locomotivehootenanny:

ONE

I grew up in a household without chores. We had a housekeeper. Plus, my mom stayed at home and hated relying on other people to do things. So we received lessons on how to use the washing machine, and were encouraged to make our beds, but we never had a list of tasks like I saw on the side of fridges in friends’ homes. The greatest consequence of this growing up was that I didn’t have that small income that most kids received, given to inform the child of the value of money. Doesn’t mean I didn’t get lessons in other ways. My mom was adamant that people who don’t place all their cash in order, facing the same way, don’t respect money. I am still ashamed when my dollars are stuffed between my fives.

Mostly, the only tasks required of my siblings and I growing up were to treat school as a job, read every night, and create something everyday. So I mustered some entrepreneurial spirit in order to rustle up some cash. When I was eight, I had a brief advertising career, which seems ludicrous to discuss at the moment. But, beyond that, I started hosting art shows where only my parents were invited. I taped my art onto the sliding glass doors and charged them a nickel a picture. I began working with oven bake clay, forming business cardholders for my dad to take to the office, which I advertised by writing a small note that he pinned up in the office kitchen. I cleaned the dirt from my dad’s shoes. I asked siblings if they needed to borrow money, letting them know that if they wanted to donate interest, that’d be totally appreciated by me, but not necessary. 

When my parents and I took our after-dinner walks through the neighborhood, I looked for pennies. Most nights I wouldn’t find any, one night I found three. My mom would say, “Find 99 more and you’ll have a dollar.” Putting it that way, it made that one penny seem like a fortune. All the stray pennies that I found on the walks, on the floor when they fell out of my dad’s pockets, went into a jar shaped like a kiwi bird. I think my parents got it in Jamaica, who knows, I liked it. Twice a year, they’d let me roll up all the pennies and take them to the bank. It was never more than five dollars, but that was a lot back then.  

TWO

The bookcase in my bedroom growing up was made of wicker. It warped in the front, leaning precariously forward over my bed. When I put my television on it, the one with the dial knobs that had the Nintendo NES hooked in, it leaned even more. So, I stacked a bunch of pennies and shoved them under the feet of the bookcase to even it out. Those pennies probably saved my life.

THREE

My brother was stopped by a woman one day accusing him of wearing her grandfather’s shirt.  He purchased it from a thrift store, so this was likely true. She asked to inspect the front pocket, and in the lower right corner was the tell-tale rust-colored ring. She explained that her grandfather kept a penny taped inside his shirts, next to his heart. Claimed the copper kept it ticking right.

AFTERWORD

My last remaining grandparent is now 92. He grew up in a small home in Tennessee, barely larger than my bedroom. Many of his siblings died before they made it out of the single-digits. There were triplets for a time, he hadn’t forgotten while looking at my cousin’s three-month-old twins this past Thanksgiving.

As a teenager, he worked at the golf course miles from his home. He caddied for an American aristocrat, a steel tycoon, who after some time having my grandfather standing beside him round after round, asked about my grandfather’s future. When my grandfather explained that he hoped to go to school, but doubted he could afford it, the man drove my grandfather down to the University of Tennessee, talked to the right people, and got him enrolled. He cries every time he tells that story.

Last Tuesday at work, I swept a penny into the dustpan. It had dirt on it, I was too tired to bother picking it up to clean it off. It is now Sunday and I am still trying to atone.

Brilliant.