My 92-year-old friend Phil uses his pencils until there’s nothing left but a 1-inch piece of wood and graphite topped by a pointy pink eraser.
Whether he’s frugal or just cheap is open to interpretation, but he certainly gets his money’s worth out of each and every Dixon Ticonderoga that comes across his desk.
Phil, like many people who came of age during the dark days of the Great Depression, doesn’t like to waste things. “Conspicuous consumption” is not in his vocabulary.
While I like to give Phil a good-natured teasing about his low-cost ways, sometimes I think he might be on to something.
Last week, the evening news was full of images of Black Friday shoppers lining up at department stores across the country, eager to have their chance at half-price TVs, toys and other gizmos we can’t live without. These early birds were out searching for their worm — deep discounts on everyday merchandise and big-ticket items alike.
Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, is one of the biggest shopping days of the year and the unofficial start to the holiday season. Some stores opened at the ungodly hour of 4 a.m. on Friday; people were hurrying to get to the front of the line Thursday night, when the rest of us were passed out on the couch in a turkey-induced coma.
While I appreciate the shot in the arm this gives to local retailers and to the economy as a whole, the hype surrounding Black Friday is just another symptom of our society’s rampant materialism: quantity matters more than quality and bigger is always better.
Advertisers on Madison Avenue have seduced us into thinking that life will be better if we have the latest clothes, the newest cell phones or this season’s “hot” toy. We shower loved ones with lots of expensive gifts in order to prove that we care. Then we’re told these items are outdated, that we need to upgrade to the new model, and the cycle begins again.
I’ve fallen under the spell of consumerism too: I have more stuff than I know what to do with and my iPod is one of my most prized possessions.
But over the past few years, I’ve come to really appreciate giving — and receiving — simple, handmade presents that come from the heart. Twenty years from now, I may not remember who gave me this CD or that book. I will, however, remember the watercolor painting that my grandmother gave me — the one she painted herself.
So when I see consumers trundling out of the store with ginormous TVs that will become obsolete in five years or parents racing to get the Talking Elmo doll that their kids will stop playing with three months from now, I think of the “waste not, want not” attitude that makes Phil carry around his stubby pencil till the lead disappears. And I wonder why we don’t apply some of those Depression-era values to our buying habits today.
Jocelyn Robinson 