As an annoyingly proud practitioner of frugality, I thought I knew all the angles. I know grocery store prices and how to game the system when it comes to sales. I know how and when to travel for the best deals. I don’t spend money on expensive cell phones or subscriptions. I use a 2015 MacBook Pro I bought from my job for $250. I cook a lot. I freeze ingredients when they’re cheap. I track and categorize money coming in and going out. I drive a 2006 Saturn Ion that I bought new for about $17,000.

I thought I knew it all, and I thought I was an expert. Ha! Just an amateur, it turns out.

This week, I unlocked what might be the most hidden, secret tactic of frugal living: the junkyard.

When I was growing up in rural Pennsylvania, I spent a lot of time at my grandparents’ house. They lived next door, across a very large field, but close enough that I could walk there whenever I wanted. I’d often hear my grandfather say he was going to the junkyard. I didn’t know what that meant exactly, didn’t ask why, and didn’t really care. It was just something he did. I never went with him. I’m sure, in his view, it wasn’t a place for a girl.

He was the child of Ukrainian immigrants, born in 1917, which meant he was a teenager and young adult during the Depression. I never heard him talk about that time, and I never thought to ask, but I’m certain those years shaped him. Being a first-generation American during scarcity most likely made him frugal and resourceful. When I think about it, why wouldn’t a person like him go to the junkyard? It was practical and cheap, and this was long before you could sit on your couch, type in a credit card number, and have parts show up at your door.

So as a child, the junkyard was a place my grandpa went for reasons I didn’t understand. Then, for the next three or four decades, I never thought about junkyards again.

Until now.

One of the torsion rods on the Saturn’s trunk lid broke recently. Without it, the trunk becomes really dangerous. It’s heavy, and it will fall with full force on your head, arms, hands, or whatever other body part happens to be in its path. One of the rods broke back in 2019, but that time I was able to find the part on eBay for $29.81 and fix it. I assumed it was the same issue and ordered the same bar again. This time for $65. When it arrived, I realized it was the wrong bar (there are two). I got a full refund, but I couldn’t find the correct part anywhere online.

Not being able to find something on the internet completely broke my naive American brain, which feels entitled to any and all forms of instant gratification as long as you’re willing to throw money at it.

Then I remembered Grandpa. I remembered that he would’ve gone to the junkyard. Still, I felt too delicate, and too superior, for that. Instead, I took the car to the dealership. I was submissive, fully accepting my fate: ready to be fleeced and willing to pay whatever it took to make the problem go away.

I showed the man my problem. He went to consult with his parts guy. Then they came back to me and crushed my American optimism one more time: “There’s nothing we can do. That part is discontinued. When your car is this old, you need to start expecting that you’ll have to go to the junkyard to fix it.”

That’s when I started to spiral. Was this it? Was this the moment I finally turned my back on frugality and bought a new car? I’d always imagined I’d give up the Saturn when something major happened, like when the transmission died. I didn’t think it would be over a small, discontinued part for the trunk lid. I was flirting with the idea of a new car.

Like a seductive temptress, a new Mini Cooper invaded my thoughts: digital displays, Bluetooth, a trunk lid that stayed open (and was definitely powered), and the kind of life most people seem to live. I went home and specced one out. It came to about $45,000. That’s not so bad, right? I’ll keep it for another 20 years.

Then I snapped out of it. I decided I’d go to the junkyard. I was impressed before I even got there. It was surprisingly high tech. The website showed me the five Saturn Ions currently there, when they arrived, and which rows they were in. The junkyard’s tagline was even “Not Your Grandpa’s Junkyard” but a claim I can’t actually confirm since I never went with my grandpa to his junkyard.

I was a little disappointed when I arrived, though: no junkyard dog. From the movies, I always assumed there’d be one, especially scary and drooly. No dog, just endless rows of cars that had been laid to rest.

The mission was successful. With the part in hand, I expected to pay maybe half of what the other rod was going for on eBay: $32.50. The guy rang it up: $2.65.

I immediately lit up. Why aren’t more people doing this? Why didn’t I know about this? It felt like discovering a loophole, a new life hack. My entrepreneurial spirit even kicked in. Should I start flipping junkyard parts online?

It was more than just a win. It was more than just a lesson in self-sufficiency or frugality. It was a new life experience, which doesn’t happen that often anymore. It was an achievement unlocked. A little moment of growth. An experience that brings pride.

Grandpa would be proud of his granddaughter (his favorite granddaughter!).

Now I know what he knew. Sometimes solutions aren’t clean, shiny, or easy. They’re dirty, sweaty, and hard. Sometimes they are in Row 65 and cost $2.65. They leave you with a small cut on the side of your hand, but the mission is accomplished, and you walk away just a bit tougher than before.

I’m not saying I’ll never buy a new car. I will, eventually, but not today. Today, I solved a problem for $2.65, saved myself $44,997.35, remembered where I came from, and remembered Grandpa.