COFFEE CAN PHILOSOPHY

I’ve acquired certain eccentricities growing up in the Great Depression. Such quirks are common for people my age. Depression idiosyncrasies are not contagious. They don’t contaminate the next generation, so my children need not worry. You must live in the havoc of hard times to be so afflicted. I suspect future generations might be vulnerable, given the uncertainities of economic pendulum swings.

One of my quirks deal with inner cravings and the need to satisfy them. Right now, writing and sharing my literary efforts is a consuming focus. This chronic condition (like many of my others) has economic implications. Afflictions that eat up money need medicine; otherwise, the fever spreads and spills over on others surrounding me.

I’ve recently rediscovered an elixir for such quirks. Properly taken, its impact on daily living and soul vitality can be astounding. No I’m not talking about anabolic steroids. My remedy is homeopathic, it produces no ill side-effects. I call it Coffee Can Philosophy. Carefully administered, it helps to keep my life in balance.

Coffee Can Philosophy relies on a holding vessel to fund dreams and expectations. It has three maxims.

Put money away for something worthwhile.

If you don’t have it, don’t spend it.

If you do, spend it wisely.

Investment in the soul always compounds.

My mother used and refined a similar philosophy long before I could remember. What she called it, I’ll never know.

Mom kept the household money in a “safe place”, an antique teapot tucked way up in the corner of the dining room cupboard. Here the family fortune was cached. From it was dispersed the funds for daily living — nuturing of the body, so to speak.

My mother kept another vessel in that same cupboard that endowed the family spirit. Cash from my mother’s and family dreams came from her personal treasure. She put her “pin” money in a small silver trophy cup, one she had won back in high school days as the outstanding woman athlete. At times of nostalgia, I recall the sound of nickels and dimes tinkling and tumbling to the bottom of that cup.

Mom often needed to make change so she transferred funds back and forth between teapot and trophy cup. She was meticulous in keeping the two separate accounts balanced. Silver, copper and nickel were exchanged for paper greenback. Then, my older sister would be off to the store for some body essentials. On her return, penny candy would content sweet tooths and warm the souls of us toddlers.

I don’t ever recall seeing my mother’s trophy cup ever being empty or full. I’ve come to realize that she had another holding vessel, one she kept close to her heart. There she stored her dreams, desires and wishes. She had the innate ability to gauge the contents of her trophy cup and match them to the most important inner desires. The connection between those holding vessels was always synchronized. Their ebbs and flows were part of our daily life. A worthy wish fueled the filling of the cup. Our early happy times were generated by mom’s balancing act, family rhythms intimately tied to the trophy cup’s pendulum swings she so carefully managed.

I’ve emerged from the depression. Have I climbed into great prosperity? I think not. I swing and satisfy today’s needs in what appears to be a modern and stylish mode. Still, the basic desires and goals discovered in the 1930s are my firm foundation. Sometimes, it’s tough to superimpose them on today’s living. Today’s trends can be a bit discordant with earlier ideals.

Is the world any better today than when Hitler was reaching for his pinnacle? Drug resistant tuberculosis is trying for a big comeback. AIDS has displaced small pox as the pestilence headliner. Cancer and Alzheimer’s ride along with those in extended living. Look closely, the evils of disease, starvation, and fear still rain upon humanity. We live with these age-old dilemmas with incomprehension, just like our ancestors have.

I figure the necessities of life cost about ten times the amount my mom had to take from the teapot back in the 1930s. Her trophy cup just can’t hold for me in these inflationary times. So, I’ve come to rely on a pound coffee can for my inner cravings treasure trove. A red and black “Hills Brothers” (Columbian) does the trick. I keep it in the closet net to my computer work desk.

Paper money and a few rare quarters go to that coffee can. Such a treasure trove has no weight. It doesn’t feel substantial. Susan B. Anthony dollars would make a better ballast; too bad she didn’t catch on. Oh, how I miss the sound of real silver coins striking others journeying to the trophy cup.

In retrospect, I have witnessed the total demise of the cupboard teapot. Balancing the checkbook is a chore we all abhor. Today, we use the latest credit cards with sixteen digit numerics, even photo images. They identify us, “here is a likely safe transaction”. Plastic has lulled us into instant gratification. Later we must wrestle with “borrow on tomorrow mentality”. Whatever happened to, If you don’t have it, don’t spend it.

It’s one thing to have a coffee can, it’s another to work out its cash flow details. I’m continously experimenting to refine and find balance. In earlier times, my mother stacked coins and piled dollar bills daily. Mom had an instant picture of what was there and how to disperse it. We have progressed somewhat from then. I may not keep retirement savings in the mattress or cash in teapots, but I envy her simple, more objective perspective on cash flow. I’ll have to work on that. Then, just maybe, value judgements and real worth can creep in and displace this nonsense associated with instant gratification.

That brings me to the final point,

Investment in the soul always compounds.

On many occasions I’ve spent wisely to gain experiences for me and my family; a vacation in England, the Bruce Springsteen concert, sharing a mountain ridge with my son, a drive back to a childhood home. Such investments have touched the inner me. The memory of these occasions is engraved there, always available for recall.

Such experiences never dented my wallet. The price you pay for significance can’t be measured in financial terms. The investment is in sense, not dollars. Soul investments that truly compound, fill the treasure houses that hold awareness and time. Money is but a tool that converts them to priceless memories.

-dcHILL (February 22, 1994)