“Things always turn out for the best.” — Pangloss, Candide, Voltaire, 1759

My great uncle Roy was a very wealthy man. He owned the main business in a community. He did not demonstrate the compassion that Lynn Mandaville’s (“One Small Voice”) grandfather and great uncle showed for the less fortunate.

I read and enjoyed her beautiful account of her grandfather and great uncle. My guy was cut from different cloth. He was wealthy, and he was influential. He was the president of the country club. He was a big deal in the local parish. He lived with my great aunt, in a big beautiful home on the lake. He had many very nice things.

Next to the property line there was an unimproved dirt two track that served as public access to the lake. Uncle Roy didn’t really care for the public access. People who were not fortunate enough to have lake property came to the public access to swim, fish, and maybe eat a picnic lunch. They drove modest cars. Some had children, and perhaps they were noisy, as children sometimes are.

Uncle Roy formed a plan. As the calendar crept deeply into autumn, he hired workmen to put topsoil down on the two track and plant it with grass seed. He had them also plant shrubs and small trees. It worked perfectly! He was so pleased.

In spring, people could not find the public access to the lake. They’d go to where they thought they’d remember it having been, but came away frustrated. “I thought it was right here,” they may have thought, “but I just can’t find it.” By his scheming, and by use of his monetary resources, he got away with his plan, and eliminated the inconvenience of having common folk using his lake.

As a teen, my father told me this story as an illustration of just how nasty people could be. We were common folks. Though I must note that my father received a very nice formal recognition for humanitarian service he provided children. He downplayed it, but it was a big deal. Had we lived in that same area as Uncle Roy, w

e might have been the ones using the public access – except that we had connections. We went often to the house on the lake, but we were family, and welcome visitors.

My great uncle suffered some business downturns, and hanged himself when I was only 3. I don’t remember the man. My great aunt found the body, swinging in the basement. He left her with a very fat bank account. It was enough to provide private pay nursing home care not only to the widow, my great aunt, but also to her two siblings, when they needed it. And in time, they did.

My grandmother lived to 89. Her sister, the widow, lived to 97, and her brother lived to be 99. That used most of the estate. But there was one other expenditure that I found interesting.

Because my great uncle’s death was a suicide, he could not be buried in the cemetery of The Church of the Holy Assumption, or whatever the Catholic church in town was named. But my great aunt donated and donated and donated, to an amount believed to be in the neighborhood of $10,000, back when that represented much more spending power that it would today. After the passage of some years, with donations and attentions from the church, it was determined that my great uncle’s remains could be disinterred from the public cemetery, and moved across the street to the Catholic cemetery, with all attendant rites and rituals.

In summary: Money will buy some nice things, but not peace of mind. While there are good men like Lynn’s grandfather and great uncle, there are some nasty SOBs too. By telling me that story of Uncle Roy, my dad taught me an important lesson regarding the dignity and self-satisfaction of living in a way that is fair to others.