The spending train

I’m a child of a child of the Depression. My mother’s philosophy was rooted in the idea that you would never have enough, would always be scrounging and fearful of losing your income. She made feasts out of leftovers, dressed elegantly without a Bloomingdale’s charge card, made her own dining-room table out of a piece of Lucite and a pair of sewing-machine trestle-bases that she enameled shiny black.

When she finally owned a home, in her 50s, it was a shell of a manufacturing loft on Wooster Street in Manhattan, an area now known as Soho. Later, with plenty of sweat equity, it became a clean, modern home with minimal furnishings and maximum style.

Her parties were legendary and there were many of them, yet she never hired a caterer. (My wedding cake was made by a friend of hers who was a SoHo baker.) She made pāté out of bargain-priced chicken livers with a splash of cognac. A Hungarian party cheese was concocted from a cottage cheese base.

She wasted nothing. A jar of kumquats sat in her refrigerator for years—a gift that could neither be used nor discarded.

And she did it all while holding down a demanding job in advertising that required frequent travel and long hours.

Now, I wonder, how did she do it? Did that Depression monkey on her back keep her going?

While I hold on to many of her ways, I am also a product of my time. The “use it up, wear it out, make it do” philosophy has morphed into “throw it out, give it away, buy some more.” My three (!) homes are bursting with tchotchkes and furniture and just plain stuff. As I look around, every surface is covered, and yet I want more.

In the country, at least, there is a wall of glass where my eyes can go to avoid the accumulation. Some trees, the ever-changing river, two bridges. In the city, I have to walk four blocks to the Hudson for the same recharging of senses.

I do have free will over this accumulation, you say. But I think I am as much a product of my experience as my mother was of hers. She could have hired a caterer now and then and I could make do with less stuff.

If my family is any barometer of American life, retailers may be in for a stinging Christmas season to come. In my own life, I feel the consumer train slowing. We really do have every “thing”we need. The one-day sale at Macy’s didn’t even tempt me this year until my daughter reminded me she needed a winter coat. We bought two. Okay, the train is slowing, I said, not stopped.

The table linens I wanted for Thanksgiving were “bought”with points I had amassed from past extravagance. Now that I have my paisley table runner, will I ever need more? The tableau on the sideboard this year is an artful assortment of pomegranates, squash and huge pine-cones gathered from a trip to North Carolina last spring. The best part of Thanksgiving may be that when it is over, nothing is wasted,

Our Christmas tree will have its usual trimmings, but most of the gifts will not be easily wrapped. Tickets to a concert will fit in a stocking.

Instead, we will focus on experiences. Making cookies and going places together don’t sound like any sacrifice to me. The planet will be better off for it. But what about the economy? Aren’t we all dependent on this heedless spending?

Just as my mother learned her spending habits in the Great Depression, we have learned ours in the Great Expansion. We have done our civic duty by flocking to Wal-Marts for bigger TVs and tinier radios, for new phones every ten days when the old ones used to last for decades. If we stop now, what will follow?

If we get off the spending train, will it run right over us?

- Cass Collins