Dad was always sending us to the store for cans of something. Cream of chicken. Beans. Corn. Condensed milk for pumpkin pie.
One thing you did not do was come back from Safeway with store brand.
“It doesn’t taste as good,” he’d say. “They use cheaper ingredients.”
This was about more than just the extra change it cost to get Del Monte or Campbell’s. Dad wore clothes from Brooks Brothers, cooked with gadgets from Williams-Sonoma, and sat on furniture from Ethan Allen.
The expensive tastes were a serious financial reach, and there was more cost than just the price tag.
He and my mom couldn’t afford that two-story brick house, but he signed his name—and hers—on the mortgage anyway. He was in all kinds of debt when the settlement check for his ankle came in, but he bought a new car right away. Even toward the end, after we had gotten used to him calling to ask us to Venmo him $10 so he could get some dinner at KFC, I’d go visit him and notice all the new shoes.
See it, want it, buy it. Some people drink, some gamble. Dad shopped.
My mom told me it was like that even when they were first dating. People would comment on how rich he must be because of the red Firebird he drove and the nice sweaters he wore.
That was the point, I know. An ongoing grasp at medicating an ailing self esteem.
“Look! I’ve got all the stuff the world says is valuable. Doesn’t that make me valuable, too?”
Despite all the buying, there was never enough.
These days, my siblings and I laugh about this one:
Dad loved Coke, and when we’d go out to restaurants he’d order himself one. We loved Coke too. But we weren’t allowed to order Cokes because with three kids at the table, that would mean at least six extra dollars. That’s fucked up enough on its own, but here’s the kicker: Dad wouldn’t let us have sips of his. There were free refills, but he’d slap our hands away if we tried.
It wasn’t all funny, though.
When sophomore year of high school rolled around, I was excited about driver’s ed. Some classes on the weekend and my January birthday were all that stood between me and the open road.
Another thing happened that fall, too: my Granny died. My mom’s mom. Naturally, I wanted to fly to Tennessee for the funeral.
$300. Driving classes cost that much, and so did the plane ticket. Dad told me I had to choose. I couldn’t do both.
He had just remodeled the kitchen.
Got an itch for a stack of new CDs, or pizza and a movie? Go ahead. Scratch it.
Son needs $50 for soccer team dues? Money’s tight. Sorry.
Once, maybe when I was 25, some friends and I visited Seattle. I took them home, to Dad’s house. He made us all breakfast, and we ate it in the dining room, with its high ceilings and giant windows that looked out at the mountains.
It was really nice. It felt good to host my friends.
Then he went around and asked each of them for $3.25, to cover the cost of the eggs and sausage.
.
Do you ever catch yourself holding onto a sense of lack, no matter how much you have?
Ever want to believe that we live in a world where there’s enough for all of us—that around every corner, there is spiritual, emotional, and material abundance— but still find yourself harboring resentment about what you don’t have or fear that drought and famine are on the way?
Especially this time of year?
Me too.
Scarcity is a myth, and I’m determined to shed that skin. I have way more than plenty, and it has always been this way. I have no real reason to think that will change, and it feels very good to remember that.
I’m not always in that place, though. Stepping into a new baseline operating assumption is a process that moves in waves.
In that regard, when it comes to stuff—having it, not having it, my mindset around it all—I find it useful to reflect on what I learned in my upbringing.
Enjoy what you read today? When you subscribe, you’re 1. guaranteed not to miss future pieces, and 2. supporting me and my ongoing work. Just click here:
A holiday gift idea for you:
If you’d like to give someone a nice gift this year, but don’t want to buy them more stuff, try giving them a seat in one of my You Have a Story writing groups!
Maybe you have retired parents, for example. I get a good number of retirees who have loads of life experience and a desire to write some of it down.
Someone recently mentioned typing their writing up so they can share it with their grandchildren. I think that’s really cool.
I want to mail you a postcard.
I mentioned previously that I’m trying to make a collage, and I’m looking for a few specific images (because stuff from the wild is better than printing pictures at CVS). If any old newspapers or magazines in your home have pictures of the following and you’re willing to mail them to me, I’d love to send you a postcard in return:
A peach, a camel, a flock of birds, a bench of a chair, a telephone (that’s not a cell phone).
Let me ask you a question(s)…
I’m curious:
What do you get out of reading this newsletter?
If I published more often (say, 1x/week), would you like that? Not like that? Feel indifferent?
I’d love your thoughts, and you can always just reply to this email to send them directly to me.
BUT! If you’re willing, it’d be cool if you dropped your thoughts into the comment section of this post. I’d like to use the comments to build some community around this project, and this seems like a good way to start.
Like what I publish?
If I’ve added something good to your day, two ways to do the same for me are below:
Forward this email to a friend or two. Tell them what it is and why you enjoy reading, and encourage them to check it out and subscribe.
Send over a couple bucks via Venmo (@Jonathan-Neeley-2) or PayPal (neeley87@gmail.com).
Much love,
Jonathan
Hey man, I'd probably read at 1x a week as your writing is typically short and sweet. I really enjoy reading anybody's thoughts are well written enough to the point that they're concise, enjoyable, and clear, but also just seeing that somebody else is thinking through similar ideas, but from a different vantage point and with some different experiences.