An Early Taste of the Daily Grind

This post is adapted from YNAB's twice-monthly newsletter, Loose Change. 

“Thanks… grandpa.” The extended pause between those two words spoke volumes: I was totally stumped by my birthday gift.

I carefully inspected my mint-condition set of U.S. states and territories quarters, flipping the tri-fold every which way to—I don’t know—see if a Tamagotchi pet fell out. I could tell by the twinkle in his ocean blue eyes and the weathered grin on Papa Bill’s face that he was antsy for a reaction. Unfortunately, my pre-teen puppy gaze and flash of shiny braces just broadcasted confusion. What’s a 12-year-old supposed to do with a bunch of quarters I couldn’t spend? 

I didn’t understand the value of a dollar.

Rewind to 1937, grandpa’s first paper route. His father had just walked out on his family, adding insult to the injury of the Great Depression. Ten years old, and little Billy got an unfathomably early taste of the daily grind with a paper route. Five cents a day—enough for a box of Kellogg’s Corn Flakes.

Fueled by an unrivaled work ethic, Papa Bill clawed his way out of poverty. After military service, he tried his hand at everything: car sales, music gigs, stock markets, vending machines, and even an I-don’t-know-how-but-I’ll-learn style of wheat and cattle farming. It’s as though he was trying to fill an entire generation’s empty piggy bank, not to be stopped.

Did grandpa turn to farming to ensure his family never went hungry? Did he collect rare coins because he knew the pain of opening a wallet and seeing none? Was that extra apartment space in his farmhouse a silent plea for loved ones to stay? And those extra sugar packets and napkins he'd squirrel away from Shari's diner—was that his way of ensuring there would always be enough?

Truly grasping someone’s relationship with money isn’t just a matter of storytelling or rewinding time. You’d have to live life all over again in their worn-out cowboy boots. 

Growing up, a little embarrassed by the sugar packet habit, I would cringe at Papa Bill’s penny-pinching ways. But now, through the lens of intentional spending, I see he wasn't cheap at all. He was simply crystal-clear on his priorities.

Sure, he didn't have the YNAB app back then, but every penny had a purpose. He never passed on an opportunity to work or walked past loose change on the ground without picking it up—a trait passed down through generations. He lived for so long with so little that being thrifty was an honored and necessary way of life. Waste was simply not in his vocabulary.

What I know now is this: Papa Bill understood the value of a dollar. To him, each one represented safety and love—an assurance that he wouldn’t have to relive past hurts, and his family wouldn’t either. 
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