When my parents came to America from Ireland in the early 50s, they had few possessions and less money. Over the years, they worked hard, bought a home, sent their children to college and generally-but in no glamorous way-lived the American dream. My mother would have said it was faith that brought them luck and courage. My father would have said it was frugality.

My father was cheap. He would have been proud of this description, for during his long life, he elevated saving money from a necessity to an art. No opportunity to save slipped past him, from the obvious-clipping coupons, to the obscure- collecting the last bits of soap bars in an empty, plastic margarine bucket that he hung from the kitchen faucet. When the water ran through the holes in the bucket, we had instant dish soap.

He never bought a new car. Believing a new vehicle was more vanity than intelligence, instead he had a knack for finding not only a good deal, but a vehicle that seemed to last well beyond its normal life expectancy. He took exceptionally good care of his vehicles, and loved to remind us that "the cheapest car you can buy is the one you already own."

Frugal, but not foolish, he believed in the wisdom of having the car serviced once a year by his trusted mechanic, the way other people make yearly visits to their doctor. Each year the Carlucci Bros. went through the car, replacing parts as needed-the fuel pump or battery-and he drove away feeling like he'd beat the system yet again. One year my brother, who was on a break from college where he was studying business, questioned the wisdom of bringing a car that seemed to have nothing wrong with it in to a mechanic. My brother searched the Carlucci's bill for inaccuracies. "I see they got you for a new fuel pump-parts AND labor. I'll bet they mark those parts up pretty good."

My brother was watching out for my father because, in all honesty, he thought he was smarter-back then we all did. My brother was attending a prestigious university. Having left school to work, my father hadn't finished the 10th grade.

He took the bill from my brother without ever giving it a second glance. "They have to stay in business, don't they? Your problem is you've not learned anything yet about hard work-they're honest men who deserve what they get."

"What about the parts?" my brother asked, shrugging off the slight. "I can't believe you, of all people would accept a mark up on parts." "Don't they teach you simple economics at that place? Is it cheaper in the long run to pay a few extra dollars for a 2 year warranty on parts and labor? Remember, son. If that car goes another year, I can put the money it would have cost me to buy a new one towards your education. And I wonder, can you give me a guarantee that I'll get as much for my money there?"

Needless to say, the matter of the Carlucci's bill, or the wisdom of having the car serviced each year, was never questioned again.