I have always seen the glass as half full.
But at half a tank, the panic sets in.
Growing up in Prunedale in the ’70s, my family was probably best described as middle class, at least in that area, and at that time. Dad had a good job; mom was mostly “stay-at-home.” My parents, my brother and I lived in a three-bedroom, two-bath home between residents of little means in unkempt small homes or trailers and the opposite end of the spectrum, well-off people.
The distinctions were obvious and geographically separate, just off Blackie Road. The most meager homes were located below our subdivision, while the “rich folks” lived in sprawling homes with acreage directly above us. Kids from all three areas rode the bus to Prunedale School together, and as far as I remember, everyone got along. I had friends whose homes I could easily walk to throughout the area. Of course, back then, walking to a friend’s house to play was considered safe, and we all wandered for hours without anyone worrying about us. We stayed out until we heard my dad’s familiar, piercing whistle, which meant it was time to get back home.
My mom was an optimist and a positive thinker. When she set her mind to something, she would figure out how to make it happen. This included our home purchase, which she had to plan carefully for, and pinch pennies to make the dream of owning a home a reality. As a child, though, my brother and I were not privy to our family finances. Sure, we might have complained about wanting this or that or asked why our family didn’t take a trip to Disneyland like some of our friends, but honestly, our childhood was pretty good, all things considered, and we didn’t go without. As an adult, I realized how hard my mom worked and how she juggled her checking account with planning and precision to keep us afloat.
I learned from her to look on the bright side, to “find the silver lining,” if you will. It was always there, but sometimes it took time and patience to realize it. I must have let that sink in somehow because I have been accused of wearing “rose-colored glasses” on many occasions. Sometimes, it was not really meant as a compliment, more as a warning that I might be setting myself up for disappointment. Advice in my early working days included, “Expect the best…but prepare for the worst!” I would rather not just expect the best to happen organically. I do what I can to try and stack the odds in my favor by planning and taking initiative. Of course, that doesn’t always work out since factors beyond our control tend to arise in any situation, but a positive attitude can make a difference.
In addition to facing the day with a sunny disposition, my mom taught me about being frugal, but that’s a story for another day. This story is about how I grew to be an optimistic human — with an irrational fear of running out of gasoline. You see, my mom’s budget was “restrictive,” and most times she would only put a couple of gallons of gas in the tank. I remember watching her at the pump, carefully stopping the flow when the total cost read just a few bucks, keeping in mind that this was the 1970s and gas was under one dollar per gallon.
So, there we were one day, driving home from Salinas to Prunedale, cruising along 101 north, just past Ralph Lane. The car began to sputter, and my mom said, “Oh shoot,” which was about as close to cursing as she got. She pulled over to the shoulder, took a deep breath, and said, “I think we ran out of gas.” I wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but it became clear quickly as we started hoofing it along the side of the freeway. I have no idea how far we walked, but I am sure I told everyone we walked for MILES until we found a place to call my dad, who had to rescue us by bringing a little can of gas.
If that had only happened once, the experience might not have been so firmly cemented in my brain. But it happened at least two other times, and the question was always the same: Why didn’t she put more gas in the car? Were we (gulp!) poor?! My 9- or 10-year-old brain couldn’t process not taking the opportunity to fill the tank when you had the chance. As I figured out when I became a grown-up and had to pay my own bills, my parents lived paycheck to paycheck for a while. I then understood that sometimes there may be a day or two in between when you were literally down to your last few dollars. I felt awful that I had been grouchy about those running-out-of-gas episodes, or for complaining that the K-Mart shoes were so uncool and asking why we couldn’t get name-brand tennis shoes like some of our friends.
When it comes to managing my finances, there have certainly been highs and lows throughout my adult life. I strive to stay optimistic, be planful, and see the glass as half full. I have proven to myself many times that a positive attitude is vital, and that things happen for a reason and generally fall into place. I inherited these traits from my mom.
Have I ever had a negative balance in my checking account? Maxed out my credit card? Panicked when I worked in sales and wasn’t going to get a decent commission check? Yep, and yep, and yep. But have I ever run out of gas? No, because I fill the tank when it gets down to half. That was a lesson I learned the hard way, and it really stuck. Sometimes that means forgoing a frivolous expense, skipping Starbucks, or not being able to meet a friend for lunch. It may seem slightly neurotic or OCD; but remember the old saying: “Before you judge someone, walk a mile in their shoes.” In my case, it would be walking a few miles along Highway 101 in K-Mart tennis shoes!
My husband understands that when I glance over at the fuel gauge and say, “Should we stop for gas?” he should take the next exit lest he see me break into a cold sweat. While I am not quite ready to switch to an electric vehicle, the thought does cross my mind each time we pull into the gas station and see the prices. Of course, then I’d probably want to find a charging station if the battery life fell below 50%.
There have been a few occasions when I have pushed the edge of the envelope and let the fuel gauge get precariously close to the big “E.” This may have been due to being in a hurry or not calculating mileage on a long trip and realizing I passed the “last gas for 50 miles” sign. I always keep my rose-colored glasses nearby and a pair of good walking shoes in the trunk, just in case!
Columnist Dana Matthews may be reached at ar***@*****st.net.
