I am writing checks this morning. This means I am old because only old people write checks anymore. I have a few financial obligations due, and this is my way of fulfilling my responsibilities. Plus, if I don’t, Ranger Propane might let my tank run dry in the middle of winter.

For the uninitiated, checks are printed pieces of monetary exchange on paper with preset lines for writing. If you’re under the age of 45, you know what checks are, but you do not use them. If you are under 30, you may have some vague idea of what checks are, but for you, it’s kind of like the Mastodon. Ancient, extinct, and pointless.

I’d love to watch a 20-year-old try and fill out a check.

“What?”

“Just fill it out and sign your name.”

“What’s it for?”

“It’s a way for you to pay me your rent.”

“What do I write on it?”

“Were you born yesterday?”

“No. Two thousand FOUR,” as if that means anything.

“I paid my house off in 2004. With a check.”

“Can’t I just pay you with Vemo?”

“Don’t you get smart with me.”

I just looked up Venmo to make sure I was using the name correctly. I misspelled it which shows you how much I know about it. I’m not even going to go back to correct my spelling. This is my silent protest against the modern age of personal banking.

I’m not against progress. I’m not unaware that each couple of generations goes through some type of mind-numbing resistance to change. My dad refused to own or speak to an answering machine. I get it.

I like doing things in old-fashioned ways because it keeps me connected to a familiar way of life. In my mind, I see my dad sitting at the end of the kitchen table. The little circular fluorescent light overhead is buzzing and flickering.

There are several stacks of papers spread out on the table to the left and right. He has this little black wallet-like thing in front of him and he’s writing something. He writes and then he tears out a small piece of paper and lays it to one side. He picks another paper from one of the stacks, stares at it for a moment, then bends to write in that little black wallet again. Riiiip! Another one done.

“Wha’chu doing?” I was mesmerized.

“Paying bills,” he said without looking up.

My checks are personalized. They have my name on them, but they also have a personally selected picture printed in the background. They hand you a book kind of like the photo array at the police station. You flip the pages until you find one you like.

I chose a cornfield with barns and silos in the background. We didn’t row- crop or have silos for grain or silage. We had cows and a hay barn. But this picture reminds me of my somewhat meager agricultural history. If they had a picture of a tree farm, I’d choose that one.

I’ve seen pictures of the ocean on checks. A cabin in the mountains. Fishing checks. NASCAR checks. They make dog checks, cat checks, wild geese checks. I’ve seen patriotic checks. Hands of prayer checks. SEC checks of your favorite team. The ones that say “Roll Tide” have preprinted names on them.

Just kidding.

They’re signed with an “X”.

Not really. They learn how to print their names before they graduate.

Stop it. I apologize on behalf of DAWG Nation.

I have changed some of my old ways at this point in life. I use duplicates because I got tired of writing each transaction in the check register. Also, and it kills me to admit this, I don’t balance my checkbook anymore. My dad would just as soon hit himself in the head with a hammer as not balance his checkbook.

I have learned to do online banking. This is the 21st century. I can open the app on my phone and check the activity on my account. I compare that to the bills I’ve paid, and I can make sure all the deposits show up. If nothing looks fishy, I’m content. I trust that the good folks down at FPB can do the math accurately.

This is because I actually know the folks who run the bank. I still do business inside the bank. I know some of the tellers by name and they know who I am. I know the officers well enough that if I see one of them at the grocery store or post office, we’d stop and talk about kids and work and life. Another foreign concept to those under the age of 30.

Truth is, I don’t write all that many checks. Beth used to pay the bills at our house. At the farm, I did all the check writing by hand in the early days. I transitioned to computer software about 12 years ago which meant I only had to sign checks. And eventually I moved everything I could to autopay. I got comfortable with paperless money.

Once paying the bills at home became my responsibility, the move to autopay was a no-brainer. I can go for months and only write a half-dozen checks.

In addition, I remain a fan of folding money. Another sign of my age. I have friends whom I consider to be thoughtful and intelligent but who never carry any cash. Every purchase is made with plastic. I’m not criticizing. I’m just saying that’s not me. If they need cash, they have to find an ATM and pay a fee to get what belongs to them. I do not own an ATM card, nor do I intend to own one.

I went to look at some sawmilled lumber a couple of weeks ago. I’ve got a project going on in my shop. Rough cut boards are fine with me. In fact, that’s what I want. I offered to pay the man with cash.

“Green works for me,” he said.

I don’t keep a mattress stuffed with money. It just feels normal to me to have a few bills in my wallet everywhere I go. I’m not putting a burger and fries on a card.

Anyway, I’m writing checks. I need to pay the balance on my 50th high school reunion. The reminder notice I received today gives me the option to pay by something called Zelle or the ever-popular Venmo.

My position on Venmo is kind of like my position on heated toilet seats.

I’ve been sitting on a cold toilet seat my whole life. Sometimes I shiver but it only lasts a few seconds. My seat works just fine the way it is. I do not trust a seat that is wired to a 110 outlet, anyway. I already have a few old-man-issues back there. The last thing I need are blisters on my bump-kuss.

I know. Indoor plumbing is a modern convenience. I’m not running outside in the rain to visit the latrine. Venmo is just another improvement to make our lives easier.

Call me Mister Grumpy Pants if you want.

I’m still writing my checks.