Family vacations were always interesting. When my dad could be persuaded to rent a motel room (instead of sleeping on the ground in a mildewy tent), we stayed in some of the seediest places imaginable. Places that advertised “Color TV” on their faded signs, circa 1950. Places with rooms that smelled like bowling alleys, and tiny bathrooms that I was afraid to enter after seeing Psycho in third grade.

Every summer, we collected pop cans so we could get discount tickets to the amusement park. We’d pack a cooler full of sandwiches and Shasta pop (only 20 cents per can) in the trunk of our broken-down Volkswagon Rabbit. We were not about to pay those exorbitant amusement-park prices for food. At lunchtime, we’d trudge back to the car — parked in the economy lot, a mile from the park entrance — to fish soggy ham sandwiches out of a sea of melted ice.

Bachelor days
What was annoying when I was a child became my greatest pride when I left home. Now I was the thrifty one. I could make the most of my paycheck. I would never, ever let that last sliver of bath soap go down the drain; it would always be melded onto the new bar.

When I moved from Michigan to Pennsylvania, I was faced for the first time with finding an apartment. I looked at one that was on the bottom floor of an old lady’s home, nestled in a quiet woodland neighborhood, for $530 per month. Then I saw another on top of a storefront in a downtown area, for $460 a month. Of course, I took the city apartment. After moving in, I soon discovered that the guy who lived below me worked odd hours, so as I was getting in bed he would come home and blast his TV. Meanwhile, the couple in the apartment above would have frequent domestic altercations. (Once, when my parents were visiting, it got so bad that we had to call the police.)

I learned my lesson and, when I moved to Chicago a year later, I found a spacious, quiet place to live. But paying $700 a month for an apartment forced me to get thriftier in other ways. I saved money by eating ramen noodles and mac & cheese, and rarely going out. When I did eat out, I took advantage of the Wendy’s value menu, where I could get an entire meal — junior burger, medium fries, and side salad — for only $3.

Honeymoon hardships
After getting married, I introduced my wife to the joys of thrift. Adventurous things like parking a mile from the airport to save a dollar, running all the way to the terminal, getting multiple blisters and almost missing your flight.

Our honeymoon was, perhaps, the low point. We were given airfare and lodging at an exotic (meaning pricey) island locale. You would think that having the major expenses covered would have encouraged me to spend more of my own money. But no, we ended up carrying our bags all the way from the airport to our hotel room (a long walk along a dusty road under the blazing sun) to avoid paying for a taxi. And since I didn’t want to pay $50 to rent a car, we spent most of the trip confined to the lousy beach outside our hotel, trying not to look at the 70-year-old French woman sunbathing au naturel.

Bargain hunters
Bethany and I soon became bottom-feeders of the industrial food system. Like those scary-looking sucker fish that clean your tank, we would consume whatever ended up on the shelves of the local Bargain Depot. This was the store where all the almost-outdated, dented, damaged or overstocked food gets a second chance. Because meat can’t be sold in damaged or outdated condition — even at the Bargain Depot — we went on an all-carb diet — the Fatkins Diet.

It was at Bargain Depot that I first discovered fallafel. According to the package, fallafel has been a staple of Middle-Eastern camel herders for centuries. It’s a grainy powder that you mix with water, shape into patties, and fry. One 50-cent box can sustain a band of Uzbekastanian silk traders for months. My wife’s verdict was that it smelled like body odor.

Men & thrift
My wife has determined that thriftiness mainly afflicts males. Her dad is another case in point.

A couple years ago, Bethany’s dad built a new home, with a brand-spanking-new kitchen. But he refused to splurge on new dish rags. So today, whenever I pick up one of those decade-old rags, it leaves my hand smelling like something the dog coughed up.

Then there’s the toilet paper. My father-in-law’s motto is “Always buy single ply” — the thin, scratchy, Scott stuff. Outside of his home, I’ve only encountered this same TP at summer camps and seedy gas stations. (Even in the darkest days of my thrifty bachelorhood, I always shelled out the extra buck for quilted Northern.)

Most men belong to the Possum Lodge school of home improvement (for those familiar with the Red Green Show). When faced with a project demanding real craftsmanship, we scrounge for whatever scrap can be found in the trash pile, and then bind it together with duct tape. My wife was reminded of this the other day when she asked her dad for advice on building a bookshelf. She had in mind an heirloom quality piece of furniture that will only grow more beautiful with age; one that her grandchildren will cherish. Her dad took her out to his garage and kicked aside some cardboard boxes to reveal a warping sheet of plywood. “You could use this for free,” he said, smiling proudly at his find. “Just sand it and paint it — it’ll look great.”

Smart Thrift
For me, maybe the fallafel was the straw that broke the camel’s back. At any rate, I began to see my pattern of stupid thrift for what it was. First, we rediscovered meat and other expensive foods that actually give you energy. Next, we noticed how we’d been holding onto every piece of furniture we’d ever acquired, no matter how ugly. (When we finally bought a new couch, we took our old one to Salvation Army — but they refused to take it.) I had to admit that the cheap things I’d been buying all these years — like my IKEA bookshelves—were warping and peeling. Good stewardship doesn’t mean stinginess. There are times when spending extra for quality actually saves you money in the long run.

A few suggestions for smart thrift . . .

* It’s worth stretching your budget to invest in something that has lasting value, like a house or a nice piece of furniture. But being thrifty pays off when it comes to things that quickly lose value, like cars and electronics.
* Online auctions are great for smart thrift. Before buying a new book or CD, sell a couple of old ones on eBay.
* Buying a cup of coffee at Starbucks every morning will cost $1,000 over a year; brewing your own will cost $100. So if you make your own most of the time, you can actually afford the occasional trip to Starbucks.

Over the past year, I’ve learned a lot about distinguishing between smart and stupid thrift, but I still have moments of backsliding. When it came to repainting my home office, my wife paid the extra for quality paint. But I was in charge of buying brushes and rollers, and couldn’t help but grab the cheapest ones. When fuzz started coming off the roller and sticking to the wall, I learned my lesson once again.

As for my wife, I think she’s forgiven me for my thrifty ways. As long as my thriftiness doesn’t affect her directly, she enjoys it. “It’s a pattern of nature,” she said the other day after buying a new shirt. “Men are thrifty so that women can splurge.”