Looking Into the Rearview Mirror

The Puritan virtue of frugality can be overdone.

My husband was a true-blue, Heartland America male, raised by a God-fearing, Presbyterian aunt. His mother had died when he was four years old; he and his four siblings were farmed out to relatives. Wayne spent his first 18 years in a tiny village (pop.500) in West Central Minnesota in the Great Depression, where he learned hard work, honesty, Christian charity and frugality. He was a good kid.

"The town was so small and news traveled so fast," he used to tell us, " I couldn't do anything. Everyone knew I was 'Mandy's boy'!"

As "Mandy's boy", he had been taught when to arrive at the local dairy in order to get free sour cream. He tended a large garden plot to keep food on the table. He found parts at the dump to build himself a bicycle of sorts. Such experiences took deep root.

When he was able to enter college, he purchased his first suit for the bargain price of $6.00, a relatively un-saleable item of Kelly green tweed. "It was excellent wool," was his comment. In his years as a Navy officer he collected the dirty towels that other officers discarded rather than wash. We started householding with Navy issue towels. All three of our children grew up with second hand toys and games from the Goodwill Store. Sometimes more than weekly their loving, frugal dad would stop by that store after work, arriving with treasures. Our children had more "new" toys than many kids.

But let me tell you a story to illustrate that frugality can be overdone.

When the Navy discharged Wayne, we settled in an Alameda, California, housing project, which unfortunately was isolated from public transit. It became necessary to buy a car. After World War II new cars were just beginning to come off the factory lines, which had been building tanks for the war. Even used cars were scarce and a little pricey for our budget.

In the summer of l946 Wayne paid $75 for a 1925 four-door Studebaker with a leatherette top, which had seen better days. We weren't proud. It worked. After all, wasn't our first baby on the way? A joyous but expensive development, requiring prudent use of our money.

Our lives were full. My pregnant body got fuller. The due date came closer. The first labor pains conveniently began the night before Thanksgiving. We rejoiced that the baby would be born on a holiday. Wayne wouldn't have to lose a day's pay to be present for the birth. Even our baby seemed to know about frugality. In the early morning a light rain did not dampen our joy as we packed up to make the trip to the hospital.

"It's not far, Ruth," said my solicitous spouse, as he helped me into the old Studebaker. "We'll be there in no time." He proceeded to start the car. Seated with some discomfort in the front passenger seat, I was suddenly aware that water was dripping onto my head, my shoulders, and my lap.

"Stop, Wayne!" I cried in dismay." The rain is coming through the car roof! I can't ride in this. We'll have to get a taxi."

What would a loving and frugal young husband do in such a situation?

"Wait, honey," he said. He dashed back the few steps to our apartment, I assumed to call a taxi, then reappeared with an umbrella. "We can't afford a taxi," was his steady remark, as he spread the umbrella over my head in the front car seat. "Just hold this, while I drive."

We made it to the hospital; the world was treated to a new baby boy. But isn't driving your pregnant wife to the hospital in a leaky car a little too much of a good thing?