Barbara Hauser Bryan is a mother "mostly" and free-lance writer in Roanoke, Virginia.
Interventionist?
Who me—Free Market Mama? Confession being good for the soul, I’ll have to admit that I almost slipped—consciously at that—into an interventionist role.
And, candidly, had the reverse order of the following story occurred, I would have.
It happened when a 25-cent toy stamper (it inked pairs of black feet on any surface it touched) went through a price rise of some 1100 per cent within a few hours in our home.
The stamper was given to Jim Dixon by his grandmother. His buddies were enchanted when he decorated them with little black feet.
Their mothers may have been somewhat less delighted, but Jim Dixon was a trendsetter with fellow first graders. Therefore, the item had even more appeal.
Jim is a special friend and favorite of my three sons. They are with him in Sunday School and around the neighborhood. Last year he and Callan were in kindergarten together. Russ (Callan’s twin) was in first grade with him this year. Big Brother Eason, a second grader, also thinks Jim is cool. The stamper represented the last word to all of them.
So when Russ came home and announced that he had just purchased the stamper for one dollar, I noted that he had made a willing exchange in a "seller’s market." He could not have been happier. Jim realized he had struck a good bargain, so we all grinned.
About an hour later, Callan emptied his piggy bank and told me that he had to have enough money for 28 pieces of bubble gum. He said he only had enough "cents" for 23 pieces.
Assuming that he wanted everyone (20 classmates, hmmm?) in his class to have a piece, I offered him a window-washing job for a dime. Using the best of Tom Sawyer technique, he engaged Nicky and Wilson forthwith and managed it with great dispatch.
Soon he left with his full complement of cash. The story extends slightly because the convenience store clerk quite accidentally shortchanged him. With his finest yes-just-above-the-counter aplomb he returned to the store and evened the score. Soon the bubble gum had been turned over to its new owner. That person, it turned out, was his twin brother Russ, who for the bubble gum and two one-dollar bills released title to the stamper.
The story might have ended there. Nobody was interested in my suggestion that we telephone Jim’s grandmother to ask where she had bought the feet stamper. Big Brother, usually shrewd and definitely well-heeled, entered the picture.
Simply because of his status as first-born, he had amassed a much fatter passbook savings account than his siblings. And, frankly, he gets a little horsey about his couple of hundred extra dollars.
Anyway, supply and demand being what they were that day, he and Callan wound up in a fascinating trading session. When we sat down to dinner, they had already agreed that Eason would fork over three dollars for the one-of-its-kind (at least in our house at that minute) item.
Knowing beyond question that he held all the cards, Callan savored his rare upper hand by playing wishy-washy. He said he might change his mind. He thought about upping the ante. He even said he might trade back with Russ and get his money returned.
We noted with three dollars he could repay himself and buy more than 28 pieces of gum. Eason was becoming nervous.
(At that point they counted the bubble gum and Russ The Casual learned that he had been shorted by three pieces which Callan admitted to sharing with his fellow window washers.)
My only intervention was to compliment them on their practice of free market economy. We did discuss supply and demand—and rampant inflation. And, I did suggest that a bargain struck should be honored. Translated: Callan shouldn’t weasel out if Eason really wanted to pay that exorbitant figure—with his educated eyes open.
Had the reverse occurred—Eason preying upon Callan who would have hoodwinked Russ who would foist the stamper off on Jim—I would have envisioned all kinds of repercussions. And I probably would have intervened to save my face and to keep peace with the Dixons.
As far as I can tell, all four boys in the story are still smiling.
Jim’s banker father must be proud of him. Russ and Callan have worked out a rental agreement with Eason so that they still have access to the black feet—for 10 cents an hour. Eason guards the thing with his life.
And Mom?
Well, so far I’ve found black feet stamped all over my car’s Virginia license plate, the top of our living room fan, our back door neighbor’s usually spotless child’s face ("He said he wanted it there!") and the front of the bathroom door.
Perhaps I may end up paying for permitting that demonstration of "free" enterprise.
If we can get the point across with elbow grease, scrub on!