So Cheap He Squeaks

Dear Boo and Bubble,

When we were in Greenville this past weekend, I happened to run into an old friend of your great Granddaddy Schaefer’s whose name is Doug Smith. He has just turned 90 years old which would make him around 9 years younger than Granddaddy.  They used to play tennis together and he relayed a story to me that I had never heard before regarding Granddaddy’s frugality.

Of course, I knew that Granddaddy had that tendency.  After all, he grew up during the Great Depression in the home of his grandmother (your triple-great), Mamie Peninah Robinson Bryant.  As I have reported to you before, she is purported to have bragged that she figured out a way to conserve on eggs.  When a recipe called for three eggs, she’d use two; when it called for two, she’d use one.  Someone once asked her what she would do if the recipe called for only one egg.  Her reply – “Well, I just cluck a little and go on with the rest of it.

And, as I have also explained, this is the same Granddaddy who told your great Uncle Bryant and me, when we were little, that there were three things we could not afford – allergies, braces and golf.  To wit, he gave us both a tennis racket and a can of balls with the claim that if we took care of them, they should last us a lifetime.

You probably remember my post about how Granddaddy up-fitted the interior of the kitchen at 3 Lakecrest with plastic so that in the winter, it was totally insulated.  With the heat in the rest of the house turned down to almost nothing, Mamaw Mary spent her days in the kitchen next to the fire.   This supposedly saved a ton of money on the heating bill.

According to Doug, however, Granddaddy had a habit with his tennis group that tipped the scales from parsimony to downright cheap.  Every week they would gather at the courts.  Granddaddy would always claim to have a can of balls, but could never seem to find it in his tennis bag.  Inevitably, before he retrieved it, he’d hear the pressurized “psssst” of someone else pulling the tin tab off of a can.  “I’ll get it next week,” he’d always say.

This happened over and over again.  Becoming a little suspicious, the rest of the group got together and contrived a plan.  They determined that nobody would bring balls to the next gathering, just to see what Granddaddy would do.  He apparently arrived and, digging around in his bag, hemmed and hawed long enough for somebody else to open a can of balls.  When he heard nothing, he looked up and saw all of his friends with grins on their faces.  The jig was up……his precious can had to be sacrificed.

Every time I play tennis now, I will remember this story…..we’ll see how many times I wait to hear “psssst!”