Can You See the Prosperity?

 
                            

I, George Henry Nichols did not write this. I found it on face-book with no name. Thought it very well written. Thought I should share. If YOU wrote it, please let me know, and I will credit it. 

My Generation Is Blind to the Prosperity Around Us!

I'm sitting in a small coffee shop near Nokomis (Florida) trying to think of what to write about. I scroll through my news-feed on my phone looking at the latest headlines of presidential candidates calling for policies to "fix" the so-called injustices of capitalism. I put my phone down and continue to look around.

I see people talking freely, working on their Mac Book’s, ordering food they get in an instant, seeing cars go by outside, and it dawned on me. We live in the most privileged time in the most prosperous nation and we've become completely blind to it.

Vehicles, food, technology, freedom to associate with whom we choose. These things are so ingrained in our American way of life we don't give them a second thought.

We are so well off here in the United States that our poverty line begins 31 times above the global average. Thirty One Times!!!

Virtually no one in the United States is considered poor by global standards. Yet, in a time where we can order a product off Amazon with one click and have it at our doorstep the next day, we are unappreciative, unsatisfied, and ungrateful. (??)

Our unappreciative is evident as the popularity of socialist policies among my generation continues to grow. Congresswoman Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez recently said to Newsweek talking about the millennial generation, "An entire generation, which is now becoming one of the largest electorates in America, came of age and never saw American prosperity."

Never saw American prosperity! Let that sink in.

When I first read that statement, I thought to myself, that was quite literally the most entitled and factually illiterate thing I've ever heard in my 26 years on this earth. Many young people agree with her, which is entirely misguided.

My generation is being indoctrinated by a mainstream narrative to actually believe we have never seen prosperity. I know this first hand, I went to college, let's just say I didn't have the popular opinion, but I digress.

Why then, with all of the overwhelming evidence around us, evidence that I can even see sitting at a coffee shop, do we not view this as prosperity? We have people who are dying to get into our country.

People around the world destitute and truly impoverished. Yet, we have a young generation convinced they've never seen prosperity, and as a result, we elect some politicians who are dead set on taking steps towards abolishing capitalism. We don't have a lack of prosperity problem. Why? The answer is this,?? “my generation has only seen prosperity. We have no contrast. We didn't live in the great depression, or live through two world wars, the Korean War, The Vietnam War or we didn't see the rise and fall of socialism and communism.”

We don't know what it's like to live without the internet, without cars, without smartphones. We don't have a lack of prosperity problem. We have an entitlement problem, an ungratefulness problem, and it's spreading like a plague.

Unknown

June 2026

There Once was an Indian, Maybe.

 

For a number of years, I ran the flea market circuit in East Texas. I had a 1973 Chevrolet/Carpenter 36 ft. school bus. It was painted gray. It was know as “The Big Gray Bus.” What a monster. I had it set up as an RV in the front, with room in the back for an inventory. I sold knives, Swords, Brass items, Jewelry, porcelain and whatever I figured I could turn a profit on. (All of this in the early nineties.)

I went to places like Canton, Kirbyville, Onalaska, Nacogdoches, College Station and the like. Buying here and selling there….and camping through the week. I met a lot of interesting people, which bring me to our story.

There was this Indian fellow pretty much running the same circuit as myself. So I’d see him here and there. He sold Indian stuff. Turquoise jewelry, rain sticks, drums, staffs and all kinds of stuff he pretty much made himself.

Well we got to be kind of buddies, and I’d try and set up near him, cause he would dress up like an Indian, with war paint and a big feather bonnet. He would hoot and holler and shake rattlers (that he made and sold) and carry on like a wild west Indian, and tell his story to any who’d listen, and sell them something in the process. To say the least, he drew a crowd, and being close by, a crowd didn’t hurt me none.

In the evening, some of the marketeers would get together around a campfire, have a few beers and chew the rag. Tell each other our stories. You know, fish stories.

Well one evening in Kirbyville, about a dozen of us marketeers were siting around a campfire, having a beer and the Indian, ‘Creeping Wolf,” was tell us all about being an Indian. He was sitting there in his Indian grab and warpaint, telling us how his great-grandfather was chased by the Texas rangers. How he was one of the last Apaches, and his people rode the plains hunting the white man’s cattle and on and on… We were all hanging on every word, he was indeed a great orator, this included me.

While he steady telling us stories a small girl, of about six appears in our mist. She had sandy hair and was wearing a pink dress, she was rather grubby, I guess from running around the flea market. I’d seen her a few times during the day. Not sure who she belong to, but she was listening intently.

Then she said, right emphatically… “You’re not an Indian.”

Everybody, I mean everybody leaned over, and craning their necks, turned and looked at this little girl, like she was crazy!!!

She continued, “You need to shave, Indians don’t shave.”

Just like that, I mean... just like that, everybody’s head turned and looked at Creeping Wolf. Sure enough, he needed to shave.

The power of innocence. There she stood in his presents, looking right at him. Oh Creeping Wolf was caught, red handed, (pun intended,) needing to shave. He couldn’t lie to her… he couldn’t do it… Out came the big confession. Turns out his name was Scott, and he was half Scottish. His mother was a Scotsman, she named him Scott so he wouldn’t forget, cause he look like an Indian (his father.)

He said I worked in the plants, when I retired, I thought I take up the flea-market as a way to travel and sell all this stuff I’ve been making over the years. So I became “Creeping Wolf, Son of Great Apache Warrior.” Seems to work, I am half Indian and I’ve been having a good time. I do have to shave regular.

Well… we all have a good laugh… cause we all had a gimmick, I was selling pirate loot. But I had to marvel over the power that little girl had, noticing something we had all over looked, and calling him to task, and how quickly ‘Creeping Wolf, Son of Great Apache Warrior’ became Scott, in the blink of an eye.

Be wary of stories you tell little kids, they aren’t blind, and they aren’t stupid, and the are listening to every word. Seek the truth, and it shall set you free.

George Henry Nichols

June 2026