Carving out a livingCarving out a living

Getting bills from the dentist is almost worse than having a root canal.

There are 30-, 60- and 90-day bills. Ninety days is when interest starts to pile up, if the bill has not been paid. Being an easily flustered individual, I open the mail and fluster away the day, wondering when my health insurance will pay up.

If you’re like me, you hate paying interest.

My grandpa, the great American Oswald Christian Andersen Johnsen Swensen Petersen, believed in being on a cash basis, and I am now trying to follow in his footsteps.

That’s not easy. Health issues, and the ensuing bills, have left me with a credit score that is not the envy of the neighborhood.

I am working now to fix that, and it would be nice if the whole country followed suit. Down with greed and reckless borrowing. Up with financial responsibility.

Of course, I am lucky to have the opportunity to pay my bills. Some recession victims have lost their jobs. Been there, done that.

It’s not fun.

I am also one of the lucky ones with health insurance, which pays for basic dental checkups each six months. Insurance will pay the bill at about day 80 of the billing cycle, just before interest comes due, and maybe that’s economically smart. But in the meantime I continue to get reminders as if I were a scofflaw.

It’s as annoying as perfumed magazine inserts, the clods who park illegally in handicapped zones, or quality time spent holding the phone for the next available representative.

I like to pay my bills on time, every time, to clear the clutter from my life. In fact, I love dropping a check in the mailbox. Each time, instead of feeling like I just got punched in the gut, I celebrate.

Try it. It’s a stress buster.

Sure, I’m lucky to have a job in this economy. But in a career spent lining bird cages, wrapping fish and creating truckloads of mulch, somehow I have managed not to get rich.

That’s OK. I grew up learning to appreciate deprivation, of not being able to afford clutter. On the ranch we were land rich and money poor. We got regular doses of Vitamin N, as in, No, you can’t buy that, just go carve a toy out of wood. (We lived in a wood-intensive area, on Oregon’s west, or wet, side.)

I mostly played with shavings.

Even though we knew God would provide, we thought it was our job to worry. We were habitual worriers. It’s no wonder. Of my dad’s first 19 years, 15 were spent in the hardship of the Great Depression or in the sacrifices of World War II.

We pinched pennies so tightly Abe Lincoln yelped.

But on the ranch could be found many simple pleasures — homemade bread and apple pie, the vine maple grove amusement park, endless briar patches to explore, shooting stars to wish upon.

Best of all, my parents were in charge of paying the bills, of clearing the clutter. If anybody felt stress, it was them, and despite their worrying, they were wise enough not to show their stress to their children. Besides, the woods were full of possibilities for the diligent carver.

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