The richest kid on the block

 This past week we residents in the retirement community gathered in the auditorium to hear the annual financial report. It felt good to know our living situation is on solid ground. But the report also included the yearly increase in our monthly resident fees. With the rising cost of living, it is right that the fees increase, but we’re always nervous about the amount.

 It wasn’t as high as it could have been but, even so, we’re going to have to be more careful about our spending. It’s expensive to live in a continuing care retirement community, but we’re aware that the money goes into long-term insurance and that when we run out of enough money to cover the full cost, we won’t be asked to leave. So, it’s worth it. Even so, we don’t want to run out of money. And, I confess, we do worry.

But we know we’re not poor. We live in a beautiful place with good friends and family near-by. We’re still learning and growing. In fact, I think we’re rich. 

And that reminds me of a story.

I was ten years old the first time I realized I was rich. That was the year I broke my piggy bank.

My parents viewed my intentions with some hesitancy. My father was a high school football coach, and years earlier he had invited several of his football players to my first birthday party. The team bought me the pig, each member making his own contribution to my future wealth. My dad set it on a shelf in my room, and down through the years I faithfully plunked in my pennies and nickels.

By my tenth year the pig was heavy. I was not nearly as sentimental as my parents. I wanted my money. So I smashed its head with a hammer.

Yes, I was rich. Twelve dollars and thirty-eight cents! And it was all mine. No other kid I knew was so wealthy.

I wanted to spend it, and I knew just the place, the local five-and-ten-cent store. Only this time I wasn’t going to just walk up and down the aisles, looking and dreaming. I was going to really buy stuff. I had no shopping lists, priorities, or needs in mind. My goal was to spend my money. All of it.

And I did. What a morning! I put all my coins in the bottom of a green plastic purse. My mom drove me to the store—and I got started. (I wonder now what my mother was thinking. I admire her for permitting me this fling, for not making me save my money or buy socks or give it to the missionaries. I do have a vague memory of her and the clerk in a powwow just before she left me to my glory. They both looked at me and giggled. I ignored them, having better things to do.)

I took my time, first doing a general survey of the store, walking up and down all the aisles, looking at puzzles, pencils, coloring books, barrettes, vases, hair curlers, ribbons, and, of course, boxes of candy and gum.

Then I started, picking up one single item at a time, bringing it to the counter, counting out the nickels and pennies, sealing the bargain, and stashing the loot. I then methodically repeated the procedure for my next purchase. So I advanced, item by item, all morning long, stopping when the only thing my last few pennies could buy was gum balls. I chose the red ones.

When my mom came to get me, I had the stuff in several big bags. I was anxious to get home and show off my treasures.

I bought stuff for myself, of course—comic books, candy bars, and one large bottle of Ben Hur cologne. I had also purchased presents for everyone, and I was so excited to have them get their gifts. For my little brother and sister there were soap bubbles, marbles, and crayons.

I saved the best for last. I had found the perfect gift for my parents. I proudly presented them with a set of tiny glasses, beautifully etched on the outside with golden grapes. I still remember their smiles of delight. In fact, they were so happy they laughed. 

Only years later did I learn I had given them whiskey glasses. 

Several years have passed since then. My husband and I have given most of our adult lives to cross-cultural missions. And while we wouldn’t have wanted to do anything else, it didn’t exactly put us in demand for interviews on “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.”

But, by God’s grace, something of the magic of that day in my tenth summer still clings, wafting through my senses like Ben Hur cologne. We have a wealth of memories, kids grown up and living good lives, grandkids, and, now two great-grandbabies. And we live in this marvelous place. I feel full of the wealth of it all. 

And even though I occasionally worry about current finances, I know that my Father is generous with his gifts. I am secure in his goodness. This world is bigger than any five-and-ten-cent store, and better stocked. I’m a spendthrift at heart, and, yes, I’m still the richest kid on the block.

Dollars, scraps and what we leave behind

Do we pour our savings into a retirement community? Or do we hold on to our money to pass on to our kids and grandkids? That’s a real question for those deciding whether or not to move into a continuing-care retirement community such as the one we now live in. It was certainly a choice we wrestled with.

Not that any financial heritage we pass along to our loved ones would be substantial, given the life-style choices we made. But, still, we’d like to hand something of practical value down to the kids.

We feel the effects of our decision to move here every month when we get the statement from our bank. The increase in the community’s monthly fees this year hasn’t helped. Even though retired, we find it necessary to budget our spending and continue to search for ways to cut down. I guess that makes us like most other people in our nation today.

We remind ourselves of the benefits of being here, that the high fees today ensure continuing care in the future when we’ll probably need to be in assisted-living or perhaps the memory care wing. Even if we should one day run out of money, this community will still care for us.

But I grieve the lack of an inheritance to pass on.

Until I remember that I do have something of value to leave my kids as an inheritance.

My scrapbooks!

(The exclamation point indicates a blending of enthusiasm and sarcasm.)

I started scrapbooking when our kids were small, long before scrapbooking became an expensive national craze, a craze that has since died down. I needed a way to manage the growing collection of photos, childish artwork, and assorted memorabilia that threatened to overflow our storage space. And I wanted a way to hold on to the memories of those growing up years, a way to provide continuity and stability to our rather nomadic way of life between two countries.

So every fourth year when our family came home from Bolivia to Oregon, I’d sort through the stuff, make my choices, and artistically glue them into the Book. Then I’d throw everything else away without compunction (and without the kids knowing). It kept the clutter down.

And it made a wonderful contribution to capturing our family story. The kids loved the books, as did Hal and I. We named them “The Thomas Family Chronicles,” and the volumes grew over the years. When David brought his future wife Debby home to meet us, they sat together on the couch while David showed her the Chronicles, not telling her that this was the “test.” She passed.

The kids are grown, married, and now the grandkids are starting the marriage cycle. Life goes on. And so do the Chronicles. I keep them up; it’s a good place to display photos of the grandkids and chart all the changes.

I am slowing down, partly due to the high cost of maintaining a color printer. Partly because they take up room. Each year occupies less pages.

My question: although the kids loved these books growing up, will they actually want them taking space on their bookshelves someday? All 18 volumes?  I’m not so sure about that.

But, really, why worry? When I’m gone it won’t be my problem.

I am sorry about the money though. 

Some sample pages: 

                        1976 La Paz, our city

                            David, kindergarten self-portrait

                            2002, on an Oregon beach with the grandkids

                                 2007, Teaching in Lima, Peru

2008, youngest grandchild, Peter

2013, Akagera (Rwanda) safari with grandkids

                            2015, Aymara Quaker women at Yearly Meeting

Thank you for indulging me. If the kids don't want these, would you be willing to take them off my hands? I'd love to see your scrapbooks.