I grew up in the 1950s with very practical parents. My mother washed aluminum foil after she cooked in it, and then she reused it. She was the earliest recycle queen before people had a name for it. My father was no different. He preferred getting old shoes fixed to -buying new ones. Their  marriage was good and their dreams were focused .Their best friends lived just a wave away. Though my parents have passed away, I can see them now - Dad in trousers, a T-shirt and a hat and Mom in a house dress, lawnmower in one hand and dishtowel in the other. It was the time to fix things -a curtain rod ,the kitchen radio, the screen door, the oven door, and so on. They fixed all things we had. It was a way of life, and sometimes it made me crazy. All that re-fixing and renewing made me want to scream.1 wanted just once to be wasteful. Waste meant being rich. Throwing things away meant you knew there'd always be more. I often thought like that. But then my mother died, and on that clear summer night, in the warmth of the hospital room, I learned that sometimes there isn't any more. Sometimes, what we care about most gets all used up and goes away and it will never return. So, while we have it, it is the best that we love it, care for it, fix it when it's broken and cure it when it's sick. This is true for marriage, old cars, children with bad report cards, dogs with bad hips and aging parents and grandparents. We keep them because they are worth it and because we are worth it. We can learn that when the writer was young, she  _  .
thought highly of her parents' habits often helped her parents fix old things often threw things away without being noticed at times hated it when her parents fixed old things