My mother was a frugal woman. Every Friday afternoon when I was a baby, she'd put me in a carriage and walk over a mile to the Blake Avenue market where pushcarts with fruits and vegetables at prices well below those offered at local stores crowded the street. The pushcarts were large rectangular boxes that were wheeled to a space in front of the curb. Inside the big box were smaller wooden crates with apples, oranges, potatoes, and other fruits and vegetables. Voices yelled to prospective buyers about good quality and low prices. Kerchiefed housewives bargained in sentences mixed with Yiddish and English, "These apples have spots. How much will you take off?" For years I used to hear how my Aunt Ada flirted outrageously, joking and flattering, to get the best deal.

Sometimes my mother would go into one of the stores along the street to buy a live fish which she carried back to our apartment in a pack of ice. I can still hear the fish flapping, splashing, and turning in our bathtub. Unlike children of today who think that milk comes from cartons, I knew the origin of our Friday evening gefilte fish suppers. I saw my four-foot ten-inch mother drain the bathtub, move the struggling fish to the kitchen table, and with a few whacks of a rolling pin get it ready for dinner. She used scissors with large black handles and powerful cutters to split the fish open, remove the bones and innards, and scrape the scales away. My mother saw no need to incur the expense of a middleman. Before eating she would send me to the bakery with eighteen cents and tell me to get a breadfromyesterday. For years the stuff of life known to everyone else as bread, I referred to as breadfromyesterday. To this day fresh bread strikes my palate as too soft, without substance, hard to digest and, what's more, twice the price of day-old bread. Aunt Ethel and Uncle Harry owned a grocery store within walking distance of our house. In my family walking distance was defined as anything less than two miles, an understanding obviating the need to pay a subway or bus fare. Each time we visited, my aunt would give my mom a bagful of stale rolls and at home I would grate them. There was never a shortage of breadcrumbs in our house.

My mom saw utility in everything. Dole pineapple juice cans became plant holders and discarded boxes from the grocery store were converted into bookshelves. In winter, the fire escape served as an icebox holding containers of milk, meats, and other perishables. When I was older and had moved to my own apartment, she'd pack food for me to take home in an empty egg box, placing a blintz in each of the oval openings, and securing the package with an old, torn tie. 

My parents never went to restaurants, and we never went on vacations. Summer heat found my brother and me across the street in the school playground or at Coney Island. At the beach, after playing in the sand and water, we'd return to our blankets to devour fresh tomatoes and cucumber, fried fish sandwiches, peaches, and plums. Once in a great while we'd be allowed to buy a frankfurter and soda, but only with the proviso that my brother Julie and I split the purchase. Julie and I would take the 15 cents allotted to us (12 cents for the hot dog and 3 cents for the soda), go to the boardwalk to one of the refreshment stands, and study the grill to identify the frankfurter that looked the largest. With care we divided our purchase so that each would have an equal share. At times like this I envied Alvin Rubenstein and Paul Goldberg who could freely walk into the neighborhood delicatessen and order whatever they wanted. On the subway ride home, I'd wander from car to car seeking discarded newspapers so that I could catch up on the latest sports results. To this day, I experience satisfaction at finding a paper I wouldn't ordinarily buy at a restaurant table or in an office. 

Allowances were unheard of in my growing up years. When I wanted some money for ices or candy, my mother would tell me to return the milk bottles for the 3 cents deposit. On occasion, I'd yell up to the window of our second-floor apartment which faced an outer yard, "Mom, can I have a nickel? The ice cream man is here." Since I wasn't profligate with my requests, she'd open the window and throw down a nickel wrapped in newspaper.

Waste was not part of our family lexicon. Ketchup bottles were never thrown away until the last drop had been extracted. The near-empty bottle would be turned over to allow every bit to escape and finally to be rinsed with water which could be added to soup. Soap bars in baths were used for washing and not as toy boats for a too-long immersion in water melted the soap away. If a soap bar wandered to the bottom of the tub, immediate rescue was in order. 

We didn't live together without pleasurable activity. Every Friday afternoon my brother, Julie, and I would run to the Kinema theater on Pitkin Avenue, arriving before prices were raised at 5 P.M. Sometimes we'd go to a special Saturday show. For a dime, we'd sit through a double feature, sometimes twice.

The hold on me by my early years is hard to shake. My mother's values seeped into me as she spooned the last bit of oatmeal into my mouth. Waste not, want not. Lick the chocolate pudding from the mixing bowl, use the Brillo Pad until it rusts. Frugality is survival. Frugality was my mother's milk, the bond between my mother and me. Mama, look, I too am frugal. I calculate, I figure, I watch what I spend. But I want to let go, not worry about the future, the cost of things. I take my wife to the Plaza Hotel for her fiftieth birthday, but I choose a weekend when the rates are most favorable. I fight an ongoing battle to push thoughts of money aside. We go to an extravagant spa and choose a time of the week that is most convenient rather than least expensive. I have a dream in which I am dancing down the street, loose, wild, spontaneous, and free, hurling bills into the air.