I grew up in a house where price tags were puzzles and Sundays smelled like circulars and strong coffee.

My dad treated bargain-hunting like a sport. He’d compare unit prices with a pencil behind his ear, drive across town for a two-for-one, and ask, cheerfully, “Is that your best price?” the way other people ask about the weather.

As a kid, it exhausted me. I wanted to throw things in the cart and go home. I swore I’d never be that man.

Of course, I became a lot like him.

Not the miles-for-a-dollar part (my knees lodged a protest years ago), but the mindset—the quiet math behind good choices. Somewhere between college bills, raising kids, and learning the value of a calm evening, I realized my father wasn’t just collecting discounts. He was collecting principles.

Here are the 8 that stuck.

Value isn’t price—it’s how long it serves you

Dad had a phrase for flimsy deals: “Cheap is expensive.”

We learned to ask different questions at the shelf. Not “What costs less today?” but “What will last, what will make life easier, what will I still be glad I bought in a year?”

He’d hold up two pairs of boots: one half the price, one double the stitching. “Count the winters, not the dollars,” he’d say. And he was right. The sturdier pair outlived the cheap ones twice over, and my feet were warmer for it.

I use the same lens now for everything from tools to relationships: cost per use, cost per hour of peace, cost per ounce of frustration avoided. Value is often invisible at the register. You see it at month twelve, when the hinge still swings and the handle hasn’t cracked.

If you’re stuck between two options, picture yourself a year from now. Which choice will still be doing its job without drama? Buy that one—or wait until you can.

Patience beats impulse nine times out of ten

I can still see my father—one hand on the cart, one eye on the calendar—saying, “Sales are seasonal, wants are weather.” He meant: your desire spikes like a summer storm, but discounts have patterns. If you wait for the right week, you pay less without losing anything real.

As a younger man I bought with adrenaline.

Now I make most purchases on a 48-hour delay. Two sleeps separate want from need. If I still want it on day three, I shop intentionally. If not, I’ve saved money and mental clutter.

Patience buys more than bargains. It buys accuracy.

A cooling-off period is just as useful before sending the spicy email, accepting the so-so invitation, or replying to a text that stings. Time lets the truth rise to the top like cream in a bottle. You don’t have to chase it; you just have to wait.

Constraints are creativity in work clothes

We didn’t have “anything we want.” We had “what can we make with what we’ve got?”

When the budget said “no steak tonight,” Dad would turn pantry odds and ends into something respectable—beans with garlic, rice toasted in butter, a salad that crunched and snapped. He loved the puzzle. He loved the reveal even more.

It took me decades to see the gift hiding in those limits.

Constraint asks better questions: What’s the simplest way to solve this? What tool already in the drawer will do? Which piece can do two jobs?

As I covered in a previous post, creativity isn’t a lightning bolt — it’s the art of combining what’s at hand.

That applies to money, time, and attention. Fewer ingredients often make a better soup. The same goes for weekends, workouts, and to-do lists.

You get what you ask for—so ask, kindly

My father was never rude. He was curious.

• “Is there a discount if I buy two?”
• “Does the price go down next week?”
• “Any chance the floor model is for sale?”

Half the time, the answer was no. The other half, he saved enough for ice cream on the way home.

I avoided asking for years because I didn’t want to be “that person.” But polite questions aren’t pushy; they’re informational. The trick is tone. Curiosity, not entitlement. A smile, not a scowl. And one clean exit: “Thanks for checking either way.”

This spills far beyond stores.

Want a better time for an appointment? Ask.

Need clearer expectations at work? Ask.

Hoping a friend can trade Friday for Saturday so you can see your grandkids’ game? Ask.

The worst answer is still clarity, and clarity is a bargain.

Systems save more than spur-of-the-moment discipline

Dad didn’t rely on willpower. He relied on systems.

A price notebook in the junk drawer. A list of seasonal sales taped inside the pantry door. A simple rule for big purchases: sleep on it, then shop three sources.

Systems shrink decisions until they’re easy to carry. When I finally built my own—automated bill pay, a monthly “money hour,” a standing grocery list that lives in my phone—I stopped feeling like I was always catching up. Little routines did more for my stress than any raise I ever received.

If your budget (or calendar) feels like whack-a-mole, don’t try harder. Build a tiny system. One you can run on a tired Tuesday.

Let the habit hold the weight so you don’t have to.

Spend less on symbols, more on substance

We never had the newest model anything. We had sturdy, well-loved somethings that kept working.

What my father did spend on was substance: music lessons because my sister’s face lit up at the piano, an extra tank of gas so we could visit my grandmother, a decent mattress because sleep is cheaper than doctors.

There’s a quiet joy in owning fewer, better things—and in aligning spending with what you actually value, not what the neighbors value. My list as a sixty-something is plain: health, family time, tools that last, and small luxuries that pay me back daily (good coffee, comfortable shoes, a lamp that makes a room warm).

When in doubt, I ask, “Will this purchase enrich a habit I already love?” If yes, it’s probably worth it. If it’s just a costume for a life I don’t actually live, I let it pass.

The real dividend is relationships

Deals were never only about dollars in our house. They were about people.

My dad knew the butcher by name. He’d ask the hardware clerk how his mother was doing after a surgery. At the farmers’ market, he’d pay full price and then help a vendor fold a wobbly table. Sometimes the “bargain” was a tip—how to repair a hinge, the right grit sandpaper for a job, the timing of peaches.

When you act like everyone’s time is precious—including your own—trust piles up. That trust opens doors money can’t. A call squeezed in. A tool loaned. A problem solved because someone wanted to help you solve it.

The best deals I’ve ever made were really exchanges of care: I see you; you see me. We both leave better.

“Enough” is a strategy, not a surrender 

Bargain-hunting can become a trap if you let the chase take the wheel. I watched my father set a gentle boundary I didn’t understand as a boy.

After a certain point, he’d say, “That’s enough looking.” He meant: the extra hour saved a few dollars but cost an evening with his kids.

The older I get, the more I treat time like the currency that trumps all others. I’ll pay a little more for a store that’s ten minutes away if it buys me an hour at the park with my grandchildren. I’ll stop at “good enough” when “perfect” would require a weekend I can’t get back.

Optimization has a steep, hidden tax. “Enough” is how you stop paying it.

Bottom line

Somewhere in the middle of my life, I realized I had been looking at my dad’s bargain-hunting through the narrow straw of price. He was playing a bigger game: stewarding a middle-class life with care, turning constraints into creativity, and protecting time for what doesn’t go on a receipt.

A few practical ways these lessons live in my home now:

• I keep a tiny price note on five repeat buys (coffee, olive oil, detergent, paper towels, my walking shoes). I don’t track every item, just the ones that matter. When a sale beats my “good price,” I stock modestly.

• I use a two-sleep rule for non-essentials and a three-quote rule for anything that needs a contractor. Emotion cools; numbers clarify.

• I maintain one list of “pay more here” categories (sleep, safety gear, tools) and one list of “pay less here” (trend clothes, gadgets I’ll use once, anything fragile in a high-traffic house).

• I ask for adjustments with kindness and a clean out: “Any flexibility on the price?” If no, I thank them and decide. No sulking, no haggling as sport.

• I schedule a monthly “money hour.” I make coffee, put on music, and open what needs opening. When the hour ends, so does the worry.

And the biggest one: I name “enough” before I start. Enough stores, enough scrolling, enough saving if the price is time I want to spend elsewhere.

If you grew up rolling your eyes at a parent who drove across town for a deal, I get it. But buried under the coupons was a way of seeing the world that still works: respect your resources, ask clear questions, build small systems, spend on what endures, and don’t miss dinner for a discount.

My father’s shopping cart was never just a cart. It was a classroom with squeaky wheels.

So here’s my question for you: what would change this month if you chose one purchase to measure by “how long it serves me” instead of “how little it costs today”?