Affordability.
A political buzzword.
A reality.
Growing up in the NeSmith household, I never—no, not once—heard my dad utter the word “affordability.” But he could have written a book on the subject. His mantra was to live below your means, even if we had to make do without a family car.
And we did, twice.
During my toddler days, we sometimes rode to church in the funeral home’s grave-digging truck. The next time was in junior high. Big Dink or Mother would chauffeur my date and me in a blue-and-white Ford station wagon, which doubled as an ambulance.
I remember being embarrassed. But the experiences were life lessons, just as important as my DNA. My dad got his money-management instincts during the Great Depression. He and his siblings had to do the best they could with whatever they had. Which wasn’t much.
When my parents were in their 70s, Mother said to my dad, “Honey, you said that we needed to save our money for old age.” And then she asked, “How much older do we have to get?”
Journey with me back to August 1967. It was during our after-church lunch of pot roast—cooked with potatoes, carrots and onions—when Mother asked me a question.
“Where are you going to live your sophomore year at UGA?”
“I’m supposed to live in the fraternity house.”
“I don’t think you will get much studying done there.”
Looking at my dad, she said, “I think he needs an apartment.”
The next morning, we left Jesup before 5 a.m. By 9, we were looking at our first and last college-town apartment. Why? Because the manager told Big Dink, “It’s $200 per month.”
“Two hundred a month!” he gasped. “That’s more than my house payment.”
Turning to me, my dad asked, “Have you ever been in a house trailer?”
“No, sir.”
“Neither have I.”
Minutes later, we pulled into Flamingo Mobile Homes on the Atlanta Highway. Tom Collins showed us a three-bedroom, two-bath model. “Too big. He doesn’t need this much,” my dad said.
Tom took us to a 40-foot, two-bedroom, one-bathroom New Moon. The price was $2,995, plus $125 for a GE washer. Big Dink said, “We’ll take it.” The payments were $61.83 a month. Then, he asked me, “Don’t you have a fraternity brother who could rent the extra bedroom?” Will Shankle jumped at $60 per month. Chalk up another Big Dink lesson on living within your means.
In 1971 Pam and I hauled that New Moon to Jesup. I had a job at the Wayne County Press, salary of $700 per month. Pam made less, teaching first grade at Orange Street Elementary. With her first check, we bought a metal utility building. Her next take-home earnings paid for a dryer to put in the shed. And her third payday bought our first color TV. Thrilled, we agreed, “We don’t need another thing.”
Until two years later.
Our first child was on the way. More space was a necessity. Realtor Nubbin Keith showed us a custom-built brick home for $32,000. I thought, “Whoa, the monthly payments would have to be more than $300.” We settled for a 90-year-old house. Our monthly mortgage was $99.45.
And then we wanted a new car. I told banker Linton Lewis that our car payment couldn’t be more than our mortgage. He asked, “How does $98.50 sound?” I parked a 1974 Pontiac Grand Prix, silver with a black half-vinyl top, in our Brunswick Street backyard.
If my dad were alive today, he’d be 104.
But Big Dink’s health would be in peril.
Today’s “unaffordability” would surely give him a heart attack.
