This article originally appeared on FoxNews.com on February 13, 2019
When I was growing up, my dad, a World War II combat vet, was a Ford car salesman. His dad, my grandfather, left his home and family as a teenager in 1912 and came to our shores in search of opportunity – as immigrants have done throughout our nation’s history.
We were a working-class family living outside of Cleveland, Ohio. But as a kid, I didn’t think about our economic status. Ours was the only life I knew. Until one day, I got a look at a very different life.
When I was about 10 years old, in roughly 1960, I went with my dad to deliver a car to one of his customers named George Humphrey in a very affluent suburb near where we lived. Back then, even rich guys drove Fords.
We drove up to a huge gate – at least it was huge in my 10-year-old mind. It was probably the first house I’d ever seen with a gate. We pulled in and I saw an impressive white house, far bigger than our house. But my dad kept driving. Surprised, I asked him why we didn’t stop. He looked down and said with a smile: “Son, that’s the guest house.”
We then passed the stables. There was fox hunting and a polo field in the area. In fact, it was called Hunting Valley. Mr. Humphrey’s horses seemed to have a larger residence than we did.
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