Broken on Purpose

My husband is a tosser. I’m a keeper. Only to hear John’s side, he might say I’m a borderline hoarder. It’s my parents fault. Mom and Dad grew up in the depression. We saved things. Dad’s garage had a ledge neatly lined with fifty Swisher Sweets cigar boxes we might need someday. And my mom—forget Tupperware. Leftovers were stored in margarine tubs.

Beingraised by parents who grew up in the depression branded me with frugality. I don’t think my dad ever bought anything new. Most everything...