Learning to be Frugal

I am, in my ripe age, learning to be (deep breath)…frugal. It’s about time, you might think. And I couldn’t agree with you more.

But I never have been too fond of people who rub the dollar bills together between their thumb and index finger to make sure they don’t give one too many in tips, or who don’t give their cleaning help a generous holiday bonus, should they be so lucky to have one.

On the other hand, I have been known to be a little too loose-fingered, and lately, my cash reserves reached an all-time low. Which sort of shocked me into the frugal-mind-mode. Or at least, to begin taking the idea more seriously.

Which also means I have to get rid of this divine magnet on my fridge:

Frugal II

Because if it’s a mind-set thing, then I have to live it up and rid myself of all the negative associations. Frugal CAN BE beautiful (repeat, repeat, repeat).

As an example of my new-found attitude toward spending unnecessary moolah, I’ll have you know how clever I can be: My middle son is about to graduate from high school and the requisite cap and gown (including sash and tassel) order-date was fast approaching. Instead of mindlessly sending him to school with the $50-something check, I dug out his older brother’s cap and gown from two years ago, assessed it, washed it (gotta love polyester) and zap, all he had to order was the cap and tassel for $16. It helps, of course that all three sons are between 6’4″ and 6’5″, the size of said gown.

I have recently listed my condo on AirBnB and happily hosted my first guests last weekend. The extra income will help matters a tad in this financial slump, which is likely to be a deep and wide valley, since starting this fall, two out of three will be in college (ka-ching, ka-ching). But more money will NOT mean more mindless spending: Keeping in mind the matras of a guy I once shared a life with, “To spend one dollar I have to earn two…” or even better, desired object in hand (or flashing before me on Amazon) ask myself “But do you need it?” before hitting the “Buy in One Click” button. It takes practice, but I’m motivated.

It may still be a while before I install the Groupon App, or the SavenowCT App, or, argh, the AARP Savings App (concepts I learned of only yesterday from a beautifully frugal and sexy friend).

And just for the record, buying books doesn’t count.

Fatherly Traces Left Behind

My dad’s ashes were scattered a few nautical miles off shore by a lighthouse, with some seals looking on with curious interest from a nearby rock. “Make sure you do it with the wind blowing away from you” he had joked. The idea of not being eternally stuck in one place appealed to him, and so my youngest son held the urn snugly in his lap as the open hulled wooden boat made it’s way out to the spot my dad, my sister and I had agreed on. On a day with blue skies and low winds, my dad’s fisherman friend had offered to be the captain and take us out on his traditional fishing boat with room for ten on benches lining the bulwark. We tried to remember my dad’s advice about the wind, but some of the fine dust still rose toward our nostrils and mouths when we gently shook the content of the urn toward the water’s surface. I didn’t mind the minute remnants of my dad clinging as they must have to my clothes and eye lashes while I helped my son and niece to have their turn scattering their grandfather’s remains in the Norwegian Sea.

He’d been living more or less off the grid after my parents’ divorce some twenty years earlier, and since I had moved to the U.S, I always regretted not having been able to spend more time with him. He was a fine man, and a kind man, although he had, until lung cancer got the best of him, smoked forty a day and could easily polish off a Johnny Walker before noon. Truth be told, he was a bit of a financial fuck-up, and his avid tax protesting and ever mounting tax debts landed him a stint in the mountains of Norway, in jail. The government always seemed to be able to find him for this or for that, despite his earnest attempts to go underground and not own anything they could take away from him. But his time, the government could still take, as they did in the summer of ’98.

When they divorced, my mom kept the apartment and the boat had been sold long time ago. The only reason he could keep his Citroen station wagon was because my mother agreed to have it registered in her name. The day he left his bourgeois life, only his clothes were stuffed into a huge duffle bag from his younger days in the army, and we helped him carry a few extra belongings in a big, black plastic garbage bag. Among them was a framed black and white photo of him as a little boy in the arms of his dad, just before the War. He later lost the content of this bag once he left it in someone’s storage space, when he was in-between having a place to live.

My dad’s story deserves to be told because he was an ordinary man who made some extraordinary choices, although I imagine he didn’t see them as optional. It was when he pulled out a Walther P38 handgun from a small cooler bag he used to carry around and waved it at some unfriendly young ruffians in an Oslo traffic jam that he acquired the nickname of Cowboy Gramps. (I was told the gun had belonged to a German officer during World War II and my dad’s friend’s father was among the Norwegian Army Officers who arrested the German and confiscated the gun when the war and the German occupation of Norway ended in 1945).  My dad was arrested on charges of carrying an unregistered weapon, and my guess is he wasn’t completely sober either.

Otherwise my dad was called Goggen among his friends, short for George, which was his middle name, his first being Roar, a traditional Norwegian name.

A bootlegger, tax-protester and everybody’s token outsider, he was an autodidact and passionate reader who was always interested in the Other’s story and would look you in the eyes and give a great handshake. He taught me how to press a shirt and how to make Béchamel, that creamy white herb infused sauce, and how to tie a scaffold knot and a cow hitch. He was equal parts the worst and the best for a role model, but most of all he was just a man who adored his two daughters and not much else. His uncompromising love for us is about the only trace he left, and some great friendships. That and a few good stories is by far the best anyone could wish for.

Today would have been his 80th birthday.

Happy Fun Season! Surprises on Tax Day

It’s that time of year again, and I just got lucky. Picking up my tax return I learned that contrary to the serious checks I expected to have to have postmarked today, my payment is less. Much less. Well then. How’s that for a belated Hanukkah gift? At least it’s an event shrouded in a cloud akin to a miracle for me. I love miracles. And my tax guy.

I’m a self diagnosed “tax trauma survivor, ” since my dad was a notorious tax evader. Honestly, he was more of a tax protester, and even did some time in the mountains of Norway for “white collar crime” in a place we came to call his summer camp. He took it in stride as the service at the open-door facility was excellent, his laundry was done and folded, they asked he if wanted fish or pasta for dinner and he was sent home on leave every third weekend with spending money in his pocket. Really.

But my mom didn’t take that brief episode of incarceration with the same lightheartedness. Who can blame her? For her it was the end of the rope of a lifelong accumulation of poor financial decisions on my dad’s part. I actually think he had some kind of traumatic childhood experience that translated into his visceral revulsion of all things “authority,” like the heavily taxing socialist state of post WWII Norway or the uniform clad Norwegian parking guards that take their job a wee bit too seriously issuing tickets when you are parked one meter too close to the corner. His sort of “PTSD,” I believe, may have had its roots in his childhood memory of the Nazis who had occupied Norway. For, when he was a little boy his father was imprisoned by the Germans (or the collaborating Norwegian police) for trafficking documents for the resistance in his taxi. When my dad, a mere 7 year old boy, made the trek with his mom to the prison camp to see him, they were denied entry. I imagine the guard wore a uniform. I imagine he was Norwegian, working for the government. You don’t need to be Freud to connect the dots here.

My father’s childhood trauma and adult behavior subsequently morphed into a sever form of numbers dyslexia in his offspring: me. When I look at numbers, budgets, or bills, things get blurry and I hide the piece of paper in a growing pile on my kitchen counter, thinking my need to attend to it will be go away. The only numbers I seem to be able to deal with only go as high as the overdue fines from the library, and even those I count in Norwegian, like a kid in nursery school counting the ducklings on the cardboard book page. They don’t go much higher than 10. Yes, it’s that serious.

I’m guessing my subconscious reason for having fallen for a man with a compulsive tendency of making sure every dollar and cent were accounted for is obvious by now.

My own little family her in the USA dubbed April 15th the beginning of Fun Season, because my ex-husband is an accountant and the arrival of this much anticipated date meant a new kind of life for us. The kids and I would hang a huge home made sign on our fence announcing “Happy Fun Season, Pappa!” as he would roll in at half mast after the post office had closed, the balloons tied to the fence at the beginning of our driveway bouncing, like the children, with anticipation in the promising April air.

Like my dad, when I fall into some extra cash I immediately find fun ways to spend it. Why add them to the retirement fund when life is happening here and now, he would have said. So after I dutifully cut my modest tax payment checks to the IRS and wondered if I should hug my tax guy, but seeing as he was unavailable for tactile customer appreciation, I instead treated myself to some sushi and a cold beer, made a small donation to this creative and brave handicapped kid raising money on GoFundMe, and then treated my middle son to a day in Boston with his buddies.

Happy Fun Season everybody!

It's time to pay tax

The Lost Tribe

We can stop looking for the lost tribe, because I know where they are. They are right here in Connecticut, about an hour away from my house, and they bear the same last name as I. These are the people I once had a close relationship with spanning several decades, and then things changed when I got divorced from their son/brother. I’ve tried to reach out many times over the past few years, but they have made it very clear they prefer to remain lost. At least to me.

Which is a shame, because losing them has affected my family in many ways, not just me. Holidays, birthdays, life cycle events all seem a bit off without them, and there’s that awkward absence or silence, like a void. With them, the wacky chaos is gone, but so if their fun-loving effusiveness. My natural instinct to share the stories and photos, accomplishments and future dreams of my almost grown-up sons has been shut down as well. Instead, they insist on isolation.

In truth, I’m the one they would probably have preferred to get lost. At times I do feel lost, since they were my only Jewish family, aside from my three kids.

But I worked too hard to find my Tribe, and I’m not going anywhere anytime soon; all the cooky tribal matters are what attracted me in the first place. They grow on you and although some complicate your life, I’ve alway been one for choosing complex over simple, interesting over dull. As long as there’s love and compassion, which there used to be plenty of.

I know how they got lost. They found a signpost on their path that offended them, and it was pointing to me. It came with some commentary (we Jews are big on commentary) that had no added value to their journey, our journey, and because of this they took a sharp turn that led them – or was it me? – to this galut,or diaspora. Funny thing is, they don’t seem to see it that way, as an unfortunate thing; instead they continue to guard the borders and fences that keep us separated with a strong conviction. Despite my outstretched hand, carrying an olive branch, suggesting a truce and a cup of coffee. Our Tribe is known for its ability to stick to its guns, after all. That’s how we have remained distinct for the past few thousand years.

There are discussions in the Talmud among the rabbis as to whether the lost tribes will eventually be reunited. There are even proven genetic links and abundant archeological traces connecting them. These bear the names of my children, their grand-children, nephews and cousins.

It would be better if the things we have in common could unite us, rather than letting the things that make us different, stand between us.

A good friend just told me about an exciting project she learned about on a recent visit to Jerusalem. It’s called New Story Leadership, and it invites young leaders from the Arab and Jewish communities to become agents of change, using the transformative power of stories to create a new story of possibility. It’s a form of conflict resolution that involves hearing the Other’s story, legitimizing it, and then moving onward and forward with a new and possible narrative of peace, hope and transformation.

But it takes the courage of leaders who believe that such a narrative is a better one than a prevailing mood of cynicism and separation. I am willing to listen to the story of the lost tribe, to honor it and respect it. I am hopeful that someone among them may accept my invitation to look toward a different and better story-line for our family.

For the sake of the children. For the sake of ourselves.

LostTribe