Tightwad bank is beyond saving

HOW can a bank lose in a town like this?

There’s a beautiful lake nearby that attracts hordes of boaters in the summer, a bounty of inexpensive land and loads of frugal people -- whose forefathers were so cheap that for nearly a century the town has been known as Tightwad.

The residents here -- all 63 of them -- take that name as a badge of honor.

“I’m proud to be a Tightwadian,” said Tom Skaggs, 72, the town’s first mayor and a former member of the volunteer fire department. “Whenever I say that, people laugh.”

When the Citizens Bank of Windsor opened a branch here in 1984, it was only natural that officials would call it Tightwad bank. It quickly became a prime gathering spot in this square-mile patch of west-central Missouri.

Residents raced to open accounts and snatch up free piggy banks and key chains. A group of regulars began dropping by each day to gossip. Soon, nearly every adult in town had an account.

“I had people calling all the time, wanting information -- wanting anything with the name on it,” said Carol Jordan, 47, a teller for the last 14 years. “For the people here, it was convenient. And it was their town, in print, for everyone to see.”

Once word spread across the country, it seemed everyone wanted to be a Tightwadian. People wrote to open accounts with the bank, whose distinctive logo was a fist tightly clutching a wad of bills. On the checks, the logo was printed next to the account holder’s name.

“They almost always asked for the same thing: ‘Can I open an account? And how quickly can I get my checks?’ ” Jordan said.

AS the story goes, it all began with a watermelon.

Local lore maintains that it was a really good melon. Back in the early 1900s, the village mailman, on his rounds for the day, stopped by the town grocer and was immediately smitten by the large green orb.

But there was a problem.

Laden with his mailbag, the mailman was unable to carry the watermelon on his route. He asked the shopkeeper to hold on to it until he had finished his duty, and the shopkeeper agreed.

The mailman eventually returned to the store only to discover that the shopkeeper had sold his beloved watermelon to another customer who had offered 50 cents more.

As every person who has lived in Henry County since then knows, “he called the shopkeeper an old tightwad, and the name stuck,” Skaggs said.

Tightwadians still get a kick out of the story and, in an odd way, have come to embrace some of the principles of frugality. Sitting on an overstuffed couch in his living room, less than a block from the bank, Willie Kelley talked matter-of-factly about his frugal ways.

Why not take advantage of the early-bird specials at restaurants, or browse the sales aisles at Wal-Mart in nearby Clinton? It helps him save to buy more parts for his collection of John Deere tractors -- at a good price.

“I don’t care if people think I’m cheap,” said Kelley, 82, a former steel mill worker. “I’m not. I’m responsible.”

This sleepy corner of Henry County was settled in the mid-1800s by homesteaders, many hailing from the South and Southeast, who were lured by the rich soil, the numerous streams and an abundance of prairie grasses to keep the cattle fed.

Like other agricultural towns in the Midwest, Tightwad’s farming community has declined in the last quarter-century. Young people left for jobs in urban centers like Kansas City, about a 90-mile drive northwest, and St. Louis, about 240 miles east. Residents, many of whom lived in modest single-story homes or double-wide mobile homes nestled in groves of oak and hickory trees, found themselves having to drive farther out of town to find work.

Tightwadians, however, figured they had a way to fight decline -- they were right next to one of the state’s largest lakes, the Harry S. Truman Dam and Reservoir. Fishermen from the Midwest and beyond were drawn to its stock of bass and crappie. Boaters flocked here in the summertime, and many brought out their water skis.

Small businesses catering to tourists cropped up in nearby Warsaw, and real estate agents wooed urbanites with dreams of retiring in the country or buying vacation homes.

Why, thought the townsfolk, couldn’t Tightwad enjoy some of that growth? They already had what they considered an advantage: one of the best names for a town.

Jay Simmons, chairman of the Citizens Bank, agreed. Many Tightwadians cheered when he came to town one day more than 20 years ago to talk about expanding his family business by opening a bank branch.

Even before the bank became a reality, locals began dreaming about the future. Skaggs envisioned a regional amusement park in the town, perhaps with rides that had fiscally responsible themes.

No longer would Tightwadians have to drive 13 miles or more to bank in the bigger towns of Clinton (population 9,300), Warsaw (population 2,300) or Windsor (population 3,200).

The bank set up shop inside a small trailer on Southeast Highway 7, across the street from Skaggs’ home. A safe was bolted down in the back room. Later, Citizens Bank built a one-story brick building, framing the entrance and drive-through lanes with majestic white columns.

Shortly after the branch opened, journalists from around the country came to photograph the bank and chuckle over its name. Out-of-towners -- many of them college students -- routinely came to steal the town’s signs. Tourists bought T-shirts branded with the town name and suspenders with the words “tightwad” and “supporters” printed on either side.

The town incorporated in 1984, the same year the bank opened. “Suddenly, everyone was talking about us,” Skaggs said. “Before the bank, we weren’t even on the state highway map.”

But thriftiness was not enough to keep Tightwad bank afloat. Truman Lake attracted swarms of day visitors but never sparked the longed-for population boom from aging urbanites moving to the region. Media attention waned. Account holders from elsewhere often closed their accounts soon after they received checks and the novelty had faded. The bank got robbed twice.

As for the amusement park idea, “Busch Gardens sent out a scout, but nothing ever came of it,” Skaggs said.

Over the years, the bank fell victim to the same malady that has afflicted much of the rural Midwest.

“Tightwad has only grown by eight residents in all this time,” said Gil Trout, chairman and chief executive officer of UMB Bank’s south-central region. UMB now owns the Tightwad branch. “That’s not the growth model we’re looking for.”

At its peak, the branch drew in nearly $3 million in deposits. Bank officials won’t say how much business the branch pulls in today, though they acknowledge that it’s less.

SO, late last year UMB Bank announced that Tightwad bank would close at the end of this month. As the news spread, the bank’s dying gasp has brought a resurgence of attention from curiosity-seekers. Dozens of people across the country have written letters begging to buy anything with the bank logo on it. One man from Iowa penned, “Here is $10 cash. Please send 10 voided Tightwad checks to me.”

The Tightwad city limits sign on the west edge of town was stolen again recently. Residents aren’t rushing to replace it. “What’s the point?” asked Gregg Garrett, 36, who works at the Crosswinds Saloon & Smokehouse. “They’re just going to get stolen again.”

Today, the bank’s lobby is closed and Jordan is the only employee. Each morning, she checks to make sure no one’s in the building before she turns off the alarm and opens the safe. She then heads to the drive-through booth, unlocks her cash drawer and sits behind the booth’s bulletproof-glass window.

Of the 20 to 30 people who stop at the bank each day, only a handful come to do business. On a recent morning, Willie Kelley’s wife, Laura, 77, bundled up in a heavy wool coat and walked the block between her home and the bank. She crossed the paved parking lot and stepped up to the drive-through window to wave hello to Jordan.

“Thought you’d like a piece of cake I made last night,” Kelley said.

Jordan grinned and nodded, so Kelley slipped the plate, along with a bowl of strawberries and whipped cream, into the metal slot. They talked about a mutual friend who had died several days before.

“It’s so sad,” Kelley said, shaking her head.

“Yes, it is,” Jordan replied. “Think they need anything? What else is happening?”

The following day, Skaggs pulled his pick-up truck up to the drive-through window to visit with Jordan. “What’s going on, Carol?” Skaggs said. “How’s that killer dog of yours?”

Jordan owns a spoiled, aging and diabetic Maltese named Rambo. “Still fussy,” she replied. “How’s the family?”

Skaggs nodded. It’s been a few days since Skaggs’ last visit. He and his wife left Tightwad in 2004, to be closer to family in Clinton. They continued to do all their banking in Tightwad until the branch closure was announced. They’ve since moved their savings and checking accounts to a competing bank in Clinton, though they kept their certificates of deposit at Tightwad bank.

Checking on interest rates gives the former mayor a good excuse to visit his favorite teller. As the pair chatted amiably, Jordan asked offhandedly whether Skaggs was going to keep some business at UMB.

Skaggs replied: “As long as your interest rates are as good as everyone else’s, and you get a job at the branch I use, I’ll stay. But it’s not going to be the same.”

Jordan nodded in agreement. As Skaggs drove away, she waved goodbye with a small smile, and waited for her next visitor to drop by.

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p.j.huffstutter@latimes.com