Cheap. Cheap. Cheap. It doesn’t matter whether or not we clip coupons, or if wedecide to pick up change in the parking lot. We are all tight-fisted about something.

My Uncle Chet was the quintessential Scotsman … tight as the bark on a tree.

Late in life, he suggested that my mother, his sister, meet him for dinner. After many decades of treating him in restaurants either plain or fancy, she was prepared, as usual, to take the check while he sat on his hands… as usual. When he reached for the tab and opened his wallet, my mother began slapping her hands together all across the table.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m killing the moths,” she grinned. He finally got it, but didn’t think it was funny. How could he? This was a man who broke down a lawnmower and distributed the parts throughout his car’s engine to avoid paying duty at the Canadian border – on the way to his summer home! The duty was probably all of $2 back in the 70s. And he bragged about it too.

My mother, of the same Scottish DNA was no slouch in the savings department.

For her, coupon clipping was an Olympic sport and she never met a sale she didn’t like.

Come to think of it, all those depression-era babies were gold medal winners in the penny-pinching finals. They leave us amateurs in the dust. Right up until the end, my mother was still using towels she bought during the Eisenhower administration. “They’re just the right softness now.”

Rather than purchase new sheets when she bought her queen-sized bed, she added length to her doubles from other old sheets. “Mom, there won’t be enough coverage on your sides.” I said.

“It’s OK. I’ll only sleep in the middle.”

If you slept in her guest room, the pillowcase may well have been patched (that side will be on the bottom) but it will be starched, ironed and smell like lavender. She was of the Yankee old school: “Use It Up, Wear It Out, Make it Do, or Do Without.”

I remember painful Christmas mornings when the packages had to be opened oh so carefully – to be able to reuse the paper. My mother ironed used gift wrap as well as the ribbons.

When she and I finally got to Scotland, she traveled as a true daughter of the clans. Anytime she purchased admission tickets she bought two seniors, despite the fact that I was too young. “You have white hair, they’ll never know.” I guess a little larceny is inbred to the “thrrrrifty” Scots

At Edinburgh Castle they fire the daily canon at precisely one o’clock. The city that sets its watch by the blast, understands completely why they don’t fire it off at noon – it saves eleven rounds of ammunition. My mother and Uncle Chet were only doing what comes naturally.

At this stage of my life, practicing small economies feels good, even responsible.

I combine wash loads I used to separate and cut down on the dryer. We sleep in a v-e-r-rr-y cool bedroom in the winter, window open, thermostat down. I’ve named my puffy comforter National Fuel Gas.

I even glue on old postage stamps. I recently found a cache of some 22 cent stamps from the ’80s and felt like I’d won the lottery. By the time I added the postage to get to 60 cents, my bill envelopes resembled quilt patterns. At today’s prices, a roll of stamps is the only item you can close your hand around that costs that much money – unless you’re leaving a jewelry store.

I think everyone has pet savings methods. One friend confessed that she washes her zip-lock bags in the machine, dries, and reuses them. I wish I’d thought of that. And I hate the supermarket plastic bags so much, (thank you New York – get with it, Pennsylvania) that I’ve nobly invested in a good-sized family of cloth shopping bags. I feel quite virtuous on those rare days when I remember to enter the market with a stash of empty cloth bags. Getting them back into the car after they have been unpacked is a bigger challenge.

Another friend smoothes her plastic bags and folds them neatly to the size of a playing card. She files them vertically in a shoe box awaiting errands. I jam mine into a hanging cloth shopping bag to be eventually filled with used cat litter … and some of the re-processed Fancy Feast that accompanies it. Now THAT’S an appropriate use for those plastic bags.

By the way, my cheap Uncle Chet never had pets. When you squeeze a nickel until the buffalo barfs, there’s no Fancy Feast on your shopping list.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com.