You’re not rich until you have something that money can’t buy.
In June 1975, the children were home for summer vacation on the little island of Alameda, California. The salty breezes from the San Francisco Bay kept the air pleasant, even as the temperatures began to rise. Kids rode bikes and Big Wheels up and down the sidewalks, while others dashed through sprinklers, all enjoying a well-earned break from school.
The houses on our block were a mix of styles and sizes. Some were Victorian homes and quaint cottages; others were Craftsman-style bungalows, and one was a Spanish Revival. It was a family-friendly neighborhood, with plenty of kids for everyone to have someone to play with during those summer days.
As summer stretched on, families in the neighborhood chatted about their upcoming vacations. Some planned trips south to Disneyland, and the children eagerly discussed their plans with the other neighborhood kids.
Our family, however, was the largest crew on the block. With five kids, ranging from five to fourteen years old that summer, we were a busy household. But because of our size, we rarely took family vacations. Instead, our parents found creative ways to explore the world with us. We were all involved in scouting—our parents included—and we often had the chance to travel with friends and extended family. One of my brothers, who had Type 1 Diabetes, went to a two-week camp each year for kids with the same condition.
On top of that, we had memorable day trips up and down the Northern California coast. We spent weekends picnicking, visiting beaches, and exploring state parks. Sometimes we’d even go to the local amusement parks. While other families discussed their vacations to far-off places, we never felt left out. Our adventures, though smaller in scale, were full of wonder and fun.
That summer, however, Mom seemed worried. As the talks of trips to Disneyland grew, she couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed that we couldn’t afford such a trip. One afternoon, the youngest of my brothers—Keith and Danny—came inside to ask about the possibility of a family trip to Disneyland.
Keith, with his wide eyes, asked innocently, “How much would it cost for our family to go to Disneyland?”
Mom, glancing at their hopeful faces, sighed and replied, “Well, for our family, it would probably cost around $1,000.” To us, it might as well have been a million dollars.
“Okay!” Keith and Danny chimed together, then ran back outside.
Turning to me, Mom shook her head and said quietly, “I wish we could take you all to Disneyland. It would be so much fun, and it breaks my heart to always have to say no.”
I walked over to her and hugged her. “You worry too much, Mom. You’ve given us a great life already,” I reassured her.
But she didn’t seem convinced. She simply went back to preparing lunch, keeping her feelings to herself.
When lunch was ready, the little ones grabbed their plates and headed outside for an impromptu picnic in the backyard. Mom helped them spread out a blanket and poured some Kool-Aid. Tommy, my older brother, took his lunch to his room to work on a new electronic project, while Dave, another brother, flopped in front of the TV to catch reruns of Gilligan’s Island. I stayed in the kitchen with Mom so we could have lunch together.
Despite her best efforts to hide it, I could tell Mom was still feeling the weight of her disappointment. She wanted to do more for us, to give us experiences like the other kids had, but it just wasn’t possible.
After the boys finished eating, they asked Mom to help clean up their picnic. I followed her outside to lend a hand.
As we gathered up the leftover dishes, Keith had one more question. “How much would it cost to have a new baby?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.
Mom smiled, taken aback. “Oh, about the same as a trip to Disneyland,” she replied, half-laughing.
Keith turned to Danny, and they exchanged excited grins. “Well,” Keith announced, “since they cost the same, we’ve decided we’d rather have a new baby!”
The words hung in the air for a moment, and then we all burst into laughter. As I glanced at Mom, I saw tears welling up in her eyes. She didn’t need a trip to Disneyland. In that moment, she realized that the riches in her life were not measured by money or material things. Her wealth was found in the love and laughter of her children.
Mom’s worries faded, and her heart seemed lighter. She may not have fully understood how much she meant to us, but in that moment, we all knew she was the greatest gift of all. Mama taught us that true riches aren’t about what you can buy; they’re about the people you love and the moments you share together.
Photo by Jorge Martínez, instagram @jmartinezz9 on Unsplash
Tales of a Family 