For the Record Part 1

In 1973, I finally graduated from college.  I had struggled with no sense of purpose other than to avoid becoming cannon fodder by means of being drafted.

After I had begun my college career, motivated entirely by that idea, the draft lottery came into being and I made it past that obstacle.  With each year, the odds of being conscripted lessened.  By that time, though, I was having a lot of fun and chose to complete my undergraduate degree at the slowest possible pace without incurring the wrath of my parents.

I graduated with a degree in Finance, Insurance, and Real Estate (FIRE).  I really had no interest in any of those areas.  I had always gravitated toward history and geography after realizing early in my freshman year that I was not cut out to be a mathematician.  I was good at math, alright, and really aspired to become an engineer of some sort.  My parents were in dire financial straits, though, and I was fortunate to attend a nearby regional university.  A college of engineering just wasn't in the cards.  A product of the Great Depression, my father refused to borrow money in the form of a student loan or to allow me to do so.  There were no Pell Grants back then.  I did get offers of one year scholarships to a few good schools.  My parents were distrustful of large institutions and felt that a one year scholarship would only serve to raise my expectations to completing a full course of study that they or I could not afford.  It never occurred to us that subsequent scholarships might materialize in following years.  We knew nothing about higher education.

My father had been forced to retire and we were strapped.  He was a good salesman and managed to get another job selling real estate.  The fellow he worked for was a fireman in Dallas with a significant drinking problem.  In return for taking a healthy cut of my father's sales commissions, he would call my father while in a state of drunkenness and berate him for not making him more money.  The solution was, of course, for my father to strike out on his own having established a good reputation and clientele.  The "fly in the ointment" was that my father was semi-literate at best, having been on his own from the age of twelve.  The educational and testing requirements for a broker's license were stringent.  It just was not going to happen.

The plan developed for me to get a real estate broker's license and then my father could "work" for me.  The courses needed to get such a certification fell under the FIRE department in the school of business, if you will.  That is how I ended up with a business degree.  I should add that it worked and my father made enough money to keep his home, pay bills, and put food on the table.  I worked as a fry cook while in college to help pay my own way.  It was a cooperative effort.

Thus, I matriculated with a business degree.  In doing so, I had learned that I was not very good when it came to traits most necessary to be successful in the business world to include avarice and greed.  I came to learn that the world of finance was based on the strong taking advantage of the weak and that insurance was very often a scheme based on people being sold policies they did not need or not covering losses most probable.  I may have enjoyed the real estate business, I think, had not a horrendous economic downturn happened along, devastating the housing market.  I was not the salesman my father was and there just wasn't enough business to support all of us.

I opted to go into banking, or rather, attempt to do so.

I made the rounds of banks in Dallas County.  Over weeks, I became pretty discouraged.  Bankers would tell me I could not live on the salary they paid.  Sometimes, they would tell me nothing at all.  Finally, one banker told me in a quite tactful way that my social class precluded my joining the Dallas banking fraternity.  I had not gone to Southern Methodist University, did not live in Highland Park or University Park, was not a member of the right fraternity, or any fraternity, for that matter, and my efforts were doomed to failure.

I walked to my car and cried my eyes out.  In retrospect, it was the best thing that man could have done to help me.  I had to find another avenue.

I talked to my father.  As mentioned, he was a salesman and made contacts with the right people.  He had sold a large land parcel to a high-ranking executive with Southwestern Bell.  Since my name was on a lot of the paperwork as the sponsoring broker, the conversation had apparently turned to me. The exec had told my father to send me to see him when I graduated.  My father told me to do just that.  I went to the building in Dallas and asked for an appointment.  I am still waiting.