My Million-Dollar Donkey

by East, Ginny;

  “Trust me.”

  He began enthusiastically making plans to build his next project, a log cabin art gallery. His new rustic coffee shop included striking details and would be unlike anything else in the area. Mark’s coffee shop had a projected price tag of over a million dollars.

  “You want us to take out another million dollar loan?” I asked. “For a coffee shop with a storefront to sell homemade crafts in a little run-down town?”

  “A building like this will be an investment that will make us rich years from now.” He showed me his plans, which included a 20 foot tree rising through the center and out the ceiling in Disney-esque magnificence as the central focus of the decor. His vision included balconies, stained glass windows, and rustic details worthy of a million dollar cup of coffee should someone in the middle of a repressed, tiny town have a taste for one. His gorgeous coffee shop was going to regenerate the town and put Macaysville on the map, he explained.

  I couldn’t deny the plan was magnificent in theory. The problem was, the scale was impractical. And the bank thought so, too.

  After spending the last of our cash on the lot, our bank account now had less than three months of living expenses to cover the family. Mark sat me down to confess the coffee shop loan was not forthcoming. We were now stuck with a useless lot and more debt than ever before. He blamed our predicament on the bank, of course.

  Perhaps Mark could still do what he loved for a living, I thought, fighting ever-growing panic, yet still believing our saving grace would be to make him happy once and for all. I researched the cost of booths at art festivals and considered what would be involved in putting his crafts in local rustic furniture stores, but no matter how we crunched the numbers, creating crafts was a labor of love that, in the end, wouldn’t provide much more than minimum wage to the artist, if that.

  A meager, art-driven income would have been enough if we were an older, retired couple who just needed a little extra to pad their social security checks and lifetime savings, but wouldn’t cut the mustard for our family, facing the financial responsibilities of college tuitions, childrens’ weddings, and saving for our own retirement. Had Mark wanted to make handcrafts for a living, the choice would have had to have been made when we first moved here with enough money to make long term investments and to purchase a home outright.

  But Mark had built a house rather than a life. Our perfect plan for financial independence had been sunk by the weight of sanded logs and expensive rock. Like it or not, we had to get practical and take care of our family now. Our indulgence towards personal dreams would have to stop.

  Mark enrolled in a course to get a real-estate license.

  “I will just need a few things to set myself up to make money,” he said. “I’ll be great at this, you know. I love houses and staging homes. I see potential where others don’t, and I will really enjoy a job that allows me to share my vision for a home.”

  Delighted that my husband was thinking along practical lines, I joined him for a trip to the mall to buy a computer for his new job—a celebration that we were now on the same page. We had half a dozen computers already, but Mark felt he needed a higher quality machine to give him an edge in the business. But at the store, Mark didn’t settle for one high-end computer. He insisted he needed three state-of-the-art Macs: one for his office at work, one for his office at home, and a new laptop for his car, too, to be efficient. My body went numb as I watched him write a check for eight grand.

  The next week he bought not one, but two used cars for himself, one a lovely fuel-efficient car for distance driving and the other a heavier vehicle with 4 wheel drive. He paid cash for both. All I could see was a double insurance payment, and more cash we couldn’t afford to spend, gone... He went on to rent billboards. Not one, but three. His smiling face was all over our small town now, five feet high, along with real estate signs and costly ads in the local chamber magazine.

  Our three months of living expenses was now gone too, and I learned his plan to fund his new career was to stop paying our mortgage and other bills totally.

  “I thought you were going into business because we need to make money, but all you are doing is spending more,” I said, my wave of panic cresting as I wondered how I was expected to feed the kids.

  He gave me a sideways glance, his resentful stare more and more commonplace nowadays. “I promised you when you let me take over our finances that if I did anything to lose our money I’d take care of you. Getting into real estate is how I plan to do that.”

  “Maybe I should go back to work, too,” I said softly. “Just until the house sells.”

  “You don’t have faith in my ability to support this family?”

  “It’s not a lack of faith in you. I’m just not convinced anyone can support a family properly in a small town where opportunity is so limited. The economy is bleak for everyone, not just the people in the country. And most people in real estate are getting out of the field the way the economy is.”

  To him, my every comment was evidence of me balking at our newly assigned roles once again. He was the man now, and I was supposed to be the good wife who trusted his decisions and quietly accepted the outcome of his choices. What was wrong with me that I couldn’t trust fate and the universe to provide? He talked of books like The Secret, complaining that my negative energy was standing in the way of his manifesting a solution to our problems.

  I loved him, couldn’t seem to stop even though I saw less and less to love the man for, but my practical nature couldn’t be curtailed. Certainly this beautiful land had value for something other than putting a barrier between the people who lived here and the world at large. People have made an honest living off the land for centuries. Why not us?

  I again began crunching numbers. Could we farm? Might we plant the pasture with corn or grapes and open a grist mill or winery? Could we raise goats or horses, cows or chickens for a living? Plenty of people in our area did these things successfully, but in every case they were working at a farm business that had been in the family for years so they were working land with a very low or non-existent mortgage, which kept overhead to a minimum. The income derived from farming was modest at best, and hobby farming had taught me that growing food or raising livestock from scratch required a hefty investment of time and money for set up, after which the owner was subject to all manner of catastrophes that might be set off by weather, pests, or sheer bad luck. Forming an agricultural business would be a huge risk under the best of circumstances. And even if we came up with a plan that had the potential for success, we still wouldn’t earn the income necessary to support Mark’s million dollar mortgage debt. We had to get rid of that house, but no one was going to buy our house with a hugely puffed-up price tag.

  My sad fingers punched away at the calculator as a magazine with an article on America’s foreclosure epidemic smirked up at me. We weren’t upside down on our mortgage like other people who had gotten in over their heads with loans they didn’t really qualify for. The value of our initial investment was declining but we still had over a million dollars of equity in the property with less owed, and I’m not talking about theoretical equity that can be attributed to estimated property values, but hard cash we had plunked down only two years earlier while the rest of the world was taking unsecured loans on their holdings. The appraisal of our property still hovered high above what we owed. Ours was still just a cash flow problem.

  “We have to lower the price of the house,” I implored again.

  Mark would not budge on the issue. Lowering the cost of the house would be making a statement that his creation had less value artistically. His house was a masterpiece, and he was willing to lose everything to prove so.

  I stood on our porch watching the babbling brook that ran through our fifty acres, thinking I was looking into shit’s creek, and we were up it.

  Mark was counting on a miracle. At night he was still po
ring over building magazines and fantasizing about the next magnificent home he would create.

  “I won’t go crazy next time,” he said. “I am done spending, done consuming, done trying to live a life straight from the pages of a posh cabin living magazine. I’m ready to be like the case examples in all those books you’ve given me to read, Your Money or Your Life, Affluenza, and Simple Prosperity.”

  “You finally read them?”

  “Well, no. I’m too stressed to read. But you told me enough to understand what’s in them. And believe me, I am all for living the simple life now.”

  I thought of the new home he had started for us. The final price of that structure would land in the half million dollar vicinity, still more than we had agreed to spend on a home when we started out this adventure as millionaires.

  I kept mulling over our choices. Did we really want to continue living in this small town, two isolated city folk, raising kids in a repressed area, if being a resident of Blue Ridge meant living without security and some level of comfort? Did we really want to stay in a place where every pair of shoes we owned was dirt encrusted and there wasn’t a single radio station that didn’t play country or Christian music? Nature was wonderful, refreshing for the soul, but perhaps the people keeping secure jobs in the real world, the ones who spent weekends in the country for fun, had it right. The truth was, full-time residency in the country is not unlike waking up in the morning to your perfect-model date and finding out that, without makeup, she looks much the same as every average person. In fact, she looks worse because you anticipated something far more special, and in reality, your lover is plain as toast.

  As I voiced my concerns about our future, Mark grew ever more distant. Clearly, I was too focused on money; a sellout if I thought returning to the commercial world we left behind was any kind of solution to our problems.

  I listened to his postulating about how he alone understood what counted in life, my eyes wandering to the beams lofting 25 feet overhead in our 7500 square foot ‘simple’ cabin. His sentiments sounded wise and true, spoken with such passion as they were. But his words, despite the most convincing sincerity imaginable, simply didn’t match his acts. Not now. Not ever.

  We jointly agreed we couldn’t and shouldn’t cast blame for our predicament on others, ourselves, and especially each other. The truth was, we had grasped for a brass ring and missed. Mark could have made more reserved choices, but we also could have avoided the merry-go-round all together and missed the ride and we had learned important lessons on this journey.

  At least our adventure, while a failure, had taught us about our own strengths and weaknesses. I was ready to embrace whatever mindset was necessary to start fresh. My family was irreplaceable, and I could always make more money. I just needed Mark to untie my hands and allow me back into the decision-making role so I could begin.

  I ventured to the barn to consider what I was going to do with Donkey, since all things pointed to our losing all our property now. We hadn’t paid a mortgage payment in a year, and fewer and fewer people bothered to look at a house so overpriced, so even the silly hope for a miracle was wearing thin. I had begun selling my animals the month before, sending my llama off to a llama rescue organization, unloading some chickens, and putting feelers out for the horses. Now, I walked myself through the scenario of finding a home for my donkey.

  Sniffling back tears always had a way of making Donkey appear by my side, as if he could sense my need. I stood, scratching between his ears, watching leaves flitter to the earth around me like an ominous sign that a harsh winter was soon to come. I imagined saying goodbye to the labor, the mud, the ignorance, and the frustration that hung on the skirts of country life. Next year, my family could well be back in the world where sophisticated conversation, paved roads, and decent employment opportunities were commonplace, a land where I’d ask new friends what they were reading rather than if they could read.

  Perhaps leaving the country was for the best for a family like ours, after all. We were too educated and too worldly to ever be happy in a town with so few opportunities. Perhaps rejoining urban society was the only way to meet our potential and contribute to the world in a real way. Perhaps fate was correcting a mistake by forcing us out of the country. If we truly had the mentality and attitude of simplifying life, Mark would have built us a simple cabin and a sustainable life, not a lodge fit for a celebrity family designed only to impress others.

  Donkey nuzzled my side. I imagined him saying, “Forgive me, I was the catalyst. I’m sorry I ended up a disappointment to you.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I said aloud. “You taught me to breathe again, to pause and enjoy the quiet moments. You reminded me to laugh and learn and wonder at life. You were my best entertainment, my best education, and my best friend. Knowing you was worth the risk, the failure, the fear and discomfort. I’d do everything again, even knowing the outcome. Living in the country was fun. Fascinating. Real. My children bloomed here. And I had had the gift of being attentive and present to witness their growth. I’ve never felt so amazed by the world. Thank you.”

  As my fingers ran through the donkey’s dusty fur, I knew just how true my admission was. Mark and I had stretched our horizons, rebalanced our souls, and tested our moral center as we reached for a dream despite the impractical implications to our balance sheet.

  Most importantly, our journey wasn’t over yet. We might still sell our home and be left with enough money to rebuild our lives. That monstrosity of a house might even springboard a new building career for Mark someday. Mostly, I prayed my husband would at long last learn from his mistakes, and accept and admit his weaknesses so we didn’t have to replay this painful drama of financial irresponsibility again and again.

  “It isn’t fair. We’ve changed too much to go back now,” I announced to the trees.

  Donkey blinked in acquiescence.

  “Our chairs are now made of sticks and antlers, so they won’t fit in a neat suburban living room. Our wine isn’t liquor store imports, but fruitful flavors gurgling and fermenting in a five-gallon carboy in the basement, every batch possessing a better kick and far better body than mass-produced lofty labels. We’ve lost our taste for imported greenhouse tomatoes and pale store-bought eggs, preferring homegrown tomatoes with a touch of dirt still clinging to the stem. Our dogs are too big, our cars too dirty. Mark’s wardrobe is too Paul Bunyan-esque for suburbia. Kathy is reading at the third grade reading level and there’s still a lot more she can teach me... um, I mean that I can teach her.”

  The trees smiled as I poured out my confession.

  “Most importantly, this family still has a donkey to raise, and he has a good 30 years of living left that require wide open spaces and fresh, clean air for health and happiness...and so do we.”

  The donkey brayed endearingly, but not to me. Mark was standing on the gravel road watching me. He wasn’t driving his tractor, holding a chainsaw, or even covered with sawdust, but framed as he was by trees and the open sky, he looked perfectly at home. He flashed me a distant smile, and my heart constricted. God, I loved him. Just once I wished he would walk up and put an arm around me. I wanted him to make love to me in the barn or lay with me in the field as I had dreamed since we first bought this land. I wanted him to squeeze my hand with shared confidence that we were in this together. Just once.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “A realtor just called. Someone wants to see the house tomorrow. No promises, but it’s a chance...Who were you talking to?”

  “Donkey. I know that sounds silly,”

  He didn’t comment.

  “Can we please lower the cost of the house to be in line with the appraisal? That might give us a fighting chance to sell it tomorrow.” I had made the request so many times Mark probably heard it in his sleep.

  He turned to leave and I sighed. I had once again spoiled the moment. My husband had n
ot bothered to visit me at the barn to talk for months. He had not bothered to be alone with me for months. We hadn’t stood this close for months.

  I followed him. “I don’t want you to feel I don’t trust your judgment. We simply must take affirmative action to handle our problems. The bank will take this property if we don’t.”

  “Well, you always know the right path to take,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he quickened his step.

  I stopped following him. I knew better than to say anything more. There was no winning. Not with nature, and not with my husband who had long since left me in heart, mind, and body. The truth was, I had lost my husband the day we sold our business and he was instantly empowered by a million dollars and free rein to spend as he wished. Until then, he needed me. Someone had to be there, working tirelessly to provide him a certain lifestyle. My life had been an endless treadmill of effort to out-earn his spending and support his artistic whimsy. But I became expendable the moment he became financially free from having to answer to me, or my family, or anyone else.

  “You’re not selling much real estate, so can’t you stop spending so much time at the office and come home for a while? We really need to spend some time together. I feel like we’ve been nothing but glorified roommates for ages, and I miss you,” I said, feeling pitiful that I had to beg for my husband’s affections.

  “You want me to come home so I can listen to your concerns and fears? Your endless crying and begging me to talk about things is disgusting. No, thank you.”

  I turned away to hide the wellspring of tears that had surfaced in my eyes. To the top of that salty spring floated a memory, unbidden and unwelcome, but all too clear. The memory was so overwhelmingly pain-filled that I must have tried to drown it forever, but a moment in time came back to me now with a harsh message I was at last ready to hear:

  A month prior, as I had walked down the path to the barn, I got a strange sensation that something was amiss. I instantly did a spot check for chicken or peacock carcasses littering the barnyard, but no evidence of night marauders seemed apparent. Still, Pulani was pacing the fence nervously with her ears bowed forward, humming in an agitated, nervous way. The dogs were barking and Donkey stood at the fence staring at me with his usual wise gaze, as if to advise me, “Take a breath.” Instantly, my eyes darted over the pasture checking for my baby llama. He was never far from his mother, so his absence now instilled an even stronger sense of foreboding. Where was Pauli?