EMERGENCY RISK REDUCTION

Last month, I spoke of my father’s life that allowed him to accumulate wealth, pay cash for a farm, and therefore reduce the primary agricultural risk – market risk. Please indulge me to tell you my mother’s story, which has been equally impactful on my life.

I mentioned that my mother met Dad when he was equivalent of the CEO of the venerable Parker House hotel in Boston. That’s a long way from Great Falls, Montana where she grew up as a single child. I’ll fast forward to the WWII days, with Mom in her early 20’s and the country absorbed with WWII. Mom’s fiancée was tragically killed on a Pacific island only a few weeks before the end of the war. It was shattering, but so much of war is.  A person of faith, she picked up the pieces and moved to Los Angeles, where she absorbed Hollywood as it was flourishing and had brushes with several celebrities. Mom became the personal secretary for a business executive, and she tells stories of events like speaking by phone to the reclusive Howard Hughes.

It was during one business trip to Boston and staying at the Parker House that Mom met Dad, which he managed. She was 29; he was 42. This is no big deal now but in 1948, these late ages to marry were uncommon. My folks married, had a 6 month honeymoon in Hawaii (this tells you the money that Dad had), and we kids started coming fast and furious. Dad rented a ranch in Montana, where four of six children were born. I was the last. As mentioned in the last blog, Dad said it was too cold to farm in this beautiful but God-forsaken state on the Canada border. We picked everything up and moved to his home state of South Carolina. Mom never forgave him, by the way!

Growing up on the family dairy, we assumed all children had chores, woke up at 5AM, and went to bed at 6:30PM or before. We simply never knew anything different. What they molded in me has been the value and reward of hard work and the importance of integrity. I’ve been far from perfect, but it’s a lingering thread of my life.

One other important nugget.  I mentioned that Mom was an only child. Actually it’s more intriguing — she was adopted — from the Blackfeet nation reserve in northern Montana. All this was a bit hush-hush in 1920, but after doing some research, it was not uncommon. I understand now why my mother never had a birth certificate. I look back on her jet black hair, high cheekbones, and darkish skin. She was beautiful, and had some features common to native Americans. I’ve never had an ancestry DNA test but am confident that my siblings and I have a fair amount of native blood.

Also Mom taught us children never to assume a victim mentality. It would get us nowhere. This hits home every day, because here in Canada,  this massive issue exists. The First Nations people that expect the government to pay huge reparation payments to ‘right past wrongs’.  Unfortunately the $100’s of millions in individual and collective payouts here have done nothing but flamed the fire of victimhood for those whose ancestors were allegedly abused. Surely abuses occurred, but many doubt the extent that is claimed in the 21^st century. I only know that playing the victim card will only keep down a once-proud people – my people. In fact, victimhood is another form of repression. Self-imposed.

In summary, my parents had an indelible and positive influence on my life. If I have retained even half of the integrity and quiet courage that they possessed, my life has been a success.

Next month, I will return to an emergency management theme. Thanks for reading.