The best way to save money is to fold it over and put it back in your pocket. Better yet, just leave it at home. And not carry plastic or a debit card. And stay out of the mall so you won’t be tempted.
I like to say I didn’t inherit my mother’s shopping gene. Maybe not, maybe so; more likely, it just mutated. I don’t go to the mall much and, most of the time, am likely to leave town before finishing my list. “Been around people long enough,” my inner voice complains. “You can get that other stuff next time you come to town.” And the nose of my rig points toward the country as if it read my mind.
But the shopping urge snuck up on me again last week. We were selling calves at Valentine Livestock, and Red Angus were featured that day. It’s always fun to watch people at a cattle auction, guessing who is bidding and how high they will go, saying howdy to the neighbors, and looking over the crop of youngsters in the playpen.
It’s kind of like church. We pray a lot, and always sit in about the same row of seats on the same side of the ring, halfway up. You don’t want the front row, and the back rows are usually full if you aren’t early. Besides, the back rows are close to the cry room. And the top rows at the sale barn are next to the play pen. There’s an empty space behind the seats where all the youngsters romp and chase one another. Good they have that option, it gives parents a break and the kids have to pass the folks if they start down to get a snack, so they are well watched.
Our cattle were down the list a ways, after a couple of long strings of good stock. Looking those heifers over, I had to sit on my hands. Sure would have loved to take a load of those good ‘uns home and seen what kind of soggy calves they’d bring in next year. “You’re selling, not buying,” I told myself. “Besides, you’re out of the cow business, and it’s not your gig anymore.”
I guess I understand a bit better how my mom felt on those Omaha trips when she and her mother would drag me downtown to the stores, making me try on stuff I didn’t even want to look at, let alone wear. And then when we hauled the packages back to Grandma’s house, we had to get it all out and admire the stuff again. If I had bought those heifers, I’d probably have been out in the pasture every day, admiring them all over again. The only part of those shopping trips I liked was eating lunch at Bishop’s Cafeteria, and getting to choose what I wanted to eat.
My dad wasn’t a shopper, but when he bought something, it was quality. It’s a comfort to know that the shopping gene I inherited from him followed that trend. When walking the pens at a bull sale I always marked the ones that sold the highest. Of course, I never took any of those home either. I guess you call that window shopping. Dad liked to save money and I comfort myself now with the thought that I’m following his example.
We generally go out to eat after selling cattle, or else hit the sale barn café; those places always serve up fine vittles. We followed that tradition again last week. The Peppermill wasn’t Bishop’s but the choices are all good, and you leave so full there’s no need to cook supper.