That was my maternal grandmother’s saying, my mother’s saying… and so on to me. They both could squeeze a nickel until it screamed. However, when it came to cars, furniture and things built to last – such as others in need – they didn’t mind spending a little more for something.

When my parents visited, my dad made me laugh by assuring me, “You know, you CAN spend money.” My comparison shopping at the hardware store was getting to him, I guess. And then my mother commented about the number of cleaning products under my sink. (I have two of everything because I brought home my school supplies.)

So am I hoarder? Is my frugality crossing the line into being miserly? If I own very little, does that mean I’m living simply?

Frugality is spending very little money on everyday things that you use all the time. Some things, like toilet paper, you can buy in bulk at sales in order to save money. But that’s only if you have a reasonable place to put it, and will use it. Frugality is also taking care of what you’ve bought – putting the cap back on the toothpaste so it doesn’t dry out, refilling the soap dispenser instead of buying a brand new pump bottle. And not putting your eyeglasses on your favorite chair where you’ll be sure to sit on it!

Living simply is spending money and TIME wisely. I used to think it meant an ascetic existence, but I’ve met a few wealthy people who live simply because they focus on their true values. They don’t get sucked into materialism or a must-show-up-the-Smiths mentality. You can pare back on all your belongings, but still not live simply if you’re over-scheduled or unable to find time for what you love.

Hoarding is buying 25 cans of peas and getting sick of them – or forgetting you have them – long before their expiration date. It’s going shopping at every sale but still having nothing to wear because nothing really matches. Or needing one bottle of conditioner but buying more than you’ll use in three years because “it’s so cheap”. Hoarding is a panicky materialism, living in fear that you’ll never have what you need and you can’t afford to let anything go – or give anything away.

And a miser? That’s someone who loves money so much he can’t bear to part with it. I’ve met few misers, and they didn’t have many friends. (Although I’ve always wanted to swim in money like Scrooge MacDuck, which I think would be a great excuse for a pool party!)

My grandfather was a farmer and my grandmother a farmer’s wife who, in the tradition of the family, was the one who handled the pocketbook. She could squeeze a nickel until it screamed. There were children to feed and clothe, but they wanted to help out others. 

When my Aunt Alice passed the box to me, she showed the dates of the letters.  They had had no money to spare, yet they had managed to make donations. I was reminded of the Widow’s Mite. 

It’s odd I should come across the box again now.

Like most Americans who still have jobs, I have grown cautious with my money. However, I’m also aware of the growing need for food, shelter, and financial support. So how to be generous without being reckless and to save without being  stingy? 

Here are just a few ways that members of my community have given with what they have:

1. The charity rummage sale.   A few young mothers held a 50/50 yard sale, with 50% of their profits going to a local charity.  They didn’t have disposable income or time to volunteer outside the home, but they had some stuff to sell. Organizations also do this; e.g. this week my parish is accepting donations for their annual rummage sale. 

2. Scrip. My parish sells this and, now that I understand how it works, it looks like a painless way to give. In a nutshell, you buy a gift card for your usual goods and services. The seller of the card (the church or school) keeps 5-15% of the sale. For example, you buy a $100 gift card for the grocery store. The church or school keeps $5-15 and the store gets the rest. Your wallet doesn’t feel pinched, since you still buy $100 worth of groceries with the card.

3. BOGO Giving.  A couple told me about this last spring. Their children’s school had a can drive for the local food pantry. They found an easy way to contribute: When there was a Buy One, Get One Free sale, one time went into their cupboard and the other went into a box for the food pantry.

4. The Change Jar. (Or the ”Hope-and-Change Jar”, if you like.) This works well for guys who hate carrying change. Or fed-up moms who are tired of family members who don’t empty their pockets before throwing clothes into the laundry.  Every time you have a coin, drop it in a jar. Once every month or two, donate the money.  

5. Curb-side Refurbs. If you’re handy and see something on the curb that you can fix up, then you have a gift to share. So many people do this out of necessity, but it can also be charity. Years ago in Ann Arbor, I bought a 10-speed bike for $60 from a man who rebuilt and refurbished bikes salvaged from the garbage. A cancer survivor, he donated the proceeds to help the families of cancer patients who traveled to the University of Michigan hospital system. 

I’m sure you can think of other ways to give, even when it seems you have nothing to spare.

Behold the man of the eight beatitudes who bears in himself the grace of the Gospel, the Good News, the joy of salvation offered to us by Christ…”- Pope John Paul II

Today is not just Independence Day for the United States of America. It also marks the death of Pier Giorgio Frassati, a young man of Turin, Italy, who died of polio on this day in 1925. He loved mountain-climbing and the  camaraderie of friends (but hated dancing**). He was also an independent young man who led a double life. 

His father, Alfredo Frassati, was active in Italian politics and founded the liberal newspaper La Stampa. Mr. Frassati believed in frugality, so he didn’t give his children much spending money. His son took after him by being politically active, even chasing off Fascists who attacked his family’s home. 

But in reading Pier Giorgio’s story, I was struck by how much potential for tension there must have been between father and son. Unlike his agnostic father, Pier Giorgio was a devout Christian who read and re-read St. Paul’s writings and attended daily Mass.  He became a member of the Third Order of the Dominicans. This doesn’t mean a monk, by the way. Third Order (or “tertiary”) members are ordinary people who live in the world but follow the Dominican rule of prayer, study and preaching.

According to the  Assocazione Pier Giorgio Frassati, ”in opposition to his father’s political ideas, he became a very active and enthusiastic member of the newly founded Italian Popular Party which promoted the Catholic Church’s teaching based on the principles of the Encyclical Rerum Novarum.”

Pier Giorgio kept a ledger to track what he spent, but it wasn’t the account of a typical young man with money and free time. He budgeted for various people whom he supported financially. He often gave away his train-fare and ran home to arrive at mealtime. His father was stickler for punctuality.

Pier Giorgio could have been been at loggerheads with his father, like St. Francis of Assisi, who famously renounced his wealthy father’s goods -including stripping the clothes off his back and walking away naked. Instead, Pier Giorgio honored his father and kept his acts of charity a secret.

His father knew about his mountain-climbing, his active nature, his many friendships. But he saw merely the tip of the iceberg of Pier Giorgio’s charity. In 1920, Mr. Frassati was appointed ambassador to Germany. A German reporter wrote an account of a public instance of this generous spirit:

One night in Berlin, with the temperature at twelve degrees below zero, he gave his overcoat to a poor old man shivering with cold. His father scolded him, and he replied simply and matter-of-factly: ‘But you see, papa, it was cold.’

His double life was exposed after his death. The people he’d helped had known him by the moniker “Fra Girolamo” (Brother Jerome). They had had no idea that he came from a prominent family. 

At his funeral, his family was similarly shocked to find the streets lined with thousands of people whom Pier Giorgio had helped. His father had had no idea.

Every one of you knows that the foundation of our religion is charity. Without it all our religion would crumble, because we would not truly be Catholics as long as we did not carry out or rather shape our whole life by the two commandments in which the essence of the Catholic Faith lies: to love God with all our strength and to love our neighbor as ourselves.” – Pier Giorgio, in a speech to fellow students

For more about this saintly young man, check out Frassati USA, the original  Assocazione Pier Giorgio Frassati (includes English), or Frassati groups in Argentina, Canada  or Poland.

**Blessed Pier Giorgio was a man of my family’s own heart. Like my father, he hated dancing. Like my grandfather (of Pier Giorgio’s generation), he studied mining engineering and loved gardening. And his love of practical jokes? For that alone, we’d adopt him!

Work is winding down. Other than a couple projects due in August, it looks like I’ll have some free time this summer. Except for the week the sobrinos invade.

Yesterday Brother the Elder came to retrieve furniture and to accept his birthday dinner. He brought along a couple of his minions children. The youngest took one look at my calendar and cackled diabolically because her school gets out this week. She immediately planned a weeklong vacation for herself and two siblings, courtesy of me. 

Brother the Elder had no problem with it, of course. She actually started writing it on the calendar before consulting me! What nerve! I’m so very proud to see that, despite his best efforts, he’s raising a social butterfly just like his dear ol’ Sis.

However, I’ve warned them: Child labor laws mean nothing during their soujourn. I’ve got a shed that needs painting, beds that need weeding, and windows that need scrubbing.  If the weather cooperates, the girls will learn to cook some of my favorite dishes (I already have aprons for them).

And the Young Master has announced that he is allowed to work with wood, provided he doesn’t use powertools without permission. (Insert manly grunt here.) Maybe he can build me a bookshelf or a garden bench from the scrap I have.  

In the meantime, of course, I’ve got to figure out what to feed them and where to store them they’ll sleep at night. The Young Master declared dibs on the inflatable mattress, so my only concern is how to keep the girls from sleeping in my bed. Particularly the youngest, whom I’ve dubbed “Ninja Sleeper” for her accurate strikes on my neck and back.

The whole endeavor reminds me of that old puzzle about moving a wolf, a sheep and a cabbage across the Nile.

I used to pray the old Guardian Angel prayer every day when I was a kid. In the first grade classroom, Sister Agnesita had a print of an angel watching over two children crossing over a rickety bridge.  The angel was female and dressed very prettily. However, I thought of my Phred as male – a nice young fellow who wasn’t ready to clobber me like my brothers.  I also figured Phred was kind of plainly dressed and silent, ready to jump into action. Except when I was taking a bath. Then I thought he waited outside the bathroom door (with the dog) and I’d have to holler for Mom if I got my big toe stuck in the faucet or something.

But for many years (decades) I completely neglected to talk to or even think about Phred.  There was also a New Agey “angel movement”  which seemed to infiltrate even retreats. It marketed guardian angels as subservient beings, at worst a tool for getting one’s desire and at best a Jeeves-like personal assistant, constantly pulling his master out of a scrapes. I felt sort of embarrassed to be talking to him, as if I’d catch some  sort of cosmic cooties.

But I began to rediscover what angels are and how blessed I am to have Phred. And I’ve been thinking a lot about angels, especially since I started making clay sculptures that incorporate Christian symbols. (More on that later.)

And so, for old time’s sake, Phred…

Angel of God,
my guardian dear,
to whom God’s love commits me here,
ever this day,
be at my side
to light and guard,
to rule and guide.

Personally, I went from flabberghasted to incensed in less than a day. Yesterday I read the sick rumors that Gov. Palin’s youngest child was secretly her grandson (some people need to lay off the romance novels). Now that the Palin family has revealed their oldest daughter is pregnant – and therefore can’t be her brother’s mother - the pundits and opinionated cranks have a whole new bag. The gist of these comments seems to be that 1) because the youngest child has Down’s Syndrome, the Gov. needs to go home and be a mother; and 2) because the 17-year-old is pregnant and preparing to marry the father of the baby, the Gov. needs to go home and be a grandmother.  

Oh, irony!

This weekend I enjoyed visiting with my niece and her husband. They are happy about moving into their first home and are expecting their first child. And they’re 19.  Are they children? No.

Today after school, I ran into a former student who was married this spring. She’s expecting her first child this coming winter. She’s 16 and her husband is 24. Are they children? Heck, no!

The irony is that if Gov. Palin’s daughter had chosen to abort the baby, our society would consider her grown-up enough to make that choice. She needn’t have consulted with her mother, either. A 17-year-old is considered old enough to have sex and deal with the consequences on her own.  Parental consent laws are debated endlessly as a controversial limits on “choice”, aren’t they?

But when it comes to politics, suddenly the lip-service feminists (including the men) have become reactionaries who know that the governor’s ovaries dictate that she must step down.

Bernie and Diane are humble, unpretentious people…. They had everything they ever wanted, they said. Except for a daughter. But the more they asked about Danielle, the more they didn’t want to know.

She was 8, but functioned as a 2-year-old. She had been left alone in a dank room, ignored for most of her life.

There have been some truly horrific stories about children in the news this summer. This story is about a neglectful mother and child abuse investigators who ignored signs, but it’s also hopeful.

http://www.tampabay.com/features/humaninterest/article750838 .ece