February 21, 2002

Mr. Greenspan and the Federal Reserve Board declined to cut interest rates at the February meeting. Prime rate, at this writing, is at 4.75 percent. Any of the better jugs in Angelo pays 1.75 percent on short-term CDs of over $90,000. The last quote circulated on livestock paper fell a tad below eight percent on a Production Credit offer. In the business section of the news, home mortgages run slightly over six percent.

Car dealers beat all of the above rates, dropping finance charges to zero before the first of the year and kicking off a bigger spurt of business than the Fed conceived of. In a complex session of fine line amortization on a 1985 model feed wagon and three early 1990 model pickups, I figured my rolling stock declared a dividend by lasting through the year without major overhauls. And those old buggies never were in sight of Mr. Greenspan's or Ford Motor Company credit corporation. The only direct contribution they made to the economy, huffing and puffing around the pastures hauling feed to the woollies and hollow horns, were fan belts, spark plugs, motor oil and battery clamps.

Well, I guess staying off the road and keeping the old wrecks out of sight was a plus for the economy. A plus a lot like the same way folks felt in the Big Depression about closeting red-headed, freckle-faced boys on church meeting days. One side thought that keeping us home improved the cosmetic standards of the congregation, thereby strengthening the spirit. The dissenting camp contended that having us sunburned, speckle-faced, red maned rascals in sight made the congregation grateful for the beautiful little blond-headed girls the Heavenly Father sent to adorn the church.

I don't have firsthand memory of the schism as Mother always sent my dog Spot and me down on the river to play on Sunday morning. I guess I told you about the Sunday morning the flood of 1936 crested. Spot came close to drowning from jumping into Spring Creek to retrieve a floating stock mistaken for a decoy. Spot was a strong swimmer. Boys and dogs had to be to survive in the 1930s.

Aside and apart from Mr. Greenspan's alterations, banking took a big turn at Mertzon the first of the year. A flyer announced that canceled checks are no longer going to be returned in our monthly statements. A lot sadder news has hit around jugs than where checks landed. The fate of a canceled check compares to a chicken fighter worrying whether his dead rooster had a red comb or black comb. I can't ever recall holding my breath to look at a canceled check, but my memory is plenty current over mind-stunning reactions to the final balance in the lower right-hand column.

The biggest loss from the old banking days, however, was the scrolled brass bars in front of the tellers' cages. I liked to lean against the top bar on renewal days to cool my forehead. The height was perfect, as I was always up on my tiptoes in all finance centers. In those desperate times of the dry 50s, the executive officer of the Mertzon bank sat at the front desk by the front door, scowling at every prospective and active loan customer with a passion unmatched since his Scottish ancestors deplored the profligate nature of the English monarchy. His infallible guideline for loaned money was, "A paid-up loan is the only loan worth a damn." All he held sacred in the way of paper was a deposit slip, or a thick sheaf of bills on his side of the desk.

Bank examiners were never around in those days, but I wouldn't have known as banks aren't big hangouts for customers surviving on renewals and hope. I felt examined enough after renewing my paper without attending a formal federal examination. However, might have been an agent by now and then to compare the old jugkeeper's hold to John D. Rockefeller's equity in Standard Oil. No other reason I can think of for an examiner inspecting his loans. Questioning his accounts would have been the same as degrading the dignity of President Washington's picture on a dollar bill.

Glib pundits nowadays call bankruptcy "the B word." Lost dough is called "a shortfall." No explanation is made of "shortfall" as to whether you hit full force on your head or glance off a shoulder. It's doubtful whether the oldtime banking policies would have stimulated the economy, but you can bet your nubbin we had more to worry about than our canceled checks. Perhaps it was a case of being in good hands without appreciating it.

February 21, 2002

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