My Mother Never Paid Full Price — and Now I Don’t, Either

Welcome to Ethels Tell All, where the writers behind The Ethel newsletter share their personal stories related to the joys and challenges of aging. Come back Wednesday each week for the latest piece, exclusively on AARP Members Edition.

I grew up in an upper-middle-class neighborhood, in a house filled with antiques my mother had bought cheap. She had taste. From the outside, we looked wealthy. But behind all that elegance was my mother’s private religion: Never pay full price.

Saving money was her art form. Coupons were everywhere. Sales were studied in advance. Discount stores were a second home. And one rule was drilled into me so often that I hear it whenever a restaurant bill lands on the table: “Always check your check.”

At the time, I didn’t see any of this as smart or resourceful. I saw it as embarrassing. My bicycle came from S&H Green Stamps, not the bike store where my friends got their shiny Schwinns. I wanted to sink into the pavement. My ice skates were black hand-me-downs from my brother, dotted with white paint to make them “girly.” At the rink, kids stared and laughed.

Ethels Tell All

Writers behind The Ethel newsletter aimed at women 55+ share their personal stories related to the joys and challenges of aging.

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Even our food told our story. We didn’t have Oreos or Hydrox. We had the no-brand sandwich cookies. When something went on sale, my mother stocked up. By the time we opened the box, the pretzels were stale, and the cheese had mold. Her response? “It’s penicillin. Just cut it off.” I still remember the embarrassment of having a friend over and silently hoping nothing I offered would crunch wrong.

Then there were the index cards. My mother would hand me a stack and ask me to sign my name. I was a child; I had no idea what I was signing. Years later, I learned she’d been opening bank accounts in my name to get the promotional gifts: a small TV, a toaster oven, a set of pans. To her, it wasn’t sneaky. It was smart.

At flea markets and tiny shops in the Caribbean, she bargained with such intensity that I often had to walk away. Only later did I realize how much she was teaching me: not just thrift, but vigilance. To question. To pay attention. To know that just because something looks expensive doesn’t mean it’s worth the price.

I didn’t embrace her methods until years later, when I moved to Los Angeles to work in entertainment. My actor friends all shopped thrift; it was how they built wardrobes for auditions. On my first outing to a store they swore by, I scored one of Ray Charles’ jackets, his name stitched right inside the lining. I was hooked. When my mother came to visit, I took her thrifting with me, and we never looked back.