I have an allergy to spending money. It’s one of those allergies that appeared later in life, seeing as how one of my favorite activities as a college student was saving up my summer pay for the express purpose of blowing most of it on a shopping spree. Banana Republic, J. Crew, Urban Outfitters for the bohemian in me – put me in a dressing room and I was a boss of tasteful threads. 

The times have changed, friends. Clothes now have to look like this before I get rid of them:

And even then, I’m like, could I sew it up? (No.) Could I get this stain out? (Definitely no.) Could somebody use this?? (The animal shelter perhaps?)

I am reminding myself of my beloved grandma Ginny. Ginny was a child of the Great Depression and had the resulting life-long habit of eyeballing every dime that rolled out her door. Case in point: bathtime. My childhood bathtimes at my mother’s hands involved generous capfuls of bubble bath poured into a warm, full tub. When Ginny was in charge of bathtime, she’d run an inch or two of water into the tub and blow bubbles from a bar of BOGO soap to entertain me. I’d swish my body back and forth in the tub, trying to generate waves so the water would wash over my stomach and rib cage. Sometimes I’d give up and just roll myself over in the inch-deep water like a turkey on a spit. It was true that Ginny, at that point in her life, was secure enough that she could have run her grandchildren baths that covered their navels. But she wasn’t about to run up her water bill just so I could literally soak in luxury. 

Ditto, mall parking. Our shopping mall downtown was encircled by a massive concrete parking deck that charged a dollar. When I went to the mall with my mother, or anybody else for that matter, we simply rolled on in, paid our buck and parked practically on the doorstep of JC Penney. But if it was Ginny at the wheel, we’d park under the bridge a quarter a mile away and hoof it over. Bear in mind that this was a woman in her 70’s hauling an unwilling child by the hand. When I offered to take a dollar out of my piggy bank so we could park in convenient luxury like the rest of the wasteful mall patrons, Ginny waved my offer aside and suggested I save my dollars for medical school tuition so that I could then afford to waste money on luxuries like on-site parking. 

Years after I was too old for Ginny-administered bathtime and heading to the mall with my friends, I happened upon an extreme money-savers quiz, which I administered to Ginny. One of the questions was, If you dropped a popsicle in the dirt, would you throw it away or wash it off and try to eat it?

Ginny didn’t hesitate. “I’d wash it off and see if someone else wants to eat it.” Her eyes crinkled at me as she chuckled, kindly. I’ve never been sure if she was kidding.

I can count on one hand the times I sat down to eat with Ginny at any place nicer than a fast-food joint. (Two fingers, and both times, someone else was paying.) On the other hand, I can count lots of times when Ginny and I got into a tete a tete at McDonald’s because I wanted a burger and fries, which she considered excessive. I never remember going hungry, but I do remember her gently asking me, “Can’t you just pick one?”

In the grocery store, on the other hand, Ginny was unstoppable. She collected so many coupons that she needed to stop mid-trip on her regular grocery store bench to get them reorganized. And if another grocery store across town was having a special on something she needed that week, Ginny would choose savings over loyalty every time and truck over there in search of bargain potatoes or toilet paper. 

In the kitchen, she would chop, fry and bake all those groceries into deliciousness. Fried chicken and mashed potatoes and green beans with bacon. Homemade soups and hand-rolled pie crusts and fresh-brewed sweet tea. On the side would be crisp cucumbers and perfectly juicy tomatoes, pulled earlier that day from her garden. 

Because while Ginny may have kept an eye on every dime that went out the door, she was always nourishing people. With food, with time, with a conversation on her favorite brown couch punctuated by her soft chuckle. And the whole reason she scrimped and saved was in an attempt to make sure there was always enough to take care of us, her people, when we needed it. When my grandfather was in the hospital, in a sad attempt at coping humor I tried to make her laugh by with a misguided joke about the price of hospital stays. “Honey, you shouldn’t say that when people are sick,” she gently replied. 

I’m trying to pass this onto my daughter – Ginny’s compassion, her love, her sense of priorities. The difference between a want and a need, and the importance of making choices about what to do with the resources you have. I’m writing this from my 1950’s-era wood-paneled kitchen, with the stove freckled in rust spots and the dishwasher that sometimes false starts a couple times before it can be convinced to start a cycle. We’re not going to be featured in a home decor magazine anytime soon (or ever). But this cluttered, outdated kitchen is the heart of the house with our names on the deed and the fridge and cabinets are full of food. Better yet, the people who sit around this table are healthy. It never escapes me how privileged I am that all this is true.

With her quiet, loving determination, Ginny made sure I knew this. it’s the second most important thing she taught me. The most important thing was the way her gentle smile broke out, eyes crinkled in happiness, as she turned toward me every single time I walked into her house. Walking into my grandparents’ house was being enveloped in love, no matter what I’d done, no matter what happened in the outside world. 

My grandparents are no longer here, and even their house is gone. But their envelope of love remains around me to this day. And in the day-to-day moments with my daughter, listening to what the kids in her class are up to and making up songs about kittens and holding hands on the walk to school in the morning, I’m trying to build her forever envelope too.