There it was, a castle rising out of the ground. Behind it were the rough and tumbled mountains, all golden and bronze. Crowds of people lined up in their cars and then in a queue to get inside it, freezing and blown by an unexpected onslaught of northern wind. My daughter and I had abruptly made our plans, booked a cheesy, cheap motel, cancelled all other projects, grabbed an extra friend and drove four hours up to Asheville, North Carolina for the weekend. All because a chum had given me the idea a few days before. It just seemed like we needed some early holiday cheer -- a trip to the Biltmore House, all gussied up for Christmas. Even though it's a tourist trap, costing way too much, it truly is splendid. Liz and I love to tour old homes, and this one is the Mack Daddy. From the smooth Indiana limestone to the finely hewed mantels, the craftmanship that makes up this mansion is overwhelming. Gargoyles on the corners, statues overseeing the edges, soaring glass conservatory, a library to die for, fireplaces everywhere, wood and stone, exquisitely crafted etchings and carvings...it would take weeks to really properly examine all the details.
At first glance, a rich man's ability to command and pay an army of workers to build him a monument might seem superfluous, useless, too much. It is certainly nothing I can relate to, as far as being the rich man. But I have been on the other end - the worker, the artisan. The wealthy who have employed me to paint, create, and decorate have done me a great service these many years. They have helped us to feed our family, to own our home, to enjoy the fruits of our labors. But even more importantly, they have given me the opportunity to perform my crafts with abandon. The things that I am gifted with, I do not lay claim to... I wasn't trained in them, I didn't chase them down. They were given to me by God and He put internal compulsions inside that I cannot explain or even sometimes control. When people pay you to swim in that, well, it's just gravy.
These days, it seems that there is some sort of righteousness connected to being jobless and homeless. Though Ken and I have never been without a home, we have experienced rounds of unemployment and have had our trials, though in America I find it hard to believe there's much true hunger or suffering. Go to a third-world country and try to make a case... Currently, however, the trend is to act as if the rich man is the devil. I know several devils, wealthy ones and dirt-poor ones. Having money doesn't mean you are one. Looking at this garish, over-the-top mansion this weekend made me think about all the thousands of people who fed their children because a monied tycoon employed them to build and sustain his empire. Even today, as the wheels of commerce turn and myriads show up to gape at it, a hundred years later, scores of jobs have been created to keep it all moving. The American dream, where scads of poverty-stricken individuals, children without shoes or family, the humble of the earth, have managed to scrap their way up to the top and build mansions. Or a humble cottage. Or buy an RV and travel the land. Where people like my folks, one from extreme poverty, one from dysfunction, can work hard and change their world. I'm not only talking about wealth, but possibilities. They are still here for the taking.
We wound up our tour and sat outside at the stables, drinking hot cocoa and looking at the magnificent house and the glorious sky behind it. Somehow it suddenly seemed intimate, not so grand, not so impossible. We had peeked into the life of other people, with far different lives than us. People who were also now pushing up daisies. They had a few brief years, with money, yes, but also with sins and trials and indigestion, just like us. It made me think of my own family, my husband, my children and grandchildren, our sweet domicile. I think I'll keep 'em.
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