When I think about my grandmother, Margaret Harper, the word that surfaces first is not loving, or kind, or generous. It’s frugal. Intensely, unwaveringly frugal. She was the sort of woman who rinsed plastic bags and laid them flat to dry, who kept drawers full of rubber bands and twist ties “just in case,” who clipped coupons with almost ceremonial dedication every Sunday morning. Nothing was wasted. Nothing was excessive. Everything had a purpose.
To us—her children and grandchildren—she was affectionate and steady, but also undeniably old-fashioned. She lived in the same modest house for more than four decades, surrounded by faded wallpaper and furniture that hadn’t been updated since the 1970s. She never chased trends, never bought anything flashy, never seemed tempted by comfort beyond what was strictly necessary. Every purchase, every decision, passed through the same quiet filter: Do I really need this?
She liked to remind us that true wealth had nothing to do with possessions. “The less you need,” she would say, “the freer you are.” We smiled politely, indulging what we assumed was a Depression-era mindset that never quite let go. We loved her, but we didn’t really question her choices. We never asked what her discipline was building toward.
We only learned the answer after she was gone.
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