A Penny Saved Is A Penny Earned

     Ben Franklin said it and my husband, Ern More, lives it.  Ern believes in Clearance.  Ern can sniff out the clearance rack just like a hound dog sniffs out the fox.  Prowling along the back walls of his favorite store, Ern checks the markdown progress.  He watches inventory and counts the weeks until he scores on that window air conditioner that someone might use at some illusive point in the distant future.  It is the air conditioner that finally found itself in the spotlight at our last garage sale.  I almost attached a personal note, "Take me, please!"

     After watching Ern's stash of "too good of a price to pass up"  overcome his side of the garage and threaten mine, I decide it is time for action.  My strategy?  Goodwill?  Easy but not profitable even with charitable contributions.  Garage Sale?  Too much sweat.  Need's hope chest?  Too much for one chest, it would have to be a Hope Pod, sending the same message I almost attached to the air conditioner.  Put on the corner for free?  Against my morals!  Ebay?  Ebay it is!  The Ebay listing grows daily and I haven't touched the 3 NIB microwaves, 7 blenders (3 of which are camping style) nor the NIP King Size comforter (our beds are anything but).  This week I sell an over the door ironing board cover, a baby blue embroidered dining chair cover and a set of paints for model cars! Ad extremum, the hound was out foxed, the garage space secure and Ben proven right, a penny saved is a penny earned!

My Big Toe

     A moment in time and a bank account later, my summer plans turn upside down.  And so do 17 year old's!  No swimming, no bowling, no running, no showers, but I gain an attractive bracelet in basic black fiberglass that extends halfway up my arm  Surprisingly my black bracelet attracts squeezes like lemonade attracts bees on a hot summer day!  Want, my 17 year old's summer materializes into a remake of "Driving Miss Daisy", with the addition of Grandma and Grandpa Daisy!  As we calendar Want's week of grandma's physical therapy, grandpa's doctor's appointments, my x-ray check, taking out the garbage and shopping for multi generations, and culinary duties; I ponder, perhaps, justice is served in this life!

     Justice is often be served with fast food speed.  Equally swift are fortunes lost!  Shuffling at 5:30 am is neither a talent I care to develop, nor use again.  Somehow in the act of shuffling, my big toe becomes lodged in the partially undone hem of my pajama pant leg.  In an instant, I know how those defensive linemen feel when Want and Spend secure them around the ankles.  Mid flight my arm catches the frame of the nearby futon and an ominous crack breaks the early morning silence. A trip to the ER seems eminent as my thoughts of drifting to sleep are shattered by waves of pain.

     Walking through the sliding door of the hospital, I think I hear the chink-chink of a coin machine.  Don't be silly I tell myself, it's probably just an x-ray or CAT scan machine .  Several x-rays later, the diagnosis is official: a broken arm with possible follow-up surgery.  When contemplating how expensive my big toe has become, I consider whether to have it insured or just amputated!

THE GARDEN

      Plenty.  Plenty is often the illusive word which seldom accompanies the description of the contents of my wallet.  Plenty does describe the space in our backyard appointed to a garden.  Last week, 17 year old Want asks my husband, Ern, why we plant a garden.  Ern's boldly stated answer comes swift, "to save money!"  Almost choking on my last bite of dinner, I manage to keep the amused smile to myself.

      The inevitable 17 year challenge shoots back rebounding from the parental proclamation.  "How does the garden save us money Dad?"  "We save grocery money of course," replies Ern, still confident in his position.  Out comes the mental calculator.  "How much do you spend in seeds and plants. . .Mom?"  And I am instantly thrust into the center of the discussion vortex, not a spot I particularly enjoy as both tried to use me to support their point of view.  After itemizing the costs including soil, water, fertilizer, rototiller rental and my own labor costs which become a point of dispute; Want drops the ax.  "How many vegetables do you think we got from the garden last year?"  "Uh," last year was a drought.  "Well, the vegetables gave us lots of vitamins that we didn't get from store bought food,"   I offer.  "So, we saved in medicine and medical bills!" smiles my husband, triumphantly.  "Actual expenses and income make this garden a financial disaster!" Want announces on his way to the refrigerator to begin his after-dinner dinner.  "It still saves us money," mutters Ern as he heads off to balance the checkbook.  Yes, the garden saves us. . .well, I'm still thinking on that one!

Need More at 12:37 am

     It's now official.  We have changed our family surname to More.  Our three children being Need, Spend and Want.  Incidentally, when I was a child our neighbors, the Moores, always had more than us.  Perhaps, the new name will lead us to follow in their fortune!  

     Just as I was about to fluff my pillow one last time last night, the phone rang.  As I picked it up,  I noticed it was 11:30 pm.  It had to be our child, Need, who resides in another time zone, both physically and socially.  The conversation opened with the customary "I have a quick question" and proceeded to an hour of college life anecdotes.  After the funnies, came the business section, culminating in the financial page.  At 12:37, Need announces two weeks into summer term she owes $1100 in tuition!  Having recently returned from a study abroad, Need depleted her bank account and diminished her job prospects.  I hung up the phone, returned to my bed and dreamed of financial ruin.  

     As I sat in the doctor's office this morning waiting for an x-ray on my broken wrist, thoughts danced in my weary head.  "How much will this cost?  The doctor said something about surgery?  How much will that cost? The doctor graduated from Yale. . .how much did that cost?  $1100.  No, it must have cost more.  $1100!"  At this point I looked at my chauffeur, 17 year old Want, and said "Your sister needs $1100!"  I started laughing.  He glared at me and growled, "that's not funny!"  "Why?" I asked.  "That's my money!" he moaned. Want is the third child and often feels wanting behind his siblings!  

      $1100!  Wonder what my husband will say when he finds out?