Our history offers all sorts of stories needing all sorts of understanding
By George Valadie
Have you ever felt stupid? Or actually done stupid? As this year’s 250th-anniversary celebration of our country has reminded us again and again, just one of the remarkable geniuses of our forefathers was their emphasis on its people having freedom and individual rights.
And as we have since demonstrated again and again—that has included the freedom to be dumb. Never on purpose but way more so than we’d care to admit.
Sometimes it’s accompanied by tragic consequences, but thankfully, and most of the time, not so much.
As I imagine is true for most, I’ve tried through the years to keep my own stupidity to a minimum. Seemed like an admirable goal. Still, I have to admit this wasn’t my first time. Just my most recent.
For most of the last 30 years, given my role as a Catholic school principal, Nancy and I comfortably settled in to a working arrangement regarding family finances. When I became a principal and began stressing over school budgets, she took on the stress of our personal bills.
She’s really been the perfect person for that—and for us. And I say that with the utmost love and respect. She’s saved us.
And we needed saving.
Because there was a time her car wouldn’t go into reverse and my headlights wouldn’t work in the cold. Neither of which we could afford to fix; both of which seemed important.
There’s also an all-too-vivid memory of me having subscribed to Sports Illustrated after coming across one of those special discounted “introductory” offers: 52 issues for $10.
How could I not?!
But then, when time came to settle accounts, we didn’t have $10. Well, not all of it. I probably knew that beforehand, but stupid won out.
In an effort to avoid being a total loser, I mailed a check for $3.33 each of the next three months. Hoping my good intentions might escape the credit-score police.
We’re so much better now that she’s in control. To be fair, though, we tease her quite a bit for her methods. One such strategy on which she relies has been her compulsion to open multiple bank accounts.
Yes, in this digital world, there are multiple free apps for tracking all her various sorts of financial records and activities in a single place, but that’s just not her style. Or comfort zone.
So, we have a collection of account numbers to memorize: one for Christmas, one for vacations, one for the house, one for the unexpected and unknown.
She’s also created a secondary level of high finance: top-secret hidden envelopes. You know those ones you get from the bank, the perfect size for holding dollar bills.
She has one labeled birthdays, one for her nails, one for her hair (though not mine), a bone-dry empty one in case we should ever get more money (I kid you not), and one for Armageddon.
Seriously, she said, “George, if I die or China shuts down the Internet, there’s $200 cash in my side dresser drawer. It’s hidden under that layer of mints in that old Mentos can. And don’t eat the mints, they’re way expired.”
Whichever happens, I’m guessing we’ll need more than two bills, but she’ll get us through at least one weekend of insanity.
On all the rest of the non-disaster days, we’re joint holders of every account, but if my driver’s license isn’t enough to get me access, I’ll be in deep, deep trouble. I know not a single number.
So, when I retired, I boldly established an account of my own. It only made sense to put her on it, too, in case the Russians came from a different direction, but it felt empowering to have one under my control, hidden away from her daily accounting.
“George, why do you want your own account?”
“So I can hide secret money to buy you an occasional gift without you knowing everything,” sounded good.
It’s all kinda funny because as I said, I’m retired. I don’t have access to a single dollar of income she doesn’t see, know about, or control. What goes in my account comes from the allowance she gives me.
I guess that makes me one of her accounts.
But back to both American freedom and being stupid. I do have 100 percent control of my account. And doesn’t that tell you all you need to know?
I lied about getting her gifts; mostly I spend mine on the driving range, Diet Coke, and the grandkids. But I also signed up for a couple of more subscriptions: one for a TV streaming service and one for some online news.
What with debit cards, Venmo, and Apple Pay, I haven’t written an actual check in over a year. Which was more recent than the last time I balanced said account. But it turns out you should probably track your commitments. Because that sort of money’s leaving your account no matter what. Sometimes unexpectedly.
Stupid? You know it. Result: $35 in overdraft charges.
A couple of weeks ago, we got to celebrate our 49th wedding anniversary. That’s a lot of years of a lot of things. Memories, smiles, frustrations. Lots of photos, too, a few on the wall, most in a box under a bed. Occasional tears, loads of laughter. Job and stay-at-home choices. Cars and houses we couldn’t afford. Kids, too, for that matter.
But what we celebrated were our countless blessings, kids and grandkids, so many unexpected kindnesses from so many unexpected people. Family, friends, fellowship. And fortune—but of a different sort.
A wealth of love and grace, ours and our Father’s.
I was forced to confess my $35 stupidity when I approached her with bowed and penitent head to ask for some extra allowance.
“What have you done? Do you ever balance that account? Do you ever even look at it?” she asked with a tone.
We might make it to 50. I hope so—I think my allowance goes up.
Dear God—Getting to meet the perfect person feels like your gift to us. Making it last is our gift to each other. Thank you for the chance. Amen.
George Valadie is a parishioner at St. Stephen Church in Chattanooga and author of the book “We Lost Our Fifth Fork … and other moments when we need some perspective.”