Mr. Write's Page

Lucky me, I was able to retire early, and I had sufficient financial resources to glide comfortably ahead into my dotage.

So far, so good — although I don’t want to get cocky about it and jinx myself. Anything can happen.

As we all know, the feeling of financial security is sublime, and the feeling of financial insecurity is horrendous.

Having money problems tears at your insides. Beats you down. Does awful things to your mental and physical health. Having no financially worries does just the opposite.

Personally, I can’t complain. I’ve had an easy enough time of it. But I do know how it feels to have financial woes — to struggle to meet your responsibilities when debt is dragging you down.

In fact, what happened to me in that regard has been a burr under my saddle for 30 years. After all this time, I still hold a simmering grudge against a bank and a banker who let me down, in a most callous fashion, when I needed them most.

Allow me to explain…

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My financial low point came at the end of the 1980s, when three events conspired to do me in.

First, my oldest son was about to graduate from college. For the previous four years, my finances had taken a thorough battering.

Second, my youngest son was about to enter college. More major stress on my finances was ahead.

And third, my wife chose that particular time to serve me with divorce papers. Essentially, she cleaned my clock, and she did it at the worst possible time.

Well, I survived anyway. It took a few years to recover, but I did.

I didn’t resort to bankruptcy, didn’t amass monumental credit card debt, didn’t default on any loans. I just slowly and stubbornly worked my way out of a tough situation, because I had to.

It certainly helped that I had a secure job with decent pay. Those were good economic times. Salary increases came regularly. And the banks in those days were more inclined to be understanding.

At the time, we lived in Lawrenceville, Georgia, a small town north of Atlanta. In the years leading up to my difficulties, a local bank had granted me a succession of unsecured loans, mostly of one to three thousand bucks each, that were instrumental in keeping me afloat.

The bank was Brand Banking Company, and I was sincerely grateful.

Most often, I would apply for a new loan as soon as I paid off the previous one. That gave me an infusion of cash to help with expenses.

Twice, when my obligations got overwhelming, I refinanced a loan early. The bank never balked or complained. Refinancing meant more fees and interest for them.

And, for the record, I never missed a payment or a due date in all the time I did business with them.

Today, Brand Bank is “BrandBank,” with a dozen fancy branch offices and ATMs in the local supermarkets.

Back when I banked there, it consisted of one modest office in downtown Lawrenceville.

And modest it certainly was. The place was old and drab, circa the 1940s — or something masked bad guys would rob in a Hollywood western.

The boss had a private office, but the other officers had desks in the open. They lined the walls and railings haphazardly amid the filing cabinets and the clutter. No two pieces of furniture matched.

The bank officer who handled my loans was John (last name withheld), a likeable young guy who had graduated from the University of Georgia a few years before me.

On John’s desk was a large ashtray with a handsome bronze bulldog affixed to the rim. I greatly admired that ashtray. Each time I walked in and sat down, I ritually asked John if he had changed his mind and would finally consent to sell it to me.

John would offer his regrets and explain that, as much as he would like to, the ashtray was a family heirloom, given to him by his father, grandfather, aunt, uncle; the relative changed with each telling.

John was low-key and casual, given to wearing khakis and open-collar shirts. By then, I had known him for eight or 10 years, and we had an easy, cordial relationship.

He was fully aware of my situation — my job, my assets, the college costs, the divorce — and still, he and the bank stood by me. They seemed confident I was a good risk.

Then one day, everything changed on a dime.

When I arrived, the John behind the desk wasn’t the genial fellow I had come to know. This John was all business.

His handshake was formal. He was somber and unsmiling. He was in stern banker mode.

He listened stoically as I presented my case for another loan. Then, in the condescending manner of an English lord dressing down a peasant, he turned me down.

In officious banker-speak, he laid out the corporate reasoning. It was gibberish, but I got the idea: in their minds, I had gone to the well one too many times.

It came as no surprise that the bank assessed its customers and made loans based on precise standards. They probably used a formula that bankers learn in college.

The corporation had decided I no longer was an acceptable risk. The parameters of my situation simply ran afoul of their formula.

Okay, I could accept that. But the way they did it was childish and insulting.

Instead of leveling with me honestly, my purported long-time banker friend dropped the hammer on me coldly and pompously. I don’t recall that he ever made eye contact.

Frankly, the incident seemed surreal. It was as if Pod People had taken possession of him as he slept. Had I not been so stunned, I would have been embarrassed for him.

That unpleasant end of my relationship with Brand Bank meant that I needed to find help elsewhere.

Soon after, I made an appointment at a branch of Georgia Federal Credit Union in the town where I worked. I don’t remember the particulars. Someone may have recommended them. I may have picked them out of the phone book.

The manager of the Conyers branch of GFCU listened to my story, and she gave me the loan I requested.

With the help of my new branch manager friend, I was able to recover financially. In the ensuing years, she and her successors always were there when I needed them. From the late 1980s until my retirement in 2005, I gratefully did most of my banking with GFCU.

Today, they’re called Georgia United Credit Union. I still keep some savings at the Conyers branch, and I have a Visa card with them.

I’m big on loyalty, you see, and they earned my business.

As for “BrandBank,” I have no charitable thoughts about them at all.

Well, I do remember the bulldog ashtray fondly.

Scene of the crime — the old Brand Banking Company office on the square in Lawrenceville, now nicely remodeled.