Dorothy and I married in the third year of university. It would have been first year, but she refused. I kept at it.
Money was scarce, of course. I parked cars overnight at a downtown hotel for hookers, and studied course materials by flashlight in the booth. The professional women were generous with tips, friendly and polite. Their clients scuttled off like big bugs afraid of the light. Xavier Hollander was working that hotel during my time. I liked her, but may not have shared that with my new wife.
The greens grocer near our flat took pity and saved the not-so-great heads of lettuce for us, at 10 cents each. That helped. Ironically the only time in the 48 years together we were robbed happened that Christmas, when we had nothing. Only a leather sports jacket I really liked, and she had a small pearl ring I was able to afford, thanks to you-know-who. Both gone. A cop came and looked sad, but that was it.
Our tiny apartment backed onto the elevated subway tracks. You could sit on the toilet, wash your hands at the same time and watch the commuters blur past. Ten bucks for a holiday tree was out of the question so I cut one out of folded newspapers and taped it to the wall. No gifts. Dorothy and I still remember and cherish that tree. Now we could afford a whole damn forest. But wealth is not about money. The best lesson.
Merry Christmas.