Really: Some things are worth keeping

When I was a teenager, my dad had a container for tortilla chips. They were his favorite snack, so my stepmom would buy him massive bags of Bien Padre chips (made in my hometown) and he would eat them nearly every night.

The funny thing? His container.

It was an aluminum box about the size of a slice of bread that was assuredly intended for some other use. Maybe to hold food. It was aluminum and clearly intended for a single use.

My dad didn't get rid of it. He used it every night. Week after week, month after month.

Year after year.

That aluminum container held literally hundreds of thousands of tortilla chips through the decades as he watched the evening news or golf or read the latest racy Harold Robbins novel. He kept it year after year, refusing to use a bowl or even get a new version.

When Mrs. Brad and I moved away from our hometown decades ago, my dad still had that chip holder. I don't think he still does, but I wouldn't be surprised if I visited and he pulled it out.

He is a child of the Depression: He kept a cheap, replaceable container that could easily have been thrown away. Because it worked.

Fast-forward a generation. I'm older than he was when he started using that container. I've raised two sons, who when asked in their teens about my values, said that I didn't waste money. (It probably wasn't phrased that way. It probably included the word "cheap" and an accusation that all of their friends had fathers who more freely handed out money. I consider those charges to be unsubstantiated and won't dignify them with a response.)

Recently, while Mrs. Brad and I were traveling, she noticed my daily pill holder. (OK. So I've admitted I'm old, cheap and have a container to remind me to take my assortment of cholesterol and arthritis medicine. Get off my lawn!)

It's one of those plastic versions, with the first letter of each day of the week on the compartment. Nice and big, so the old eyes can read it.

"Is that broken?" she asked, looking at the container that appeared to have been run over by an 18-wheeler.

"No. I fixed it."

Then I tried to change the subject. But it didn't work. She asked some more.

It was fixed! It wasn't broken! The lid for one of the dates (Thursday) broke off, which is admittedly unacceptable. You can't have a random statin pill migrating to the wrong day. Or a low-level aspirin slipping into Friday's slot and causing an aspirin overdose!

Rather than throw out the container, I fixed the broken lid. I used Scotch tape.

I told Mrs. Brad this. She looked at me skeptically.

"Why don't you just get a new one? Or you can have mine," she said, offering me her "travel" pill container.

"No. Mine is fine," I said. "Yours is too big. It won't fit as well on my shelf. This is fine."

She raised her eyebrows at me.

But I didn't want to buy a new pill container. It would be a waste of money. The taped-up version works fine.

Of course, those containers cost $2. I could easily replace it and not suffer financial hardship.

I don't know why I don't just get a new one. I guess it's the same philosophy that my dad had all those years ago: If it works, don't change it. If it ain't broke, don't fix it. And if it does break, fix it with tape and keep using it.

It's a philosophy that leads to hoarding, I guess. But let's be honest: His tortilla chip container was ridiculous.

My pill container? It makes sense.

Right?

Right?

Brad Stanhope is a former Daily Republic editor. Reach him at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.