By Carl Sampson
My parents were always saving for a rainy day.
If anything short of a nuclear conflagration hit, they had enough food and other supplies to last into the next century.
My dad was one of Sam’s Club’s biggest customers. I think he knew Sam Walton personally. If he needed something, he didn’t buy one. He bought a case, or a pallet or a gross. My parents’ house looked more like a supply depot than a home.
When they died 16 years ago, my parents had five turkeys in their freezer and at least three of every appliance and tool ever made. They were ready. For what, I’m not sure. But, by golly, they were ready.
They lived in the hills of Western North Carolina — the area where the book Cold Mountain was set. Every so often an ice storm would roll through, making the roads impassable, but they were usually open again in a day or two, so the need to stock up for a prolonged ordeal was slight.
What brought this to mind was a remark my wife made the other day. She was looking for the Scotch tape.
“We may be out of it,” she said.
“That’s impossible,” I told her. “Look again.”
“OK, but I think we’re out.”
When my folks died, we took possession of a box of 16 years’ worth of Scotch tape. It has gotten us and our four kids through16 Christmases worth of gift wrapping and a combined 64 years of birthday presents and school projects. Every time I reached for a piece of tape to wrap a present or patch a piece of paper, I thought of my parents.
My wife and I never even imagined the day when the Scotch tape would run out and we’d have to actually go to the store and buy a roll.
I don’t even know what it costs any more.
Parents have a way of leaving a profound impression on their kids even after they’re gone. Every time the school year rolls around I remember my mom pulling out the Sears catalog and ordering my school clothes: two pairs of jeans and five Ban-Lon shirts, along with assorted pairs of underwear and white socks.
We never went clothes shopping. I had never even been in a department or clothing store until I was in junior high school. I thought everything came from a catalog.
When I was in elementary school, we didn’t have much money. My dad was in the military, and we lived in the finest trailer parks north Florida and Louisiana had to offer.
And restaurants? What were they? A trip to McDonald’s — hamburgers were 15 cents and fries were 10 — was reserved for special occasions.
Yet, even without pile of money we managed to have a good life. My folks were great parents, despite any financial situations that befell us.
Money, they taught me, isn’t the key to happiness.
It’s Scotch tape.
