“My Mother, the Investment  Banker”

by

Gerry Niskern

Have you been to your bank lately? Do you even know where your bank is located this week? Whether you live in Paradise Valley or Peoria, It’s hard to keep track of your money when the name of your bank changes as often as Arizona’s spring weather.

My mother, like the mothers in most families, controlled the purse strings. When I was a child I loved to accompany her to the Valley National  Bank at the corner of Central Avenue and Monroe in downtown Phoenix. There were no handy branch banks anywhere in the valley nor had anyone heard of  “drive-in banking.”

Together, we pushed the ten-foot high polished brass door open. The entire inside bank lobby was shining marble. I was allowed to wander around, heels clicking on the slick floor, while the adults conducted their business in hushed tones. I invariably headed straight for the large copper topographic map of Arizona mounted on one wall. A different precious gem marked each town.   Just as I was getting up the nerve to reach out and touch one of the beautiful stones, Mom was ready to leave.

She meticulously counted out her bills and never failed to remind me that her mother, my grandmother, had always kept her money pinned in a handkerchief to her apron pocket. It was handy to pay the insurance man when he came to collect on her nickel life insurance policies each week. Also, Grandma could easily slip a few dollars to a newly married son who had been laid off at work.

Distrust of banks seemed to run in her family. My grandma and grandpa both had long suspected the other of hoarding secret savings. Try as they might, neither could find the other’s loot. One morning before dawn, the smell of smoke filled the neighborhood. Seeing the haystack on fire, Grandma, nightgown flapping behind, set a new record for the hundred-yard dash. She grabbed a pitchfork and rescued her cache of bills hidden deep in the hay. After that she had to find a new hiding place.

As the years went by and I left home, the task of banking for the small family business was my mother’s.  One day, at my urging, she decided to try the new drive-thru window. She had her deposit slip all filled out. She pulled in and reached for the shiny new cylinder. She turned it this way and that way. She twisted the top…looked for a slot in the side. Finally, in frustration, she told us later, she put the can back in its’ place, backed her car out and went home.

Mom was willing to try anything once. When the new ATM machines were installed in front of the bank she gave it a whirl. She inserted her card and withdrew twenty dollars. When the twenty came forward in the slot she decided to be very efficient and record it in her checkbook first. Then, as she reached for the twenty, it was just disappearing back into the slot. The pushed to withdraw twenty dollars again. This time she got her money, but the receipt read twenty dollars overdrawn!

A few years later on cold, blustery day Mom decided it would be a convenient time to give the drive through window another chance. The transaction went well. When her cylinder came back with the cash from her check, she inadvertently grabbed it by the catch and dropped it. Bills flew off in the wind and coins rolled everywhere. She pulled forward in order to get out of the car and then crawled on her hands and knees to retrievthe cash. She placed the forlorn cylinder, totally flat after being crushed by her rear tire, back on the stand and drove off midst the blare of car horns.

After that incident, she was heard to remark, “Maybe keeping your money pinned in your apron pocket wasn’t such a bad idea after all!”