Even when I was a child, my Aunt Bessie seemed impossibly old.
She was actually my great aunt, but I knew her better than either of my actual aunts. After we moved to Jasper, Ala., so my father could take care of his aging parents, I spent a lot of time at her house. Her husband, Uncle Larkin, had been sick and somewhat cranky all my life, so I spent far more time with her than with him.
Aunt Bessie seemed like the cheapest woman on Earth. She shopped at stores that sold goods with some sort of flaw, because she said it was the only way to get a bargain. She ate the cheapest cuts of meat imaginable. She was incredibly frugal.
Most of all, though, she almost never threw anything away. It didn’t matter whether it was a rubber band or a scrap of fabric or a piece of string. She would store such junk away and say quietly, “I might need it someday.”
Aunt Bessie was only 24 years old when the Great Depression started, but it left an imprint on her which I never understood — and I fear we’re all about to learn what fear taught her.

Nature’s renewal and growth boost my hope for my own life each year
What if a key to knowing what to do is built into everybody’s gut?
Looking for truth in random noise? Or is there meaning for me in this?
Paradox of choice can leave us longing for certainty of the past
Replacing Obama with a Republican president won’t change anything
FDA’s war on margarine is really an attack on your freedom of choice
Kids’ willingness to blindly obey shows in Quebec teacher’s joke
Friend’s happy family and career remind me how good life can be