My mentor and boyhood best friend, Jaybird, believed God watches how His children spend money.
“The Lawd give us de know-how to make a dollar,” he’d say. “Thass a gift; when we misuse dat gift by wasting money, hit’s lak tellin’ Him we don’t ’preciate de gift, which makes Him powerful mad, and He takes dat gift back.”
The old black practiced what he preached. But not wasting money was only half of his equation; saving it was the other half. He not only made frequent contributions to his stash of cash, but also squeezed the last penny out of everything he owned.
Whenever I questioned his parsimonious ways, he’d always say, “Hit’s de principle, boy. Evuh time you use sumpin’, dat’s one less time you gwine use it.”
A good example is how he got extra miles out of his old pickup. Unlike other folks who race right up to stop signs, Jaybird would coast so that he barely had to touch the pedal to stop, thereby saving the brake pads and gasoline. He used the windshield wipers sparingly, reminding me that every time they flopped was one less flop.
To get the last mile out of tires, he crept slowly around curves so as to throw as little weight as possible on whichever tire was on the outside of the curve. On the downside of hills, he’d coast and “let gravity buy de gas,” as he said.
When he could park in a way that would let him leave without cycling the transmission through reverse, he did so. If I said going to all that trouble might save a penny or two, he’d reply, “Hit’s de principle. Pennies makes dollars; dollars pays bills.”
Looking back, I realize that for him such seemingly insignificant routines weren’t just ways to save a little here and there — they were challenges, games of frugality he thoroughly enjoyed. He would have agreed with Sir Francis Bacon, who said, “If money is not your servant, it will be your master.”
My mentor taught me to watch every dollar and to get as much as possible out of all purchases. But as a teacher and a father, I’ve discovered that explaining to today’s young people how to be fiscally responsible is often an exercise in futility.
Recently, one of my daughters looked disgustedly at a shirt I was wearing and said, “Shame on you, Dad, you wear that same old threadbare shirt every day.”
It wasn’t the same shirt. A few years ago, I came across a clothing store’s going-out-of-business sale and bought eight work shirts for a rock-bottom price. Because they are all the same color, she mistakenly thinks I am wearing the same shirt every time she sees me. I haven’t bothered to tell her otherwise.
“It’s one thing to be frugal, Dad, but you’re downright miserly,” she said, while wearing a dress that probably cost as much as my entire wardrobe.
I chuckled, and remembered what Jaybird taught me: “Hit’s de principle.”
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
