Although I was more self-conscious than fashion aware as thirteen year-old, at first I resisted my father's invitations to shop with him at the thrift stores on the east side of Vancouver.
Then one rainy fall afternoon he left two bargain shop treasures sitting in my room. One was an already-classic LP with a picture of four very hairy musicians on the back cover. The other was an ugly beige box, roughly eighteen inches square and twelve inches deep - a turntable. I lifted open the lid and sat the secondhand record in place, carefully lifting the needle on to the first track. As the tiny diamond scratched along the vinyl surface, the little monographic box quickly displayed its more-than-adequate sound quality. I cranked up the volume soon heard the group's lead singer screeching his trademark tenor, bellowing lyrics designed to excite those of us who longed for manhood:
"In the days of my youth I was told what means to be a man.
Now I've reach that age, I've tried to do all those things the best I can.
No matter how I try, I'm always in the same old jam.
Good times bad times, you know I've had my share.
My woman left home with a brown eyed man and I still don't seem to care!"
I was sold. Sold on Led Zeppelin, yes, but also on the idea of accompanying Dad on his next trip to the Sally Anne.
Near a curvy stretch of East Vancouver's Grandview Highway, two iconic establishments contrasted each other's street frontage: one of Jimmy Patteson's early car dealerships, and a two-story, sprawling Salvation Army offering everything from furniture, clothing, sporting goods and, even discarded rock classics.
It was within those walls that I developed a fondness for the sour smells of used furniture, mildewy baseball gloves, and somebody else's pants. It's not that the aroma ever became pleasant, but like Pavlov's dog, I learned to associate off-smelling re-retailed items with the thrill of a durable bargain.
That thrill later spilled over into to everyday life, including dating habits, (minus most of the sour smells). Fun and frugality became unlikely twins, if spiced with a little creativity.
My first date with a certain lovely young lady was a $2.00 Skytrain ride from end to end. We stopped half-way at the Main Street station McDonalds and shared a small side of fries. She was from out of town, and the train system was new at the time -- quite a novelty. The outing gave us ample opportunity to visit, and do a little site seeing, people-watching, and cost a grand total of maybe $6.00.
About twenty years later we repeated that end-to-end trip with our children, laughing and giggling the entire way among delighted, if confused commuters. It was a highlight of our southern BC vacation that year.
Financial planning software seeks to help us answer to the basic retirement question: "Do I have enough?" Of course the question is begged: "Enough for what?" Although such computer programs are fairly complex, the root of the analysis is straight forward:
1) How much will I need/want to spend in retirement?
2) Will the money I earn from pensions and savings cover this?
3) What sorts of risks do I need/want to take with my savings?
Wants are tricky, fuzzy little gremlins. Twenty-three years in the money business has repeatedly established this counter-intuitive truism:
Those who have money don't flaunt it.
Those who flaunt it don't have it for long.
Most of my clients don't think of themselves as wealthy. It is not unusual for a client to have over a million dollars in liquid investments, but to habitually get by on less than forty thousand per year including CPP, OAS, private pension funds and investment income.
A catchy marketing tune from a lottery corporation chimes: "You can be a millionaire," while showing happy lottery winners frolicking in lavish lifestyles. But it may surprise some readers that the typical retired millionaire is actually a thrifty sort. Although many of my clients have accumulated an admirable nest egg, most have done so from very modest beginnings, and still have remarkably simple tastes.
There are of course notable and infamous exceptions in the media, which perpetuate the myths of boundless riches combined with excessive spending, but this is the stuff of gossip magazines and tabloid TV. For most of us, trying to keep up with extravagance like that is like clawing at a mosquito bite. You scratch it, it itches still more -- then it bleeds.
Prince George has a healthy millionaire population, perhaps more than its share.
Where do they keep all those Hummers, cardigan sweaters and caviar? In truth you can't spot most of them by their cars or clothes or food. But there is a contentedness about them, often born of thrift, and even this is rarely flaunted. Spend a little time chatting with them; you just might learn something.
Mark Ryan is an advisor in Prince George with RBC Wealth Management, Dominion Securities, and can be reached at [email protected].
