True American

Yesterday, I was having a conversation with a 31-year employee of a locally-owned services business.  Business is good and they are very financially responsible people, and I was talking to them about how it is having a hard time seeing what's really going on in the economy from our bubble.  To which he replied in this fashion:

“Look, Troy, when I make a sale or win a sale, I create business to bring into a company where men and women in the manufacturing plant take steel and put it in the machines that make equipment that we sell all around the world. Then they take those paychecks home and they buy groceries and they make house payments and they move their lives ahead one month at a time. Now what is wrong with that?”

It was really fun to see someone so enthusiastic about their job as an employee, and about extending that down to just how connected he was with the people in this particular case in a completely different division of the business than he was in.  He also referenced the owners of the business and some of the many and varied things they do to contribute back to the community, and how at their ages, they are still engaged and still enthusiastic about being involved in business.  How can we all exercise our true inner-Americans?

The Pickle Jar

The Pickle Jar

The pickle jar as far back as I can remember sat on
the floor beside the dresser in my parents' bedroom.

When he got ready for bed, Dad would empty
his pockets and toss his coins into the jar.
As a small boy, I was always fascinated at the sounds the coins made
as they were dropped into the jar.

They landed with a merry jingle when the jar was almost empty. Then
the tones gradually muted to a dull thud as the jar was filled.

I used to squat on the floor in front of the jar to admire
the copper and silver circles that glinted like a pirate's
treasure when the sun poured through the bedroom window. When the
Jar was filled, Dad would sit at the kitchen table a nd roll the
coins
Before taking them to the bank.

Taking the coins to the bank was always a big production.
Stacked neatly in a small cardboard box, the coins were
placed between Dad and me on the seat of his old truck.

Each and every time, as we drove to the bank, Dad would
look at me hopefully. 'Those coins are going to keep you
out of the textile mill, son. You're going to do better than
me. This old mill town's not going to hold you back.'

Also, each and every time, as he slid the box of rolled
coins across the counter at the bank toward the cashier,
he would grin proudly. 'These are for my son's college
fund. He'll never work at the mill all his life like me.'

We would always celebrate each deposit by stopping
for an ice cream cone. I always got chocolate. Dad
always got vanilla. When the clerk at the ice cream
parlor handed Dad his change, he would show me the
few coins nestled in his palm. 'When we get home,
we'll start filling the jar again.' He always let me drop
the first coins into the empty jar. As they rattled around
with a brief, happy jingle, we grinned at each other.
'You'll get to college on pennies, nickels, dimes and
quarters,' he said. 'But you'll get there; I'll see to that.'

No matter how rough things got at home, Dad continued
to doggedly drop his coins into the jar. Even the summer
when Dad got laid off from the mill, and Mama had to
serve dried beans several times a week, not a single
dime was taken from the jar.

To the contrary, as Dad looked across the table at me,
pouring catsup over my beans to make them more
palatable, he became more determined than ever to
make a way out for me 'When you finish college, Son,'
he told me, his eyes glistening, 'You'll never have to
eat beans again - unless you want to.'

The years passed, and I finished college and took a
job in another town. Once, while visiting my parents,
I used the phone in their bedroom, and noticed that
the pickle jar was gone.. It had served its purpose
and had been removed.

A lump rose in my throat as I stared at the spot beside
the dresser where the jar had always stood. My dad
was a man of few words: he never lectured me on the
values of determination, perseverance, and faith. The
pickle jar had taught me all these virtues far more
eloquently than the most flowery of words could have
done. When I married, I told my wife Susan about the
significant part the lowly pickle jar had played in my
life as a boy. In my mind, it defined, more than
anything else, how much my dad had loved me.

The first Christmas after our daughter Jessica was born,
we spent the holiday with my parents. After dinner, Mom
and Dad sat next to each other on the sofa, taking turns
cuddling their first grandchild. Jessica began to whimper
softly, and Susan took her from Dad's arms. 'She probably
needs to be changed,' she said, carrying the baby into my
parents' bedroom to diaper her. When Susan came back
into the living room, there was a strange mist in her eyes.

She handed Jessica back to Dad before taking my hand
and leading me into the room. 'Look,' she said softly, her
eyes directing me to a spot on the floor beside the dresser.
To my amazement, there, as if it had never been removed,
stood the old pickle jar, the bottom already covered with
coins. I walked over to the pickle jar, dug down into my
pocket, and pulled out a fistful of coins. With a gamut of
emotions choking me, I dropped the coins into the jar. I
looked up and saw that Dad, carrying Jessica, had slipped
quietly into the room. Our eyes locked, and I knew he was
feeling the same emotions I felt. Neither one of us could
speak.

While this is not MY story it is one to which many of us can relate.  What gets me here is the simplicity and clarity. How do we duplicate this in our complex, jargon-filled financial lives today?  Also send us the story of your life that this reminds you of.

Kicking the Can Down the Road

I bet this morning I heard on the financial programs the term "kick the can down the road" four different times. It seems like the phrase of the month award winner for talking about dealing with political problems around the world. 

However, in my life, kicking the can down the road sort of reminds me of simpler times and dirt roads near Stigler, Oklahoma. And I wonder if others have specific stories or memories of kicking the can down the road and what that might mean to them. If you have a story or an experience in your life of literally kicking the can down the road, send us an e-mail and tell us that story.

Airplane

“I'm going to build this plane. I may not finish it during my lifetime, but if I didn't have this plane to work on, my health would go down 10 times faster.”

That was what was told to me by a retired man today. He was talking about the benefit and value of having a meaningful project to occupy his time and mind, and productivity. This is in contrast to a conversation I had this week with someone else, who was talking about their concerns that the world is going to come to an end in December of 2012. And while that might be the case, for all I know, it was just really satisfying to see a man talking about building this plane. It's taking him several years to get it done, and it still doesn't even have an engine in it, but just hearing him talk about the importance of having that kind of a project going on in his life was really uplifting.

What is your Currency?

Recently, I went down to meet with a client in the hospital.  We had a number of documents to complete, including a power of attorney and a living will, and we needed to have the services of a notary.  Well, according to hospital policy, they do have a notary on premises, but not for patients.

However, this particular patient happened to be a pink lady in the hospital on the volunteer staff.  They showed up promptly with the notary and got copies made and everything that needed to done was completed without difficulty.

This got me to wondering about how we save for retirement.  Oftentimes, we think of saving money exclusively as our form of currency.  In this particular case, the years of volunteer service that this person offered to her community resulted in an effortless transaction that made her and her family all feel better at the time.  What's your currency?

Health Care Perspective

I had a meeting with a client today who sent a letter to a rehabilitation hospital after her husband was released.  It was an example of something that we can do as citizens to make a difference in health care costs and how the system works.  This couple is retired military and they are on a Tricare health insurance plan, which is essentially government paid health care.  

When she and her husband were in Arizona recently, he experienced a heart attack and had to go to the hospital.  Upon arriving to the facilities and sharing that they had Tricare, they were basically given the royal treatment.  They had an improved billing situation, a painless check out procedure, the whole bit.  

When he transferred to a rehabilitation facility, there were several procedures being done that his wife questioned and indicated that they not be put on her bill.  At the end of the day, she was extremely angry because she felt like the facility was taking advantage of their government sponsored health plan.

I wonder how many times each of us are in situations similar to that of this couple.  I also wonder if we can fully comprehend the depths of the impact of somebody other than ourselves paying for these bills.

Just imagine if you went to a car dealership and they asked you what kind of car you wanted.  You say, “I'll take the fanciest one you've got and everything on it, since I'm not paying for it anyway, let's just get it all.”  The dealer, knowing that they're going to get paid and knowing they'll make more money the more cars they sell, they just load it up.  So you've got the fanciest car they've got with all the options available and they're happy and you're happy and all is good since you're not paying for it anyway.  That's sort of the state of our health care system as it stands right now.

Middle Class Citizens

I was listening to the radio this morning and heard an accented recorder talking about life in Syria.  This person was recording under an assumed name because of the fear of reprisal and danger to her family.  

One of the things that she commented about was how most of the people living in Damascus, the capital of Syria, are in the middle to upper middle class economically.  And what she said was that it is not common for them to want to upset the apple cart; they really do not want to see a lot of change because life is okay for them.  They're not necessarily opulent, not necessarily doing excellent, but they're doing well enough to say that they are not willing to take a chance on a whole lot of change.  

She also said that while it is relatively easy to get people who are disadvantaged involved in an opposition, it is often very difficult to get average middle class people occupied in a conversation about reform because it has turned steadfastly into either pro or con.  Meaning, in her words, there is no voice of moderation that is neither all for or all against, which drowns out where most people are: in the middle.  

Listening to that story, I just wondered how much like the United States that sounded.  In a meeting this morning, a client reminded me that 40% of Americans are receiving some form of food stamp program.  I wonder just how much we are like the Syrians in that way.