I couldn't go into Debby's house without drooling over the candy bowl.  Through the back door, one step into the kidtchen, a hard left, and I was there.  It was the first thing I saw in the pantry--almost the first thing I saw in the house. A big wooden bowl, perhaps intended for a salad, but filled instead with full size Hershey bars, M & M's, Zagnuts, Charleston Chews.  It was  a Halloween bag dumped out in July.  Except that this one was filled from visits to only the richest of houses, with no apples or snack size candies. And this one was there every day of the year.  

To my never ending chagrin, Debby hardly even noticed it.  It was only on rare ocassions that she would stop to grab a Hersheys and thereby give me implicit permission to grab one too. 

Debby was rich.  Or at least she seemed so in the eyes of a ten year old who wore hand me down clothes, waited for Christmas to get her Sears bike, and lived in a wood frame house that needed paint and had only one bathroom and no shower.  Debby got a new Schwinn in May for no reason, had a stack of comic books that she hardly ever read but that grew taller every time I visited, and  lived in a big house, with five bedrooms, two and a half baths, a sunroom, a piano room, two staircases, and a wooden bowl with an unending supply of full size candy bars.  

In my insular world of a small southern Illinois town of 3,000, she was my one percent.  I wanted those candy bars.  My bar was set low.  

Fifty years later I watch the Occupy movement and ponder the unequal division of wealth and power between the one percent and the other 99 percent of us, and I hope that the attention they bring to issues of inequality and unfairness makes a difference. 

But I  can't help thinking that the 99 percent that they represent might not all be on the same page and that there's  a deeper divide and a broader problem than the chasm between the 1 percent and the 99 percent. 

We're a society of consumers.  We want what we don't have, with little regard to what we need.  As years pass, we want more and we want it bigger, better, and right now.  And all too often in our desire to get what we want, we convince ourselves that it's what we need.    

When I go back to my hometown, I still marvel at the stately beauty of Debby's old house.  But it no longer stands out like it once did.  Bigger and more ornate houses have popped up everywhere around the perimeter of this rural town that is inhabited solely by 99 percenters.  There are swimming pools in backyards and new cars that rotate in and out of driveways on a yearly basis.

I watch the "House Hunters" show on TV and hear young couples buying starter homes describe how they need four-plus bedrooms, granite countertops, hardwood floors (dark wood, not light), three-car garages, walk in closets, double sinks, and, oh yes, it has to have stainless steel appliances. 

I see these houses and I  can't help wondering if the problem is not just with the one percent, but with those of us who think we need it all.   With me, who thinks I need new shoes even though I have a closet full of them, who walked past too many Salvation Army bell ringers at Christmas, only to go inside to buy a People magazine.  Who supports the Occupy movement,  but doesn't do all I could to help those who may see me as their one percenter. Who walks past that candy bowl without even slowing down to let the person behind me have one.

I support the Occupy movement and am hopeful that it brings about change--that we see a more equitable division of wealth and power, with health care for all, living wages for hard work, across the board access to a good education, and a greater say in governance.  But I can't help worrying that what too many of the 99 percent really want is an even bigger house with stainless steel appliances.