Sureties
Bev Vines-Haines

It might surprise a lot of priests, preachers and reverends to know the most hallowed halls I've ever entered are those that access the Wall Street bidding pits.  When one steps through the ornate front doors, there is a smell of leather and sweat and money that far surpasses America's finest sports or country clubs. 

According to the Good Book, our hearts lie with our treasures.  Here in 1925, my treasure is AT & T stocks, railroad expansion and gold futures.  I live and breathe those trades, that floor, the adrenaline rush of outguessing every other man in the pit.  I am a wizard, the candy man, the guy who makes the most, keeps the most and never stays too long at the fair.

Some people put their faith in real estate.  They hunger for acreage, buildings and stores.  Others prefer agriculture or mining.  They are fossils from a distant age.  The real money, the safe money, is in investments.  Little bits of paper bonds one can hold in the hand and fold neatly, enclosing the riches securely in a briefcase every night. 

Cattle and mines and land are cumbersome, subject to disease, collapse and forest fires.  This is the New Age, getting close to a new millennium.  It's a time for ticker tape and sheltered funds.  Let other men struggle with physical chores and hefty effort.  My sanctuary is my leather attaché case.  It will never let me down. 



First published: November, 2011
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