Shared on a Facebook frugal living page, originally, but it’s long and it got good response, so I’m also posting it here. Because it is, after all, my own original content:

Reading conversations in this page over the past few weeks, I’ve noticed that there’s a lot of disparity in how people view frugality. Some seem to see it as looking for the cheapest way to get whatever you want, while others have a more wholistic view on the subject. 

I was raised by parents who grew up during the Great Depression. My mother’s family didn’t suffer so much because of my grandfather’s town business (he owned a gas station and was a mechanic) and their farming background.  Mom was a bit of a spendthrift, in fact.  She liked brand labels and shopping in nice department stores and having her hair done every week at the salon.  If there was something she wanted, she bought it, if it fit within certain categories (clothes, groceries, books, etc.)  Of course, she also saved everything — when my sister came along when I was ten, she wore my old socks. I kid you not.

However, my dad’s family had it considerably rougher; my grandfather died a year before the Crash, and the family lore is that Grandma had a dime in her purse — just a dime! — when she got word that the local bank had failed. They had the farm, several miles from the nearest town, but Granddaddy’s estate was in probate and . . . things were a mess for them.   The rule in Dad’s family was that you took the cheapest route possible, within reason: if you were buying a couch and a really lovely one was $25 more than a plain brown, uncomfortable one, you bought the cheaper one and put aside that $25 — even if you hated looking at that sofa every day for the rest of your life.  

So I grew up between two different mindsets, and I’ve been torn by the inner conflicts all my adult life. All this to give you some sense of where I’m coming from in this reflection. 

Frugality isn’t on a continuum, somewhere  between avarice and parsimony. It’s about developing a set of values that influence how we use all our resources, including money. Yes, living within our means is part of that. Not so long ago, society was scandalized by anyone who got into avoidable debt. Then homes had to be built by professional builders to meet ever-tightening code (some of which are not really necessary), leading to debt, and cars were marketed as a necessity, leading to debt, and credit was established first to cover emergencies or to simplify bookkeeping, but then luxuries were marketed as necessities. . . leading to more debt. And things snowballed. 

The old saying “Use it up, wear it out, make it do, do without” is unheard of by a younger generation that’s being stuck with a truckload of debt and no savings. And too often no skills. Back in the day, money was HARD to come by. Farming tobacco is exhausting, dirty labor. — if that’s how you earn your main income, farming with mules instead of a tractor (with milk and egg money and maybe the sale of a bit of produce rounding out the corners), you have a lot more respect for that money than what we — okay, I confess:  I — have earned while sitting comfortably beside my piano in air conditioned and centrally heated comfort, teaching piano, or even teaching school or working in an office.  You used what you had rather than buying a new convenience or “Bigger and Better” “New and Improved” because you based your spending on need rather than want or convenience because the money for those things was bitterly hard to come by, so much of the time.  And, back then, you took great care of your possessions, because although repairing an item was a lot cheaper than replacing it, it was still an avoidable expense. So that’s what responsible people did. 

Now, Madison Avenue is telling us that we’re not attractive or socially acceptable if we don’t possess certain THINGS. Obsolescence is built into our appliances, cars, even our clothes. It costs more to repair a broken toaster than to throw it out and buy a new one at Wally World, even if overflowing landfills are a moral quandary that challenges our conscience when we toss items out so carelessly. The talking heads tell us that we are being environmentally irresponsible not to drive an electric car, even though those cars are outrageously expensive, the lithium for the batteries is mined by child slave labor in environmentally disastrous conditions, and the cost of replacing the battery compares with the cost of a brand new car. 

Who do we believe? What values do we embrace? 

 I remember Gramma Lottie for her feisty temper, her habit of trotting rather than walking everywhere she went around the farm, and her whistling, more than from that ugly brown sofa. And she had the sweetest face and twinkling blue eyes, even if her clothes sometimes hung on her like a sack. And I remember Mama more from watching her make and decorate beautiful cakes, and her sewing, knitting, and tatting, and letting me “help out” in the church nursery, not from the beautiful china she served Christmas dinner on. And I thought she was a handsome woman, even if her only cosmetic was Jergins lotion, religiously applied to hands and forearms and elbows immediately before bed, each night. 

If I cherish the memory of my grandmothers for these things, rather than their possessions, I am challenged in what I base my own life on. How do I want to be remembered by my own children, grandchildren, friends? Frugality has to begin with a deep self-assessment, what we value, and why, and where have we let our values and spending habits be dictated by artificial and frivolous standards (there’s a reason I mentioned Mama’s Jergins lotion; I have a weakness for makeup, as well as for books and music and flowers and. . . .)  

When we start with trying to save pennies on frivolous expenditures, without having consciously evaluated what is important to us, and what is reasonable and responsible, then we’re getting the cart before the horse (or mule, for my family) and we’re just going to be frustrated by recurring failure.  Pennies here and there can’t compensate for absence of a clear vision of the authentic people we are, and the life we want to live. 

People are more important than things. A 1-year old baby doesn’t care about how many different refreshments or decorations you have at her party; she just wants to get her hands in that CAKE!!!  YUMYUMYUM.  And the adult guests aren’t going to remember those things, either; rather, they’ll remember the laughter and the conversation and how much you all love one another.  So don’t waste money on disposables and trying to impress anyone; We aren’t trying to out-Martha Martha Stewart, here! Make a regular cake for everyone to have a clean slice, but a special small one for Baby to get her eager little hands and face in (ad have a couple of wet washcloths close by for an easier clean-up!).  And get some store brand ice cream to go along with it.  Maybe some nuts or mints. And serve it in your real bowls, even if washing them will take five extra minutes, instead of using disposables, because the people you love are worthy of your “good dishes” even for a baby’s first birthday.

Or you’re worried about keeping costs down on a wedding, but the standard you’re trying to meet apparently comes out of Bride’s Magazine — more marketing influences telling us what we “need.” When my cousins got married, they started a couple weeks ahead of time, making and freezing sandwiches, the cake, special cookies and so on.  Nothing was hired out. Even the flowers, they picked at home, and they were gorgeous.  And it was so very personal!  A generation ago, a “nice” reception included cake, mints, nuts, maybe cookies . . . and a punch.  No one had a full catered affair!  You don’t have to impress anyone — what really matters for your wedding is that you and your Beloved are publicly declaring your intention of being and making a family together; everything else is nonessential, no matter how much fun it is, so you can make do and have a lovely, homey reception without breaking your budget — you can create your own memories liberated from the artificial Brides Magazine standard.  One of the most fun weddings I’ve been at, the reception had live music by three friends of the couple, and we all enjoyed New England Contra dancing.  Guests who’d never heard of this old folk form picked it up quickly and were dancing away and laughing  at themselves and having a wonderful time right off the bat.  

The point is that we don’t have to out-Martha Martha Stewart (I liked that so much I’m saying it twice!) in order to create an environment of love and warmth and hospitality and joy, or to make memories that will make people smile for decades ever after. 

It’s the attitude that comes first. God bless y’all. 

I’m now in my third year living in Acadiana, the “Cajun” region of southern Louisiana. The move was an enormous step for me, involving not just a relocation but even more cutting the cord to the safety net of the family and family property in North Carolina. Some people would probably think my decision was rash and ill-considered. Some think making such a huge change when most people are settling into a more comfortable retirement zone was exciting and heroic.

A major move like this required a lot of decisions. I was moving for the sole purpose of creating a new and more authentic life for myself, to get away from the more toxic elements of my old home and its multitude of unhappy memories and to start again, building a new life, exploring different aspects of my character. . .

There were decisions about where I was going to move. That wasn’t so hard; I’d fallen in love with Louisiana when I was here, albeit in a different part of the state, twenty years ago, and now I had friends in the area who would provide an immediate emotional safety net and, as needed, practical help (can you recommend a solid mechanic? where do you find your vegetable starts in the early spring? etc.). I could come to a completely new part of the country but not be utterly alone, and that was important.

I had to decide what to bring and what to leave behind. I had very limited space for moving, so I decided that I would only bring what I absolutely love (my antique bed frame, a particular chair) or needed (all my kitchenware). This would allow me to furnish a new home and new life without the residue of the old clinging to me.

I had to look HARD at what I was leaving behind (the constant reminders of unhappiness) and recognize that some of that, I would be bringing with me internally, in my mind. I had to make peace with my pain and acknowledge that some of it would continue to accompany me, no matter where I went. So would my personal flaws and faults. But I also couldn’t shake off the confidence that much of the past’s power over me would be greatly reduced without the constant reminders and associations.

I had high expectations, and I’m grateful to say I’ve not been disappointed; in fact, the goodness of my life here has exceeded what I’d anticipated it would be.

A move like this is an enormous risk, but it’s an even bigger opportunity. New work, through the Church Militant Resistance program, has shown me skills and gifts I didn’t know I possessed. A treasured friendship has grown and given me a lot of room to grow and deepen. My world and my range of interests and passions has grown immensely in the past two years.

I’m happy.

I’ve known it all my life, but only recently begun to practically achieve it:

A woman’s primary function is caring for her family, which care includes creating a loving home.

My father was largely absentee. He was a long-distance truck-driver and spent most of each week on the road, driving up and down the Eastern seaboard for a major textile company. When he was home, he was rarely home. He’d get in his pickup and come out to the homeplace to visit his sister and her family, visit with neighbors, go to town before bed and drink coffee with the locals and catch up on local news and gossip. My mother resented his absenteeism enormously and complained about it frequently —

But she gave him nothing to come home to. Our home was in a constant state of chaos. Dishes sat on the counter, dirty and unwashed, until the cabinet was empty and it was wash dishes or do without a meal. Laundry sat in piles — dirty on the floor by the washer and dryer, clean on the picnic table that served as the folding table where the ironing board was set up (and rarely used). I’m ashamed to say it but my dad’s room (he and Mother had separate rooms) stank. Mom didn’t change his sheets or make his bed or air the room or collect his dirty clothes — when I got to be old enough I tried to take care of him but it was more than I could manage. He didn’t complain much, he just put up with a lot that no man ought ever to have to put up with.

If my mother had put forth even minimal effort to signal to my dad, her husband, that he was important and respected and appreciated, he would have thought he’d died and gone to Heaven.  Instead, he went where his stories were enjoyed and his generosity toward others was appreciated. Never “another woman.” He was very old-fashioned and principled. But he occupied himself away from home as much as he could. Our house was not a home for him. Or for me: I couldn’t wait to escape.

Nowadays, we talk about our rights as women, and men sharing in the drudgery of keeping a house in order. I suppose it’s not unreasonable when both spouses have full-time jobs, but oh! what a cost!

The idea of women, especially mothers, working outside the home is another issue. But let’s think about this:

You know of the idea of love languages? That people have different ways of experiencing, demonstrating and receiving, love. Quality time, physical touch, words of affirmation,gifts, acts of service — one or maybe two of these convey love in ways the other methods don’t. My two big ones are physical touch (hand on the shoulder, one-armed hugs, hand-squeezes. . . ) and quality time. I have a friend who goes all mushy in the stomach and brain when a man gives her a nice gift. I like getting gifts, am downright childish about it, in fact; but I don’t miss it or feel any deficiency when I don’t. But I’ve never met a man for whom acts of service didn’t rank HIGH on his love language list. He goes out to work, to provide for his family, to fight dragons in the public square so his wife and children, his loved ones, can be safe.  “Of course I love you – I work to make a home for you, don’t I? To give you nice things –” etc.

But too many women don’t recognize acts of service as Love. They don’t realize that, when they demand their husbands help with the laundry and the dishwashing, they’re demeaning his acts of service already rendered. They’re nonverbally conveying that they don’t love him so very much. We think men just want sex? Men want respect and appreciation. They want to be loved in ways that they can interpret as Love.  Daddy sometimes complained, “I don’t bust my butt driving up and down the Eastern seaboard to live in a mess like this. Can’t you even see that I have clean clothes to wear to work?”

He showed his love for his family by working; he needed to be loved back in a similar way. She could have done it, too.

This is an idea that very decidedly goes against the grain, against modern feminism. Women have protested for generations that they are good for more than scrubbing toilets. Women have fought for generations for the right to use their God-given gifts and abilities alongside men. Women serve the world as doctors, lawyers, educators, business executives . . .  and I admit that I’m not saying this is necessarily a bad thing for society as a whole, and certainly not for the woman, herself. After all, I know from personal experience how frustrating it is to have no outlet for one’s gifts and abilities, to have them bottled up inside with no visible hope of an outlet.

But the fact is that we’ve paid a high price for our so-called equality. Children raised in commercial daycare don’t, can’t, have the same emotional and moral grounding achieved by children raised in the family. We have a generation of young adults who cannot function with any degree of maturity; they are demanding, whiny, quick to violence when they don’t get their way. This is behavior learned in commercial child care, where the undesirable behaviors get attention, and good ones are not rewarded as vigorously (attention is the sought-after reward).

We are seeing men emotionally emasculated by women’s demands and ascension to power. All this talk about “toxic masculinity” — what nonsense! Toxic feminism, yes! The demand for the “right” to self-fulfillment, even at the cost of the destruction of one’s own children is a curse upon our nation. Toxic loss of authentic masculinity, yes! as men, influenced by infusions of female hormones into the environment and even more by a deliberate suppression of masculine energy and drive, by this toxic feminist culture, become more and more insipid, uncertain, indecisive, and immature.

Society is collapsing, and at the root of this collapse is the loss of a strong sense of family and the home.

The only way to save ourselves is to restore a sense of proper order. Let women be willing to recognize that we are not inferior to men, only different in function. A woman’s innate instinct is to protect her children and to serve her Beloved; this is the very heart of Home. And we are the heart of home and family! Men, by nature, are dragon-slayers. Individual women might wield a sword well enough, but it takes a grave toll on us, emotionally and spiritually, when we have to wield it again and again and again. When we don’t have to, but choose to wield it, we can become warped. Distorted.

I teach piano, and several of my students are from military families. I’ve observed that the military wife serves the Nation as surely as her husband does; by providing a solid place of Home — of refuge and rest  — for her soldier husband, she helps make it possible for him to better do his job in the field. Usually, she’s not really aware of those wider-reaching influences she exerts, though; she’s just thinking about being sure things don’t fall apart while her husband is on deployment. But, when he returns, she usually helps him find a restored balance to daily life at home.

We are engaged in an even greater battle for souls. The Church is called the Church Militant because of this battle. I call it the Great Battle. And in the past few years it’s heated up to an alarming fierceness. Women need to raise their own children — and frankly, to be directly engaged in their education — in order to help protect them from diabolical influences. Yes, I advocate for home schooling. Best students I’ve ever had were home schooled — and the most mature, overall.

Our men also are engaged in these serious battles. Men have to deal with a lot of nonsense in the public square.  Having unpopular opinions can result in repercussions with a man’s career. They might enjoy the battle to some degree, but when they are done for the day, they want (and deserve) to be able to lay their sword down when they walk in the door of their own home. They ought not to have to be competing with their wives for dominance, or having to fight her for a sense of sanctuary in that home.  It’s not fun scrubbing toilets or folding laundry, but by golly! These are the chores that help to create an atmosphere of calm, peace, and order in a home.  They are tangible ways of saying “I love you,” to our families.

.