thebosha:

I suppose like many of my generation, raised as we were by people who survived both the Great Depression and WWII, I am uncomfortable with the subject of money.

As a child at whatever stage poor/middle/rich becomes a noticeable thing, I very clearly remember being chastised for asking what mom “made” as a nurse, for asking what Mr. Hopkins, the firefighter up the street, was reimbursed for his heroic labors, for wondering aloud what dad’s boss might have paid for that fancy new house up on East Mountain. Mentioning such things was tantamount to swearing in that house; it simply was not done.

When it came to money it was as if any given family had either too little or too much and both conditions were regarded with near equal amounts of shame. Ostentatious displays of disposable income were considered worse than unavoidable signs of poverty. And while we enjoyed fairly comfortable circumstances ourselves, my pleas for that school year’s trendiest sneakers or a hot new rock album were always greeted in the same fashion by my father without the slightest trace of irony: “Now really James, what do you need that for?”

My parents bought everything with cash, except the house of course, yet I recall their joyful little ceremony of burning the mortgage when they paid it off and I was only about 6 or 7 at the time. Credit was to be despised and distrusted and paid-away as quickly as possible. They still own that home. It is well-kept, it is tidy and goddammit, it is theirs.

As with so many other sources of discomfort in my life I dealt with the impolite topic of money by avoiding it, and I accomplished this for many years by making enough of it for it to be non-issue. Lucky me. While it lasted.

Twice in this past week I’ve had to contact usually timely clients over unpaid invoices. The outcome of those calls is always positive and the delays understandable enough; so-and-so in accounts payable having been on vacation or such what. But the anxiety I burn making those calls? I’d sooner put my head in a Kardashian’s mouth.

Yes, even asking for what’s mine is uncomfortable.

I’ve given away, pissed away, walked away from more possessions than I could ever replace in my earthly time remaining. Sometimes out of guilt, sometimes out of disdain, sometimes out of that blank passivity that comes of depression. A divorce lawyer once had to insist that I at least take a lamp, a chair, a fork and a plate because otherwise “in a few hours you’re going to be sitting on the floor of an empty apartment eating with your hands in the dark.”

There are, I think, only three ways we learn: wanting to, needing to, and too late.

Last weekend I set out with a couple friends to pursue one of the few activities I’ve always enjoyed. We stormed no less than four estate sales, two yard sales and a big thrift shop, cutting a 60 mile swath and parking as illegally as the situation required. My companions made a good haul, I however came back with nothing but the money I had left with. Because as I was looking with appreciation at a small antique copper lantern, a perfect verdigris framing hand-blown glass panels, a pre Civil War makers mark on the back and a price sticker of less than five bucks, an old, familiar voice popped into my head.

“Now really James, what do you need that for?”

I can so relate. My husband is the same age I am, but his parents were just that much younger, and unaffected by the depression, so he is the opposite. I scored a free chair this weekend. It needs refinishing and reupholstering, and it had been out in the rain, so it’s still drying. But it’s got lovely, Eames-era lines, and brass caps on the legs. Hopefully it’s comfortable. It’s still too damp to try out.