1. 
   
   
   
   People’s houses
   
   
   
   
                           I only had about a hundred more newspapers to distribute that day. I would have done it in half an hour if the kid wasn’t with me. How was I supposed to be quick when I had a child trailing behind me? I was at my wit’s end from telling him to hurry along; you’d think he would listen, but he took his time walking slowly, asking questions and chattering away. Every house was an occasion for him to stop, look it up and down and ask, “Dad? Dad? Who does this house belong to?”
   “It belongs to people.”
   “It belongs to people?”
   “Yes, my dear.”
   “What about this one?”
   “This is one belongs to people too, my darling.
   . “This one belongs to people, too?
   “Yes, sweetheart! It belongs to people. Now, hurry up, move along! We only have a few left.”
   We came to another house. He stopped again and with one hand on his hip, he pointed to another house and asked, “So, whose house is this one, daddy? This huge, huge, house?”
   This time I lost my patience. Why is he asking so many questions?
   All these housed belong to people, my dear! All of them! Now enough with the questions!”
                   “All of them? Wow! People have a lot of houses!”
                   Then I started to laugh because all this while my poor, little boy thought that “people” was this huge giant who had taken over and owned all these houses. I wanted to explain to him that “people” is not one person but a group of persons; that all the inhabitants of a village, or a city, or a country are called “people”; that we, too, were part of the “people.” But I thought the better of it and preferred to leave him alone and not confuse him any further. And anyway, I didn’t feel like being bombarded by more questions. What if he turned around and said, “If you are part of the people, how come you don’t own a house?” And, on and on.  
                 I was lost in my thoughts when he stopped again and eyeing me up and down, “Dad?” What is it buddy?
                 “How come you don’t have a lot of houses? Huh? How come you only have a dark house that doesn’t even have a backyard?” 
   At that time, we lived in the Queen Anne neighborhood. The houses around that area are all fairly large, well-maintained with flowers and shrubs. Of course, we only had a rented basement with such bad lighting that we had to leave the lights on all the time.
   .               “Huh, dad? How come you don’t have a lot of houses?”
   This was dragging on and I was not in the mood for it, at all. So I quickly came up with a trick and quickly changed the subject. I drew my boy’s attention to a cat that was sitting on a fence, a few houses down. Oh! Look how pretty is the kitty cat! She wants to be your friend!  He leaped up playfully and went after the cat and I succeeded in putting an end to the endless and embarrassing questions. This happened about five years ago when my son was only three years old. He is now 8 years old and knows more about life than I did when I was fourteen! Just last week, he came with me to the accountant to file my taxes. On our way home, he rode at the front with me. My kid is usually quite talkative, so I was surprised when he sat quietly, looking quite withdrawn. I called his name a few times but he didn’t respond until I finally I tapped him lightly on the shoulder and asked, What’s going on, son? He stared at me for a few seconds without saying a word. 
   .               “What were you thinking about, son?”
                   “I was thinking about you.”
                   “You were thinking about me?”
                   “Yeah! You see dad, you’re really poor!”
                   This really took me by surprise and hard as I tried, I still couldn’t figure out where he had come up with this one. What did he mean by this? Had he asked for something that I couldn’t buy for him?  
                   “What do you mean I’m poor, my dear boy?”
                     “Because every time that guy asked if you had something, you said you didn’t.”
   Then I remembered my conversation with the accountant filling out my tax forms. 
   “Do you own a house?”
   “No.”
   “Do you own any property?”
   “No.”
   “Do you have a savings account?” 
   “No.”
   “Do you own any real estate?”
   “No.”
   “Do you have any other income, beside your current employment?”
   . “No.”
   . I kind of felt sorry for myself. Not because I’m poor, of course! But because I was the object of someone’s pity! And my own son, at that! “You see, you really are poor, dad.”
   . I squeezed my son’s hand and felt a knot in my throat. I wish I could change the subject as easily as the last time; but this time, there were no cats around!
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