The Man Who Quit Money (Book Review)

This very readable non-fiction book by Mark Sundeen investigates an acquaintance of the author who, since they parted ways at high school, has renounced money as a make-believe conundrum that makes us selfish and self-centred.

The protagonist, Daniel Suelo, gave away his life savings, all thirty dollars, in 2000 and has been living on the generosity of friends, strangers and nature ever since. He was raised in a Christian fundamentalist family that still welcomes him into their homes despite his sampling all other mainstream religions, eventually settling on his own minimalist belief that we should all attempt to live as much as possible like Jesus--love your enemy, turn the other cheek, bless the meek--even though it is almost impossible to live in America without a "mortgage, property tax, home insurance, utility bills, health insurance and retirement savings", as listed by the author, who has yearned to live more simply himself.

Suelo lives mainly in a cave in Utah, bicycling and walking into the nearest town to dumpster-dive, use the computers at the public library, visit friends and volunteer at a women's shelter. He does not want charitable donations but takes what is freely given (shelter, rides, meals, food) and shares whatever he has. His wildly popular blog is www.zerocurrency.blotspot.ca but he has found it difficult to write much since the book was published in 2012 due to a stream of visitors. 

This book raises interesting questions about our modern lifestyle but his method of dealing with it all is not for everyone. As Sheila pronounced, as she checked me and my book out of our local library the other day, "He obviously doesn't have kids!"

"Or likely a wife," I responded, immediately recognizing my own predilection for a warm home, a reliable food source and electronic devices--all requiring regular inputs of cash. We were both right .

Welcome to the State of Upheaval

It has begun. My summer of living outside the confines of my normal, comforting routine is here. Behind me are the standard work days of a part-time payroll/bookeeper. Gone are the rituals of three meals a day, sleeping in the same bed each night, Tuesdays-are-laundry-days confines.

My adopted mantra for the coming I-don't-know-how-many months is: Be calm. Be flexible. Sit down and read something funny whenever the opportunity arises. And some time (well) before Christmas I hope to move into a brand-new smaller home with my marriage and good dishes intact. The new house plans, so carefully charted to scale with measurements and three-dimensional addenda for every possible construction detail, cover my entire dining room table surface. If only there was another table beside it charting how I am to get from this point (Let's call it A) to moving-in day (B).

While the internet is practically gasping under the weight of the home-decorating industry websites, there is nothing but hand-wringing when it comes to the logistics of a building-selling-packing-moving summer. And, of course, I understand why...no two builds-sales-quantities of possessions and moves will come close to being the same.

I know I am on my own. Even though I have a husband, I am on my own. He believes in the Moving Fairy. As I methodically purge and shred and pack and schlep away the detritus accumulated over two kids and twenty years in this location, his reaction is the equivalent to my announcement that his entire extended family will be coming to dinner on Friday: "I guess I should get some beer in."

It's good to know that the State of Upheaval is not a dry territory.

Maple Mania

Our small town--Powassan--did it again. Yesterday we all pulled together and staged the annual Maple Syrup Festival and, thankfully, thousands came to partake of our volunteer labours.

Today we rest.

Tomorrow--or some time in the immediate future--the committee will assess the execution of this year's version and start in on the planning of next year's event. I have no doubt that the date for it is already set in stone.

Today we get to sleep in and then linger over our coffee. I will get to actually visit with my sister and niece and her fiance, who arrived late Friday night and I've hardly had a chance to do more than welcome them and show them where the extra towels are. They too were conscripted to work in a maple syrup booth on Main Street but, since they're outside volunteers, they were not assigned the early shifts. My husband and I tiptoed out the door before 6.30, leaving them to fend for themselves with some peanut butter and jam and a toaster that I forgot to mention will always set off the smoke detector.

My day began by working at one of five pancake breakfasts. Some of the cooks and organizers had been there since 5.30 a.m. when I ambled in at 6.45. (Oh, and I didn't exactly amble. First I had to park my car on the perimeter of the core, guessing how far out the roadside parking would extend, in the hope that when I finished up sometime in the afternoon, I would be able to get my car out and go home, and then I practically ran to my first assignment at the breakfast.)

Two hours later, when I had finished my shift at the breakfast, I headed back out onto the street to "amble" over to the library, where we were expecting 500 or so children and their parents to come through. The streets were already filling up nicely. At the library, I had volunteered to be one of the face-painters--in spite of the fact I have never painted on a face nor am I artistically inclined. But, hey, I like children and have found them to be quite forgiving in nature. The parents never ask for qualifications and, apparently, will let just about anyone draw on their children.

My one-minute design lesson was augmented through the day by the other more artistic volunteers and, when we ran out of paints six hours later, we had painted about 250 faces. I have to say I really enjoyed myself. I haven't had small children in my life for a few years and had forgotten how open and spontaneous they are. They giggled as I applied cold paint and showed me their new tooth and ran down the battery on my phone using it as a mirror to admire my work. Children now have names like Crimson and Kendra and Donatello and patiently repeated them until I understood. Next year I'm hoping to bone up on my technique beforehand so I can do a better job.

Unlike most of the day's volunteers, I got to sit down on my job. By the end of yesterday I know there were a lot of sore feet and backs resulting from all the lifting and standing. Apparently word had reached Rick Mercer on what was happening so he attended and flipped a few pancakes as well.

Many attendees marvelled at the crowds and suggested we should spread the thing over two days. That always brings an outward smile and a silent grimace. Just the thought of having to get up this morning and do all that over again would be too much.

In fact, containing the syrup festival in one very full day, probably contributes more to its success than any other factor. We volunteers know we have one day and one day only to go full out and get it right.

And we did get it right again. Wisely, today we are enjoying our well-deserved rest.

My Day as a Celebrity

Some day someone I love is going to come across a picture on the Internet of me standing beside an unknown woman. She is hugging me close in the photo and I am leaning in, trying to simultaneously hold my skis upright and smile at the appropriate camera. I have just finished a fabulous circuit of the Wasi Ski Trails and I look like a happy--if somewhat elderly--athlete.

I don't have a copy of the photo but the serendipity of the moment still makes me smile. The woman standing beside me is named Chantal (spelling, a guess; last name, totally forgotten the instant she said it) and she is from the Hamilton-Burlington area. The raison d'etre of the photo op was that I am from Powassan, the home town of her very best friend, whom I went to high school with and see occasionally at reunions. Chantal was part of a bus tour that was sampling cross-country ski trails in the north and we struck up a conversation at a rest stop along the trail.

At the chalet, Chantal grabbed me for the photo so she could show me to her friend Jane when she returned home. Others from the bus watched this and, thinking I was somebody important, also took my photo. Then I packed my skis back into my car and headed home, beaming all the way.

I know our mutual friend, Jane, will laugh when she sees that picture. She knows my lack of athletic prowess for what it is. For some unknown reason we both ended up on a cheerleading squad for our small high school about 45 years ago. Neither of us were athletes nor the perky cheerleader type. But we had fun and struggled our way through lopsided cartwheels and rousing, if somewhat bungled, cheers.

My legacy may some day be the capture of this anonymous moment in time. If so, let it be known that I remain a legend in my own mind. And maybe Chantal's--at least until Jane sets her straight!

A "Curia" Indifference

I have been fascinated by the pageantry of red-sashed cardinals swishing by media cameras this week on their way to elect a new pope. Not unlike the elaborate laying out of the good linens and china for Queen Elizabeth's Diamond Jubilee last year, there is a certain charm to  watching ancient rituals (and ancient people?) actualize their roles in thousand-year-old surroundings. Like a museum come to life but even better--with hourly footage and my favourite journalists as colour commentators.

It is as if 114 woolly mammoths suddenly emerged from the Siberian permafrost and were transported to the frescoed basilicas and heart of sublime dining. En route they have been given a haircut, new clothes and told to be on their best behaviour. Once in Rome they will be wined and dined and eventually elect one of their own to rule the Catholic world--in theory. And then they will return to a comfy cave in their neighbourhood.

The new pope will be an old man. Most likely a white European one. The few cardinals agreeing to be interviewed on the topic hope he will be a talented administrator with business acumen. When what is needed is more like a black gay married woman with children. Problem children who struggle with available street drugs and early sexual expectations and a future of limited employment opportunities and climate change.

The only way we (Iapsed Catholic that I am, I still lump myself in the fold) will ever get to such a progressive state is to immediately turn to the freshest, youngest (relatively speaking), most open-minded man in the conclave in the hope that he will open the doors to married priests--both men and women--and gays. He will have to recognize that abortion, birth control and divorce are here to stay and that the best way to guide his flock through a changing world is with compassion. A lot like Jesus did, come to think of it.

Once he gets the key to the papal office, he might want to look around at all the finery and gold and sell some off. (Vatican officials may want to pull out their Bibles and read up on the moneychangers in the temple.) There are an awful lot of people in Africa and India who could use a safe source of drinking water. And there are millions of little girls across the world who will never get the chance to learn to read and, maybe, be independent one day.

That is my hope for the future. If a dinosaur could make it happen the world would be perfect. In the meantime, I'll envy the journalists their plum assignment and enjoy the show for what it is. And I'll continue to worship in my own way on my own terms where no one is taking attendance.