In the case of my parents, it was the Great Depression. Few of us alive today, nervously descending into what's being called the worst economic downturn since that one, can appreciate just how bad times were then. The most recent announcement of our national unemployment rate puts it at less than eight percent. During the Depression, it reached 25 percent, and even that – most likely because of the number of men who simply took to the roads and rails – was considered to be less than the actual rate. In Toledo, Ohio, an industrial city, it was an incredible 80 percent. Civil unrest was spreading; angry mobs of hungry, desperate people occupied public buildings; the Bolsheviks were preaching revolution and gaining some traction; and some otherwise responsible political leaders were predicting organized armed uprisings.

In the midst of all this turmoil, millions of others who were lucky enough to have jobs nevertheless scrimped along by spending as little as possible on necessities and nothing on nonessentials. My mother, to the end of her days, treated guests to a company dinner of macaroni-and-(Government surplus) cheese with Vienna sausages arranged artfully on top. Any impulses toward extravagance had been boiled out of her system by hard times. Grandmother, who was a bit better off and cooked our lavish Sunday dinners, discovered she had a tiny mark somewhere on the front of her house, made by hoboes who'd found a handout there and wanted to signal others.

With the current crunch beginning to bite, even here in the hinterlands, it seems to me that some of the techniques our ancestors used to scrape through might have some relevance and utility for us today. I've recalled several myself, and asked friends my age what they remember. Some are obvious, others less so. I offer them here as a public service.

One of the biggest drains on our energy budget, not to mention our electricity generation resources, is the family clothes dryer. As much a pain as it may be to truck your wet wash out into the yard in a clothes basket, it might be helpful to remember that only a generation ago the washing machine was brand-new, and there was no such thing as a clothes dryer. (Mother used a scrub board to do the laundry, and my father cranked the wringer handle.) Wintertimes, instead of carrying the wash out on your snowshoes, you can hang it in the cellar. This has the dual effect of drying it and humidifying the house, as well, which in turn saves on the heating bill.

During the Great Depression, many urban dwellers were new to the city, and had rural roots. For them a garden was normal, and saved them a bundle on groceries. My mother and I represented a perfect recycling system. She composted her garbage in a pit at the end of the yard. I loved fishing, and dug worms by the thousands from the pit, in the process turning it over. I went fishing by bicycle, saving fossil fuel. We ate the edible fish I brought home, and the suckers and bluegills went into either the pit or directly into the garden, which produced abundantly.

Where it was possible, on the edges of town, many people kept pigs, rabbits, and chickens. More recycling: The animals ate table scraps. Farther out in the woods, the notion of a closed season on hunting faded somewhat, and many folks got through the hard times on venison and brook trout. Flour companies bagged their products in brightly patterned bags that many women made into colorful dresses. Baths – showers were not yet common – were normally once a week, unless the kids got into some especially noisome stuff. The youngest kids got the clean water, and the rest, in ascending age, progressively grayer and scummier water.

Shoes were leather-soled, and eventually wore through. (Remember the famous photo of Adlai Stevenson with a hole in his sole?) The shoemakers were busy people, and charged only a pittance for resoling. Some of us, though, couldn't afford even that right away. So when our socks became visible from outside, we got hold of waxed paper milk cartons, which were just coming in, and cut reasonably waterproof insoles from them. They wouldn't do for puddles, but they saved the socks – which, by the way, were always darned several times. How long has it been since you've used or even seen a darning egg? How many of us still know what that is?

At one time we had one car for our five related family units, but it didn't seem a hardship because public transportation was ubiquitous; trolley cars ran everywhere for a nickel token. On Sundays Grampa collected everybody in the Chevy, and after dinner drove everybody home.

But the one thing that sticks in my memory is what I call a soap basket. Dish detergents were unheard of, soap flakes were expensive, and we never discarded a piece of soap bigger than a quarter. The small basket, which opened to accept fragments of used-up bars, had a wooden handle. We swished the basket around in hot dishwater to make suds for dishes. Its antique value today would far exceed the amount of soap it would save. But I do miss the virtuous feeling that arose from the old mantra: Waste not, want not.