How to make your folks proud

I am the child of Depression-era parents. 

Even though they both had good jobs, as jobs were called back then, their Depression-era ways would not go away. 

My father lived to shop at John’s Bargain Store up on Steinway Street. The name kinda said it all, but in case that wasn’t enough, they packed your goods in huge brown bags that announced JOHN’S BARGAIN STORE for all the world to see.

My mother, on the other hand, saved slivers of soap in a glass Hellmann’s mayonnaise jar that sat on the edge of the bathtub. She’d fill it with just enough water for the soap to get all gooey and when time came for a bath, she’d pour a little under running water and you had barely bubbles.

It was a tragic childhood. While the rest of my friends were splashing around in Mr. Bubble, I was sitting in a combo of Dial, Ivory and Safeguard rejects.

Or so I thought.

Recently, I was chatting with two childhood friends who grew up in the same neighborhood in similar circumstances. The subject of our parents came up. Both had Depression-era parents, too. I was telling them about the soap slivers and how I was so jealous of my friends who had Mr. Bubble.

“Mr. Bubble!” one exclaimed. “My mother thought it was extravagant. She’d pour in powdered laundry detergent for our bubbles!”

“My mother refused to buy Mr. Bubble!’’ added the other. “She carefully measured out a cap of shampoo. Her position was bubbles are bubbles. She wasn’t spending all that money on Mr. Bubble!”

My childhood mortification over the ways of my parents changed when I moved out on my own in my early 20s. I had my first newspaper reporter gig and was paying for everything myself for the first time in my life. I had grown up privileged with Campbell’s soup. Now, I was buying store-brand tomato soup on sale, 10 cans for a dollar. I’d prep with water and if I was feeling especially thriftless I’d make with milk. On those rare occasions, I’d add cheese. Ooh la la. Step aside, Queen Elizabeth. 

As the years passed and the jobs and salaries increased, there’d still be a part of me that would do something Depressiony, but for the most part the hog and I were sitting on a high mountain enjoying the view.

And then Alzheimer’$ hit.

Suddenly, money was going towards things I never could have imagined—things neither the hog nor I certainly planned for during my lifetime: Depends, meds, sitters, nursing home bills, home security systems, sneakers that Velcro and pants with elastic waistbands for him. Potato chips, ice cream, wine, pizza, everything Little Debbie and pants with elastic waistbands for me. 

The other day as I squeezed the last drops of toothpaste from a tube that I swear was pleading for me to make it stop, I thought of my parents. I’ve done much in my life to make them proud, but this, I’m certain, had them high-fiving each other.