Simplicity. “Being clear about our purpose and our priorities.”

Both my parents pinched pennies. Growing up I had all the necessities, but not in bulk. My meals were nourishing, but the cupboards weren’t packed. I wore nice clothes, but my closet wasn’t overstuffed. Toys were limited and the ones I had appreciated. All through high school I had part-time jobs and paid my own way through college.

The 1918 flu epidemic had taken the life of my grandfather, my dad’s dad. My grandmother, left with three kids to feed, took in ironing and knitted suits for women of means. At 14 my father left school and went to work, turning his pay over to his mother for food. The Depression didn’t help Dad’s meager existence, instead solidifying the importance of simplicity for survival.

My mother, who’d come from a large often struggling family, had always managed the money in our household. As a result of her financial skills, she died leaving my father with enough to enjoy a nice life. And here’s where Dad and I had a parting of ways. My modest upbringing spurred me on to want more and finally get to a place where money wasn’t a worry. His austere childhood led to appreciation of less. We were at opposite ends of the spectrum.

With the help of husband Jim, I brought Dad reluctantly up to date. He scoffed at the microwave oven, said it was an unnecessary expense, but with a few lessons in quick meal preparation he saw the benefits for a single guy. Took him shopping for some much-needed new duds. “Don’t need new clothes,” he said. “Where am I going anyway?” And then there was the car issue.

Dad loved cars. Every few years when he was still working a new modest model was his big splurge. His friends kiddingly said that Dad bought a new car when the ashtrays in the old one were full. Well, they were full many times over in his current car and I insisted it was time for him to have some fun buying a new one.

“Do you know what that would cost?” he said. “I can’t afford a new car. The old one will be fine.”

Of course, I kept at it. I finally convinced him to take the plunge by assuring him that if he suddenly needed that spent money, I’d write him a check. When I think of my haughty statement now, I’m embarrassed, but he sure did enjoy that spiffy new set of wheels.

Over the years we tried to get my father to move out of his tiny, outdated New Jersey apartment. Jim and I offered to buy him a small condo, but no luck. When our eldest son bought his dental practice in New England, the possibility of Dad moving to Connecticut was brought up and quickly dismissed. When we moved to a bigger house, we suggested he join us there. He sweetly suggested his apartment was fine. Dad stayed where he was, putting up with me and my idea of good living in a big house full of furniture, enough food for an army, two cars, and spending freely.

A few years later, at Dad’s memorial service, his friends made it a point to chat with me. They shared many wonderful stories about my father’s community involvement, and the most repeated comment was, “Your dad was a great guy, warm and uncomplicated, led an admirable, simple life of kindness.”

After my father’s funeral, we converged on his apartment to get things in order. There was very little to do. A few rooms of furniture would be dispersed among the kids, and clothing would go to the church. I headed into the small kitchen to sort through the dry food and perishables. Finding half a loaf of bread and a few cans of soup wasn’t too surprising, but opening the refrigerator brought me to the realization that I had a long way to go regarding purpose, priorities, simplicity. I found myself weeping.  Along with a few condiments on the door, on the top shelf there were only two other items — a package of bologna and a can of beer.

Carole Marshall is a former newspaper columnist and feature writer for American Profile magazine. She can be reached at cmkstudio2@gmail.com.