William Marvel: Missing the Pony Express

I’m one of those financial fussbudgets who hawks over the mailbox when the credit-card bill is due, hastening to make a bank transfer and write a check for the entire balance once it arrives. As a Yankee by genetics and association, if not by the accident of birth, I hate paying interest. I’ve therefore rarely ever borrowed money, and borrowing by credit card seems the most foolish possible course.

Because I paid off our house-insurance premium and drove 6,000 miles in late April and May, the bill that arrived in early June was bigger than usual. The check went out June 7, but I let my obsessive attention lapse, and not until June 28 did I make that monthly call to be sure the payment had been applied. The check had not arrived, and by then it was already a day overdue.