Dearest Mother Letter #2: Credit Cards

Dearest mother,

One need not have a clock to know these are indeed, trying times. I fear I've not only become a stranger in a strange land, but an indebted stranger living in a bankrupt land.

Life here has proved far more difficult and obtuse than I initially thought it to be. I say this, not only because uncle Jasper was convinced he should start selling some kind of portable food storage device, door-to-door, but because of something far more troubling.

(Remind me, if the sweltering heat of the fireplace and father's wood carving doesn't distract you, to tell you next month of the copious amount of unsold containers resting in our shed. Courtesy of uncle Jasper.)

I digress. My pontificating about this land's obtuse nature and unnecessary complexity stem from a silly card fashioned out of plastic. Like this land, the card was seemingly flat and harmless at first. A means of "paying for goods you want today, but can't afford until tomorrow," as explained by the gentleman at the bank, who then handed me the card.

This was almost thirty "todays" ago, and I fear the reaper has come to collect their due for "tomorrow." Pardon my language, but none of it makes the damndest lick of sense. I used this little card for purchases totaling $550.21. The twenty-one cents being the summation of something called "sales tax," or money we pay for paying.

After amassing $550.21 on the card, what would you say is fair payment in return? I'll give you a spell to think of your reply.

I agree! $550.21 seems more than fair. But, the bank has deemed it not only fair and just, but also "contractually binding" that I pay them $684.22 in return. They call this additional money "interest," a term I find little reason for. The only interest I have is in figuring out how one's use of a card to secure necessary food, lodging, and a delectable candy called a Butterfinger, warrants $134.01 in additional costs on my part.

(And if I'm being honest, which you as my mother know I am, the added penny feels like insult piled on top of injury.)

You've always told me good things come to those who wait, and that waiting is worth its weight in gold. When life affords me a moment, I repeat this as my mantra. But I fear all the waiting in the world won't be gold enough to pay back what's being asked for.

On a brighter note, we're only a few months away from the next year. The locals are speaking fervently about "tax season." As much as I love hard work and pushing myself, I can only imagine the sense of purpose that awaits me as I enter this season of taxing oneself.

I hope this letter reaches you in time for the great pursuit of the badger. Tell sis to aim true, and for father to keep his wood shavings out of your oats.

Yours truly,

John Archer