Coffee heat rising

When Giving Goes Awry

Baker at Man vs. Debt hit the gong at several blog carnivals this week with his rumination on the various excuses not to give money to charities. While the article is well written and I respect the passion with which his readers respond, the enthusiasm for giving away hard-earned wages escapes me.

I rarely donate cash to any charities or churches. There’s a reason for that: charitable giving warped my father’s psychology, influencing his entire life for the not-necessarily-better, and it permanently alienated his two older brothers from each other. Effectively, it destroyed his mother and his family. Because of his experiences, he would never allow my mother to teach me religion or to drag me to church, and he would not permit her or himself to donate to anything.

At the turn of the twentieth century, my grandmother inherited a substantial sum from her father, who had accumulated a small fortune in freighting buffalo hides out of Oklahoma to market in Texas. By the time my father came on the scene, rather late in her life, she was pretty well set: she owned two houses and a commercial property in Fort Worth, and she had money in the bank.

My father was a change-of-life baby: the youngest of his two brothers was 18 years older than he. At the time he was born, his father ran off, abandoning the middle-aged wife to care for the new baby herself. Her two other sons were, by this point, out of the house and launched on their own lives. One became a ranch hand, running cattle in west Texas; the other went to work at a Fort Worth dairy. Both men had their own families, with all the concerns that entails.

Over the next decade or so, my grandmother became engaged with an alternative Christian church that since then has evolved into the mainstream. Neither brother paid much attention to what was going on, although my father realized something was awry by the time he was about ten years old. She was quietly giving money to this church: large amounts of money. The church was gratefully accepting it and offering exactly nothing in return.

The two older brothers learned about this only after it was way too late. They found out when the county seized their mother’s home for unpaid taxes. She couldn’t pay her property taxes, because she had no money. She was flat broke, having given every penny of her fortune to the church.

Did this make her a better person? No. Did it contribute to her personal happiness? Obviously not. Did it make her holy in the eyes of God? Maybe. God didn’t do much to keep a roof over her head, though. Nor did He prevent creditors and the government from taking away what little she had left. She lost both houses and the gas station, and everything she had ever had was gone. There was no help for her from any direction. She died in desperate penury, without a word from the worthies of the church that had taken all her money.

My cattleman uncle blamed his brother, my other uncle, for this state of affairs. He felt that his brother should have been keeping an eye on their mother, since he was the one who stayed in Fort Worth. The two men fought, and after that they never spoke to each other again.

My father was a little boy, but he was old enough to understand that his home was gone, his mother was reduced to poverty, and a substantial inheritance that should have supported her and all three of her sons had evaporated into the coffers of a church. He determined that he would earn back the entire amount that she had lost.

And he did. By the time he reached his goal, forty years later, the dollar amount wasn’t very much, and because he wasn’t an educated man, he didn’t understand that to match the buying power of what she lost, he would have had to save over seven times as much. But that didn’t matter: in his mind he’d regained her losses. As soon as he reached his goal, he retired, imagining he would be set for life.

To do it, he

dropped out of school in the 11th grade;
lied about his age to join the navy;
worked like an animal all his life;
spent ten grim years of his life, my mother’s life, and my life in a godforsaken outpost in the Arabian desert;
pinched every penny that came his way;
based his marriage and his entire life on the accumulation of savings;
lived a miser’s life right up until the time he died.

To say he was a frugal man is to understate. Saving money became an obsession, and he focused all of our lives on it. Because he didn’t really understand money well, he made some serious mistakes, topmost among them investing all he had in insurance securities, which during the 1950s were returning at a rate of 30 percent. He didn’t realize a) that investments should be diversified, and b) no investment that was earning that much could possibly last long. When the bottom fell out of the insurance securities market, he lost almost everything—just as he stood at the verge of making his goal.

He did eventually earn the lost savings back, but this fiasco added another ten years of hard labor to his financial plan, and it pinched his personality even more than it was already pinched. Overall, he fared pretty well, considering that he had no education and only the opportunities he managed to wrest from life by main force. He kept us in the middle class, and he left about a hundred thousand dollars to his wife, my son, and me.

But his character was changed by his mother’s charity: warped and crabbed. And he was effectively left alone as a teenager, his two brothers spun off like asteroids in deep space. What remained of his family fell apart, and he spent his entire life trying to put what he thought was his birthright back together.

And that’s why I don’t give to churches.

To my mind, charity begins at home. If I give any money away, it’s to my son, who has returned the favor by growing into a decent man. By keeping myself off the public dole, I save the taxpayer a great deal of money.  And let us bear in mind that what I do to keep myself off the dole—mostly teaching—is itself a form of charity: I educate young people for a small fraction of what anyone with comparable skills doing a comparable amount of work with comparable management responsibility would earn in business. She who gives away her time, energy, and skill for the public good donates something worth a great deal more than cash.

. . . to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.

Round-up: Colder than a bigawd edition

Okay, okay, a mere 28 degrees is as nothing compared to winter in the Midwest. HowEVER . . . a Myers lemon, a lime tree, a cape honeysuckle, a bougainvillea, a queen palm, a lavender plant–they know nothing of snow, ice, and temperatures in the negative numbers. So I’ve spent the afternoon hauling paint-flecked old sheets, doggie quilts, and threadbare towels out to the garden, making scaffolding out of ladders and cheap wire fencing, and trying to cover the most frost-sensitive plants. Under the coverings I’ve stashed as many shoplights as I could plug into the outdoor electrical connections, in hopes of warming the plants to the survival point.

A brisk wind is wailing toward California, where it will scale the coastal range and, in dropping hundreds of feet in altitude gain enough heat to call itself a Santa Ana. For that we feel sad. Locally, it will lift our best tied-down frost covers off our trees and shrubs and carry them toward Death Valley. And we are worried.

If the weather predictions are accurate (a long shot), this will be our second year in a row of hard frost, bracketing a summer that brought us 31 days of 110-degree-plus heat. We’re glad to be rid of the mosquitoes that were killed by this unholy weather, sorry to lose the black widows (who eat the mosquitoes and the cockroaches and the crickets), and mad as the dickens to see our most spectacular bougainvillea and prettiest lantana already dead after a single night of this stuff.

Some of our food plants will live: lettuce and carrots and beets and grapefruit certainly will make it; if the temperature doesn’t drop too much below 28, the oranges probably will be OK. In Yuma and other points agricultural, the growers are beside themselves because Arizona’s xenophobic anti-immigrant law has robbed the fields of the workers who pick the crops to take them to market at a price Everyman can afford, and so, my friends, expect to see the cost of produce soar into the “luxury” category. Sure would be nice to keep those backyard winter crops alive through the winter.

In the Warm Up a Cold Night Department, Wise Bread has six ideas for New Year’s resolutions that will improve others’ lives and yours too. Mrs. Micah gave a special Christmas gift to raise funds for Alzheimer’s research. Over at Money and Values, Penny Nickel posted four good ideas for things to do with gifts that are more clutter than welcome. Flexo at Consumerism Commentary explains how charitable gift funds work, and Trent at The Simple Dollar proposes six ways to beat the post-Christmas blues. All good ways to start the new year and to keep the frost away from your heart.