Thriftiness was a way of life with my parents.  They came by it honestly.  My daddy had a forty-year career in public finance, managing the state of Alabama’s money when he wasn’t managing our family’s.  Mama had grown up dirt poor, practically raising herself while her widowed mother worked long factory hours and now she wanted a better life for her five children. 

            We weren’t poor by any means, and many would have simply called my parents cheap.  Sometimes even to me, the way my parents could pinch a penny was downright embarrassing.  Like with restaurants, which were considered a frivolous waste of money in my family.  (As soon as the last bite is swallowed, you have nothing to show for your money.) Anytime somebody suggested going out to dinner in a group situation, my dad would always quickly pipe up, “How about McDonald’s?” before anybody could throw out a more expensive alternative.  This coming from a man who came back from his state-sponsored business trips describing with great appreciation the rich delicacies he had feasted on at some of the finest New York restaurants.  

            But no matter what the restaurant was, my mama never ordered more than a side salad, planning instead to clean the inevitable leftovers off her children’s plates. (There’s no point in letting good food go to waste.) Even today, she does not enjoy eating out.  (There’s no point in paying somebody to serve you and clean up after you.)  This bothers my brothers a lot.  Whenever our family – now even larger with spouses and grandchildren -- gets together, they want to save my mother the task of cooking and cleaning for such a large crowd, especially since we can all easily afford an occasional dinner out.   They feel like my parents’ thrifty habits have shortchanged them from enjoying the life that they deserve.  

            To me, though, my parents’ thriftiness was an adventure.  A way to give us more for less.  It seemed my mama and daddy could always come up with a creative way to conquer the fiscal challenges of life.

            Even though she always “stayed home” with us kids, my mama found ways to contribute to the family income.  I remember one time she was a “secret shopper” for Burger King.  Every day that week, all five of us kids would load up in the station wagon and go to Burger King locations all over the city.  First, we’d go through the drive-through window and then we’d wait in the car while she ran inside to place another order.  Then she’d fill out a form rating the service, taste, temperature, and other attributes.  Stop by stop, we kids would all eventually get fed, at least after Mama took her “test bite” out of each item.

            As soon as we could write our names, my daddy took us to the bank to open our own savings accounts (a penny saved is a penny earned) and we watched the pennies, and later dollars, add up on the monthly statements that came in the mail.  We went to matinees and snacked on candy bars stuffed in Mama’s purse.  We made weekly trips to the public library, stood in line for shots at the county health department, and got two-dollar haircuts at the local cosmetology school.  We washed and re-used plastic eating utensils, freezer bags, and aluminum foil.   When a coupon said “one per customer,” we lined up five-deep behind Mama at the check-out even though my younger sister could barely reach up to the counter.

            Coupons were big with my mama back then. Friends saved their Sunday newspaper coupon inserts for her, and she had shoeboxes full of coupons with dividers to organize them.  Some of the grocery stores would have days when they doubled and tripled the value of the coupons, which is, of course, when we would do our shopping.  I remember the Winn Dixie employees all gathering around as the cashier rang up the final total, amazed to see how my mama could get a cartful of groceries for only a few dollars.

            Sewing was another talent of my mama’s.  I could not have felt any more stylish in the beautiful smocked dresses she sewed for me from scraps of seersucker and cotton gleaned from the pajama factory where my grandmother worked.  My brothers and I once even modeled our blue-ribbon winning outfits in a fashion show at the county fair as she collected several dollars in prize money.  And even later, when we became old enough to want the brand-name store-bought clothes our friends were wearing, she still came through.  With one pair of Izod socks and her handy little seam-ripper tool, she could create alligator-adorned shirts for two of us.  And later on, she replicated expensive designer dresses out of “Teen” and “Vogue” magazine for my prom and college formals.

            As the oldest child and a daughter at that, I became her protégé and she passed on many of her recycling methods to me, tips that still echo in my conscience today anytime I reach to throw anything out.  White tissue paper from gift boxes can be saved for cleaning windows. Plastic grocery store bags make great packing material.  Plastic newspaper bags are perfect for storing crystal wine goblets. Use a Q-tip to get the last bit of lipstick out of a tube.  Add a couple of drops of water and shake to get the last shampoo out of the bottle.  No amount of leftovers is too small to save.  Keep a bag in the freezer and save those “little bits” of vegetables for a pot of soup.  Save the turkey broth – and ham hocks – for noodle or bean soup.  Even as an adult, I have been scolded for throwing away “perfectly good bacon grease.”

            My mama also taught me valuable yard sale strategy.  Start early.  The better neighborhoods tend to have the best finds.  Use the newspaper ad to map out your route.  Dig through the undiscovered boxes in the back.  Always ask them if they’ll take less.

            Although I once swore differently, many of my daddy’s philosophies on household management have been passed down to me, as well. The only acceptable thing to buy on credit is a house (because otherwise you’re throwing away rent money with nothing to show for it).    Much to my sixteen-year-old disappointment, this attitude also extended to cars. That new-car smell is the most expensive perfume in the world.  My dad only traded cars every ten years after he had saved up for it, then always choosing the most basic, stripped-down model on the lot. Those power windows are always the first thing to tear up.  Not only did I not have a cool car to drive when I got my license, I didn’t even have a cool car to borrow.  Of course, when I wrecked the family station wagon a few months later, my understanding began to evolve.

             In my family it’s always been a matter of pride how little we paid for something.  Half-price was not good enough; we didn’t buy until it was at least 75 percent off.   My parents shopped at outlets long before they were trendy. 

            But in spite of their thriftiness, my parents were never cheap with what counted.  They tithed to the church we attended, always helped our neighbors in need, and had friends to dinner.  Our lives were sprinkled with carefully-selected indulgences – soft-serve ice creams from the Dairy Queen and paper dolls from the TG&Y.  Our birthday parties were the envy of our classmates – with activities planned by Mama and one-of-a-kind cakes she designed and decorated herself. We always, always had whatever we needed for school --  from poster board to a senior trip to Europe.  And later, there was money for all five of us to go to college without student loans.

              My parents’ eccentricities have become magnified as they have aged. In spite of -- or perhaps because of -- their thriftiness, my parents have become collectors.  Collectors of old coins and Cool Whip containers, vintage postcards and salvaged squares of wrapping paper, vintage costume jewelry and old t-shirts that could be used as cleaning rags.  Anything that might someday be of value to them or anyone else. 

            They love antiques, particularly anything with sentimental value.  My brother and I once shattered a vase that had been a wedding gift to my great-grandparents and my dad painstakingly glued every ceramic shard back together.  They buy antique furniture at estate sales just because they’re a good investment.  My parents own generations of crystal, silver, and china that they promise me if I’ll only take, I’ll have a need for someday.  Every piece of furniture that ever belonged to my daddy’s family has been hunted down and rescued from abandoned shanties or bargained for right off a front porch.

            They pick up things off the side of the road with no shame.  My daddy has carefully refinished or re-upholstered cast-off furniture – including my Duncan Phyffe living room sofa – and given back their dignity.  When my neighbor who owned an upscale gift shop cleaned out her attic and set discarded items on the curb, the items soon found their way into my parents’ house and later a consignment store.

            My daddy is retired now.  He has been visiting National Parks, traveling around the country on airline tickets earned with the credit card he pays in full each month. He’ll usually pitch his tent at a campground and of course, eats at McDonald’s.  

            My mama continues to work the part-time sales job she took with Hershey’s chocolate after we were all in school.    Even though we five kids are spread out in different places now, we can always count on frequent cards from home thanks to a water-damaged case of several hundred greeting cards my mama got from a Hallmark sales representative she met at the grocery store.  If it doesn’t have the right salutation, she’s been known to cross it out and write in her own sentiment.  She’s even tried to save us money by giving us Mother’s Day cards to send to her.  She also maintains a gift closet of items that she finds on clearance and saves until she needs it.  Whenever we come home it seems she always has a little gift for us.  There’s no point in asking where it came from; she’ll just smile mysteriously.

                         My parents say they are ready to downsize now that they’re growing older.  They beg us to take the furniture right off of their walls. Lately, Mama’s been cleaning out closets, planning to have one more big yard sale.  She’s even contemplating e-Bay.

            My brothers and I joke about what we’ll do with all their stuff when they’re gone.  We threaten bulldozers and promise the estate sale of the century.  We also talk about furnishing a Cracker Barrel in their honor with all the rusty old farm and kitchen implements my father has salvaged from his old home place.  But when it comes down to it, I know I’ll probably be the one to take whatever my brothers and sister don’t want. The thriftiness is in my blood now, and you never know when I might have a need for it.