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My name is Gina Eaves. I’m 30 years old. And I’m broke.
I didn’t deliberately succumb to my self-defined debt status. On the contrary, my post-high school path resembles that of many young adults. I pursued a higher-education route, in my case via two North Carolina colleges. Although I took a mid-college hiatus, forsaking text books and lectures for overseas travels “to discover myself” (or so I told my parents), I finally completed college. And while my job journey took a few twists and turns, I eventually acquired my current post at The Daily Dispatch.
Yet two years later, and similar to most 20- and 30—something-year-old professionals, I repeat: I am broke.
I earned a four- (well, technically five-) year degree. And by the grace of God and my supervisors, I’ve maintained my career. So why is that, despite these apparent achievements, I have no money?
Because like most college graduates, I’m in debt. Namely credit card and student loan debt.
A decade after leaving Epsom for college, this academic debt delivered me back to my parents’ doorstep. Admittedly, living at home with my middle-aged parents and 17-year-old senile cat, Sassy, isn’t where I expected to be at this point in my life. Yet, like most graduates in my post-college debt dilemma, there seems to be no end to the monthly reminder that education not only pays off, it requires payment.
Compared to most debt-ridden Americans, I suppose I’m a little-leaguer in the game of borrow and pay. Let’s face it – I have no mortgage. But only because I can’t afford a mortgage. Or rent for that matter. Not unless I’m willing to dig for dimes beneath couch cushions to buy such nutritional groceries as Vienna sausages and beans and franks.
So how does someone in my cash-strapped situation trade debt for financial freedom?
Enter my friend and Franklin County native Clarky Davis, The Debt Diva.
Davis is a debt management expert for CareOne Debt Relief Services. With more than 10 years of personal and professional experience, she offers financial fitness education and “real world” money-saving tips to help consumers trim their spending in just about every area of their lives.
After discussing my debt dilemma with Davis, I’m confident that a parent-free home is in my future. But like any achievement, there are steps to reaching that tin-roof house in the fields. Aware that most folks financially falter from time to time, I’ve included The Debt Diva’s money-management strategies. Although geared to my situation, the steps below can benefit anyone seeking a specific financial goal.
1) Get a plan. Know what you want to accomplish, set a date, and implement a strategy for that goal.
2) Get engaged with your current spending. Once you’ve paid your bills, where’s the rest of your money going? Are your spending habits helping you meet your goal?
3) Can you accomplish your goal with the budget you have? Ask yourself if accomplishing your goal is important enough to make a change. You can’t complain if you’re not willing to make a change. Sometimes you have to make uncomfortable changes to meet your goals. This could very well mean a second job. Remember, just because you need a second job now doesn’t mean you’ll need it forever. Understand your financial situation is going to change.
4) Consistency is key. Make all payments on time, each and every month. And monitor your ratio of credit to debt. Creditors monitor these two factors more than any other.
5) Save. Start moving money into a savings account! Build up your savings account before paying off the mortgage (or car) early. Both of these can be repossessed — but your savings account can’t!
6) Team up with someone who’s in the same cash-strapped situation. Share your experiences as you commit to living similar frugal lifestyles.
7) Stay focused on the positive! Check every month to watch your debt go down and your savings go up. Be your own cheerleader, and remember – you won’t be broke forever.
Read more: The Daily Dispatch - College debt delivers me back to my parents’ doorstep
While most folks flocked to the beach Labor Day weekend, my best friend Kris and I chose another, more winding route.
“This album’s appropriate,” I laughed, while my Cat Stevens’ CD blinked “Track 6” in our Ford F-150.
“Miles from nowhere,
I guess I’ll take my time,
Oh yeah, to reach there.
Look up at the mountain,
I have to climb,
Oh yeah, to reach there.”
Bidding the flatlands farewell, we rolled down our Ford’s windows and breathed in the freedom known only to those 30-year-olds fleeing their parents for the weekend. And with radio roaring, we sang along with Cat Stevens.
“I creep through the valleys,
And I grope through the woods,
‘Cause I know when I find it my honey,
It’s gonna make me feel good.”
And as we belted the nature-loving lyrics of the popular 70’s musician, we indeed felt good.
Several album tracks later, we pulled onto a Statesville exit ramp to fuel up on gasoline and Starbuck’s coffee. Two cups of Grande Skinny Vanilla Latte’s later, the Blue Ridge mountains peaked above I-40’s horizon. Our truck twisted among the coiled western Carolina roadways and eventually parallel parked in historic downtown Saluda.
“Doctor Mike!” Kris and I cheered to our mountain friend, after bumping our way through the crowded Purple Onion, a Saluda favorite, popular for its organic menu and Friday evening entertainment.
The pluck and bow of an electric fiddle roused the locals while we chatted over our meal.
That’s when Dr. Mike mentioned his gift.
“I made you some bread,” he smiled, while I savored a rainbow medley of peppers that dangled over a forkful of orzo.
“Fantastic!” Kris and I cheered, clinking our glasses of Malbec wine in appreciation.
“Oh, and about the bread …” Dr. Mike hesitated as he handed over the heavy loaf. “Some folks say it’s atomic,” he cackled.
“What do you think Dr. Mike meant by atomic?” I asked Kris later that evening, as we drove to our weekend mountain house.
“I’m really not sure,” she replied, as the truck turned toward Etowah. “But I bet we’re going to find out!”
Pajama-clad and curious, Kris and I settled onto a sofa with two slices of Dr. Mike’s bread. And with a few chomps of the homemade loaf, we understood why the bread was defined atomic.
“This is pure fiber!” I cried, as Dr. Mike’s chuckles echoed in my mind.
And then we both shared an expletive, all too familiar with the ramifications that awaited us come digestion.
The next day, Kris and I journeyed the Blue Ridge Parkway for a morning hike up Mount Pisgah. After ascending its peak and beholding the majestic mountain view, we awarded ourselves two apples and a brief respite before our descent.
And then, it hit. Dr. Mike’s bread, that is.
“It’s time to get down this mountain!” I hollered, accompanied by Kris’ likewise atomic shock.
Our mountainous descent was a series of skids and falls, bypassing other hikers as we hurled ourselves in a fast and furious fashion downward. The never-ending stick and stone trail was a miserable reminder of Cat Stevens’ lyrics:
“Miles from nowhere,
I guess I’ll take my time,
Oh yeah, to reach there.”
I’m not sure how we made it down Mount Pisgah that afternoon, or to the Pisgah National Forest’s public restrooms for that matter. But by the grace of God, we did. And although I was thankful for a mountain weekend “miles from nowhere,” Dr. Mike’s bread reminded me that sometimes it’s good to get back to modern conveniences as well.
Or at least indoor plumbing.
Digital dictionaries may soon replace their print predecessors — or so it seems after last week, when Oxford University Press announced a potential switch to an online-only version of the Oxford English Dictionary’s upcoming third edition, ending the 126-year-old print publication.
“The print dictionary market is just disappearing,” reported Nigel Portwood, chief executive of Oxford University Press, in The Sunday Times. “It is falling away by tens of percent a year.”
With news of the popular dictionary’s threatened press-life, I revisited the weathered pages of my own Webster’s New World Dictionary, seeking words that describe the book and its electronic replacement.
• An’-ti-quate’: (verb) to make old, out of date, or obsolete; (adjective) an’-ti-quat’-ed. Some would contend that today’s online dictionaries antiquate the hard-copy edition that still stands ready on my office cubicle shelf.
Likewise, today’s high school students would consider my high school homework sessions antiquated — flipping through the pages of my paperback dictionary while typing term papers on a blue-screened word processor.
These digital days, online dictionaries offer immediate gratification for those word-struggling students who, like me, wait only hours before a deadline to finish a report — or a column.
• Im-me-di-ate: (adjective) without delay; instant. Our growing tech-savvy population seeks the convenience of instant search engine results from free online sources, like www.dictionary.com. With a single click of “enter,” a list of definitions, word origins and history, and even famous quotations appear on a computer screen that only seconds earlier was blank, save a sundry of Internet advertisements. No time-consuming turning of pages to search for sought-after word meanings. And no aroma of ink.
• aroma: (noun) a pleasant odor; fragrance. Although I reference online sources while writing, I likewise thumb through my dictionary, sometimes dealing the pages as a poker hand just to get a whiff of the ink. As peculiar as this practice seems, I savor the smell of ink. Besides, a scratch-and-sniff session with my computer screen would appear more eccentric — and wouldn’t grant the same olfactory satisfaction derived from my book’s printed pages.
Despite this joy, some environmentalists would argue I consider Mother Earth over my ink-smell fixation. These conservationists, sometimes called tree huggers, would ask that I forsake my fondness for print dictionaries to save ... well, the trees.
• con-ser-va-tion: (noun) conserving; the official care or management of natural resources. I’ve been told the Internet can decrease the amount of paper used for books, manuals, charts and other work-related products. With computer software systems replacing “out-dated” corporate procedures, as well as human bodies, I have observed the efficiency of such idealism — most notably in the overflowing trash stash and recycling piles by office printers. But, let’s face it. We’re a work-force and world that’s increasingly dependent on digital.
• de-pend’-ent: (adjective) determined by something else; relying (on) for support, etc. A few days ago, I reached for a calculator to compute a work equation. Midway through entering the data, I stopped. “You don’t need a calculator!” I fussed at myself, as I mentally solved the mathematical equation.
Aside from minimal mathematical calculations, there are few work functions I perform without Internet and software programs. Production halts when power outages strike or our system server fails. At the mercy of power and IT companies, my colleagues and I wait ... and wait ... until the hums and beeps of technology jolt us back into production mode.
Due to such inevitable, albeit temporary, Internet glitches, I’ll hold onto my hard-copy dictionary. I’m certain some folks consider it antiquated, as they seek immediate results from its online counterpart. But I’ll gladly relinquish my dictionary.com dependency for my dog-eared high school dictionary.
If for no other reason, I like the way it smells.
Few childhood memories endure a lifetime. Most fade, as do the years, conceding to newer, arguably more noteworthy experiences. Yet occasionally, a childhood marvel maintains a permanent place in one’s memory — its immortal status achieved by a rare significance we define as “unforgettable.” For me, that memorable moment occurred during my first grade year at Epsom School, when I met Keisha.
The new kid at school, Keisha lived in the Franklin County community of Rocky Ford with her great-uncle Bill and Aunt Rose. Well into their retirement years, Uncle Bill and Aunt Rose raised Keisha on old-time religion and age-old traditions.
Despite their advanced age and considerable generation gap, Uncle Bill and Aunt Rose showered Keisha with the trendiest toys and most modern accessories – all the envy of my first grade classmates. Oddly, it wasn’t Keisha’s collection of Nintendo games that I coveted most, nor was it her hot pink Trapper Keeper that unfastened with a Velcro rip. Instead, it was Keisha’s lunch box.
“Look what Uncle Bill got me!” Keisha bragged one day during lunch, while my schoolmates and I climbed onto our wooden chairs and slid the squeaking seats to our imaginary placemats.
“Alf!” we all screamed as Keisha unsnapped the top lid of her new, fire-engine red lunch box, brandishing a galactic backdrop and the popular, brown-furred alien from Melmac.
“Let me see it!” I begged, joined by the others who likewise wanted to examine the plastic lunch box advertising the 1980’s family sitcom. Keisha gloated and giggled as the envied lunch box was passed from one set of stubby fingers to the next.
Meanwhile, I sulked as I picked at my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. As lunch time gave way to class time, I silently strategized how to acquire my own Alf lunch box.
“Uncle Bill got Keisha an Alf lunch box!” I told Mama after school, as she prepared my daily afternoon snack.
“Eat your cookies over the kitchen table,” Mama instructed, ignoring my implication as she placed two Oreos onto a paper towel.
“Mama, I want an Alf lunch box,” I said, dunking one of the Oreos into a glass of milk.
“You already have a lunch box,” Mama answered, while I chomped the soggy cookie.
“But I want an Alf lunch box,” I frowned, as chocolate crumbs drifted onto my lap.
“You’re making a mess,” Mama fussed. “Eat your snack over the kitchen table.”
“Mama!” I cried, accidentally knocking my crumb-covered napkin off the kitchen table. “I want an Alf lunch box!”
“You ungrateful children are ruining my house!” Mama exploded as black specks scattered onto her kitchen floor. “You don’t need an Alf lunch box!” she hollered as I leapt from the kitchen table and fled from her fly swatter.
The next day at school, a strangely solemn Keisha raised her hand following the morning’s Pledge of Allegiance.
“Can I call Uncle Bill?” she asked the teacher, who then questioned Keisha’s need to call home.
“I forgot my lunch,” she cried, and then scurried to the office.
I assumed Keisha’s panic was contagious. Because suddenly, the teacher ceased her lecture on counting coins and commenced to clutching her own throat in a most peculiar manner. My schoolmates and I gawked at the teacher, who then released her scarlet-splotched throat and thrust her trembling hand towards an open classroom window.
Had I known the meaning of a “mirage” back then, I would have defined the spectacle as such. For there, slowly sliding from one side of the window sill to the other was a lunch box. A red lunch box. A fire-engine red Alf lunch box.
My classmates and I applauded as the Alf lunch box bobbed about the window sill in a jitterbug fashion.
Just as our teacher neared collapse, the peak of a brown hat ascended the window sill. Keisha cackled as Uncle Bill’s head popped up in a comical Jack-in-the-Box fashion, jolting our classroom, and even the green-faced teacher, into an uproar.
I’m not sure what ever happened to that Alf lunch box. Like the TV series, I’m sure it was replaced by a newer one, as is the norm with our ever-evolving pop-culture fads. Regardless, I often think back to that day at Epsom School, when Uncle Bill paid a visit to our first grade class … and by way of an open window, made sure Keisha got her lunch.
My name is Gina Eaves. I’m 30 years old. And I’m broke.
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