I live in an area that is the seasonal home to affluence. Families with money- cold, hard cash out the wazoo- have had tasteful cottages here for generations. We are among the working class that provides services to those people.
I am but a humble commoner with the hands and the feet of a washerwoman. Well, not really, but I am extraordinarily ordinary. I know my place.
Every season, I have direct communication with a pedigreed individual, or two, who has inspiring grace, charm, and humbling human frailties that touch my heart. Is is early in the season and I’ve already met one. I feel lucky.
Rich people are not homogeneously bad or good. They are just like the rest of us, a mixed bag.