I've been thinking a lot lately on the house I was raised in. I never ever thought we were rich growing up. My Dad was a mill worker and my mother was a teacher. Not exactly jobs that you would think of as wealth building. Yet, my parents saved a lot of money. They paid off their mortgage early, they had paid for cars, we always had meat at the dinner table, and I always had nice looking clothes (usually not namebrand unless I wanted to buy it myself) and nice things.

I remember how much more it seemed like my friends had than I did. Their houses were showcases, while ours was lived in. They had a lot of namebrand clothes and expensive toys and jewelry. And I realize now, their parents had a lot of debt. But they seldom had meals like we did. Their parents spending habits showed up in the food. There were a lot of meals of soup and sandwiches and rice and pasta. When my friends came over for dinner and saw steak on a weekday, how stunned they were.

As an adult I've discussed things with my old friends and know how true it was that their parents were in debt and also that they fought all the time over money. Meanwhile they were taking fancy vacations in rented RV's on a yearly basis. They always liked how calm my house was and how easy it was to be in and that there was space in it to breathe.

Space in it to breathe. Yes. There was. The house I grew up in has 7 bedrooms, 4 bathrooms, a living room, a rec. room, a family room, a full kitchen with seperate dining area, a half kitchen, a storage room, 3 finished built in storage crawl spaces. And a basement. On a half acre. Room to breathe and room to play.

I always thought we were poor because we didn't have "stuff." Now I know we were rich because we didn't have "stuff." My biggest memory of the big strike at my Dad's mill was my parents talking about how they were going to get through it. My mother had just retired from teaching the year before. But they had savings. And Mom went and got substitute teaching jobs and Dad pumped gas at night and walked the picket line during the day. And we got by fine. We always had meat on the table, still had nice clothes and toys and a nice house to live in. The only concession that had to be made was no soda pop or potato chips in the house for the nine months of the strike. That's what I remember. We were fine.

During this strike, I saw marriages dissolve, families break up, people borrowing money from the bank to get them through until the strike was over. It was just supposed to last a few weeks. So many people were unprepared. But not my parents and not my family. We were "rich" in what mattered. And we did quite well because of savings and the ability of my parents to work extra jobs.

I wonder how I lost that lesson so badly for so long along the way. Well, life happened, I suppose. But I get it, now with so much more life experience behind me than I had then. My parents never called it an emergency fund. It was just savings. But we had no downshift in our style of living in what was definitely the biggest use of an emergency fund I've ever seen.

That's why, one day I want to have at least six months of living expenses in my EF. Then on to a year. So that if something happens, we will go on just fine with breathing room. But first I am building the first month. That's where it all starts.

Yes, room to breathe. My friends knew how important it was before I hit my first decade. It was a lesson learned by me and forgotten. And remembered again. I want room to breathe.