Logic tells me I keep too much stuff. Emotion tells me I can’t part with it. Tucked away in my closet is the evidence of this dichotomy: Boxes. Boxes and boxes full of who knows what. It seems, emotion has trumped logic for far too long in my closet.
Last week my rational self went on a mission to clean out the boxes overtaking my closet. Determined to discard the bulk of my findings, I dug into my first box. Logic’s first challenge: sentimental mementos. The box was full of letters, cards and other memorabilia from the last 30 years of my life. Letters my mom sent me when I spent summers at Kennolyn Camp. Annual birthday cards from my grandparents and Aunt Eleanor (a woman who, to this day, I don’t know how she is my relative). Correspondence from friends, family and lovers – a cornucopia of memories all packed away neatly in one banker’s box.
Amidst the correspondence, I found a folder. Inside was the most significant treasure of all. It was the chronicling of my first lesson in finance from my father in 1991. Letters with detailed instructions and lessons on money management, handwritten spreadsheets, cash flow reports, notes on spreadsheets, proposed budgets, revised budgets, guidance, encouragement, wisdom…love.
BACKGROUND
I was raised in a loving, two-parent home. My father was the breadwinner – an ambitious and successful one. He took good care of us. He also managed money well. My mother – not so much. Growing up, I didn’t know this. In fact, I knew nothing about finances. I just knew that all my needs were met and then some, and we lived a privileged life. I was spoiled.
When I was 18, my life changed dramatically. I went off to college, my mother died, I dropped out of college, I met a guy, I got pregnant, and I got married – all in that order, all in the same year. This sequence of events catapulted me from an immature, self-absorbed teenager to a stumbling, “in over my head” adult. Immersion into adulthood was a challenge. I was inexperienced, unskilled and untrained to take on the life of a financially responsible adult. So I learned the hard way.
Two children and a divorce later, I had squandered away all the money I had, maxed out my credit cards and 
consumed every dime of every paycheck I had earned. I was a single mother, raising my kids on my own, working and going to school, on and off welfare and food stamps and living in subsidized housing. Five years after I left home and entered independent life, I was in desperate need of financial education, counseling and guidance. In my time of need, my father was there for me. He stepped in and mentored me. He taught me budgeting, cash flow management, the principles of debt, saving, giving and assessing net worth – things I had never heard of or never cared about up until that point. He invested his time – a great deal of his time – coaching me, meeting with me, talking to me on the phone and writing to me. In fact, much of his effort was in writing: Letters, handwritten spreadsheets, cash flow reports, notes on spreadsheets, budgets. All of this assistance and support, encouragement and counseling is documented right here, in this folder, in this box, amidst many boxes, crowding my closet.
So why is this folder tucked away with all of the correspondence I’ve saved for thirty years? Because it is very special to me. It is evidence of a father who loves his daughter. A father whose time is worth more money per hour than I make in a month. A father who spent his life building a business that provided for his family. A father who sacrificed time, sleep and luxuries, working tirelessly to make his vision a reality. He built a successful company. He became a success story. And…he loved his family. Circumstances of fate prevented more of this father-daughter bonding in our lives. But when I really needed it…when only he could give it…he swooped in and rescued me while I was drowning in irresponsibility and financial calamity. I couldn’t swim, and he taught me.
It turns out, emotion is very powerful. It might seem logical to get rid of the junk in my closet keeping me from moving about freely in there. But I don’t really care about the rational in this case. I’d gladly stumble over boxes the rest of my life to keep this junk. I’m glad I kept this junk. I cherish this junk. This junk contains the tangible reminder of what my dad did to help me become the adult I needed to become. Sometimes that junk is there collecting dust for a reason…to remind a daughter how much her father loves her.
Emotion trumps logic again. I didn’t even open a second box. I concede to emotion for now for I just found a buried treasure that I’ll keep forever and pass down to my children. It is a slice of my father’s legacy. A legacy of love.
Photo credits: mag3737, cloud_nine, Decker Communications
