanted back in quick. He got to the point that he was going on the patio, because, I think, he didn’t want to leave the lighted area. He used to love the backyard, staying out for hours, running around, barking at non-existent matters, like any good dog will. Then it was, one to two minutes, and he’s scratching at the door to get back in. It’s sad is what it was.”       

I wasn’t paying too much attention. I’m normally a pretty decent listener, but a story about a man living in a relatively remote location, having problems with coyotes, didn’t captivate my attention. I had a whopper of an unrelated story all locked and loaded, and I couldn’t wait to start it. As such, I was committing the mortal sin of all good listeners: I was waiting for him to finish his story, so I could start mine. 

“What does a man do when coyotes start peeing all over his land?” Riley asked himself when I forgot to ask. “You pee right back is what you do. You reclaim your land.” If I was rudely half-listening up to that point, those lines brought me back in. My story was gone.

“You pee right back?” I asked, guessing where he was headed, but I wanted to hear him say it. “What does that mean?”

“How does a dog mark their territory?” Riley asked. “They urinate on it, right? They were marking my territory as their own, and I didn’t know where they were marking, of course, but they obviously did such a thorough job on my lawn that my buddy, Murphy, was afraid to leave the patio after a while. So, I started urinating back, around the perimeter of my land, as a way of taking my land back.

“So, anytime you have to pee, you run out here and do it on your lawn?”I asked

“I started out doing that,” he said, “but I did some research on it, and experts say that morning urine is the most concentrated and potent.” 

“I’ve also heard that beer urine is some of the most concentrated and potent,” I said. “Is that true?” 

“I wouldn’t know, because I have no control group … My morning urine has had at least some beer in it since I was fifteen. And to answer the question every one else asks, I have to do it again after every rain.” As Riley and I went silent, with a beer in hand, looking out at Riley’s backyard, I broke:

“I am sorry. I know this isn’t funny, but it kind of is.”

“Oh, I know it is,” he admitted with a smile. “I’ve taken this story into town, and they laugh just as hard as you do, because its funny, but I’ve tried everything as you can see. I put up that privacy fence, an eight-foot privacy fence, and I saw one jump it one night, scared the hell out of me. I grabbed my rifle and scared it off, and guess what he did. He jumped it again a couple nights later. They’re not scared off by gunshot, not long-term anyway. They’ve not afraid of motion detection lights, and the name brand coyote repellents don’t scare them off either, not long-term. Nothing did, until I began marking my territory. I have to protect my dog, and my property right? I see it as marking my territory in the way any other animal would. I see it as informing them that this is my land in their language, and they respond better to that message than any of the other ones I tried. I don’t know why it works so well, but I think it has something to do with their fear of humans. Our urine is also very high in ammonia, which most animals hate. I still hear them, off in the distance, but I haven’t seen them once since I started doing this. They appear to consider the smell unbearable. It is an olfactory repellent to most mid-level predators. It can also be used as a pesticide. The scent of human urine can be used to confuse and deter rabbits, squirrels, and unintelligent people.

“Not all predators are repelled by the scent of human urine however,” he continued in a matter-of-fact manner, as we sipped on his beer. “The debate on whether bears are detracted or attracted to human urine is ongoing. Some say larger bears, like grizzlies, might actually approach a camp lined with pee that campers put there to detract bears. They say that bears now so associate humans with food that any sign of humans will attract desperately hungry bears, and they know the scent of our urine. Others claim that bears are naturally curious creatures, and the smell is so foreign to them that they investigate. They’re just in our campsite to see what the smell is, in other words, but when we start screaming and running away, their other instincts and impulses cause them to do the things they do to us. 

“Reindeer, apparently, go nuts for our pee,” he continued. “And yes, I did some research on that too. I didn’t specifically search this out, but it was an offshoot of an offshoot, a rabbit hole that I followed, until I ended up learning that reindeer have a natural salt-deficiency, and our urine is high in salt, so they crave it, like we do Ruffles. The Inupiat people of Alaska found that all they have to do is pee in a reindeer trap, and they’ll have a nice meal at the end of the night. Imagine all of the trial and error that went into that finding. The Tozhu people of Tuva in Russia like to keep reindeer around for whatever reason. I assume they occasionally kill and eat them, but they’ve found that if they offer a reindeer a bowl of urine every once in a while, the reindeer will hang around their homes, waiting for the next bowl to arrive. The Tozhu say that the salt-deficient reindeer crave our urine so much that they’ve learned our patterns, and when they see a man who they think is about to pee they will all rush up on him and jockey for pole position, for lack of a better term.

“I know it’s funny,” he said. “I knew that before I told my neighbor, who was trying everything he could think up to free his home from the coyote invasion. He thought it was hilarious, and he told everyone he knows, and I know they were all laughing their heads off, but you know what happened don’t you? You know the end of this story don’t you? You can see it coming. That’s right, they kept laughing at the image of me peeing around my property line while they went through all of the prescribed fixes, and now everyone in town is peeing out their own property line. It’s funny, and it’s the only thing that works.” 

“For the First Time in my Life, I’m Glad I’m Handicapped.”


“I never thought I’d say this,” my uncle John whispered to his friend, “but for the first time in my life I’m glad I’m handicapped.” The joke was the conclusion of a “frustrating moment,” John’s experienced on his trip to Florida to see Simon & Garfunkel. 

As funny as the conclusion to John’s story was, I had a hard time laughing. I knew too many sad details of his life to just turn it off and laugh at some insensitive joke John made about condition. Even though John was laughing harder than the three of us, and his lifelong friend Jim Rhodus had tears in his eyes from laughter, I couldn’t just turn it all off, because I knew how much he suffered in life.

With his guidance, I learned not to feel sorry for him, because he said that often did him more harm than good, but when he told me that the first signs of his muscular degenerative disease appeared in high school I couldn’t help but feel bad for him. 

“It affected you in high school?” I asked.

“Kind of,” he said. “I fell a lot. When I ran, I fell. We thought I was just a big old klutz.”  

“That was what we called him, a klutz,” his older brother told me later. “He’d fall for no reason at all. He was the star guard on an undefeated, champion high school football team, and some of the times he’d just fall, in the open field, with no one else was around. It was so embarrassing that we just laughed about it. We developed jokes, like kids do, to avoid wondering if there might be a greater explanation of it. You don’t search for an explanation when you’re a kid. You just laugh and joke about it. We had no idea that his eyes bounced when he ran, and we had no idea that his clumsiness was an early warning sign of a muscular degenerative disease. You have no idea about stuff like that when you’re young. We didn’t even think about greater things. We just thought he was a klutz.”     

Over the course of the next forty years, this disease would gradually rob John of his muscular strength. He lost some of the functionality of his legs before he was thirty, and before he was forty, he began losing use of his arms and hands. Doctors guessed that if John hadn’t spent so much time in the gym, in high school and college, the degeneration could’ve been more rapid. The gradual degeneration was such that before he was sixty, he began to lose his throat muscles. It was difficult for him to speak, and even more difficult for us to hear him. When he inhaled and drew the full force of his lungs, he could muster something equivalent to a loud whisper.

One of the most difficult aspects of his handicap, he once told me, was kids. “Kids don’t understand. They’re scared, and when a kid sees me in the mall, or church, or somewhere they turn to their parents for an explanation. ‘What is wrong with him mommy?’ I’ve heard more than one kid whisper that to their mom. The parents don’t answer, not in front of me. They give me an apologetic look, and I want to scream ‘just tell them I’m handicapped’. Most adults don’t know this, or they don’t think about it at the time, but we handicapped people feel like more of a freak when you don’t answer. Refusing to answer in the moment only leads the child to being more confused, and that confusion can lead to greater confusion and fear. Whatever is going on inside the kid’s mind, the parents make it very difficult for me to talk to the child. It can be so frustrating that I some of the times I wonder if it’s all worth it.”  

It wasn’t the first time I heard him talk about death in a round about way. He talked about it often enough that by the time he did finally pass on, I considered him a soul at peace, and I never saw it that way before no matter how many times I’ve heard it. 

On another occasion, I told him of a family member who wished for death, so he could be with his wife again. “I told him that even if there is a heaven, my bet is we will all look down and think about how much life we wasted on Earth. We do not know if there’s an afterlife, but we know life has a beginning and an end, and that life is short.” 

“It’s true,” John said, “It’s all true, but some of the times it seems to take forever.”  

“What does?”

“Life.”

He did not say that in a profound manner, as if to wrap up his views on life as a handicapped person. He said it as he might the details of the St. Louis Cardinals game from the night before. He shut the game of solitaire game he was playing on the computer down after he said that, and we spoke of the plans we had for the evening. He didn’t intend that to be a room silencing, thought-provoking line, in other words, it was just something he said before saying something else.

It didn’t strike me how illustrative such a line was to him being a handicapped man, until he relayed the Simon & Garfunkel story to me. 

John asked me to accompany him on this trip to see Simon & Garfunkel in concert, but I just couldn’t see traveling halfway across the country to see two men sing. For John, it was a matter of life and death. He spent a lifetime listening to those two old men sing, and he feared he might die before he could ever see them again, or they would, or they would simply stop touring as a duo.

“If you can’t find anyone else to take you, I’ll go, but I want you to drain the swamp of possibilities before asking me again. That’s how badly I don’t want to go.”

Most from John’s generation grew up loving either The Beatles or The Rolling Stones. Some loved Elvis Presley with equal levels of passion, and I’ve met more than a few who pledged allegiance to Johnny Cash, but for my uncle it was all about Simon & Garfunkel. He owned every single album they made together, and he owned most of their solo albums. He also traveled the country to see them sing in concert any time he could. He preferred to stay close to home, of course, but he always had that fatalistic belief that this particular tour might be his last opportunity to see them live, even though he already saw them perform live over a dozen times before. When he sorted through their list of tour dates of that year, he found that the closest they would appear on this particular tour was Florida, an eight-hour flight.  

Why anyone would love the quiet, calm stylings of Simon & Garfunkel this much was beyond me. I have nothing against Simon & Garfunkel. They wrote meaningful songs that my high school administrators used to inspire us during high school spirituals, and I’ve also heard them at a number of weddings and funerals. That’s where I heard Simon & Garfunkel most often growing up, so my associations with them probably hindered my ability to appreciate their craftsmanship. I honestly didn’t care about them one way or another, but my uncle adored their music.

As we age, we learn that there’s no use trying to explain why one person loves a certain type of music over another. The one thing I did needed him to explain was why he needed to see these particular men sing calm, contemplative songs live. What’s the point of watching calm and quiet artists take the stage to play quiet, calm music? I’ve never seen them live, but I can’t imagine they put on much of a show. If they do something that is can’t-miss, how does one show differ from another, and what’s the difference between seeing them live and listening to them on the stereo, or watching their live show on TV? They probably walk onto the stage with little fanfare, carrying a guitar and a bottle of water. 

My frame of reference for concerts is admittedly tainted. I was a teen in the 80’s when heavy metal acts put on shows that we now call arena acts. I’ve never been to a calm, quiet concert before, but I suspect that someone like Paul Simon doesn’t body surf over the audience while singing Bridge Over Troubled Water, and I suspect that their choreographers don’t employ KISS-style pyrotechnics during Here’s to You Mrs. Robinson. My guess is the two of them walk out from behind a curtain and sit in comfortable chairs to sing and play guitar for an hour or so. If they stand, is it more engaging? If they sit, is it more comforting? Do they engage in colorful banter between songs? They probably do, to give us our money’s worth. Garfunkel probably drops a humorous anecdote about Simon that everyone in the audience knows about, and Simon probably hits back with some comment about Garfunkel’s afro, and everyone laughs as they lead into The Boxer. If my Uncle John successfully convinced me to take him to this show, I’d probably miss that rapport, because I’d be asleep.

My guess is a Simon & Garfunkel tour is as low-cost as it gets. How many employees do they have to pay? Does their show require roadies? If they do, my guess is they could use a Volkswagen to transport their equipment from city to city.  

John didn’t care about any of that. In fact, he enjoyed spending hundreds of dollars for the flight, the hotel nights, the ticket price, and everything in between, and traveling for about sixteen hours to and fro to watch a couple of gown men sing calm, quiet songs to him for a couple hours. Even though he said he didn’t consider it a hassle, the idea of what he went through to see that particular Simon & Garfunkel show was at the forefront of his mind when a feller in the audience, near him, began singing along with Simon & Garfunkel. 

“That’s kind of the price you pay when you go to a live concert,” I told my uncle. 

“This guy was singing every song, word for word, and he was singing them at the top of his lungs,” my uncle replied. “Those of us who were near him could barely hear Simon & Garfunkel over him.”

“It’s true. The guy was all but screaming the lyrics,” Jim Rhodus said. Jim was John’s lifelong friend, and the one who eventually accompanied John to Florida. He was also in the room, enjoying John’s retelling. “We could all understand the guy getting swept up in the excitement of the first few songs, but it started to get a little obnoxious after a while.”  

“Yeah, when he continued doing this, what was it, four or five songs in? It was pretty obvious that this guy was going to continue to do it throughout the concert,” my uncle continued. “I just spent eight hours flying, ten total when you account for TSA and other delays, to see these two sing, and this guy was ruining everything for me and everyone around him. So, I finally just had it, and I yelled out, “Would you just shut up!” I was so frustrated that I think I dropped an ill-advised word in there somewhere.”

“And he heard you?” I asked without mentioning how surprising it was that anyone could hear my uncle, due to his condition, and the idea that he was so loud that anyone could hear him over the music was shocking, no matter how quiet and calm the music is. 

Oh, he heard him,” Jim Rhodus said, starting in on his laughter, as John passed the three-quarter mark of the story.

“I guess I was so frustrated that I mustered more strength than I ever have,” John said, “but yeah, everyone between me and him heard me. This guy bolts out of his seat, as if he received an electric jolt, and he begins scanning the crowd in my general direction. As he stood, he just kept going and going. He had to be, at least, six-foot-five, but in my nightmares, he’s a seven-footer, and he was broad too. I couldn’t see much in the limited light in the audience, but his shadow made him appear 250 pounds of lean muscle. It was like the scene from a 1980’s comedy. So, this Ndamukong Suh-looking fella stands up and looks around for who said that, and he’s ticked off.”   

“Did he look at you?” 

“Not at first,” John said, “but everyone could see his intentions when he stood, and everyone between us gave me up pretty quick. They all turned around and looked at me, and this guy spots me, and the lighting was such that he was mostly in shadow, but I swear I could see flared nostrils. He continues to look at me silently for about five seconds, and then he sits down without saying a word. After I calmed down, which took a little while, I turned to Jim and said, “What did I say exactly?”

“You said,” Jim said. “I never thought I’d say this, but for the first time in my life I’m glad I’m handicapped.”