Save for a Rainy Day

In times of Austerity, should we still stash?_______________________________________________________

I probably must have heard the maxim “Save for a Rainy Day” a million times, spanning from my childhood to adulthood. I remember the first time it was used in my hearing I was hiding under the dining table at home happily feasting on candies out of a brown paper bag, unaware that my parents were watching me. “You will get worms,” my mother yelled, frightening me. The bag fell from my hands in my fright and I watched in horror as candies scattered on the floor around me. My father shifted the table, bringing me to full view of him and my mother. I hung my head in shame and was quickly plagued by the delicious candies around me. “You are too gluttonous,” shouted my father. “Learn to save for a rainy day.” I continued to look at the candies. There were the car-shaped candies which came in assorted colors such as yellow, blue, green and pink and most importantly plenty of the forever popular paradise plum. This candy except for its texture and vibrant two-tone, yellow and red, reminded me of a slug, the garden pest which melts easily when salt is poured on it. My father in the meantime wasn’t quite through reprimanding me about the candies as I took stock of them. Ultimately his reprimand radiated to my absent siblings. “You and the rest will suck salt through wooden spoon later on in life if you don’t learn to put away something for the next day. Learn to cut and carve,” he raged on as my mother cleaned my hands and mouth of liquefied sugar and then picked up the candies that fell on the ground, for safe keeping.

At the time my father’s reprimands were too difficult to understand. My mother’s was quite easy because all the children in my surroundings were told by their elders that eating many sweets caused worms. To prove their point, without giving thought to over-eating, any child seen with a protruding belly or bang belly as we called it then, would be considered a victim of worms. Do sweets really cause worms? Maybe my mother was using another one of her scare tactics. Mothers in trying to protect children always seem to scare them into temporary oblivion whereas fathers project the raw truth that dwells. My father was excellent at doing this. However, in today’s society his style of rebuke probably would be viewed as verbal abuse. His “suck salt through wooden spoon” and “learn to cut and carve” sayings were used by him as needed and had puzzled and haunted me for many years until I was old enough to translate them. It turned out that they were linked to the saying “Save for a Rainy Day.”

My father, when he had caught me with the bag of candies, knew right away that there were multiple servings in the amount. The fact that I was trying to eat all must have broken his heart. He abhorred greed and recklessness. Other times, in similar situations, he would have whipped my behind but luckily for me as it were he decided to give me a tongue-lashing instead. In his raw speech or reprimand he was grooming me for the future. No doubt it was in the same manner which was bequeathed to him by his parents and elders who in turn had received it from their forefathers. The aim in all of this, I suppose, was for me to place value where it belonged, be responsible, conserve, show respect, use my discretion, avoid stress as well as peer pressure, cope with the trials of life, be a decent leader, be resourceful, stay within the perimeters of my financial setting, not go shopping for Champagne knowing that I can only afford to buy beer. At this point, I should testify that as a buyer my bouts of instant gratification often lead to buyer’s remorse. Most importantly my father wanted me to learn the art of putting away money, as savings, from even the smallest amount that I would receive.

Save for a Rainy Day. How is it progressing? Perhaps some of us in our attempt to save for a rainy day, be it about food, personal effects or money, have lost will or faltered by the way. There are also times when our efforts to save money are placed in capable hands yet there is failure. A prime example of capable hands is the stock market which will plummet without warning, causing financial woes. The elders in summing up the situation would have said, when trouble coming, shell not blowing. In my opinion whether or not there was adequate warning, the result is still disappointing. I hold the stock market in high esteem and therefore I do not expect failure. Such a situation leaves me to lament, giving way to comments such as: I would have been better off going to Las Vegas, Atlantic City or Foxwoods Casinos to gamble my money instead of letting those farts do it. I could have saved my money in my mattress or buried it in the ground somewhere in the outdoors. The stock market is a pimp, a melting pot of greed and high class gambling. I should have been more mindful of the quote, “The safest way to double money is to fold it over once and put it in your pocket.” Of course, to me, my comments are tension-easing and obviously temporary, because as soon as the stock market is up and performing as expected, I once again embrace it and hail it with my praise and gratitude.
Is money the root of all evil? Whilst the answer is being pondered, some financial gurus in today’s climate of economic decline and uncertainty tend to become rampant with their knowledge. They are quick to remedy financial catastrophe with the same propensity they invest in charging fees to attend seminars or motivational sessions, where they talk about the safe methods of saving and ways to invest monies. I laugh heartily at the delivery of the financial planners. They come with a twist in language and modern technique to downplay the ideas of the elders from back in the day. Unlike the financial wizards, the elders were on-the-spot advisors. Their sessions didn’t cost a penny. They were free. The elders spoke with determination through voices of experience. Their excellent commonsense, simple solutions, a story with a good moral, and the hardcore maxims which were all in tune with the save for a rainy day plan were not looked at lightly by many.

The elders in their humble fashion saved, traded, and invested. Those who were more specific in their doings would refer to their “Save for a Rainy Day” as old-age pension. In business, they had a no-nonsense approach. Their catchphrase was “wheel and deal” a tool which they exercised to gain rapid success or if failure was in sight. “You can’t lose when you buy a piece of land,” they would tout. “Even if it is barren land, it is better than buying a second hand car.” In the true sense, to them, buying any secondhand vehicle was a bad investment. Deals of such nature were called “sinking fund.” For that reason the elders invested heavily in real estate, buying acres and acres of lands. They cultivated some whereas some remained idle or in their natural status. They also invested in livestock: goats, pigs, donkeys, cows, fowls, horses, and mules to name a few. People looking to increase certain livestock would approach and pay monies to the owners of pedigree animals who then saw to it that their customers’ animals were impregnated or serviced by their pedigrees. A very prosperous business then which probably still exists.

Save for a Rainy Day. Sometimes I take stock of the should-haves and could-haves whenever some of my ideas are hampered by lack of finance. My father’s reaction to my unfortunate situation would have been: I had warned you repeatedly about the implications of not adhering to the Save for a Rainy Day. If that statement wasn’t menacing enough, a good dose of Jamaican dialect would then be in order. Mi did tell yuh. If yuh can hear yuh muss feel. Yuh too blastid stubborn an luv fi have yuh own-way. Unwilling pickney always do-do lickle. As lewd as the latter statement sounds whenever it was been used it would always attract laughter. However, I dared not laugh when it was measured out to me, fearing further grief. By now my experiences and the experiences of others have taught me that Save for a Rainy day is a good endeavor. However, I keep hearing that everyone should live each day as if it were the last. Be merry. Eat, drink, and spend because tomorrow is not promised to any man. The message is a constant reminder in our daily lives yet it is certainly another twist and topic to “Save for a Rainy Day,” as in the case of a recent conversation I had with a lady. Without any qualms, she mentioned to me that she is spending all the money between her and her husband because she is not leaving anything for a second wife to enjoy.

Save for a Rainy Day. Overall, the elders in times gone by weren’t an easy force to reckon with when it came to savings of any sort. They laid down hard core rules and sayings yet I find that there is a prominent concern which engulfs the saying “Save for a Rainy Day,” money being the main focus. Are we going to live like a pauper and die rich? Nowadays it seems like dying rich is a noble status. If this is the case, while not being disrespectful, the only missing honor within this status is the absence of a U-Haul truck tugging behind a coffin with all the material things saved and attained. This sounds a bit morbid but it raises thoughts. Some people will penny-pinch, depriving themselves of the common nutrition that their bodies require. There are also some people who will save their monies and then sponge on others. Are we doing this in honor of the elders to show that it is better to have saved than not save at all? In the long chain of thoughts many have by now concluded that life is a gamble. If this is the case, why not take the chance on Save for a Rainy Day. Who knows when the rain will be at its heaviest?

Tah-tah! Keep the store basket occupied.

Grace Dunkley-Asphall, Copyright © 2011

Me, My Bottles and I

People are becoming more self-reliant and industrious due to tough times. Are you? It is quite noticeable that some are even adopting customs from olden days to adjust to the current situation.

_______________________________________________________

Give me a bottle of…Ahem! Water, I suppose? The summer of 2010 in New York City and its environs will probably go down in history as the summer with the most consecutive days of sweltering heat. Store shelves, as often as they are stocked, continue to be relieved of bottled water by thirst quenching enthusiasts as well as hoarders who aim for the lowest price. Long after summer has made its exit, bottled water will still be available. The empty bottles in the end will then be at the mercy of a lucrative recycling industry.


There is nothing new about the practice of recycling, particularly bottles. This procedure has been around for a long time. The elders of yester year, filled with their many sayings, would have said recycling has been around since the devil was a boy or when salt fish used to shingle house (when salt fish was more affordable and could be bought in abundance). The use of the word Recycle sounds highfalutin, fooling many about its humble beginning. Without any hesitation, I rise quickly to erase such deception and take you back in time. Recycle is actually synonymous to the following terms: seconds, second-hand, hand-me-down and, ole-bruk (used clothing/things). The latter is the most used term among my circle of friends. To become a recipient gives rise to ridicule. However, to be truthful most of us, proud though we maybe, have at some point in our lives indulged in “ole-bruk” in a subtle manner with items such as books, sweaters, shoes, jewelry or furniture.


In former times in my little village in Jamaica, West Indies, a pair of used pants was redesigned and sewn as a skirt. A shopkeeper upon request would give away his empty fabric flour bags to villagers who pulled them apart, bleached and washed them to get rid of the red ink writings “Wholesome White Flour” and then hang them to dry. The now spotless fabric which resembled calico would be used to make bed linens, drawstring bags for straining coffee, dish cloths, aprons, petticoats, and the prized garment “flour-bag underwear.” Believe it or not the recycle trend was vast. News paper was turned into art…soaked, crushed and molded into anything desired. It was also used as wall paper for wooden structures, liners for latrine seats, hair curlers and cleaning material for glass windows. My favorite of all the news paper art was making a hat shaped like a boat to shelter from rain. Interestingly I lost my hat after a few attacks from the raindrops. Empty cardboard boxes were ripped and used as door mats or carpet especially on a rainy day. Compared to now, as we advance in recycling, news papers and cardboard boxes could very well come back as post-it note pads, paper towels or toilet paper after going through the process.


Among the entire hullabaloo of old time recycling was the bottles, my main squeeze. They boast versatility and came in various shapes, sizes, colors and grades. An empty jam bottle was considered the crème of the crop. It held the most beautiful flowers and was also used to store homemade pickled pepper, sugar, salt, bizzy (cola nut), and ground coffee. An aerated water (soda) bottle was the medicine holder, used by most doctors for their patients. It was also a household container for coconut oil, a jigger of brandy to “clear throat” in the morning or evening and it gallantly served as a torch with its wick made from news paper or a piece of old merino, fueled by kerosene. An empty one quart rum or syrup bottle would be used to store homemade brews which were properly sealed and buried in the earth to retain and build potency. Thus far in the recycling world of yester year and today the most interesting thing that I have ever seen become of plastic bottles is the ingenious worth of one of my village friends and her siblings who together had melted these bottles and then molded them into innocent yet cruel balls for youthful play.


With such cleverness, I have come to the conclusion that some children are excellent unrewarded inventors or even entrepreneurs pushed by necessity. My father, a shopkeeper commented most days that he should have remained a school teacher because it was more difficult to keep up with my siblings and I as we competed against some of the community people with selling bottles. We would spend hours digging aged old beer and soda glass bottles from the earth, scoured and washed them to sparkling perfection and then sold them at his shop for a penny a piece. Or, depending on our needs at the time of the exchange we would take money, marble, balloon, firecracker, paradise plum (sweetie/candy), or baked goods…preferable bulla (a flat round cake).


The joy that I derived from selling bottles at age five was amazing until one day when my father decided to kill my joy. He believed that my siblings and I should save the money we were receiving from the sale of our bottles and insisted that it should be done in an official manner. He did not trust financial institutions such as the closet, bureau/chest of drawers, pillow-case, under-bed, under-the-mattress, or let-mother-keep-it. No easy access whatsoever. Our local Post Office was the chosen institution where we opened individual savings accounts and made deposits ranging from a penny to a guinea, (one pound one shilling). As time went by my father’s stern measure towards our future financial freedom didn’t last because we were able to maneuver our way out of it. We had our friends sell the empty bottles to him and then spend the money in secret. This looseness was also short lived as I witnessed one of my friends being called a bottle police and laughed at as he sold his bottles. The situation left me discouraged and got worse after I had overheard two gossipers in the village saying to one another that bottle selling was linked to people who were down and out on their luck or people with no ambition. Those statements eventually put a stop to my bottle selling at the age of seven.


Life does come in cycles and within one of those cycles it is more or less likely that a childhood behavior could repeat. In my case July 20, 2010 hinted at a childhood behavior as I saw one of my neighbors pushing her cart along the busy street in Brooklyn, New York. Am I seeing right? She must be hard up for money I said to myself, taking a long look at the empty water bottles in her cart. It is an honest living to sell bottles, or empties as they are affectionately called, if one can put aside pride and prejudice and endure the rat-race which is brought on by the improved recycling industry. In the still of the night, as I lay in my bed, I can hear many carts with loads of bottles rattling against each other, probably being pushed by someone with an entrepreneur spirit, someone who has to make ends meet or could do with a little bit more. What was my neighbor’s reason? I asked myself as she pushed her cart with glee. Finally, I approached her.
“Where are you going, Millie (not her correct name)?” I asked.
“Gurl, I am going over to the Stop and Shop Supermarket to sell my bottles,” she replied.
"I didn’t know that they take water bottles,” I said, looking surprised with my arms akimbo. She smiled, cunningly. “Gracey! Stop pretending! You didn’t pay deposit on your water when you buy it? You can stay there and waste your money. I gone to sell my bottles,” she said with a thick Trinidadian accent. She then pushed her cart forward and left me standing with the truth…sell the empty water bottles.

Thereafter, I began saving my empty bottles. Five-cents, ten-cents, I tallied daily and as I did so it dawned on me that in today’s society five cents per bottle seemed less in value compared to the penny I used to receive back-in-the-day. Nonetheless, I continued saving because every penny mattered. My assurance level remained high until August 9, 2010 when a friend visited me and observed the container of empty bottles, in my kitchen. “What on earth is going on in here?” he asked, looking at the pile of bottles.
“I am collecting them to sell,” I told him.
He threw back his head and laughed heartily. “Duh Grace no badah wid dat. Mi wi give yuh di money. It luk bad. Yuh mean seh is suh tings gaan bad wid yuh in America?” he asked, pelting our Jamaican dialect.
I laughed and then looked at him. “I have a right to sell those bottles. I paid a deposit on them when I purchased the water,” I told him.
He laughed again, taking a bottle of beer from the refrigerator. He opened it took a sip and then said, “Can you imagine if someone from your village in Jamaica see you selling bottles. They would laugh you to scorn an seh how yuh mash-up, yuh come to nothing in America.
“You can say that again,” I said, agreeing with him. “I am going to abandon the idea of selling these bottles.”
“Good for you,” he applauded but not long enough to dispel the urge of selling empties
“Honey,” I said, looking at his empty beer bottle in his hand. “Give that to me so that I can add them to my heap.”
“You must be joking!”
“No, I am not.” He looked at me and laughed so hard, I thought he would wet his pants. “Put the bottle in the garbage, Grace,” he insisted.
“No problem. I will but after you leave,” I told him knowing that that wouldn’t be the case. I was determined to sell my bottles and nothing was going to stop me. I said to myself, why should I put them in the garbage for someone else to get rich? Or, for any of those raunchy go-go dancers to get hold of them and use them to perform their tricky seductive dance moves. No way! I am holding on to my empty bottles. I am going to put the money from the sale of those bottles to good use...buy a phone card to call my relatives who are living outside of the United States of America.


Casting fear, doubt and pride aside I chose the afternoon of August 11, 2010 as the day that I would redeem my empty bottles for cash. I awoke that day, had my morning devotion, got dressed and went to work. I waited for my lunch break to tell a few co-workers that I would be going home, after work, to sell some empty bottles. “I will be leaving on the dot (my regular scheduled time) to go sell my bottles,” I told them. “Good for you,” one worker commented. “My son’s grandmother sells her bottles and puts the money she receives in a piggy bank for him.”
“Fabulous! Empty bottles were made to be put to good use,” I said, returning to my work.
The work-day ended quicker than I had imagined. It was time to go home. I arrived in Brooklyn from Manhattan on the subway in record time, less than an hour, in comparison to the usual one hour and fifteen minutes ride. The train operators no doubt had had their telepathy stint in play. Their eyes were with me on my soon to be financial gains. I rushed from the train station to my apartment and quickly washed my hands from all the grimes of the subway. I looked at the clock in the kitchen which read 5:30p.m. I refused to change from my work clothes because I wanted to look fabulous when I sold my bottles. I replenished my red lipstick, patted my virgin hair to make sure every strand was in place, admired the jewelry I was wearing from one of my many creations and then draped my pocketbook (handbag) across my shoulder. For the finishing touch, I stylishly placed my shaded glasses on my head, took my cart and left the apartment. I was on my way to Stop and Shop Supermarket to redeem my water bottles for cash.


The streets were bustling with activities. I waited for the lights to change at a major intersection and as I did so I felt nervous, worried that someone I knew would spot me and have a good laugh. I pulled down the shaded glasses from my head to hide my stare. I felt secure, powerful, wonderful, and beautiful. The lights changed and I ventured across the street to the supermarket. The guard was standing by the door. “Hello, sir,” I said, bringing my cart to a halt as if it were a Rolls Royce. “Where do I sell these bottles?”
“Around the corner over there,” he said, pointing to an area in the supermarket.
“Thank you very much, sir,” I said, moving along. As I approached the area I was met with the stench of beer, a telltale sign of the most popular empties. A store attendant was busy preparing the machines for customers. I shifted my cart with much noise. He looked at me.
“Hello”, I said in a kind voice. “This is my first time selling bottles, could you help me?”
“Of course, I can,” he replied. He pointed to the machines. “This one is for glass bottles, this one is for cans and this one is for plastic. See, the names are noted on each machine. Glass! Plastic! Cans!”
“Great! You are a good teacher,” I commended him. He grinned. “Let me have one of your bottles not the glass ones because the machines are full they cannot take anymore. Give me the plastic.” He reached for a plastic bottle from my hand. “You insert it in this slot when the green light comes on. See like this,” he demonstrated. When you are finished putting in all your bottles, you press this green button and it will give you a ticket with your total amount of money to be collected.”
“Thank you so much,” I said. “Let me try.” He stood and watched me feed the machine a couple bottles and then left.
“How is it going?” he asked, returning a few minutes later.
“Wonderful,” I replied. “I am now pushing the button for my ticket. Not bad,” I said looking at the total cash. “Now what should I do with the glass bottles? The machine for them is not in use.”
“I will take them,” said a man, arriving with many bags filled to their brims with bottles and cans.
“Thank you madam,” he said graciously as I handed the bottles to him.
“No problem, sir, I whispered with a smile. I looked at the attendant. He was staring at me with a pleased look. “Goodbye! Thank you for your help and I hope to see you again,” I said.
“Me too,” he said, smiling.
I turned, pushed my cart and then hurried to the customer service counter where I tendered my ticket for cash. A whopping $2.05 received with pride.


Tah-tah! Willful waste leads to woeful want.


Grace Dunkley-Asphall Copyright © 2010