MY RETIREMENT BUCKET list includes long drives across the U.S. in search of the unexpected. Such trips appeal to my frugal nature. As a rule, the total cost of gas, hotels and meals is usually less than the total for roundtrip plane tickets, airport parking fees and baggage expenses. This might not be true for single travelers. But it’s a guideline that works for my wife and me. We typically pack peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, fruit, drinks and cookies for roadside breaks, thus limiting our meal costs. Still, I love stopping at random eateries in small towns, filled with locals willing to share stories and tall tales. Indeed, I know my desires well enough, to the point where I snuck a small line item into our travel budget for “whim eating adventures.” Recently, Lori and I drove from Texas to visit my mother on Florida’s west coast. It was a two-day venture that took us across rivers that were difficult to pronounce, and through places that were even harder to spell. We had no set itinerary. Rather, we simply wished to enjoy the sights along the way. We stopped close to midnight halfway across Mississippi, finding a place to stay on the shoreline of the Gulf of Mexico, outside a postage-stamp-sized town whose name screamed for another vowel. We awoke hungry and searched for an inexpensive breakfast place before starting the second leg of our drive. I punched the word “diner” into my iPhone. To my chagrin, there were no hits. Undeterred, Lori entered “cafe.” Lo and behold, 14 entries appeared, which was odd since the town’s population on a roadside sign was listed at just 18,387. No matter.  Perhaps we stumbled into a well-to-do suburb of Biloxi, rich in history and culture. More likely, there was a culinary training institution nearby, and the cafes catered to high-rolling casino visitors. We picked a cafe with an engaging name, input the address into our driving app, and left with an appetite whetted for a meal filled with conversation and local food. We drove past homes with classic white pillared southern-style porches and perfectly arranged sugar magnolia trees, the beauty of which we missed during the previous day’s nighttime arrival. My inner frugal spidey sense immediately tingled upon entering the establishment. A well-coifed hostess seated us at a marble-topped table. A waitress wearing Prada soon appeared with a glossy menu sporting breakfast entrees with fancy descriptions. While I was certain that their baked avocado and ricotta pancakes were scrumptious, all I wanted was a strong cup of Joe, sunny-side-up eggs and some cheese grits. You can always judge a breakfast establishment by the quality of its grits. I should have listened to my gut and politely left to find a cheaper breakfast emporium, yet my empty stomach growled loudly in a forceful language all its own. Our server answered our questions politely, but was definitely not the garrulous type. Try as we might, we simply couldn’t engage her in meaningful conversation. We each ordered an overpriced omelet and biscuit. I had a mocha latte, while my wife had a chai tea. Overall, the food was pleasant, although I left with a slightly sour taste in my mouth. I was aghast when the bill arrived, which included an opt-out box for a suggested 25% tip. There was also a 2.5% credit card convenience fee. The total represented more than our entire day’s food budget. I was physically satiated but disappointed. This place certainly didn’t satisfy my bucket list desire. We had better luck on the trip home. We arrived at our hotel in Tallahassee, Florida, just as the late afternoon rush hour traffic was abating. Hungry and exhausted from traveling, we asked the desk clerk about local eateries. She handed us the hotel’s printed list. But then, almost as if taking pity on two weary travelers, she leaned over the counter and shared that there was a special place right across the street. We gambled and took her suggestion. The first hint we’d hit pay dirt was the parking lot. A majority of the cars were as badly in need of a wash as our aging Honda CR-V. A pleasant vibe and conversational hum welcomed us. The place was full but not overcrowded. The staff sported well-worn and faded T-shirts adorned with the restaurant’s logo, which juxtaposed two energetic-looking fish caricatures. The cashier called my wife “honey” and directed us to sit at any empty table. As we settled into a spacious booth, we heard several waiters greet locals by name, who reciprocated by peppering the servers with questions about their family. The menu was simple: six types of fish prepared battered and deep fried, blackened or grilled. Each entrée came with two side orders and hush puppies. For those in the know, such as my wife who was raised in Louisiana, hush puppies are basically deep-fried cornbread balls. I grew up in Pennsylvania. There, Hush Puppies were a brand of shoe. Our waitress wondered if we had questions about the menu or if we needed more time before ordering. I asked about the fish and grits. Her eyes sparkled, as if I’d stumbled upon a hidden gem only truly appreciated by regulars looking for fortification before starting their night shift. With an infectious grin, she asked if I wanted my base plain or cheesy. I ordered blackened trout over cheese grits, accompanied with sides of homemade coleslaw and applesauce, plus a bottomless glass of iced sweet tea to wash it down. The second time she returned to our table, we struck up a conversation and shared tidbits about life in general. She was a November baby, loved the cold, and was going camping the following weekend. More important, we learned she was working her way through community college, earning a degree in hospitality administration and management. She treated us like regulars, letting her guard down to make us feel welcome. The food nourished both our bodies and our souls. The price for two dinners, including a hefty tip for our waitress, was substantially less than the breakfast mentioned above. On a whim, I slipped an extra Jackson under my plate, our small way of supporting a working gal’s education dreams. Jeffrey K. Actor, PhD, was a professor at a major medical school in Houston for more than 25 years, serving as an academic researcher with interests in how immune responses function to fight pathogenic diseases. Jeff’s retirement goals are to write short science fiction stories, volunteer in the community and spend time in his garden. Check out his earlier articles. [xyz-ihs snippet="Donate"]

WHEN I WAS YOUNG, I felt immortal. We all did. It’s natural and likely hardwired into our brains. Such feelings of immortality have an evolutionary advantage, encouraging us to take the risks necessary to succeed. When I planned for retirement, the notion of immortality was front and center. I consider myself in excellent health. I eat right. I’m not overweight. I stay active. I have a close circle of friends and an active social community from which to draw strength. Heck, I can do 25 pushups without breaking a sweat. But I also wear a thick set of health blinders. Both my parents exhibited dementia shortly after turning age 80. My father passed away from cardiac stenosis at 83, in many ways sparing him the loss of mental function. Unfortunately, both autoimmune disorders and neurological dysfunction are rooted in my family tree. Meanwhile, I have high blood pressure, a genetic variant of hyperlipidemia, esophageal Barrett’s syndrome and the common benign prostatic hyperplasia that all men get as they age. I’ve had two heart attacks requiring stent placements. In addition, I live with autoimmune gluten sensitivity. My physician daughter tells me that I have signs of a tremor. To top it off, I have crooked teeth (although my breath is minty fresh). Oh yes, I also had a brain tumor excised last year. Almost forgot that one. Yet I still think of myself as immortal. Our retirement plan incorporates an “immortal” timeline, with a 40-year survival expectancy for both my spouse and me. For decades, our investment strategy was set to nearly 90% stocks. When I turned age 59, I moved to 80% stocks and 20% bonds and cash—an asset allocation that reflects my conviction that we’ll live for many more decades. I rebalance semi-annually to those asset allocation targets. We expect to delay taking my Social Security benefits until I’m 70. In addition to our core retirement portfolio, we’ve set aside three years’ worth of expenses for necessities, travel, projected taxes, charitable giving, and modest annual gifts to our children. Perhaps our three-year buffer is excessive, but it allows us to sleep at night. I rely on predictive spending models to convince myself that our portfolio is large enough to carry us through four decades. I love FIRECalc and the Bogleheads’ “variable percentage withdrawal” spreadsheet. I test spending levels using an inflation-adjusted 4% withdrawal rate or less. I also take advantage of Monte Carlo simulations and other predictive calculators, such as those at DQYDJ, to reconfirm our spending plans. My wife and I are confident that we’ll be able to cover future expenses—including taxes and adjusting for inflation—until we both reach the centenarian mark. Overall, we’re extremely comfortable with this “immortal” outlook. What if we die before we reach age 100? We’re happy to leave monies to our heirs and charity. Which brings me back to what happened almost exactly one year ago. Simply put, I had a brain tumor diagnosed and then removed. This type of life-changing event can definitely mess with one’s sense of immortality. My neurosurgeon said, “If you have to have a brain tumor, this is one of the best kinds to have.” Reflexively, I imagined giving him my best Rocky Balboa right-jab left-hook combination, but deep down I knew that I was truly fortunate. Without treatment, the tumor would have constricted two blood vessels, leading to a stroke or hemorrhage. The growth itself, if left unheeded, would have caused permanent right-side motor deficits and immobility. I wouldn’t have survived to collect full Social Security benefits. Surgery and radiation treatment were successful. The tumor was benign and I’ve made a nearly complete recovery. I’m told that I can, and should, lead a normal and healthy life. I was lucky. Very, very lucky. In light of recent events, I’m inclined to reevaluate our 40-year retirement horizon. Maybe I’ll lower expectations, at least for me, to a more realistic 25 or 30 additional years. Perhaps we’ll live a little larger, a little less frugally, and travel more in the near future, rather than wait until the perfect time arrives. I don’t want my positive outlook on life to change. I’m committed to living each day to its fullest. I still want to think I’m immortal. Only now, the small voice in the back of my head recommends that, for the sake of financial planning, my statistical life expectancy should be reduced. Perhaps I’ll now consider myself only 80% immortal. Jeffrey K. Actor, PhD, was a professor at a major medical school in Houston for more than 25 years, serving as an academic researcher with interests in how immune responses function to fight pathogenic diseases. Jeff’s retirement goals are to write short science fiction stories, volunteer in the community and spend time in his garden. Check out his earlier articles. [xyz-ihs snippet="Donate"]

MY WIFE AND I TOOK a hiking trip last fall that included wandering through the foothills of the Ozark Mountains in Arkansas. The leaves were just starting to change colors, something I so badly miss living here in Texas. I returned exhausted and sore, yet mentally energized and invigorated. For the majority of the trip, we were untethered from technology: no cellphone service during the day, no newspapers or TV distractions, no political talking heads, and no e-mails requiring an immediate response. My rejuvenated mental state was partly due to the physical exertion, but also partly the result of escaping the constant deluge of news, financial and otherwise. You see, I’m a closet financial information junkie. Not a day goes by without checking the Dow’s and Nasdaq’s movements, looking for the best rates on certificates of deposit, or wondering when the Federal Reserve will lower interest rates. One of my favorite websites is finviz.com, a financial market visualization website. I check market data regularly and tabulate my net worth weekly. I rationalize my “need to know” as an effort to check that our portfolio really can sustain us through a 40-year retirement. Admittedly, even I find my behavior odd, especially since I don’t own any individual stocks. I have a plan in place, as described in earlier HumbleDollar articles. I contributed religiously to retirement accounts during my working years, stick to my investment strategy, and rebalance once or twice a year to my set asset allocation. My portfolio is predominantly comprised of a Boglehead-like mix of Vanguard stock and bond mutual funds. I also have a sprinkling of cash equivalents to help us weather retirement until we start Social Security. My mantra leans toward set it and then don’t mess with it. But as I see it, that doesn’t mean I can’t keep an eye on what’s happening in the wider financial world. I don’t watch the financial talking heads, and I’m rarely distracted by click-bait money articles. I chuckle when buddies discuss the latest hot stock or investing trend, and I get a kick when I hear people declare that they regularly beat the market. I’m content to simply match the market, accept my winnings, and let others swing for the fences. Still, that doesn’t mean I don’t peek daily at stock and fund prices, market trends and movements, and financial press releases. The upshot: I decided to undergo a mental reset. I vowed not to look at markets or investment prices for 30 days. Lord knows I tried. The first day was easy. I set my phone screen-side down to alleviate distractions. I only read the opinion section of The New York Times. I tuned into the evening news late to avoid the market wrap-up report. I went to sleep that evening a happy camper, confident I could meet this self-imposed 30-day challenge. The next day was more challenging. The U.S. jobs report was released, and I was curious how this might influence the short-term rates set at the next Federal Reserve meeting. I took a deep breath, listened to tunes on Spotify and kept my cool. The third day was fine—until I woke up. Habits die hard. I sat down with my morning cup of Joe and opened my iPad. Muscle memory took over. Without a second thought, I placed a quick tap on a Safari bookmark to check changes in the 7-day yield of Vanguard Group’s money market settlement fund (symbol: VMFXX). Oops. My cat-like reflexes enabled me to hit the home button and look away before the page fully loaded. Of course, the next open tab was set for HumbleDollar's homepage. I was truly grateful that the exchange-traded fund price ticker was gone from the top of the page. But the news’ siren call remained strong, and I knew that it would be best not to surf my usual sites this morning. Perhaps I’d spend the rest of the day gardening. The fourth day was abysmal. I had a doctor’s appointment and, naturally, the doctor was delayed due to an unscheduled patient procedure. I was stuck in the waiting area for 45 minutes longer than anticipated. The only seat available was directly across from the muted TV, with yet another insidious stock ticker scrolling across the bottom of the screen. Curses. For a moment, I actually wished I was at the optometrist getting my pupils dilated.  I concentrated on playing solitaire on my phone, a game I loathe. My stress level and blood pressure were elevated, clear manifestations of withdrawal. I gave up my quest on the fifth day, knowing with certainty my cardiologist would approve the decision. My self-enforced abstinence didn’t seem worth the mental effort. After a moment of self-reflection, I realized there are worse follies than feeling shackled to the world’s economic pulse. I tried to feel a modicum of success by acknowledging I reached 15% of my 30-day goal. Author James Clear detailed in Atomic Habits how behavioral changes are more successful when done in small steps. I’ll consider breaking my goal into smaller pieces, such as checking financial news only once a week or updating my spreadsheets less frequently. Change can be hard, but I’ll try—though it might be easier to simply take more camping trips outside of cellphone tower range. Jeffrey K. Actor, PhD, was a professor at a major medical school in Houston for more than 25 years, serving as an academic researcher with interests in how immune responses function to fight pathogenic diseases. Jeff’s retirement goals are to write short science fiction stories, volunteer in the community and spend time in his garden. Check out his earlier articles. [xyz-ihs snippet="Donate"]

I'M SLOWLY LEARNING not to let frugality prevent me from doing the things I love. One of my favorite pastimes is cooking outdoors during the heat of the summer. Nothing pairs better with steelhead trout than a homegrown, freshly picked Hungarian hot wax pepper, softened by the grill’s intense heat. The aroma of the pepper’s lightly scorched skin, complete with grill marks, is enough to make any mouth water. Simply pick the largest, throw it directly on the burner and wait patiently for the magic to occur. To appreciate the experience, you must plan ahead—which includes growing the peppers. Spring weather arrived a few weeks early in my part of Texas. I pulled out my dog-eared Old Farmer’s Almanac to check planting times. I decided to go against optimal recommendations, overconfident that my planting skills would be sufficient to protect the seedlings against the slim possibility of a late winter freeze. While starter pepper plants are common once spring is officially underway, they’re notoriously hard to find on the cusp of the growing season. My search began at my usual garden centers, but I was met with disappointment. They wouldn’t be in stock for at least two weeks. Dang. Undeterred, I expanded my search, driving through Houston in a crisscross pattern, scouring the inventory at second-tier gardening establishments. These are places where past searches have paid off, but the plants weren’t nearly as successful at surviving in my compost-enriched soil. Unfortunately, it was also too early for these places to carry the seedlings. Resolute in my desire, I even tried the big box hardware stores. Alas, still no paydirt. My search was now becoming a full-blown obsessive quest. I committed to driving, pedal to the metal, 10 miles west to a small, hidden-away urban nursery, tucked neatly on the edge of cattle country. My efforts were finally rewarded. I found two seedlings, slightly bedraggled yet sufficiently healthy to thrive with some loving care. Then I balked. The price was $3.49 a plant. I was aghast at the cost, thinking I could buy a whole pack of seeds and grow 150 plants from scratch for that price. Adding insult to injury, similar tasting jalapeno peppers sell for $1.89 a pound at our local Kroger supermarket, even if not home-grown. The emotional high of the chase was replaced by melancholy and despair. My frugal nature dictated that the seedlings were simply priced too high. The cost was probably a post-pandemic function of supply and demand, based on COVID garden fever exhibited by the likes of every Tom Thumb and Dirty Harry. Those steeped in the annual ritual of vegetable gardening would certainly question such exorbitant prices. The nursery’s apparent business mantra was based on the classic P.T. Barnum-type expression that “there’s a sucker born every minute.” I stopped and got a grip on my thoughts. True, prices were elevated compared to my expectations. Yet, in the greater scheme of things, the extra couple of greenbacks shouldn’t sway my purchasing decision. I realized I’d just spent more than $5 on gas alone to power my quest. The fact was, the extra cost was negligible, and it certainly wouldn’t alter my chances of a financially successful retirement. I reminded myself that my new dogma is to spend on worthy experiences that bring me joy. Gardening is one of my favorite activities, especially since my wife no longer allows me to consider frugality a hobby. Some retired friends live with a spending rule where they agonize over large expenses but simply set general limits for smaller costs. Their recommendation to me: Build an extra $50 or $100 a week into the budget for little frills and thrills. To compensate, be on the lookout for savings on big ticket items, my friends espouse. They indicate that regularly revisiting costs for insurance, phone plans, internet plans and utilities can save more than most of the small stuff combined. Worry about paying down the mortgage quickly, so you save on interest. Shop around to find the best value for your next automobile. Move excess cash from a low-interest brick-and-mortar bank to a high-yield online savings account, netting perhaps a few hundred extra dollars a year. Savings in this manner are more than sufficient to cover the occasional splurge. This type of thinking is nothing new to HumbleDollar readers. But my friends acted as if they were sharing a deeper truth, equivalent to Mrs. Field’s chocolate chip cookie recipe or the secret mixture for original Coca-Cola. I went ahead and bought the pepper seedlings. It happened that my neighbor was outside when I turned into the driveway. She’s a master gardener who could grow a tree from a mummified stick. But at 82 years old, she isn’t as mobile as she once was. She glanced at my new plants and was happy that I scored the seedlings, lamenting that she was unable to find that same variety earlier in the week. I immediately gave her both plants. Her face broke into a smile so large I thought it might be painful, and she delivered an unexpected hug which brightened the remainder of my day. Priceless. True, I succeeded in my quest, while ending shy of my goal. No matter. I only hope my neighbor’s crop is stellar, so she can spare a few of those puppies for my grill later this summer. Jeffrey K. Actor, PhD, was a professor at a major medical school in Houston for more than 25 years, serving as an academic researcher with interests in how immune responses function to fight pathogenic diseases. Jeff’s retirement goals are to write short science fiction stories, volunteer in the community and spend time in his garden. Check out his earlier articles. [xyz-ihs snippet="Donate"]

I'VE BEEN SAVING almost my entire adult life. Early on, three books put me on the path to financial success, helping me to reevaluate how I was living. The first was The Automatic Millionaire by David Bach. This introduced me to the concept that small, automated savings could lead to big results, thanks to compounding over long periods. Albert Einstein reportedly said, “Compound interest is the eighth wonder of the world. He who understands it, earns it; he who doesn't, pays it.” While some people question whether Einstein said this, Bach’s book put the truth of this concept into focus for me. Dave Ramsey’s The Total Money Makeover provided a step-by-step plan for achieving my long-term goals. His seven baby steps offered a path that almost anyone could follow. He emphasized living well beneath your means, while devoting savings to paying off all debt—except mortgage debt—before then turning to investing. His principles were a roadmap to financial stability. Paraphrasing Ramsey, live like no one else now so you can live like no one else later. Following his seven baby steps, plus the small changes in daily spending advocated by Bach, would form the foundation of my financial success. The Millionaire Next Door, by Thomas J. Stanley and William D. Danko, was the most influential of my three early reads. It presents research showing that most wealthy Americans live middle-class lives, preferring a Camry to a Porsche. As a scientist, the book offered data that were analyzed in a way that I could understand. The Millionaire Next Door was proof that, to be affluent, you don’t have to be seen by others as rich. Instead, what matters is that you’re comfortable with your spending habits, regardless of how others perceive your financial status. The book’s key message: It’s not how much you earn but how much you save that matters most. As Benjamin Franklin reportedly said, "Money makes money. And the money that money makes, makes money." While I’m grateful to have read these three books when I first started my money journey, I’ll admit to having reservations about wholeheartedly accepting all their ideas as doctrine. The books were a solid starting point for me, a way to whet my appetite for financial knowledge and to formulate my own ideas on wealth management. They do have one deficiency, however. Following their advice too closely during my early years limited my spending. As I near full retirement, I find myself asking whether my overzealous saving cost me experiences when I was younger. I want my money to last as long as I do. There’s no expiration date stamped on my foot. Yet I wonder now if I saved too much at the expense of enjoying life. Only time will tell. What's the best financial book you've ever read? Share your thoughts in HumbleDollar's Voices section.

MY WIFE CONSTANTLY reminds me that I promised to get her a dog when we purchased our first home. Problem is, it turns out that I’m allergic to most animals with fur, so that promise fell through. Indeed, all too often, the only animal in the doghouse is me. Many moons ago, as a cash-strapped student working toward my PhD thesis, I purchased plastic roses as a Valentine’s Day gift for my fiancée. The salesperson sold me on the fact that they’d never die and always retain that beautiful bright red color. The deal was sealed when I learned they were half the cost of a dozen fresh, long-stemmed roses. As you might imagine, my future wife wasn’t as enamored with the hydrocarbon-based version. She stated that “plastics” might be fine for The Graduate, but not for a graduate student trying to make a good impression on his betrothed. I committed to taking her to dinner and a show. Lesson learned: A foolish penny saved today can often cost a dollar tomorrow. For our second wedding anniversary, on the suggestion of another erudite salesperson, I bought my wife a small kitchen countertop appliance. It was an Atlas hand-crank pasta maker, ergonomically elegant and chrome-plated, complete with adjustments for noodle thicknesses and widths. The salesperson commented that, if the fettuccine turned out poorly, I could always throw it on the floor and make passionate love to my bride. Well, you can imagine how that worked out. Her comment was to take all the linguine I could make and sleep on the couch that was located on the porch. Lucky for me, it was summer. Another lesson learned: Salespeople don’t always have your best interests at heart, especially those on commission. Those early years of marriage went by quickly. I was traveling in the Midwest prior to one milestone wedding anniversary, and was wise enough to curtail the trip so I could fly home to celebrate the event together. I was even wise enough to know that major anniversaries are often marked with a special gift. My wife had dropped numerous hints that many of her friends were sporting anniversary diamond earrings. True to my nature, I didn’t plan ahead and hadn’t yet purchased anything to commemorate the occasion. I scrambled to extract myself from meetings, checked the yellow pages for local jewelers, and hightailed it to the closest establishment. The salesperson clearly saw me as naïve and desperate, and helped me choose an overpriced, relatively small pair of earrings. Of course, there was also a surcharge for gift wrapping. Yet my goal was accomplished, and I left beaming from ear to ear, with a satisfied smile reserved only for those unaware they’ve been taken advantage of. Yes, my wife loved the gift, and they looked gorgeous displayed on her lobes. A few months later, I learned that I’d paid almost double the acceptable price. For years after, I only envisioned dollars misspent when my wife wore those gems. A third lesson learned: Large impulse purchases, even when done for a good reason, often suffer because they lack research and planning. I know I’ll continue to make similar errors in judgment. I accept that gullibility is part of my nature. Unfortunately, it seems that the older I get, the larger the errors I make. Maybe I should just go ahead and build that doghouse. Something with a kitchenette, room for a cot, and hook up for cable TV.