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“Which do you like best, Mom?” Hollie asked after sampling several
different flavors of jelly beans.
“Our tour guide said that Very Cherry is the most popular kind and
I agree,” I concluded. “What’s your favorite?”
“I can’t decide,” she replied, finding it hard to pick just one.
It was a tasty way to end our 40-minute walking tour of the Jelly
Belly factory in Fairfield, California. The only way to improve upon the
experience was by taking a sample of the famous jelly beans back to our hotel to
share with Bill.
“Why don’t you and Katie each fill a bag with the flavors you like
best?” I suggested. “I’ll pay for the first eight ounces and you can use your
souvenir money if you want more than that.”
As the girls divided their time between the Sample Bar and the
self-service dispensers that lined the back wall, a stack of boxes near the exit
caught my eye. Curious about what was inside them, I wandered over to find that
they were filled with two pound packages of Belly Flops.
These are half as much as the jelly beans the girls are choosing
from, I said to myself as
I examined a package of the factory seconds to see if I could tell what was
wrong with them. Although many of the jelly beans were misshapen or stuck
together, they seemed fine to eat; and I considered asking Katie and Hollie to
take home a premixed bag instead of filling their own. Mid-way through my
pondering, I realized that the assortment included a number of flavors the girls
probably wouldn’t like.
Why make them settle, when the best is within reach?
I reasoned.
It was a conclusion that author Stephen Covey applauded on page 42
of his book The 8th Habit when he said: “Between stimulus and
response there is a space. In that space lies our freedom and power to choose
our response. In those choices lie our growth and our happiness.”
The girls were very happy that I allowed them to buy the flavors
they wanted. What they didn’t know was how much I struggled with the
decision—not because I didn't want the best for my daughters—but because I was
still learning to accept it for myself. Money was scarce when I was growing up
and the uncertainty of our family’s financial situation stayed with me long
after I left my childhood home.
Even if I’d wanted to be a generous spender, it wasn’t an option as
I worked my way through college. Only after Bill and I were married did pinching
pennies become an issue when I offered my beloved an expired food item and
dismissed his concerns by saying: “It probably won’t kill you.”
In addition to my unwillingness to throw “good” food away, I
struggled to bring name brand items into our home. One day, after buying a few
too many generic products, Bill held up my latest plain label purchase and said:
“We may not have a lot of money, but isn’t it nice to know we can afford to buy
Kraft cheese?”
In our family we have a saying: If you want to fight, keep it
light. Long before I verbalized this viewpoint, Bill lived it out by joking
about my frugal nature and humoring me when circumstances allowed—like the time
he purchased a day-old Father’s Day cake for half-price and had the baker remove
the old message and write “Happy Birthday Julie” in its place. I never felt more
loved. |
