Necessity was the mother of invention

                                                  

Remember when we didn’t discard things at the first sign of wear? We were a make-it-last society community that repaired, patched, and reimagined what we already had. Necessity was the mother of invention, and every challenge sparked creativity. Those lessons stayed with us, shaping how we value money, solve problems, and appreciating the things we choose to keep.

This morning, as I sat here writing, it hit me how well, my memory has served me. I don’t know everything, but in my family, I somehow became the one person turned to with the same question: “Do you remember?” In a big family where everyone else seemed to misplace half their past, I became the unofficial storage unit with a pulse.

Growing up in the 1960s, being part of the last Baby Boomers Generation, we were raised with a simple truth: a dollar mattered. Old sayings weren’t just sayings — they were part of daily life. “Haste makes waste,” “money doesn’t grow on trees,” “what do you think, I’m made of money?” These weren’t jokes. They were lessons, passed down by parents, neighbors, and anyone who had lived long enough to know better.

When something broke around the house, we didn’t run out to replace it — we fixed it. Repairing things wasn’t a skill you learned from a book; it was something you absorbed from the people around you. You watched, you listened, you tried, and eventually you just knew. And when you didn’t know, you asked a friend or a neighbor, because everyone knew something.

And they still thought. In the process of chaining command. Mom and dad worked out the planning.  but she was given the order. I forgot to die. That was the highest chain of command. Didn’t want it to get to that point. A reward? Conversation. Compensation at the end of doing something to help out in the House, which is part of being a unit. An ice cream cone was fine. If you got a couple of dollars. That was good too. You just did what had to get done. 

Everything was local back then. The hardware store was around the corner, and the guy behind the counter knew your dad, your uncle, and probably your dog. There wasn’t a rush to buy the newest, shiniest thing. Our parents came from a different era — people who had lived through the Spanish flu, the Great Depression, and wartime rationing. They understood hardship in a way that shaped every decision they made. They made sure we understood not to count our chickens before they hatched.