Rich Dad Poor Dad chapter one:by ROBERT T. KIYOSAKI.

         The poor and the middle class work for money.

           The rich have money work for them.

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       "Dad, can you tell me how to get rich?"

 My Dad put down the evening paper.  "Why do you want to get rich, soon?"

"Because today Jimmy's mom drove up in their new Cadillac, and they were going to their beach house for the weekend.

He took three of his friend, but mike and I weren't invited. They told us we weren't invited because we were poor kids."


                           "They did?" my dad asked incredulously.

                           Yeah, they did," I replied in a hurt tone.
       
 My dad silently shook his head, pushed his glass up the bridge of his nose, and went back to reading the paper.I stood waiting for an answer.

The year was 1956.  I was nine year old. By some twist of fate, I attended the same public school where the rich people sent their kids. We were primarily a sugar plantation town. 

The managers of plantation and the other affluent people, such as doctors, business owners, and bankers, sent their children to his elementary school.

After grade six, their children were generally sent off to private schools. Because my family lived on one side of the street, I went to this school.

Had I lived on the other side of the street, I would  have gone to a different school with kids from families more like mine. After grade six, these kids and I would go on to the public intermediate and high school.

There was no private school for them or for me. My dad finally put down the paper. I could tell he was thinking.

"Well son...," he began slowly. "If you want to be rich, you have to learn to make money."

                              "How do I make money?" I asked.
"Well, use your head, son," he said, smiling. Even then I knew that really meant, "I don't know the answer, so don't embarrass me."

A Partnership Is Formed.

The next morning, I told my best friend, Mike, what my dad had said. As best as I could tell, Mike and I were the only poor kids in this school, 

Mike was also in this school by a twist of fate. Someone had drown a jog in the line for the school district, and we wound up in school with the rich kids.

We weren't really poor, but we felt as if we were because all the other boys had new baseball gloves, new bicycles, new everything.

Mom and dad provided us with the basics, like food shelter, and clothes. But that was about it. My dad used to say, "If you want something, work for it," We wanted things, but there was not much work available for nine-year-old boys.

"So what do we do to make money?" mike asked. 
"I don't know," I said. "But do you want to be my partner?"

Also read: Think and grow rich chapter 3.

                The 7 habits of highly effective people.
                The workshop of the mind
He agreed, and so on that Saturday morning, Mike became my first business partner. We spent all morning coming up with ideas on how to make money.

Occasionally we talk about all the "cool guys" at Jimmy's beach house having fun. It hurt a little, but that hurt was good,because it inspired us to keep thinking of way to make money.

Finally, that afternoon, a bolt of lighting struck.I t was an idea Mike got from a science book he had read. Excitedly, we shook hands, and the partnership now had a business.

One day my dad drop up with a friend to see two nine-year-old boys in the driveway with a production line operating at full speed. There was fine white powder everywhere.

On a long table were small milk cartons from school, and our family's hibachi grill was glowing with red-hot coals at maximum heat.


The lessons begin.

Mike and I met with his dad that morning at eight o'clock. He was already busy, having been at work for more than an hour.

His construction supervisor was just leaving in his pickup truck as I walked up to his simple, small and tidy home. Mike met me at the door.

"Dad's on the phone, and he said to wait on the back porch, "Mike said as he opened the door.
The old wooden floor creaked as I stepped across the threshold of the aging house. There was a cheap mat just inside the door. 

The mat was there to hide the years of wear from countless footsteps that the floor had supported. Although clean, It needed to be replaced.

I felt claustrophobic as I entered the narrow living room that was filled with old mustry overstuffed furniture that today would be collectors' items.

Sitting on the couch were two women, both a little older than my mom. A cross from the women sat a man in workman's clothes. He wore Khaki slacks and a Khaki shirt, nearly pressed but without starch, and polished work boots.

He was about 10 year older than my dad. They smiled as Mike and I walked past them toward the back porch. I smiled back shyly.

        "Who are those people?" I asked.

"Oh, they work for my dad. The older man runs his warehouses and the women are the managers of the restaurants. And as you arrived, you saw the construction supervisor who is working on a road project about 50 mile from here.

His other supervisor, who is building a track of houses, left before you got here."

                                      "Does this go on all the time?" I asked.

                            "Not always, but quite often," said Mike, smiling as he pulled up a chair to site down next to me.


"I asked my dad if he would teach us to make money," Mike said.

   "Oh, and what did he say to that?" I asked with cautious curiosity.

"Well he had a funny look on his face at first, and then he said he would make us offer."

Thirty cents later



By 9:00 a.m the day, Mike and I were working for Mrs. Martin. She was a kind and patient women.

She always said that Mike and I reminded her of her two grown sons. Although kind, she believed in hard work and kept us moving.

We spent three hours taking canned goods off the shelves, brushing each can with a feather duster to get the dust off, and then re-stacking them neatly. It was excruciatingly boring work.



                              

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