Since 1999, I’ve been a clown artist. I’ve sold some of my artwork for profit and other pieces I’ve donated for charitable purposes to be sold at auction. Also, I’ve been a clown art collector for over thirty-five years and both my work and the clown art I purchase grace the walls of my home and line the shelves of my display cases.

Writing, however, is my current passion. But the two art forms, at times, can blend together, as you will see in . . .

What Do You Really Know About The Clown?

    

     Clowns freak some people out. One of my colleagues at my next to last job told me, in no uncertain terms, “If you want to meet with me, we will do it in my office. The clown pictures on your walls make me very nervous. And I’m not going to subject myself to being surrounded by your drawings.” I’m glad, however, others who have seen my work have liked and appreciated it.

     Whether we want to admit it or not, we are all very much like the clown. We awake each morning and select a costume from our wardrobe to wear. Then some of us paint our faces, and all of us arrange the hair on our heads, while some of us create images of how we want to be seen with the hair that decorates our eyes, cheeks, and chin. When complete, we are ready to face our audience and attempt to solicit cheers and applause from them. If we fear the clown, we may be in fear of the very people we meet on a daily basis, or . . . be afraid of ourselves.  

     When I draw, I have no idea what type of clown will emerge. I let my imagination flow to my fingers and then, with felt tip pen or colored pencil in hand, onto the blank white page. In a short time, looking back at me are smiling, or sometimes sad, clown faces. So, through my poetry and art, let me introduce you to the clown.

Understanding The Clown

The clown,

     often misunderstood,

     is liked by some,

     but dreaded by others.

This funny creature,

     in crazy dress,

     with painted face,

     entices the crowd.

Creative, engaging,

     the clown

     struts before the audience,

     showing no fear.

The throng

     of gawking onlookers

     sees what the clown

     wants them to see.

At times, reflecting back

     to them

     an image

     of themselves.

Playing a fine-tuned role,

     the clown challenges the crowd

     to become part

     of the show.

Not sure what is real,

     they remain at arms length,

     truth cloaked

     behind costume and deception.

Left unanswered,

     the question—

     does anyone

     understand the clown?

The Mask

At center stage, stands the clown, with painted face and glowing smile.

A mask, presented for all to see, gathers applause, in anticipation of what   

     comes next.

But then, the smile diminishes and the luster fades.

Feelings, hidden beneath the masked exterior, aching to be shared, rise to the 

     surface

    

With great effort, however, this vulnerability is reined in—cloaked once more in 

     darkness.

The mask, now back in place, provides the confidence to continue the

      performance.

The smile resurfaces, as the clown again engages the audience.

Standing tall, with head held high, applause received once more.

Clowns

Many faces do they have,

All hiding what they feel.

Their dreams are tucked below,

A mask of laughter and good cheer.

Searching for the happiness within,

Which all around see and feel.

They joke and clown around,

Sharing with the world a smile.

To all, they display a comic side,

But to none, show they the soul of the clown.

The Clown in Me

The clown in me is ringing.

The clown in me is singing.

I come out and show my face to the crowd.

I try not to be afraid,

My demeanor by no means staid,

As I scream my cheers aloud.

Playing a game of sorrow,

Others from me laughter borrow.

I smile and turn their world around.

I paint a picture bright and bold,

Through my eyes and gestures, a story told.

To the world, my “words” resound.

Playing a game of merry chase,

A crowd of strangers I do face.

Sporting a smile, with protruded chin,

I stumble, bumble, and play the fool.

Humble yet proud, this is the rule.

The strength I show comes from within.

Blending into an audience, in which I want to be accepted,

I joke, cry, and try to do what is expected—

Producing joy and sadness, a mixture draped like a shroud.

I strut and play this comic game.

Yet deadly serious is my aim.

Poised with confidence, I bow to the crowd.

My World As A Clown

I live in a land

     of fantasies and dreams,

     and play

     with the creations

     of my mind.

My world

     is a circus,

     in which I dance

     on life’s stage,

     and gather applause.

I make funny faces,

     play silly games,

     try to be touched,

     and touch

     in return.

I laugh

     with the people

     laughing at me

     and cry for the people

     who cannot laugh.

My eyes

     meet those of others,

     both young and old,

     blending their worlds

     with mine.

Touching their hearts

     and challenging

     their minds,

     I create images

     with which they play.

With them,

     I share a world

     of promise and dreams,

     the world of my heart

     and my mind.

Copyright © 2020 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Life can be a challenge. Sometimes our best advice on how to cope comes from conversations with ourselves.

However, engaging in this activity can take its toll on those within earshot of our discussion. This can have unexpected consequences, as seen . . .

Through The Eyes Of A Clown
 

      
     “Funny how life happens. The unexpected materializes with no warning, while the expected often disappears into a great sea of nothingness. Well, enough about philosophy. I have to concentrate on what’s happening now, as fleeting as it might be,” I reflected aloud.

     Serena, my assistant, works in the next office, with our interoffice door wide open. We’ve been together six years. She’s gotten used to my “talking to myself.” Still, that doesn’t prevent her from taking little jabs at me, thus chalking up points in our battle for office supremacy.

     “What are you jabbering about in there, Joshua?” she blurted.

     “Nothing your little brain would be able to comprehend,” I responded with a dose of sarcasm.

     Poking fun at each other’s eccentricities has become a special game we play. On slow days, it helps pass the time. It also doesn’t hurt on days when I have to sink my teeth into a complex problem, which mystifies me. Serena’s words, when hearing my musings, bring me back to my senses and the reality of the matter before me.   

     I’m good at my job as Chief Operating Officer at Matthews, Lopez, and Chin, one of our city’s larger management consulting firms, but need this office jousting to distract me from my daily stresses and to release my frustrations in a socially acceptable manner. And maybe, my current need for these games relates to the fact I will celebrate my fiftieth birthday in less than a week. Old age appeared out of nowhere and it frightens me.

     Since childhood I’ve had a passion for clowns—drawing them, collecting prints, and writing short poems about them. They hang on my wall in my office and sometimes I even talk to them. Serena knows of both my passion and my interactions with these amusing beings that help to keep me young. She teases me about this, but also supports me. In fact, earlier in the day, she suggested I visit a clown club website a friend had told her about. She informed me that the club, housed in a local building not far from our office, held meetings and social events for clown enthusiasts. Since she knew I had no plans for this evening, she insisted I try it out.

     My Internet search produced this rather interesting website, “The Clown Conspiracy Club.” This intrigued me. The site headline read, “Behind the Costume Lies the Real You. Being is Believing.” I printed off the homepage and stuffed it into my briefcase.

     Yes, I’m passionate about clowns. But being one for real, I don’t know if it would be a fit. This, however, seemed to be what the club’s webpage invited viewers to do. 

     Now I’ve tried clowning, sort of, in my distant past. Dressed in my colorful, plaid clown suit, I became the center of attention at my daughter’s eighth birthday party. I thought I’d done an admirable job. However, my wife, at the time, didn’t care for it, but at least my daughter liked it. 

     A short time later, I reprised the role when I played a clown at the tenth anniversary celebration at Parimus College, the Bay Area community college at which I served as a Board member. I did it with such expertise that I got my picture plastered on the front page of the Oakland Tribune, with the caption, “Joshua Ames, Establishment Clown.” This produced many laughs on campus, as some faculty believed the caption had, indeed, captured my essence.  

     “But ‘The Clown Conspiracy Club,’” I muttered. “What in the world should I expect to happen at this place?”

     Serena yelled, “You’re doing it again.”

     “Hey,” I responded. “It’s more interesting than talking to you.” I listened for a reply, but heard only a rustling of papers. “I guess the win goes to me this time,” I shouted to her and laughed loud enough so she could hear.

     Nothing eventful happened the rest of the day. I gathered some papers from my desk, stuffed them into my briefcase, where I had put the club homepage, and walked through the door to Serena’s office, the exit to the hallway. 

     She glared at me. I gave her a menacing stare in return. In a smug manner I said, “Good night ‘my love.’ I’ve got some bigger clowns than you to deal with this evening at the ‘Clown Conspiracy Club.’”

     Although I’d taken her suggestion to heart, she looked bemused. It appeared she was deep in thought trying to zing back a reply that would give her the final points for the day, but couldn’t come up with one. Not receiving a retort, I began to leave the office, when . . .

     “You will soon see who the biggest clown is, almighty clown collector, would be jester. It will knock you off your feet. Beware of what you see, ‘Through the Eyes of a Clown,’” she chortled.

     I dismissed her remarks as a vain attempt at one-upmanship. I thought no more about it. I left the building, got into my late-model Lexus, and began to drive. As I approached the freeway onramp, my mind kept seeing that interesting website, “The Clown Conspiracy Club.” What would it be like to go? I pondered.

     Engrossed in thought, I veered out of my lane. A loud horn blared from the car behind me and returned my mind to what it should be focused on—driving. I swerved away from the onramp and pulled to the side of the road. I grabbed my briefcase from behind the seat, opened it, and removed the page I’d printed. 

     My eyes focused on an event calendar for the club. I scanned the listings and discovered a meeting scheduled for 7:00 p.m. this evening. It seemed to be an open invitation to anyone interested. Serena believes I would like this place. She even suggested I go tonight. “But am I up to it?” I mumbled.   

     I pulled the car back onto the road and headed home. Ten uneventful minutes later, I arrived at my house in Bedford Hills, overlooking a serene valley. I purchased this small, two-bedroom ranch style, with a meager yard, after my divorce six years ago. During the drive home, I confirmed my decision to visit “The Clown Conspiracy Club.” I feared what I might be getting myself into, but my curiosity got the better of me.

     When I entered the house through the door from the garage, I saw the light flashing on my answering machine. I pressed the play button. A message from Serena blared, “Hey boss man, the clown club beckons you. Don’t let yourself down. You need to relax.”

     Well, this further reinforced the decision I’d already made. “Okay, I’m going,” I yelled, in an effort to expel the tension of the day from my aging body. I picked up the phone and called Serena on her cell and left a message that I would be going to the club this evening.

     I showered, threw on some casual clothes, a blue knit shirt and gray slacks, and rushed to the kitchen and gulped down a ham and cheese sandwich. I then jumped back into my Lexus and drove to the club, about twenty minutes away.

     Arriving, I turned into the parking lot. It surprised me to find an empty parking space to the right of the club’s front door. While this pleased me, it also heightened my anxiety level a bit about attending the meeting. I became suspicious, for I always have trouble finding a place to park.

     I sat in the car for a few minutes trying to muster up the courage to go in. The flashing neon sign announced, “The Clown Conspiracy Club,” which felt both inviting and threatening at the same time.

     I stared at the front door. No bouncer or guard, I thought. Umm, as a private club, there should be one. Using caution, I got out of the car, walked the short distance to the door, opened it, and entered the lobby. A myriad of pictures of clowns of all sizes and types hung on the walls. To the left of the inner double-door entry, a huge poster sat on an easel. Encircled by clowns, an arm, adorned in clown garb, beckoned me to come in.

     I opened the door into an unlit, pitch-black hall. Then, without warning, horns blasted, bells chimed, and lights of all colors began to flash. Someone grabbed my arm. I tried to jerk it back, but to no avail. I wanted to scream, but nothing came out of my mouth.

     At last, I managed a few words. “What, what are you doing to me?” I squealed. 

     A voice, coming from the heavens above, rang out, “Do not protest, you are ours, follow our lead. Take the path down the hallway to your right.”

     “God! How do I get out of this?” I moaned.

     The voice continued in a loud, deep tone. “You have entered the inner sanctum of “The Clown Conspiracy Club,” a world of the unknown, the crazy, the mystical—a world of your own making.”

     In utter terror, I screeched, “I don’t want to be here. I’ve made a huge mistake.”

     “Please,” the voice stated in a harsh tone, sending a throbbing sensation through my head.  “Please, do not protest.”

     Ushered down the corridor and through a small theater-like door, I entered a dark enclosure. Then small lights began to glow on the sides of a carpeted aisle. The room appeared to be a small auditorium with the seats arranged in a semi-circle. Although I couldn’t see well, it felt as if I was not alone. An eerie silence pervaded this very frightening new world I’d been forced to enter.

     My captor pushed me into a well-padded seat. I gripped the arms of this comfortable chair and dug my fingernails into the upholstery. My stomach hurt—a deep, awful pain. I felt like throwing up. And then, the creepy silence gave way to a booming voice from above.

     “Patrons be aware and beware, you have entered a very special place,” the voice echoed through the arena. 

     Then, the forum became ablaze in lights. But it wasn’t lights I witnessed. Eyes, hundreds of eyes, glowed and stared at me from a parade of both decorative and menacing clown faces.

     I loved clowns, but not so many all at once. I had to get out of here, but I couldn’t move. Nothing about this made sense to me.

     Then Serena’s words, which I’d dismissed, came back to haunt me, “You will soon see who the biggest clown is, almighty clown collector, would be jester. It will knock you off your feet. Beware of what you see, ‘Through the Eyes of a Clown.’”

     Without warning, boisterous laughter and thundering applause jolted me from my seat. The crowd stood and pointed at me. But why? I thought.

     Then it all became clear, as a larger than life radiant beauty, a clown of loveliness beyond compare, stood before me on center stage. Her eyes sparkled. A broad smile appeared on her beautifully made-up clown face. Displayed behind her, a large neon sign read, “Happy 50^th Birthday To A Great Boss And Friend.” 

     Then with a smirk on her face, Serena gloated and spoke with a bit of sarcasm in her voice, “Who gets the final win today? This should keep you from talking to yourself. Happy Birthday!”

Copyright © 2013 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Sunday is Mother’s Day. As it approaches, it brings back many memories of my mother’s impact on my life.

She was a special woman—one who had an opinion on most things, especially how her children should be brought up. This becomes clear in . . .

My Mother’s Way

Over seven decades ago, into this world I came,

A bouncing baby boy, at that moment without a name.

A bundle from heaven, yet the cause of much hell,

A sweet little angel, all could tell.

Upon entering my new domain, many strangers I did meet,

The first, of course, my mother—a woman so sweet.

Good intentions she had, yet her way was strange.

I had not been here long, but already my life she began to arrange.

Now my mother was charming, attractive, and very bright.

This being said, it was not surprising she was always right.

She directed my life in her own righteous way,

Even instructing me on how, when, and where to play.

“The game is too rough, you’ll get hurt,” she would say.

These statements followed me day after day.

She monitored my schoolwork and grades received.

She was both an ardent critic and great supporter of what I achieved.

As I grew from a child into a young man,

The less of me, my mother could understand.

I wanted my independence, to run my life in my own way.

Yet my mother always was there with something to say.

When I started to date, at first I came home early, then, at times, late.

Yet no matter the time, there on the living room couch, my mother would wait.

Her hair in disarray, appearing tired, but eyes focused and intent,

Questions about my date she fired at me, on getting answers, she was hell bent.

My eyes would bulge, my head would spin,

One wish had I, my bed to get in.

Mother continued her inquiry, asking about my big date.

Tortured, I replied, “But Mom it’s getting late.”

She pried still further, about what I did.

“Mom,” I said, “I’m no longer a kid.”

Mom soon got tired of administering the third degree.

Exhausted was I, for it was almost three.

I picked up my drooping head and to my surprise,

Mom’s head had fallen to her chest, closed were her eyes.

I got up from the couch, covered Mom with a blanket, and shut off the light,

Breathed a sigh of relief, and kissed Mom good night.

As the years passed, my mother’s way played a role in the decisions I made.

With her support and prodding, I was successful in climbing life’s grade.

The many things I accomplished pleased Mom and made her proud.

She cheered my successes, as I stood out from the crowd.

Today, as I traverse my daily paths, searching for the answers I need to find,

I try to be sincere and caring, keeping Mom’s words, her way, in mind.

Now that Mom travels amongst the clouds in the heavens above,

I carry with me her unending teachings and her enduring love.

Copyright © 2013 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

We’ve all heard of “fake news.”  However, how do we know what is true and what is not?

For instance, it is announced by a major TV station that, on its primetime talk show, an interview would be conducted with someone we know is a prominent fictional character. But the station treats him as being real. Is this a farce or can fiction become reality? You will find out in . . .

An Unbelievable Interview

     My name is Colin Cantrell. I’m a TV show host and interviewer. I work with my cohost, Samson Leigh, on our Saturday evening show on station KVEX in Los Angeles, CA, called Unbelievable Interviews. One Saturday night in late August, Samson and I prepared for an extraordinary experience many would call unreal. But, they’d be wrong.

     When I first learned of the opportunity to interview someone called Frankenstein, I was rather skeptical. Then I was told he had books written about him and had been featured in a number of movies. In reality, it was not Frankenstein I’d be interviewing, but Frankenstein’s monster. This made me even more hesitant about doing the interview. However, after thinking about it, I agreed to have him come on our show. After all, it’s not every day you are given the chance to meet face to face with the king of horror films.

     The night of the interview, Samson and I sat on the set, behind the black curtain, awaiting the start of the show and the entrance of our prominent guest. He looked over at me.

     “Colin, when you first told me who was going to be our guest on tonight’s show, I was somewhat apprehensive. First of all, I didn’t think this was possible. Probably, just a joke. And, if it wasn’t, having seen his work, I expected an aggressive and unpredictable mad man with a warped mind.”

     “Well, those were my thoughts, too, Samson. I thought he wouldn’t be able to answer our questions and would moan angrily when he couldn’t. And then, maybe he would take out his frustration on us. I’ve got to be honest, . . . I wanted to make sure the exit door was open, so I could make my escape.”

     “And I’d be right behind you, Colin,” Samson stated with conviction. “But then we had that pre-meeting with him to discuss how we would conduct the interview and the whole picture changed.”

     “Yeah, in hindsight, we couldn’t have been more wrong. Imagine meeting, not a monster at all, but a rational, intelligent, sensitive individual.”

     “And the way he dressed blew me away. He had on a white shirt and a blue sport blazer. He looked rather dapper. Didn’t you think so, Colin?”

     “Why yes, I did. Also, I was surprised by his candidness and the extensive vocabulary he used through a deep, monotonous toned voice. However pleasant he appeared, mind you, he still frightened me. But when he thanked us for giving him this wonderful opportunity to set the record straight, I knew we’d made the right decision to have him on the show.”

     “And I agree,” Samson stated.

     The lights on the set blinked on and off indicating the show was about to begin. And then, the curtain opened.

     Looking out at a full house, I stated with conviction, “At this time, it is my great pleasure to introduce the very well known, Mr. Frankenstein.”

     The studio audience applauded with gusto, as Frankenstein plodded across the stage and took a seat in the remaining chair at our round, oak conference table. He seemed very relaxed.

     “Welcome, Mr. Frankenstein,” I chanted with exuberance.

     “Please, call me Frank,” he droned.

     “Okay, Frank it is. So let’s begin the interview. First question. Considering Dr. Frankenstein patched you together from many parts, how do you feel?”

     “I get that question all the time. I feel fine. That is, unless it’s raining, which makes my knees ache, and as long as no large open flames are involved,” he said with a deep echoing laugh. “No, in all honesty, all it takes is a stitch here and a stitch there to correct the doc’s hasty actions. Can’t say that I blame him though. He didn’t have much to work with.”

     “I’m not sure I follow you. What do you mean, he didn’t have much to work with?” Samson queried.

     “You know, darkness, an impending majestic electrical storm crackling in the distance, and medical tools that left a lot to be desired. Of course, if you’re wondering whether I’m able to reach over and snatch the life right out of you, . . . I certainly could,” Frank bellowed.

     “You know, I wasn’t expecting a threat like that from you. You make me want to turn and run,” I joked.

     “That somewhat short race you might attempt won’t do you much good. I’m considerably quicker than I used to be,” Frank responded.

     Samson muttered under his breath, “My God, he’s lowered his head and has a menacing look in his eyes. I gotta get out of here.”

     Frank continued, “I’m much more agile after a number of modern microsurgery's. And this makes me more dangerous than ever.” He burst into uproarious laughter. “That’s a joke. . . . Yeah, I feel great.”

     Regaining his composure, Samson asked, “How old are you, Frank?”

     “Well, like many women, I prefer to not discuss age. I was created when Ms. Shelly wrote that first word in her book. However, I like to think I was born with that lightning strike that came a bit later. You do the math.”

     “You were originally labeled a monster, Frankenstein’s monster. But, somewhere along the way you began being referred to simply as Frankenstein. What do you have to say about that?” I inquired.

     “Personally, it doesn’t trouble me. However, while the doc never conveyed it, I know the concept bothered him. I mean, how would you feel if someone took your name and reaped all the rewards? Regardless, I take horror very seriously. Obviously, I enjoy scaring people, as you’ve already seen. That being said, today, I really tend to lean toward viewing myself as that Herman guy, from The Munsters TV show in the early 60s—lovable, laughable, and somewhat uneducated.”

     “Speaking of that comedy sitcom knock off, how did you feel about their portrayal of your character, when the show first aired?” Samson asked.

     “When I first saw it, it really made me mad. Horror is horror and comedy is comedy and it was very hard for me to accept the way the show crossed the line. However, after viewing a few episodes and realizing how popular the show was becoming, I calmed down a bit, understanding, and even appreciating, that they were at least keeping my character in the spotlight. And, I have to admit I developed a bit of a crush on Lilly. Boy, she was one hot babe!”

     Frank became silent and seemed to be preoccupied with thoughts of Lily. Then he shook his head, making me think the bolts in his neck were about to fall out.

     “Are you ready to continue,” I asked.

     “Guess so. But I’m still salivating over Lilly. She’s luscious,” he gushed.

     “Frank, I think I detect a slight smell coming from you. It’s not all that strong or repulsive, sort of a new car smell. Do you emit a death odor and, if so, how do you combat it?”

     Frank spoke in a candid manner, “Yes, you’re right.  Although my body parts seem to be working fine, they were all dead at one time. Therefore, I have this never-ending aroma.”

     Samson grunted, “That would really bother me. I’d try everything I could to get rid of it.”

     “Lord knows, I’ve tried,” Frank moaned. “But there’s not much I can do about it.”

     “What have you tried?” I queried.

     “Well, I’m pretty well known at a number of Beverly Hills high-end department stores’ fragrance sections. I’m the seven-foot tall green guy at the counter asking for a few of those little samples of the latest colognes. Usually, after the sales girl’s initial fright, she dumps gallons on me to eliminate the odor. However, there is never enough to mask the distasteful aroma. Today, I loaded up on car air fresheners.”

     “So that’s why my nose is picking up the new car scent,” I exclaimed. “Well, we’ve covered your odor problem. What about clothing and shoes? You must have a tough time finding a size that fits?”

     “I used to, before it became so easy to shop from home. I had a tough time hunting things down. After all, Rodeo Drive is all about trendy and they don’t cater to the big and tall, nor do they stock any shoes over a size ten.”

     “That must be terribly frustrating. Do you feel it is a waste of time, roaming through those stores and finding nothing?” Samson inquired.

     “With regard to clothing, that’s true. But there are other very intriguing things to look at in those stores.”

     “Like what? You’ve piqued my curiosity,” I declared.

     “Well, women—absolutely beautiful women. There was one I kept staring at one day some time ago. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her.”

     “Don’t keep us in the dark. Who was she?” Samson queried.

     “I didn’t know at the time. I never got close enough to ask. She was a lovely, light-complexioned gal with flowing blond hair. After she noticed my preoccupation with her, she asked me to mind my own business. When I didn’t, she began twitching her nose. I didn’t understand why or what she said next, . . . something about casting a bad spell on me.”

     “A bad spell? Reminds me of another famous TV comedy show. You know . . .”

     “Yeah, I didn’t then, but I do now. Bewitched,” Frank shouted. “I have to admit to having a crush on Samantha, too.”

     “Are you enthralled with all gorgeous TV stars?” I asked.

     “I’m only ‘human,’” he screamed.

     Deciding not to pursue that remark, I turned to the audience and stated, “Our time is about up. I hope you’ve enjoyed our interview this evening. It’s been marvelous talking with our guest, Frankenstein.”       

     They began to applaud, but then, Frank reached over and grabbed Samson by the neck. Laughing uncontrollably, he screamed, “I will now suck the life out of you.”

     I was dumbfounded at what was happening. Unable to move, I sat, frozen in my chair and watched, as Samson’s body fell to the floor. The audience was in shock.

     Frank, with head bent, exited quickly through the stage door to the alley alongside the studio. Freaked out by what had happened, I rushed to Samson, who lay face down on the ground. I knelt alongside his body and turned it over. What I saw made me sick to my stomach—Samson smiling at me. I wanted to kill him. However, my anger diminished when the audience, realizing the death scene had been a hoax, stood and applauded. And the following Tuesday, the show’s ratings jumped to number one.

Copyright © 2015 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Are you a smart money manager? Have you saved enough to protect yourself from an economic downturn?

Did you do the right things to prepare for a secure future? In dealing with your finances, you could discover that you have . . .

Too Many Accounts

Growing up, Dad always told me I needed to save money on which to retire.

So I set up ten stock accounts on which to live comfortably until I expire.

As it turns out, this may not have been a smart thing to do.

You see, the economy took a dive, and so the dollars in my accounts are few.

When I go to my broker, it causes great pain.

All ten accounts have had a serious drain.

This makes things quite difficult—little money on which to live.

As you can imagine, so few dollars, all to creditors I give.

I often regret that when this was done,

I had not set up a checking account, named as one.

Nor did I open a savings or money market account or invested in a CD.

In hindsight, I should have put money in a safe in my bedroom wall for security.

And placed cash under my mattress, with some also in the corner of the          
     room—dollars piled in a heap.

More under the couch cushion, and a stash buried in the backyard deep.

Then I should have set up a guaranteed account, that is, one protected for life. 

Doing this would provide continued support for me and my wife.

As I reflect on my plans, I now know what I should have done.

I should not have been so ambitious, at least with one.

And I have no one else to blame for my disastrous fate.

I just did not do it, and now it is too late.

Copyright © 2010 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.