Editor’s note: The IJ is reprinting some of the late Beth Ashley’s columns. This is from 2016.
When I arrived at middle age — a long time ago, to be sure — I was depressed to acknowledge that I wasn’t rich.
I had always expected I would be. The rest of my life seemed good, why not the financial part, too?
Here in Marin, I was surrounded by people with fat bank accounts, making me doubly uncomfortable with my lot.
I began to feel like a failure. Several college friends had already struck it big (of course they hadn’t gone into journalism, a cheapo career compared with law or medicine or dot-com wizardry).
I second-guessed my choices, but journalism always had an irresistible allure; I had figured you just followed your path and eventually you’d end up with riches.
Recently I reassessed my life. I still wasn’t rich, but by now that didn’t seem to matter.
I hadn’t aspired to millions, just enough so I’d feel I was somewhere near the top of my heap. But there I was — middle-aged and just getting by.
I certainly wasn’t where I had wanted to be.
Whimper, whimper. Grump.
Recently I reassessed my life. I still wasn’t rich, but by now that didn’t seem to matter.
I reviewed all the good things. By hook and by crook my boys had all gone to college. They picked careers they enjoyed and did well. We had survived the minefields of teenage dissent; nowadays they tell me they love me, and I have the great privilege of loving them back.
I had spent most of 40 years (time out for child-rearing) as a newspaper reporter and editor and columnist, and enjoyed every minute. I greatly respected the profession I had chosen (or which had chosen me).
What’s more, I was lucky enough live many decades in Greenbrae, a tree-lined subdivision with lots of great neighbors, an enviable school system and a straight shot by car to San Francisco.
I had a pleasant house — swimming pool, four bedrooms, decent furniture, flower gardens and trees — each space full of happy memories. My refrigerator door is plastered with pictures of dear ones who lived here at one time or another.
In my long life, I had had one very happy marriage to a fellow newsman (he died much too young) and at the age of 83 was lucky enough to marry again and find more happiness than I could have imagined.
For more than 60 years I had traveled the world — 110 countries and counting — and am still making plans to see more. We can’t always afford the trips we’d like best, but there are plenty of good ones to pick from.
As retirees — me from the IJ, him from IBM — we have plenty of time to indulge in activities we enjoy; reading, or going to movies and lectures, indulging in symphony and ballet. If we choose, we can also sit on the couch and do nothing.
As residents of Marin we have friends whose lives offer constant inspiration. Olga devotes her life to helping the children of Nepal. Jeff Hardy constructs a medical charity in Burma. Heidi and her husband work year-round to remove land-mines from ex-battle grounds throughout the world. Wanden lends her wisdom and guidance to College of Marin. Linda T, at Marin Community Clinic, serves people who otherwise lack medical care. The list goes on and on. Once a week, probably, we meet friends for dinner or invite them to our patio for cocktails.
Dinner out? Well, the list of restaurants in Marin bursts with good choices. Dinner in? My husband pores through cookbooks or the internet, looking for new things to try.
When I think about my life now, I can’t help being grateful for all I have been given.
Rowland and I don’t have the fattest of bank accounts, but what more could I want than what I already have?
It seems like great riches to me.
