With all that’s going in the sinking economy and in rebuilding my home, my retirement account is so depleted that the only way I can stay sane is not to look at it.

I think I’m gaining an understanding of the term “financial insecurity.”

So I close the account, draw a deep breath, and think about another truth ... a greater truth.

I am rich.

I am so rich that I dare not go into a money funk, especially when I watch the news and see the plight of the poor people in Ukraine.

I am so rich that I can walk into a supermarket with its splendid array of food and buy what I need to make a traditional Thanksgiving dinner.

Yes, the prices are staggering and yes I grumble when I see prices continue to jump each time I shop.

Despite all that, I do leave the supermarket with the food I need.

I am proud of myself when I buy a $5 rotisserie chicken and can make four tasty meals out of it - two nights of chicken stroganoff and two nights of homemade chicken soup.

I feel like I’m channeling my mother in that she showed me how to cook delicious homemade meals for very little money.

That, my dear friends, means I am rich.

I am rich in memories and rich in being able to follow the example of an incredible woman I was blessed to call Mom.

She never complained about how hard it was to get by. She just did it.

She was emotionally stable regardless of what circumstances were thrown at her.

When I realize I have her blood flowing through my veins, I know I am rich - rich in heritage and rich in the many lessons she imparted.

Never waste food, she stressed, and never squander money.

We paid the trash man based on how many cans we had so not stomping on our garbage to compress the cans and cardboard boxes counted as squandering money.

From the time I was a little girl I realized I was rich ... rich in the big Italian family that always laughed a lot and loved even more. They treated me and my 11 cousins as if we were precious.

Even when I was a kid when I talked to my four aunts they listened, acting as if they found me delightful. Truth be told, they found everyone in the family delightful.

They occasionally would squabble with each other, but don’t let anyone outside the family try it.

My favorite times during summer were our family reunions at Knoebels Grove.

Other families might give their kids money to buy French fries and hot dogs at the food stand. But our family went one better.

Each individual family brought a casserole. We ended up with a spread that filled every inch of the picnic table. Chicken cutlets, ravioli, meatballs, stuffed eggplant, spinach sautéed in garlic, my grandmother’s spaghetti and meat sauce, and homemade pies were always on the menu.

Of course when I looked at the spread I knew we were rich. I actually had to pity the kids that had to settle for a hot dog in the park.

Kids in my family never went swimming in Knoebels Crystal pool. Instead, we waded in the creek, having fun trying to keep our balance on the slippery moss-covered stones.

All year, every night the magic happened for us kids. As soon as we could we all raced outside, running like the wind, playing tag, hide and seek and kick the can. Every kid in the neighborhood congregated on the corner and stayed there until it got dark.

And every kid knew the truth. We were all rich ... rich in the glories of a storied childhood.

If you were part of that childhood freedom, then you know all about riches that money can’t buy.

We didn’t get rides anywhere. We walked. When we turned 16 we were thrilled when we got our first job.

When I got hired by the Shamokin Dispatch as teenage columnist, I was rich, indeed.

I made $3 a week but I would have paid them for the joy that job brought.

People always said you couldn’t get rich on the salaries newspapers paid.

Money? Who needed money when the job was so much fun.

I worked for newspapers for about 40 years and never changed my mind.

I was rich ... rich in the joy of being able to write about the incredible people I kept meeting.

Money-wise, this is probably the most problematic time of my life. Dealing with the loss of my home and having to upgrade everything to comply with code seems to have an ever-expanding price tag.

Every week it’s a new problem. Today, I was at an all-time low when I learned the reconstruction of my house has come to a grinding halt because roofers have a long waiting list before us. The same is true for craftsmen that can rebuild a pool cage.

It’s a slow process and my patience doesn’t stretch.

But through it all I know I am rich. I have two of the world’s best daughters putting aside their own jobs and lives to help me through the hurricane hurdles.

Hey, when you’re that rich who can complain? I know I have been blessed with a lifetime of riches.

Contact Pattie Mihalik at newsgirl@comcast.net.