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.



      

The Giving. The Getting. The Possible...Goating

            As my beloved will attest, the Christmas season—specifically, the time spent in the mall searching for gifts for those who have everything—brings out the worst in me. So this fall, in an attempt to minimize Grinchiness, I stated I would not be buying “stuff” for the sake of giving “stuff”. I requested lists of suggestions from my immediate family and vowed to stick to my new mantra: None of us needs more Stuff!!!

            There has been almost universal adoption of my plan but for one very notable exception. (Can you guess who?) The kids dutifully emailed very detailed lists—things that I would never have thought of even if I knew they existed. I started a list for myself and encouraged my husband to do the same. Weeks passed. I forced myself into the mall, rewarding myself on my return with liberal quantities of fruitcake and/or wine. And I was making good progress on the lists. I re-discovered my good friend Amazon and my feet and credit card thanked me.

            One night after dinner I pointed out how very mellow I was this shopping season. (Wine does help.) And I mentioned, somewhat more forcefully, that if he didn’t come up with some suggestions for me and the kids I was going to buy a goat with his name on it for a poor African family. That made him put down his paper and, in the manner perfected by old men everywhere, look over his glasses. “I do not want a goat!” And he was back to his paper.

            I had posted my list on the fridge. And under his name: “Anything but a goat. (Feel free to add suggestions.)” Nothing was ever added. That upped the ante. What had been a good-natured attempt to jolly him into "helping" me at Christmas threatened to turn into a nasty skirmish that could taint the ubiquitous good will supposedly endemic to the season. I took a deep breath and vowed to not succumb to my poisonous thoughts.  

            Meanwhile friends and family have had great fun with this stand-off. One suggested I go all out and spring for a water buffalo—after all it is not a goat. My mother, whose building’s maintenance man runs an animal-rescue operation on the side, said maybe she could line up a goat from him. We could tie it to the bumper of my husband's truck for a real Christmas morning surprise. My brother assured me he would be willing to tend to the herd should we decide to travel this winter. And on it goes.

            Ho hum. As the shopping season winds (or grinds?) to a close, one more trip to the city looms. I will continue to remind myself that this is the season to be charitable--and there will be Stuff for him under the tree. But I just can’t help whining to myself that he already has enough Stuff. Pass the whine, er, wine.

           And, of course, there will be Christmas again next year. I already have my list ready: One Goat--and Wine. Merry-Minimum-Stuff-Christmas to all.

Imagine. A Car.

I imagine I will be getting a phone call from "my" car salesman any day now.

He has the perfect car-salesman name, Earl, and, since I bought my vehicle a month ago we apparently have become buddies. This call, the third, will go something like this:

"Are you enjoying your new car and all its features?"

"Yes, Earl, it gets me from Point A to B as long as I keep gas in it. And it's red so all is good."

"Well, I'm calling because we emailed you a customer survey form some time ago but you may have missed it. Or do you have any questions about it that I can help you with? Remember we need an 80% satisfaction rating or better." (For bonus purposes I'm thinking.)

"Well you may not want me to fill in that survey."

"Oh?" Silence.

"Apparently there's a vehicle just like mine sitting in front of your showroom with a sign stating $3500 End Of Year Rebate. I think, since I bought a 2012 model off the lot in September I should qualify for this rebate. I was hoping you were calling to tell me there's a cheque in the mail."

"Now, Elaine, I would give you the rebate if I could. It's only for those purchased from Oct. 15 and on. But that doesn't mean we don't appreciate your business."

"As I recall, Earl, I did not qualify for other discounts related to financing and leasing. So I feel like I'm being penalized for being an easy customer. I paid in full, did not order any changes, you did not have to trade with another dealer and I got it out of your inventory before the 2013 arrivals started."

The sound of Earl spluttering precedes "So how are you enjoying the free turn-by-turn directions and XM Radio and hands-free dialing?"

"I haven't driven anywhere that I needed directions yet but I learned from my last car that that system does not work when you're in tunnels in Montreal and it's very scary to emerge into daylight and detours and No Right Turns in rush hour without any directions."

"Oh. You have to be in sight of the satellite at all times."

"That's not good. And a little creepy Earl."

"Did you get the phone set up?"

"Well, no. The free phone will expire in three months and then I'll have to pay for another one and remember another number. Besides, once I got you out of the driver's seat and I was out of range of the dealership, my cell phone paired up easily and is working just fine."

"Did you find some interesting channels on the satellite radio?"

"No. We already discussed how XM doesn't carry CBC, my favourite. And I learned from the last car that when it expires they inundate you with steadily-declining offers to re-up. It went from $15.99 a month down to $3.49. I still didn't want it."

"So it sounds like you've got everything figured out and you're pretty happy with your new car. I'll check in with you in a few weeks."

"Really Earl that's not necessary. In addition to your calls, I received a letter from the dealership owner thanking for me for my business. The service manager called to offer his assistance at any time. OnStar is mailing me, XM Radio is already soliciting me to re-enlist and the customer survey and requests are clogging up my Inbox. Oh and there is a monthly diagnostic email stating my tires are all inflated."

"Well, if that's all I'll let you go. You just let me know if there's anything I can help you with."

"I would like you to mail me the rebate and leave me to drive the thing in peace."

Earl chuckles. "Are we a great company or what? You take care now."