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Investment advice you don’t see every day
Poor Dad, Rich Dad
My dad grew up poor.
I wish I had a nickel for every time he told me that when he was growing up, he was so poor that he “didn’t have two nickels to rub together.”
Dad’s dad, whom my siblings and I called “Little Granddad,” didn’t marry until he was nearly 40. His first and only marriage was my grandmother’s second marriage. Maude Mae, my paternal grandmother, married young, had three daughters with her first husband and was widowed when she and William Daniel (Little Granddad) met, fell in love, and married. They had two children together, William David (my dad) and Mary Shannon (Aunt Shannon to me). Dad, consequently, had three half-sisters who were a good deal older than him and one sister who was just younger. Dad and Shannon grew up together.
Not long ago, when I was on a trek to West Texas to gather information for my autobiography, I called Shannon to discuss their childhoods—hers and dad’s. See, my dad died at age 51 in 1991, so I have to piece things together without his aid. Shannon told me how they left West Texas for a while and moved east to Bonham. They rented a fully furnished home that belonged to a family that was traveling abroad for a couple of years.
“I felt rich!” she told me. “We had real furniture and indoor plumbing. I even had my own bedroom. It was the best time for us.”
Back the story up to that first day of Spring, March 20, 1940. The day dawned frigid in the little, white-washed wood-siding house outside the tiny town of Putnam, Texas. The last vestiges of a winter nip were in the air. It would warm to 76 degrees by mid-afternoon, but my father was an early morning arrival. His mother, after laboring through the night, gave birth to him in the early morning hours. The doctor had come to the house to deliver the baby. Dad was premature and a “blue baby,” which means his skin was blue due to a lack of oxygen in his blood. He needed warmth. Little Granddad warmed the wood stove just enough to provide that warmth and they placed my dad in the oven to warm him.
Dad was quick-witted and loquacious. He had dozens of colloquial sayings and could often be heard singing one song or another, frequently a Hank Williams tune. Despite being exceptionally bright and especially gifted in Math, Dad was compelled to leave high school his junior year to go to work and help earn a living for the family, as Little Granddad’s health was not great. Besides, work was hard to find for sharecropping cotton farmers and general roustabout laborers.
Dad struggled his whole life, but he had the spirit of the entrepreneur and more often than not, managed to own and operate a mechanic shop. He plied his craft as an auto electrical expert in Texas towns Mineral Wells, Odessa, Stephenville, Eastland, and Mount Pleasant. He also took us to Shreveport, Louisiana when I was about four or five, and opened a shop there. He also served as a bi-vocational pastor in several small Baptist churches. He was always dreaming and doing and doing and dreaming.
When Dad died, he left behind his latest fledgling business and a broken-hearted family.
I went to work at Dad’s longest-standing business, D & F Battery & Electric in Mineral Wells, when I was 11 years old. I worked the junk and rebuilt batteries, learning how to restore the ones that could be and ready the ones that could not for a trip to the smelter in Dallas. Dad paid me out of his front pocket. Sometimes it was five bucks and other times it might be as much as $20!
We were riding home one evening after work. He stopped at the 7-Eleven to let me buy an ice-cold bottle of Dr. Pepper and a pack of peanuts with my money. When I got my change back, I had some other coins and two nickels!
I held the nickels out in my palm and said, “Look, Dad! I’m rich!”
And I was. And I am.
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An Inheritance
I did not have a rich father unless you count integrity, faith, faithfulness, sacrifice, joy, and lasting influence on hundreds, maybe thousands of people for three generations and counting as rich. If you count those things, and to be fair, those are the only things that really count, then my dad was a rich man.
I lived in California and had for seven years when I got the call from my maternal grandfather (Big Granddad) that wrecked me like no other.
“Son,” he said, “Your dad is dead.”
I had not seen Dad for four years. My third daughter was a toddler. He had not yet met her. We were scheduled to go home to visit in just two weeks.
My last conversation with Dad was on March 20, 1991. He died on March 28.
“When you going to bring what’s-her-face to meet me?” he teased. He refused to call Lacey by her name until I brought her home to meet him.
As we ended the phone call, he said, “Guess you better wish me happy birthday.”
I had totally forgotten it was his birthday, his 51st.
I preached Dad’s funeral in Mount Pleasant, Texas, where we buried him. At the viewing on the evening before the service, a young couple came in to pay their respects. The woman wept as she placed her hand on my father’s. I asked Mom who they were. She did not know. I asked my siblings and others. No one knew the couple. So, I introduced myself.
The man said, “We moved here with no money. I came on the promise of a job that fell through. It was Christmas eve and my car wouldn’t start, so I pushed it down the road to your dad’s shop. He rebuilt the starter while we waited, and it fired right up.”
“I asked if I could pay him when I had the money. And he said, ‘No!’ I didn’t know what I would do. Then, he finished the sentence, ‘No! You can’t pay me now or later. Merry Christmas.'”
“Your Dad showed us love when we needed it most. I will never forget that.”
I thanked him for sharing his story and promised myself that whenever I could, I would be like Dad.
The Thing About Investment
Fast-forward to this week, to yesterday.
Our company, Mid-America Catastrophe Services (and Adjust U), has just wrapped up another successful claims conference, to which we had given the title, “Delivering Results.” We always conclude with a big ceremony and give away valuable prizes.
One of our adjusters won a unique and valuable bottle of bourbon. It was one of the top prizes. After the final prayer (yes, I said prayer), everyone was mingling one last time and saying goodbye. This adjuster approached me and handed me the bottle of bourbon. I tried not to take it, but he insisted.
I said, “I am on the executive team. You can’t give me this.”
He said, “I can’t not give you this. You are the biggest reason I am still here.”
I accepted it, thanked him, and went away to weep.
Last night, we exchanged texts. He gave me permission to share it with you. I told him I wanted “to encourage others to encourage others.”
Here is the text he sent me: When I felt like I was sinking and was never going to figure this out, you lifted me up with your words. I have not felt like I couldn’t do this since that time. I will never forget what you did for me. I don’t think you were just singling me out. I know that is just the man that you are. Enjoy the bourbon. God bless you, sir.”
My wife watched me read that and I was crying like a baby, so I had to just let her read it for herself.
She said, “So many times you tell me you feel like you failed or abandoned your calling. See? It does still matter. You still matter.”
It felt like my George Bailey moment.
“You see, George, you’ve really had a wonderful life.”
In the end, it is not where you lived but how you lived. It is not what you accumulated but what you distributed. Also remember, investment doesn’t usually pay its rewards overnight. It takes time and persistence to reap the reward.
Also, remember this: there’s no thing in this world that pays richer dividends as an investment than people. Invest in others.
Look, Dad! I’m rich.
