Sunday, July 20, 2025

Growing Up Broke and Blissfully Unaware

I grew up with five siblings, one bathroom, a septic tank, and zero awareness that we were “poor.”
We had one car, and my dad — a hardworking carpenter in Ohio — took it to work. That is, when there was work. Winters often meant layoffs or side gigs to make ends meet. But we didn’t mope. We made do. And we made memories.

We were a house full of kids — five brothers and one siste. We didn’t fight over money because there wasn’t any. We fought over space, Kool-Aid, and who got the good spot in front of the TV. But not money. That wasn’t part of our emotional vocabulary.

My mom was the soul of the house — and a magician in the kitchen. Long before microwaves or dishwashers, she cooked with joy. Homemade Chinese food: egg rolls, chow mein, fried rice — our house smelled like a Chinatown dream in the middle of Ohio. For birthdays, she sewed Barbie doll clothes and baked theme cakes that were always spot on. One year mine was shaped like a piano right after we got a piano and I started taking lessons. Didn’t matter — it was perfect.

When I was in high school, my dad and brothers added a tiny family room and a modest owner’s suite with a full bathroom onto the back of the house. That was big time. My Dad had a big garden that produced enough food to feed the neighborhood. We canned everything. When freezing became a thing, we filled two chest freezers with summer’s bounty, stocking up for winter like squirrels with Tupperware.

Of course, we had a septic tank. And if you’ve ever had one, you know. Let’s just say: to this day, I still flush before I poop, out of habit — a protective reflex forged in the trauma of too many overflows. Some things stay with you.

When I was 13, my youngest brother was born. He felt more like my baby than my sibling. My mom had very few things that were “just for her.” Her life was full of family — in every room, every minute. My dad would sometimes pay me to change diapers or get dinner started to give her a break. That arrangement taught me early that work had value — and so did helping.
Looking back, I’ve never felt bad about how we grew up. Not once. It taught me resourcefulness, gratitude, and how to stretch a meal and a dollar without stretching your dignity. It shaped how I see people, how I value community, and what I think of as “enough.”

Sure, I didn’t discover brunch at a restaurant or a professional manicure until I was 40. Camping was our family vacation and we were excited for the two hour trip because Mom packed sandwiches and we go to drink Kool Aid! 

We were never truly lacking.  We were just growing up broke and blissfully unaware.  So many happy memories and always someone to play a game with.


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Growing Up Broke and Blissfully Unaware

I grew up with five siblings, one bathroom, a septic tank, and zero awareness that we were “poor.” We had one car, and my dad — a hardworkin...