The rich get richer...

We were burgled once. It was 1993 in Gainesville, Fla.

In mid-morning, the thief broke in through a bedroom window -- the bedroom of our son, Ian, who still has "issues" about first-floor windows to this day -- and roamed through the house, no doubt after being greeted warmly by our beloved Dalmation, Sparky, the nicest dog ever.

"Woof!" ("Glad you're here!," in dogspeak.)

I discovered the instrusion with good friend John Perry of King Features as we drove up to the house. We spotted an open-mouthed front door and, curiously, two socks in the walkway.

At first, I thought that I'd left the door open and that Sparky had grabbed a couple of Ian's socks to play with.

It wasn't Sparky.

Police told us the thief, once in the house, used the socks so that no fingerprints would be left as evidence. (Though the intruder had left them all over the window he had broken for entry. Hmmm, says something about the logic of petit thieves.)

The police came, expressed their regrets in monotones and assessed the loss (some jewelry, of which we didn't have much, though the thief was expert because only "meltable" metal objects of worth were taken).

We were happy in the thought that not that much was missing, except that bit of jewelry. (My antique Nikon and equipment, which was far more valuable than the thief's booty, sat highly visable, though undetected, on the living room floor.)

The police were candid, saying that, most likely, no one would ever be caught (and that, honestly, they wouldn't spend much, if any, time on the case. "The stuff will be melted down in an hour." "Happens all the time in a college town.")

Just after their departure, suddenly, a stark realization hit: The eff-ing thief had taken my bicycle, which had been, as is the case for most grad students, which I was at the time, parked at the ready in front of the fireplace in the living room.

"Holy crap," I yelled (literally). "He took my friggin' bike. Now, I'm pissed."

Well, for a relatively short time, which brings us to the purpose of this piece.

We value experiences. We value memories.

They can't be stolen except by, at times, the ravages of old age and, ultimately, death.

I had a friend, once, surprise me with tickets to Carnegie Hall. There's the 70-mile round trip to the top of Mt. Kilimanjaro on foot. Those few beers with Nelson Mandela in a back yard in Johannesburg. A road trip to Montana with a good friend to see more good friends, and Bloody Marys most mornings. An angst-free childhood because of two nurturing parents. A beautiful wife and an ever-growing love more than 40 years after that first kiss on a New Year's Eve. Two kids who continue to inspire and amaze. A grandson who can bring a smile with a wink or a nod. A life overflowing with memories old, new and anticipated.

In our case, the rich get richer, and no one can make us poor.

Especially folks who break windows.

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P.S.: Photo is one of our priceless memories -- Malcolm, Valerie Rollison, Joyce, Jerry Rollison, and dear friend Ann Brill at "breezy" Beartooth Pass in Montana this summer.