Even with inflation, it's still a stretch to eat out

My wife and I were eating out one night this week at one of our favorite restaurants, one that is part of a national chain.

It isn't a ritzy place to eat, but it's far more expensive than a fast-food place.

My wife and I were struck, as we have been many times in recent years, by the number of young families with children eating at the same restaurant. We figured a family of four would spend a minimum of $50 at this restaurant.

Even with a $5-off coupon, which my wife and I carefully collect from the Sunday Southeast Missourian each week, that young family would spend more than I made in a whole week when I started my first job as a newspaper reporter.

It was the mid-1960s, and the newspaper was the Liberty Tribune, published in the Kansas City suburb. For my contribution to the paper I was rewarded with $1 an hour. There was no such thing as overtime pay, so my annual earnings came to $2,080 -- as long as I showed up five days a week and didn't take any vacations.

My wife-to-be got her first teaching position, right out of the University of Missouri, in the North Kansas City School District. She would be teaching English at the brand-new Oak Park High School. Her nine-month contract was for $6,100.

When my publisher at the Tribune learned that my fiancee would be teaching in the fall, he was well aware of the gulf between her salary and mine. He told me if I was diligent and applied myself in my job, I would "someday" be earning as much as my wife-in-waiting, who would be making nearly three times more.

As it turned out, despite my diligence, I was fired from the Tribune, along with the rest of the news staff, when the newspaper was sold. The new owner had adult children who needed gainful employment, so we were out. They were in.

But here was the thing: I was due to get married in two weeks. So, on Memorial Day, I cold-called the Kansas City Star and asked to speak to whoever hired reporters. As it turned out, John Colt was in the office on a holiday, and he took my call. He said there were no openings, that the Star had just filled all its summer-intern vacancies. "If you had only called a week ago," he said, sympathetically.

I told Mr. Colt I would like to visit with him in person. I asked if he had had lunch yet. He said he had brought a sandwich and would be eating at his desk. I said I would bring a sandwich, too, and would be there by noon. I hung up the phone before he could respond.

I didn't have a car to get from Liberty to downtown Kansas City, so I hastily made a peanut butter sandwich and ran for the bus station. The bus took me to the Greyhound depot in Kansas City, which was still more than a dozen blocks from the Star building at 18th and Grand. I ran, because noon was fast approaching.

When I walked up to Mr. Colt's desk, I knew he must be somebody important. His desk was the size of a small island. He shook his head in amazement that I had showed up. I showed him my sandwich. He laughed and said, "Let's eat."

We talked for a while. Finally Mr. Colt said he was going to give me a job for the summer, but with the understanding there might not be a job at the end of summer. I said OK.

By the way, John Colt was the executive editor of the Star. He didn't normally do a lot of hiring. Lesser editors did that sort of stuff. I have always been grateful to him for having lunch with me.

I tell you all of this so you have some sense of our paycheck-to-paycheck existence in our early marriage. Eating out was rare. Very rare. We budgeted $20 a week for groceries. My wife would occasionally find ways to spend less than that, and that was our mad money.

We still didn't have a car, so we walked nearly a mile to do our laundry. And almost a mile home.

A few years later, when we had two young sons, I was the editor of the daily newspaper in Nevada, Missouri, and my financial position had improved considerably. I made $175 a week. That included one week a year for vacations. Out of that we had to pay $167 a month to the Deepwood Cemetery Association, of which our Realtor was the president. The cemetery was looking to invest some funds and decided to lend us money to buy a house. Very convenient for the Realtor. Very convenient for us.

Then there were all the other expenses. You know what they are. And there were all those unexpected expenses. You know what they are.

As a result, our family of four rarely ate out.

The only fast-food places in Nevada were locally grown. If we could scrape together $5 -- including what had fallen under the front seat of the car -- we could all go out.

Our favorite place was Bain's Delway Drive-In, a burger joint whose name still makes my mouth water. And there was Firp and Bob's place. And the White Grill.

My, what feasts we had at those places. All for $5 or less.

The Internet informs me that the fast food we ate for $5 in 1975 would cost $22.44 today, an increase of 348.8 percent. I had no idea.

Since our sons are adults, we don't go out to eat as a family of four these days. Can two parents and two hungry children eat for $22 at a fast-food place?

As we ate at the chain restaurant this week, I noticed a single mom with a daughter about 8 years old. I knew what our meal would cost. I wondered how the young mother could afford it.

Then we looked around the restaurant. It was full of young families, some with several children. Did they afford to eat there by sharing appetizers and eating nothing else?

My guess is the breadwinners in those situations were making more than $1 an hour. I certainly hope so.

By the way, on my first day on the job at the Star, I asked city editor Tom Eblen if I could have the weekend off in two weeks. He asked what for. I told him I was getting married. Eblen responded: "You need the whole weekend?"

Joe Sullivan is the retired editor of the Southeast Missourian.