According to the notification’s heading, I’m approved for another credit card, which has had no impact on my credit score—they are so good to me. It’s the fifth one this week: two by mail and three by email.
When a credit card carrier sends you five unrequested blank checks begging you to run up your balance, you have to wonder how their collections department can keep up with the onslaught of bad decisions. Not everyone has self-control. If I am getting these, I surmise there is something similar in every mailbox in the country.
Each time I tear up an offer, I become a tad paranoid and tear it into even smaller pieces. I imagine a malfeasant puzzle specialist finding the can’s contents and methodically putting the checks back together, then buying a new Corvette or a PlayStation; it all depends if the thief is wearing sneakers from New Balance or a pair of Jordans—IYKYK.
As if it matters, I sometimes transfer a few pieces to separate cans, hopefully demanding they be good at scavenger hunts, too.
My mother runs bulk mail through a shredder in case some innocuous detail can be gleaned, enabling someone to clean out her bank account. But she’s a puzzle specialist.
However, she is also a patient-practitioner—the most dangerous type of criminal mind.
I found out how good she was during her recent move. Sitting in her recliner sipping a pre-packing coffee, I noticed a folded twenty-dollar bill on the side table. I picked it up and hailed her to put it in her purse so she wouldn’t lose track of it during the loading process.
She spoke from the other room, “It’s no good; I found it in a box. It’s one that Dudley ate years ago while Dad was pastoring the church in Portland.”
Only when I unfolded the bill did I discover that Dudley, a massive, happy golden retriever— long passed— was crafty enough to chew off much of the serial number from Andrew Jackson’s favorite folding money.
Mom relayed that “The Dud” had eaten four twenties—eighty bucks— taken from a tabletop while they were next door at the church one Sunday.
“That’s the only one that I couldn’t save. The bank said there wasn’t enough of the number to be able to replace it.”
“What about the other three, Mother?” I said.
My mother came along right after The Great Depression, “Oh, I followed him around the backyard for two days, collected the pieces, and put them back together. I even found some on the third day. That was the only almost complete bill.”
“The bank took all those #$8t covered bills?” I laughed.
“Timothy, watch your language.” I stopped laughing.
“Of course, I washed them all. And I used gloves during the collection. I had to tape them together.”
“Did you bleach them?”
“Of course I did. Then, I taped them together. It took me a while. It was years ago.”
“Mom, I have to give you credit. Not many people would have the fortitude or patience to do this.”
I stared at the bill in my hand, knowing where it had traveled, unbothered because I knew that my mother’s idea of clean and mine were vastly different. She uses bleach in defiance of all the silly rules of engagement.
“So you took three taped twenties to the bank, and they gave you back three pristine bills?”
“Yes.”
“And this one is the one that they rejected?”
“Yes, the others were chewed up in smaller pieces, but I found all the numbers, so they were acceptable for exchange.”
“Mother, you are the reason I tear up my mail and put it in separate containers at the post office.”
All I am trying to tell you is— if you have a dog—place your bills up high when you head to church. If you don’t, I know a lady.
Have a pleasant Sunday.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC
*Thanks for all your support in keeping this train on the tracks. To my BuyMeACoffee folks—multiple thanks for your kindness. I work on a commission of kindness from readers. I appreciate you so much. Tim